A Little Hatred (The Age of Madness #1) - Joe Abercrombie Page 0,57

that is.’ The poor dead fool. ‘But I never yet beat Glaward with my bare hands.’

‘Well, no,’ said Jurand, that worried crease between his brows. ‘He’s built like a barn.’

‘The bigger they are—’

‘The harder they hit?’

‘Your defeats teach you more than your victories,’ muttered Leo, trying to slap some warmth into his muscles.

‘They hurt more, too.’ Jurand dropped his voice a little. ‘At least tell me you’ll fight dirty.’

‘With honour or not at all,’ grunted Leo. He thought Casamir the Steadfast might have said it in a storybook once. ‘Whose side are you on, anyway?’

‘Yours.’ Jurand looked a little hurt by the question. ‘Always. We all are. That’s why I won’t enjoy seeing him choke you unconscious.’

Leo narrowed his eyes. ‘What I need from my second is belief.’

Sinew popped from Glaward’s arms as he raised his fists. Leo couldn’t deny it was a majestic sight. Like some piece of exaggerated statuary. Even his teeth looked muscular. ‘I’m going to squeeze you out like a lemon,’ he growled.

‘The Young Lemon!’ barked Barniva, to much merriment from the onlookers.

Jurand leaned close. ‘If you die, can I have your horse?’

‘Belief,’ growled Leo, and dashed forward. Attack, always attack. Especially when the odds are against you.

He caught Glaward off guard, ducked under a wild fist, the wind of it catching his hair, and gave the big man the heaviest punches to the body he could. No doubt Glaward was carrying a little fat, but any hope he was soft underneath was long gone. Leo felt as if he’d punched a tree.

‘Shit,’ he hissed through his fixed smile, shaking out his throbbing fingers.

‘I’m going to make you eat this hillside,’ growled Glaward, and the growing audience whooped and laughed.

The dead knew Leo needed to watch Glaward’s fists, but his eye kept being drawn to two of the oddest-looking women among the spectators. The older had a sharp, expressionless face, mouth twisted by a scar, trouser-leg slit open showing bandages underneath. The younger had a wide, almost over-expressive face, a thick gold ring through her broad, freckled nose and a tangle of red-brown hair so wild those behind had to lean around it to see.

‘This is manly,’ she said, propping a muddy boot on the rail of the fence, its tongue flopping from bodged laces. ‘Do they charge for the spectacle?’

‘Far as I can tell,’ mused the old one, ‘they take their clothes off for free.’

The young one spread her arms and gave a huge smile. ‘What a public-spirited thing to do!’

Glaward was in no mood to give anything away. He kept pressing forward, one big fist flicking out in lethal-looking jabs. Leo dodged one, and another, but the third glanced his cheek and sent him staggering. He slipped on the wet grass, luckily, since Glaward’s other fist lashed the air where his head had just been. He slid around the big man, gave him a petulant tap in the ribs as he passed to no effect at all.

Glaward gave a scornful snort. ‘Are we fighting or dancing?’

Over his heavy shoulder, Leo caught sight of the girl again, staring cross-eyed at a strand of hair in her face. She stuck her bottom lip out to blow it away, and it flopped straight back in her eyes along with three others. There was something familiar about her, like a name on the tip of his tongue.

‘We’re fighting!’ he snarled, and ducked in with a flurry of punches, teeth bared and spit flying.

‘That’s it!’ he heard Jurand shout. ‘Give him hell!’

But Leo’s best efforts slapped harmlessly against Glaward’s big arms, scuffed the top of his head, bounced from his sides. Then a heavy fist came from nowhere, caught Leo under the chin and sent him tottering. He whooped helplessly as he was hauled into the air by his belt.

Dark land and bright sky reeled, he flailed wildly, then the ground struck him hard in the side, rattled his teeth, tumbled him over and over and onto his face.

He gave a long groan as he dragged himself up and saw Glaward’s great boot already rushing to meet him. He gasped as he rolled away, the big heel digging a great divot from the turf. He scrambled to his feet, lost his balance and fell against the fence.

‘This blond one is pretty,’ the older woman was saying.

‘I have eyes.’ The young one was watching him with her chin propped on her hands, head bouncing as she chewed something. She certainly did have eyes. Big, and very pale, and very piercing.

‘He’s