The Trouble with Peace (The Age of Madness #2) - Joe Abercrombie Page 0,224

Jin, and the Northman looked back, and no words were any use.

“Go back… to Savine.” Brock was panting between each phrase. “Make sure she gets away.” Like every word was a hero’s effort. “Make sure my child… gets away.”

Broad stood. There were shapes in the smoke. The king’s men, he guessed, moving in to finish it.

He took a fallen sword and pressed the hilt into Leo dan Brock’s hand. The Young Lion nodded to him, and Broad nodded back.

He could do no good here. But then he hadn’t come to do good. He turned away from the killing. Slipped down a ruined side street, and away.

“Shit,” growled Clover, lowering his eyeglass and frowning down towards the smouldering wreck that used to be a town.

“What is it?” asked Flick, over the endless racket of the fighting.

“Best I can tell, the Young Lion’s glorious charge came to grief. Let that be a lesson for you in the value of glorious charges.”

“What does that mean?”

“That there’s naught left to fight for. We need to save what we can while there’s still something to save. Stay close and stay low.” And Clover tucked the eyeglass away and drew his sword. Not so much from any desire to swing it, but because having it drawn was the done thing in a battle. Then he clenched his jaw, squared his shoulders and headed exactly the wrong way. Which was to say towards the fighting.

It was bad now. It was always bad, but it was real bad now. Everyone on the arrow-prickled, blood-smeared, mud-churned way was hurt. A Carl spluttered blood and bits of teeth into his hands. Another stared stupidly, hair clotted with blood. A Thrall clutched at the leaking stumps of two fingers, snarling curses. A Named Man sat, pale as milk, staring down at his hands as he tried to poke his guts back in through a great slit in his side. Clover caught his eye and gave him a nod. He was back to the mud, and they both knew it. A nod was all Clover could do for him.

“By the dead,” croaked Flick, wincing as if he was walking into a wind, the terrible, mindless din of it getting louder and louder.

Clover shook his head. Gripped tight to his sword. Could there have been a time he enjoyed this? Looked forward to it? Strained every muscle to get back to it as soon as he could?

“Must’ve been mad,” he whispered.

Some arrows fell fluttering and Clover dropped down, hunching his shoulders. Like hunching your shoulders would do any good. Who was shooting anyway? In all this, there was just as much chance of killing your side as theirs. Maybe it got so you didn’t care any more. So any killing seemed a sensible notion. Everyone else was at it, why be the one fool left out?

Been a long time since Clover felt that way. The mud’s cold embrace waits for everyone. Getting some poor bastard there faster just ’cause he was facing the other way hardly struck him as a thing worth risking your own life for. When there’s a flood, do you waste time raging at the water? By the dead, no, you just try not to drown. Battle’s no different. A natural disaster.

“Fuck,” someone was snarling, down on one knee, staring at the arrow shaft sticking from his shoulder. “Fuck!” Like he never saw a thing so unbelievable, so unfair. Should’ve thought about it. Nothing more natural in a battle than getting shot with an arrow.

Least Clover had managed to keep Sholla out of it this time. Told her someone needed to bring a boat upriver, in case things turned ugly. Hadn’t needed much persuading, in the end. She’d a good head on her, that girl. He’d have liked to leave Flick out, too, but there was one valuable lesson for a boy to learn here. Namely that swords do no good for the men at either end of ’em.

“Chief,” said Flick, tugging on his sleeve.

Downside knelt there on the hill, corpses all about him, leaning on a great axe he must’ve prised from some dead man’s fingers, as if he was about to push himself up but couldn’t find the strength.

He’d taken the approach to battle Clover might’ve when his name was still Steepfield, which was to say running for wherever the fight was wildest, raging and flailing and spilling every drop of blood he could without a thought for shield or helm or consequences. He was so red-spattered, he