The Trouble with Peace (The Age of Madness #2) - Joe Abercrombie Page 0,225

might as well have gone swimming in a sea of corpses, doing his best imitation of the Bloody-Nine, the mad fucker.

Still, no man can rage for ever, and he was drooping now, bloody hair hanging, mail torn and the cloth beneath ripped, jaw dangling and knuckles raw, two of the fingers on his free hand snapped crooked in opposite directions

“Had your fill, have you?” asked Clover.

Downside’s eyes rolled slowly up, as if even that was too much effort, one turned bright red by a blow to the face and his cheek cut and his forehead scuffed raw and his brow opened up and weeping a dark streak.

“Aye,” he croaked out, voice raw from screaming curses. “And more.”

“The Anglanders are finished. Reckon the day’s done.”

“Aye,” croaked Downside, blowing a bloody bubble from his nose, and he held that broken hand out to Flick so the lad could help him up. “The day’s done.”

“Where’s Stour?”

Downside waved a lazy hand towards the crest of the hill.

Clover saw the King of the Northman’s black wolf standard bobbing over the throng, dancing in the mad tangle of spears and weapons and broken hafts, the stormy sea of heads and helms. Stour had flung himself into the midst, o’ course. Up front where tomorrow’s songs were made, carving himself a legend. The Great Wolf was brave, no doubt. But bravery and folly never had too big a gulf between ’em.

Clover bent down to one of the corpses, some Union man huddled on his side like a child on a cold night. He took a quick peek about but everyone was bent to their own tragedies, so he stuck his hand in the man’s ripped-open jacket and flicked blood on his face, smeared it down his mail, rubbed his sword along the corpse’s side to get a bit of red on it.

He realised the man was looking at him. Cheek twitched a little. Not dead, then. Clover gave him a sad little smile, a sad little shrug.

“Thanks for the gore.” Then he stood and hurried towards the madness.

Piece of luck, he didn’t have to go far. He found Stour sat on a rock looking mightily disgruntled. A woman was trying to bind his bleeding leg, but he kept jumping up to shout orders, or at any rate insults, jerking the bandages out of her hands.

“Clover!” he snarled, blood on his teeth. “Where the fuck have you been?”

“Trying to keep Downside from killing himself.” True enough, in its way. “The Young Lion’s all done. We have to pull back before they get around us.”

“You fucking what?”

Stour cast about him at his various young bastards, but none looked like they fancied another helping of what the Union had served ’em. They’d been a great deal more warlike leading up than in the thick, it had to be said. Greenway was gripping Stour’s standard like a man who can’t swim clinging to the rail of a sinking ship, flinching wild-eyed at every noise. A tough job, as the noise was constant.

“There’s nothing more to prove up here, my king,” Clover shouted over the racket. “Time to bend with the breeze. Save what we can.”

Saving things wasn’t on the menu far as Stour was concerned. He was a man liked to smash things at any cost. “The Great Wolf doesn’t run,” he spat, then gave a pained grunt as the woman pulled the bandage tight.

“’Course not,” said Clover. “But he might back off when it suits him, specially from another man’s fight. Wouldn’t be our victory. Won’t be our defeat.” He leaned close. “The Young Lion dug this fucking hole. He can be the one buried in it.”

“The ships are back at the coast,” muttered Greenway, eyes wide.

“Told my girl Sholla to bring ours up the river. Should be no more than ten miles off. I got horses waiting. Enough to whisk a few of us safe back home.”

Stour narrowed his eyes. “Always thinking, eh, Clover?”

“Honestly, your father told me to make sure you come through whole. You’re not just any man, you’re the future o’ the North.” Clover leaned even closer, speaking soft and urgent. “What are we even fighting for? Glory? There’ll always be more o’ that for the taking. Uffrith? Without Brock to defend it, we can snatch it the old-fashioned way!”

Stour worked his red mouth a moment, frowning up towards the summit of the hill. Then he bared his teeth, and spat red, and turned away. “We fucking pull back.”

“They’re coming,” gasped Leo. Every breath was a