A Little Hatred (The Age of Madness #1) - Joe Abercrombie Page 0,52

over her shoulder, shadows dancing in the rain-lashed forest, sure at every jolting step their teeth would sink into her arse and bring her down. Someone was crashing through the woods ahead, she heard Isern shout, ‘Rikke? You there?’

‘Right …’ she gurgled, ‘behind you!’

Then light flashed between trunks, the trees opening up. She felt a giddy surge of relief which, as usual, soon turned to horror. They’d seen the scar through the woods from higher up and thought there must be a river. But through the curtains of rain, there’d been no way of knowing it was cut into a deep ravine.

She knew it now. A rocky edge, sprouting with sick grass, clung to by stunted little trees, beaten water thundering below. She saw Isern spring, arching back in the air, spear over her head. She saw her clear the gap, a daunting four strides wide at least, roll through the wet moss and ferns clinging to the far side and come smoothly to her feet.

For an instant, Rikke thought about stopping. Then she thought about getting fucked by Stour Nightfall’s horse and of a sudden, getting smashed to paste in the bottom of a gorge seemed a pretty fine outcome. Wasn’t like she could stop anyway, belting full-tilt down a steep and slippery bank. She pushed herself faster, chest heaving, teeth rattling, and trusted to luck, however bad her luck had been lately.

The ravine yawned wide as she burst from the trees, a glimpse of jagged rock dropping away to white water.

She got a firm footing at the edge, which was lucky, and a decent push off with her right leg, which was good, and she went up something lovely, wind cold in her wide-open mouth, flying into the flitting rain.

It was just that she started coming down too soon. Maybe if she’d eaten something that day, there’d have been more spring in her. But she hadn’t. She clawed at the air, like she might be able to drag herself closer, but she was dropping fast now and didn’t need the Long Eye to see she’d fall short.

The terrible justice of the ground. Sooner or later, everyone who jumps must meet it.

The slick rocks came hurtling at her.

‘Oh fu—’

Earth thudded into her stomach and drove all her wind out in a great spitty wheeze. She clutched desperately at wet leaves, wet roots, wet grass, no strength, no breath, dirt sprinkling in her eyes as she started sliding over the edge, fingernails uselessly scrabbling.

Then Isern’s hand clamped around her wrist. Isern’s face above her, screwed up with furious effort, scar white on her lips, tongue wedged into the hole in her clenched teeth. Rikke groaned as her shoulder stretched, feeling like her whole arm would rip from the socket.

Probably she should’ve told Isern to let her go, big dramatic gesture, time for a single tear before she plunged to her doom, but that’s not how it works when the Great Leveller’s breathing on your neck. She clutched at Isern’s sinewy arm like a drowning woman to the mast of a sinking ship, choking and struggling and kicking and like as not to drag them both over.

‘You’re heavier than you fucking— gah!’

Something flickered past and Isern gave a grunt, pulled even harder. Rikke’s flailing foot caught on rock and she managed to shove herself upwards. Finally heaved a breath into her aching chest, growled as she pushed again and Isern went over backwards, dragging Rikke on top of her, the two of them rolling together into the soaking bracken.

‘Move!’ Isern staggered up, fell, crawled on, dragging her spear along with a handful of torn grass. There was an arrow through her leg. Rikke could see the bloody head sticking from the back of her thigh.

She looked over her shoulder, through the slackening rain saw dogs yapping and growling and prowling at the ravine’s edge and, a few strides above them, a man kneeling in the trees. Close enough she could see the frown on his dirty face, the frayed edge of his archery guard, the bow drawn in his hand.

Her eyes went wide, and one burned hot. Hot as a glowing coal in her skull.

She heard the flapping click of the bowstring.

She saw the arrow.

But she saw it with the Long Eye.

And for an instant, like the dawn sun blazing into her room as the shutters were flung wide, the absolute knowing of that arrow burst upon her.

She saw where it was, all it was, where it had been and would