The Trouble with Peace (The Age of Madness #2) - Joe Abercrombie Page 0,208

no more than thirty strides away, his fat jowls wobbling.

Antaup had never liked the man. Never liked any of these Open Council bastards. Never trusted them. Flatterers and blowhards. But somehow, he’d bought into the big talk. And it was too late now. No choice but to work with what they had.

He grabbed Barezin by a fistful of braid and hissed the words one at a time. “Just… get… them… across!” He pulled his horse around. “Now!”

He had to head back to Leo. Tell him he couldn’t rely on these fools.

He shoved a low branch aside and was out from among the trees. Things were no less confused in the open. Dead and wounded everywhere. One dissolving unit was half moving forward, half back, breaking open in the middle and scattering yellow-jacketed men in every direction. A riderless horse frisked maddened through the chaos, empty stirrups bouncing at its flanks.

Antaup saw a flicker at the corner of his eye then dirt showered up in the midst of a column. Dirt and weapons and bits of people in a flailing cloud. Men were flung down like dolls, flung themselves down, covering their heads.

Antaup only just kept his seat as his horse swerved around the shattered column, soil showering down on him, pinging from his saddle, screams of injured men fading under the drumming of hooves.

That had been close.

Off to the west, through the haze of smoke, he caught a glimpse of more organised lines. Blue-uniformed troops. Isher’s regiments, maybe, spared the worst of the cannon fire, still keeping some shape. But as he galloped across the fields, he saw nothing but an exhibition of cowardice. Every tree had a little clump of men huddled behind it, fighting each other for more cover. Men without weapons. Men without purpose. Wounded crawling for the rear.

A nervous company had gathered at the side of a farmhouse. You could see their terror as they gazed across the body-speckled fields towards the burning orchards and the fuming hill beyond. An officer rode up and down in front of them, waving his sword, screaming himself hoarse. “Forward! For pity’s sake, forward!” But like a stubborn herd of goats refusing the shepherd’s commands, they wouldn’t be moved.

Antaup gritted his teeth and dug in his heels. All bloody amateurs. And good men would be paying for it.

He jumped a hedge, jolting down, saw a set of men hiding on the other side in the midst of pulling off their brightly coloured jackets. Deserting before they’d even reached the enemy. He was tempted to turn his horse and ride the bastards down. But they weren’t alone. He saw others scattering northwards across the fields, occasionally glancing back with terrified eyes.

“Bastard cowards!” he hissed into the wind.

He wished Jurand and Glaward were there. He’d always known what they were. Nothing to be proud of but they were good men still. Leo could be so bloody stubborn. Once he had an idea in his head, there was no shaking it free.

“Out of the way!” he roared, men flattening themselves against the railings of the wooden bridge as he clattered across. One messenger scarcely flung himself aside in time, a flash of his wide eyes, a snatch of his shocked whoop as Antaup whipped past him and on towards Steebling’s tower-house.

He was working up a new story. Something to really gild his reputation. A nobleman’s wife, this time. Lady something or other. Probably better not to think up a name, that could get him in trouble later. I’ll take it to my grave and all that. Mysterious older woman. Terribly wealthy. Frisson of danger. Husband couldn’t get it hard any more. They’d swallow it whole. Antaup, you dog! How do you do it? Easy when you made it up. And a lot more fun than having to actually persuade women to take you to bed. He’d no patience with women at all.

The hill the tower stood on crawled with activity, but the neat grey lines of Angland’s army weren’t waiting at the foot any more. He could see the dust from the formations as they crossed the stubbled fields to the south.

“Damn it,” he whispered, giving his horse a moment to rest and easing his helmet back to wipe his sweaty forehead.

Had Leo got impatient? Hardly the first time. Or had something forced his hand? He felt a guilty pricking of nostalgia for the days when Lady Finree had been in command. That sense of calm control as she considered the maps, the