The Trouble with Peace (The Age of Madness #2) - Joe Abercrombie Page 0,163

the quick breath hissing through his gritted teeth, the eagerness boiling up his throat, setting him on fire.

His boot hit something in the darkness. Stump or root or rut. It spun him around, he fell and went sliding on his face in the mud. Near cut himself on his axe. Maybe he did cut himself. He was up again, running again, towards the flickering, smearing lights. Towards the great wagon. One of its six horses looked to be dead, the others had dragged it from the road, plunging in the traces, left it leaning against a stump with one wheel uselessly spinning, driver slumped in his seat.

Broad dashed around it, axe raised, ready to strike, then ducked back from flailing hooves, spraying mud. A horse was rearing and screaming and biting, maddened, flanks wet with blood, a dead man bouncing after it, one boot caught in the stirrup and his breastplate all riddled with holes.

Someone was screaming, rolling, wreathed in fire. His lantern must’ve got shattered in the blast, sprayed him with burning oil. A soldier dragged himself up, helmet all skewed, twisted face sticky red, trying to draw his sword. Broad’s axe smashed the side of his head in.

“What happened?” someone shouted, stumbling from the smoke. Red jacket. Gold braid. An officer. “You!” he shouted at Broad. Outraged. Not understanding. “What is all—”

Broad’s axe caught him right between the eyes, knocked his hat off and snapped his head back, arms flung wide as if he was offering a hug. He flopped into a puddle, blood flooding from the slice out of his forehead.

“Ambush!” someone screeched. “Ambush!”

A rider came at him, sword raised. Broad reeled away, caught his horse in the face with his axe. It lurched sideways, toppled. The rider fell under it, yelling something. Broad hacked at him, missed and chopped deep into the horse’s flank. The man tried to swing but trapped under the horse there was no venom in it, his sword just bounced off Broad’s leg. Broad stepped on the soldier’s sword arm, raised the axe high and stove his breastplate in with a hollow clonk.

He heard something behind him. Coughed. Groaned. Head hurt. He was lying on his face. Someone hit him? Tried to shake it off. Closed his hand around the cold shaft of the axe. Staggered up.

Everything was a sparkling blur. Writhing shadows. Smears of light. Lenses must’ve got knocked off. Only then he realised he’d even had ’em on. Shadows flickered and stabbed. He could hear Judge’s voice. A demented shriek. “Kill ’em! Kill ’em!”

A horse thundered past. He heard its hooves, felt the wind of it. He lashed with his axe, hit nothing and spun right around, nearly fell.

Someone was screaming. “No! No! Please!” And then they were just screaming. Was it him? No, he had his teeth clenched, moaning and snarling through them, not even words, just heaved breath and sprayed spit. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t see. Prickling with sweat under his new breastplate.

Had a feeling two writhing shadows was one man stabbing another but he’d no idea who was who. There were no sides. Only those doing the killing and those getting killed.

He saw a man-shaped shadow against flames, stepped towards it, raising the axe high.

“Woah!” Hard to tell, but looked like the man was cringing back, holding up a hand. “Woah, there, Bull!”

Bannerman’s voice. Broad could just about recognise it through the ringing in his ears. Took an effort to lower the axe. Far more than to swing it. Felt heavy now. Hard to breathe, chest aching.

He squinted into the darkness. Started casting about for his lenses, bent over. Near tripped on something. A corpse, maybe. A horse, still weakly kicking.

He could hear someone whimpering. Judge’s voice as well, dripping menace. “Open this fucking carriage or we’ll crack it open!”

“Here you go.” Halder pressed something into Broad’s palm. His fingers were hurting now. A bunch of numb sausages. He was scared he’d crush his delicate little lenses in his hands. Held them to the light, squinting, almost right up against his face. Wiped them, wincing, finally fumbled them back onto his nose.

Dead men. Dead horses. Mud and blood, black in the light of fires from spilled lamp oil. That acrid smell of Gurkish sugar and charred meat he remembered from the sieges. He’d thought he never wanted to smell that again. Now he dragged it into his nostrils like a connoisseur might nose a glass of wine. Burners stood about, with their bright new arms and armour. Sarlby,