The Trouble with Peace (The Age of Madness #2) - Joe Abercrombie Page 0,218

that a king’s job was generally just to stand there, but it was still a job one could do badly. At that moment, he felt he was doing it rather damn well. He gave his best salute as a column of spearmen clattered past, heading, he was pleased to see, towards the fighting rather than away.

“Heroes!” he called to them. “Every one of you!”

They looked amazed to see him there but pleased, too. Proud, even. They trotted past the faster, soon lost in the rolling smoke. It appeared the rebels were using some new kind of cannon-stone which not only smashed buildings to pieces but set those pieces on fire. There’s progress for you.

“Enemies!” someone screeched.

“Protect the king!” squealed Gorst, stepping in front of Orso with his shield up. He was astonished to see Tunny flinging himself into the path of danger on the other side, Steadfast Standard in one hand and sword in the other. Horsemen were indeed moving through the murk. Orso inflated his chest indignantly, exactly the way his mother might have when faced with an impudent maid.

“Friendlies!” squeaked Gorst.

Several officers from one of the Crown Prince’s regiments, in fact, red jackets so soot-smeared they were hard to tell from dark Angland uniforms.

“Your Majesty! We’re being driven back in the centre. The Anglanders won’t stop coming!”

“Very well, Major. Give ground. Withdraw into Stoffenbeck and form another perimeter. Fight them in the streets if you must. Any chance of help from Lord Marshal Forest?” he asked as the officers clattered off to their likely dooms.

“He sent a messenger asking for help from us,” said Tunny, sheathing his sword.

“Damn it.” Orso would never forgive himself if anything happened to Hildi. “What about Lord Marshal Rucksted? Any sign?”

Gorst grimly shook his head. Perhaps Vick dan Teufel had been right, the Breakers had risen up in Keln and their last hope had never even left.

“My leg! My leg!” A man was carried past, arms over the shoulders of two others, his leg most clearly missing below the knee. A cannon-stone struck a roof on the other side of the square and sent an avalanche of broken slates raining down, people diving for cover in all directions.

A soft touch on Orso’s arm, a soft voice in his ear. “Your Majesty.” Sulfur, leaning close. “You really must withdraw.”

“Protecting your master’s investment?” asked Orso.

“It will do no one any good if the king is killed by falling masonry.”

Orso took a breath and nodded. “Especially not me.” And, he had to admit, things were starting to take on a subtle, but very distinct, flavour of defeat. “We’ll fall back a few hundred strides! No more.”

“Very good, Your Majesty,” said Tunny, hoisting the Steadfast Standard onto his shoulder.

“One moment.” Orso looked up at it. The white horse of Casamir still pranced as proudly as ever, and the golden sun of the Union still shone as radiantly. More so, if anything, in the midst of all this blood, grime and chaos. Leo dan Brock had been so very taken with it when they led that parade through Adua together, had looked so admiringly upon it at dinner. A man who placed a lot of faith in flags, one way or another. Orso slowly began to smile. “I think my standard should probably remain.”

“But, Your Majesty…” A captain cleared his throat, as though to explain the obvious to a dullard. “It must be wherever you are. How else will you be found on the battlefield?”

“Well, exactly,” said Orso. “We have a few cannon left over, don’t we?”

That footman was still following him, his purple livery thoroughly besmirched, cringing at the occasional impacts, his tray sheltered under one arm rather than balanced on his fingertips.

“Another sherry… Your Majesty?” he managed to whimper.

Orso smiled about at his entourage. “I rather think the time has come for something stronger.”

Vick had little military experience, but when it came to self-preservation she was an expert, and as far as she could tell, they were fucked.

She dumbly twisted the buds of rag out of her sore ears. Even without them, everything was muffled. One of the cannons had burst, killing half its crew. Three others were cracked and useless. Three more had warped so badly they couldn’t be fired. Another had jumped from its trestles and rolled down the hill, crushing two men before they could get out of the way. The rest had run out of stones and powder, their soot-blackened crews sprawled spent on the hillside like escapees from hell.

Gurkish Fire had