A Little Hatred (The Age of Madness #1) - Joe Abercrombie Page 0,43

bloodshed. I could tell you some stories about my old friend Logen Ninefingers—’

‘You have, Father, a hundred times.’

‘Well, they’re bloody good stories!’ The king straightened a moment, lowering his steels and giving Orso a quizzical little frown. ‘You really want this, don’t you?’

‘We have to do something.’

‘I suppose we do, at that.’ The king sprang forward but Orso was ready, parried, twisted away, parried again. ‘All right. How about this?’ Cut, cut, jab, and Orso retreated, watching. ‘I’ll give you Gorst, twenty Knights of the Body and a battalion of the King’s Own.’

‘That’s nowhere near enough!’ Orso switched to the offensive, almost caught his father with a jab and made him hop back.

‘I agree.’ The king paced sideways, point of his long steel describing glittering little circles in the air. ‘The rest you’ll have to find yourself. Show me you can raise five thousand more. Then you can rush to the rescue.’

Orso blinked. Raising five thousand troops sounded worryingly like work. But there was an unfamiliar energy spreading through him at the thought of having something meaningful to do.

‘Then I bloody well will!’ He’d got all he’d get by losing. He felt like winning for once. ‘Defend yourself, Your Majesty!’

And steel scraped on steel as he sprang forward.

Fencing with Father

‘Jab, jab, Savine,’ said her father, craning forward from his chair to follow her movements. ‘Jab, jab.’

Her shoulder was on fire, the pain spreading down her arm to her fingertips, but she forced herself on, struggling to make every jab sharp, tight, perfect.

‘Good,’ piped Gorst as he turned her efforts away, always balanced, always calm, the sounds of scraping steel echoing about the bare room.

Nothing was ever good enough for her father, though. ‘Watch your front foot,’ he snapped. ‘Keep your weight spread.’

‘My weight is spread.’ And she pumped out three more jabs, lightning-quick.

‘Spread it more. I know how much you hate to do anything badly.’

‘Almost as much as you hate to see me do anything badly.’

‘Spread your weight, then. We’ll both be happier.’

She widened her stance and let go some more jabs, her steel scraping against Gorst’s.

‘Better?’ asked her father.

It clearly was, but they both knew she would never concede defeat by admitting it. ‘We’ll see. How are things in the North?’

‘A procession of disappointments, like most of life. The Northmen advance, the Anglanders fall back.’

‘People say we can expect no better with a woman leading our troops.’ Savine lunged, steel clashing as Gorst caught her sword on his own and steered it wide.

‘We both know what utter fools people are.’ Her father sneered the word as though the very thought of humans disgusted him. ‘Since the death of her father, I daresay Finree dan Brock is the Union’s most competent general. You know her, don’t you, Gorst?’

The king’s hulking bodyguard, normally beyond expressionless, winced. ‘A little, Your Eminence.’

‘I wish I could have given her the command in Styria,’ said Savine’s father. ‘We might have been counting our victories now, rather than our dead. Jab, then!’

‘Brock against Murcatto, that would have been something.’ Savine hissed as she snapped out another flurry. ‘The two greatest armies in the Circle of the World, both commanded by women.’

‘They’d probably have decided there were better things to spend the money on and talked the whole thing out. Then where would we be? Enough with the point, let’s see what you can do with the edge. And cut like you mean it, Savine, he’s not made of glass.’

She darted at Gorst as if to go right, switched to the left with a savage cut at head height. He dropped points and jerked away, fast as a snake in spite of his size, eyes focused on the blade as it whistled past his nose.

‘Excellent,’ he squeaked.

She gave her steels a little flourish. ‘Can Brock beat the Northmen alone?’

‘She’s still gathering her forces in Angland,’ said her father, ‘and she has the Dogman with her, but Scale Ironhand has them well outnumbered. My guess is the Protectorate will be overrun but she’ll hold the Northmen at the Whiteflow. Then, perhaps, circumstances will change here and we can swoop in next spring and reap the glory.’

‘The women do the hard work and the men reap the glory. Sounds familiar.’

‘Petulance is unbecoming in a swordswoman. Cut, girl. Put some blood into it.’

Savine darted around Gorst, shoes squeaking on the wooden floor, slashing away from every angle. For all he scarcely seemed to move, his steels were always in the right place to parry.

‘My daughter has quick feet, eh,