The Trouble with Peace (The Age of Madness #2) - Joe Abercrombie Page 0,209

men, the terrain. No place for a woman, maybe, but no one ever doubted that she knew exactly what she was doing. That she knew exactly what everyone else should be doing. Now no one seemed to have the faintest idea.

He pushed down an unfamiliar feeling of panic. Get to Leo. Tell him what was happening. Do his duty. Like Ritter and good old Barniva had, if that was what it took. He pushed on south, towards the dust clouds, the rows of glinting steel. The buildings of Stoffenbeck grew closer through the gloom. The tall clock tower. He tore on past clusters of wounded men, past stretcher-bearers, past wagons laden with supplies.

He noticed bolts poking from the stubbled fields to either side now. All pointing at the same angle. Within flatbow range, then. Leo would be where the danger was, of course. It was one of the things you had to admire about the—

There was a strange little click, Antaup gasped as his horse swerved, and suddenly he was in the air. He took a whooping breath, clutching at nothing, driven out in a great groan as he hit the ground. The world tumbled and jolted as he rolled, bounced, tumbled and slid to a stop.

He lay there, looking at the sky for a moment.

The sun a bright smudge against the clouds. Peaceful.

He came back to himself with a jolt. He moved his arms and legs, wriggled his fingers. A couple of bruises perhaps, but otherwise uninjured. The ladies of the Union and, indeed, the world, could breathe again. That had been an exceedingly close thing.

His horse lay on its side, kicking weakly, a flatbow bolt buried in its flank.

“You absolute bastards!” he roared at no one in particular.

Canlan pulled the trigger and sent another bolt flying towards the neat blocks of Anglanders.

He didn’t wait to see where it came down. That wasn’t his business.

“Load!” shouted that arsehole of a lieutenant, barely old enough for a beard.

“Arsehole,” mouthed Canlan as he lowered his bow and started to crank.

Drum gave a little snigger, but he was easily amused. “Let’s have some more bolts over here!” he roared over his shoulder.

“They’ll come when we need ’em.” In Canlan’s experience, it didn’t really help thinking about where the bolts came from and certainly not where they were going. And Canlan had a lot of experience. Been a soldier all his life, more or less. He’d shot flatbow bolts in every significant war the Union had been involved in. He’d shot ’em at Gurkish and Northmen and Styrians and Stariklanders. He’d shot ’em at Ghosts on the barren plains, at pirates on the rolling sea, even at some Imperials, once, in a desultory exchange of arrows outside of arrow range somewhere near the border of the Near Country. Now he was shooting ’em at Anglanders, who in every way that counted should’ve been on his side.

The string was cranked all the way now and he hefted the bow, plucked up a bolt, slotted it home, all smooth and practised. He paused a moment, wondering how many bolts he’d shot in his life. But his job wasn’t to count ’em, just to put ’em in the air, calmly and carefully and quickly as possible.

He lifted the bow to his shoulder, knocked the dowel out of the trigger, lined up on the ranks of marching pikemen, their armour gleaming dully in the sun as they came on. Gave him a worried feeling, for a moment, seeing ’em like that. Weren’t quite close enough to make out their faces. Weren’t quite close enough to tell who they were. But they soon would be. He frowned as he lifted the bow to adjust for distance. So he was looking towards the sky, rather than towards the men. That was better. Who they were wasn’t his business.

“Shoot!” said that arsehole of a lieutenant, and Canlan pulled the trigger, and put his bolt in the air, and straight away set to cranking his bow again.

Starling gasped as something bounced from his shoulder plate, flicked his helmet and clattered away behind.

“Was that a flatbow bolt?”

“Keep steady!” called Captain Longridge. “March!”

Starling swallowed. Armour was a good thing. Armour was a very good thing.

“Come on,” someone was growling, just beside him. “Come on.”

Bloody hell, they were getting close now. Over the shoulders of the three ranks in front, he caught a glimpse of the enemy’s lines. A drystone wall, he thought. Some tree trunks with stakes hammered into them, poking out in