Abercrombie, Joe - The Heroes
Temper shot at the bastard who’d been on the horse. He was flattened under it, and no danger to no one, but a man acting that bloody fearless within shot of Temper’s bow was an insult to his aim. As luck had it, luck being a fickle little shit, his elbow got jogged just as he was letting go the string and he shot his shaft off high into the air.
He snatched at another arrow, but by then things were getting a bit messy. A bit more’n a bit. The Union were up to the ditch they’d dug and the earth wall they’d thrown up, and Temper wished now they’d dug it a deal deeper and thrown it up a deal higher, ’cause there were a bloody lot of Southerners crowding round it, and plenty more on the way.
Irig’s boys were packed in on the packed earth, jabbing down with spears, doing a lot of shouting. Temper saw a fair few spears jabbing the other way too. He went up on tiptoes trying to see, then lurched out the way of Irig’s axe as it flashed past his nose. Once his blood was going that big bastard didn’t care much who got caught on the backswing.
A Northman staggered past, tangling with Temper and nearly dragging him over, scrabbling at his chest as blood bubbled through his torn chain mail. A Union man sprang up onto the earth-wall in the gap he’d left like he was on a bloody spring. A neckless bastard with a great heavy jaw and hard brows wrinkled over hard little eyes. No helmet but thick plates of scuffed armour on the rest of him, shield in one hand, heavy sword in the other already dark with blood.
Temper stumbled away from him, since he only had his bow to hand and had always liked to keep fighting at a polite distance anyway, making way for a more willing Carl whose sword was already swinging. Neckless seemed off balance, the blade sure to take his head right off, but in one quick movement he blocked it with a clang of steel, and blood showered, and the Carl reeled back onto his face. Before he was still, Neckless had hit another man so hard he took him right off his feet, turned him over in the air and sent him tumbling down the hillside.
Temper scrambled back up the slope, mouth wide open and salty with someone’s blood, sure he was looking the Great Leveller in the face at last, and an ugly face it was, too. Then Irig came rushing from the side, axe following close behind.
Neckless went down hard, a great dent smashed into his shield. Temper hooted with laughter but the Union man only went down as far as his knees would bend then burst straight back up, flinging Irig’s great bulk away and slicing him across the guts all in one motion, sending him staggering, blood spraying from his chain mail coat, eyes popping more with shock than pain. Just couldn’t believe he’d been done so easy, and neither could Temper. How could a man run up that hill and still move so hard and so fast at the top of it?
‘It’s the Bloody-Nine!’ someone wailed, though it bloody obviously weren’t the Bloody-Nine at all. He was causing quite a bloody panic all the same. Another Carl went at him with a spear and he slid around it, sword crashing down and leaving a mighty dent in the middle of the Carl’s helmet, folding him on his face, arms and legs thrashing mindless in the mud.
Temper gritted his teeth, raised his bow, took a careful bead on the neckless bastard, but just as Temper let go the string Irig pushed himself up, clutching his bloody guts with one hand while he raised his axe in the other. Luck being luck, he got himself right in the way of the arrow and it took him in the shoulder, made him grunt.
The Union man’s eyes flicked sideways, and his sword flicked out with ’em and took Irig’s arm off just like that, and almost before the blood began to spurt from the stump the blade lashed back the other way and ripped a bloody gash in his chest, back the other way and laid Irig’s head wide open between his mouth and his nose, top teeth snatched through the air and off down the hill.
Neckless crouched there still, dented shield up in front, sword up behind, big face all spotted with red and his eyes ahead, calm as a fisherman waiting for a tug on the line. Four carved Northmen dead as ever a man could be at his feet and Irig toppling gently sideways and into the ditch, even deader.
He might as well have been the Bloody-Nine, this neckless bastard, Carls falling over ’emselves to get away from him. More Union men started to pull themselves up to either side, over the earth wall in numbers, and the shift backwards became a run.
Temper went with ’em, as eager as any. He caught an elbow in the neck from someone, slipped over and slapped his chin on the grass, gave his tongue an awful bite, scrambled up and ran on, men shouting and shrieking all around. He snatched one desperate look back, saw Neckless hack down a running Carl calmly as you might swat a fly. Beside him a tall Union man in a bright breastplate was pointing towards Temper with a drawn blade, shouting at the top of his voice.
‘On!’ roared Jalenhorm, waving his sword towards the Children. Bloody hell, he was out of breath. ‘Up! Up!’ They had to keep the momentum. Gorst had opened the gate a crack, and they had to push through before it closed. ‘On! On!’ He bent down, offering his hand to haul men over the ditch and slapping them on the back as they laboured off uphill again.
It looked as if the fleeing Northmen were causing chaos at the drystone wall above, tangling with the defenders there, spreading panic, letting the foremost of Jalenhorm’s men clamber up after them without resistance. As soon as he had the breath to do it he followed himself, lurching up the steep slope. He had to push on.
Bodies. Bodies, and wounded men scattered on the grass. A Northman stared at him, bloody hands clapped to the top of his head. A Union soldier clutched dumbly at his oozing thigh. A soldier running just beside him made a hiccupping sound and fell on his back, and when Jalenhorm glanced over his shoulder he saw the man had an arrow in his face. He could not stop for him. Could only press on, swallowing a sudden wave of nausea. His own thudding heartbeat and his own whooshing breath damped the war cries and the clashes of metal down to an endless nagging rattle. The thickening drizzle was far from helping, turning the trampled grass slippery slick. The world jumped and wobbled, full of running men, slipping and sliding men, occasional whirring arrows, flying grass and mud.
‘On,’ he grunted, ‘on.’ No one could have heard him. It was himself he was ordering. ‘On.’ This was his one chance at redemption. If they could only capture the summit. Break the Northmen where they were strongest. ‘Up. Up.’ Then nothing else would matter. He would be no longer the king’s incompetent old drinking partner, who fumbled his command on the first day. He would have finally earned his place. ‘On,’ he wheezed, ‘up!’
He pushed on, bent over, clawing at the wet grass with his free hand, so intent on the ground that the wall caught him by surprise. He stood, waving his sword uncertainly, not sure whether it would be held by his men or the enemy, or what he should do about it in either case. Someone reached down with a gloved hand. Gorst. Jalenhorm found himself hauled up with shocking ease, scrambled over the damp stones and onto the flat top of the spur.
The Children stood just ahead. Much larger at close quarters than he had imagined, a circle of rough-hewn rocks a little higher than a man. There were more bodies here, but fewer than on the slopes below. It seemed resistance had been light and, for the moment at least, had disappeared altogether. Union soldiers stood about in various stages of exhausted confusion. Beyond them the hill sloped up towards the summit. Towards the Heroes themselves. A gentler incline, and covered with retreating Northmen. More of an organised withdrawal than a rout this time, from what Jalenhorm could gather at a glance.
A glance was all he could manage. With no immediate peril, his body sagged. He stood for a moment, hands on his knees, chest heaving, belly squeezing uncomfortably against the inside of his wondrous breastplate with every in-breath. Damn thing didn’t bloody fit him any more. It had never bloody fit him.
‘The Northmen are falling back!’ Gorst’s weird falsetto jangled in Jalenhorm’s ears. ‘We must pursue!’
‘General! We should regroup.’ One of Jalenhorm’s staff, his armour beaded with wet. ‘We’re well ahead of the second wave. Too far ahead.’ He gestured towards Osrung, shrouded now in the thickening rain. ‘And Northern cavalry have attacked the Stariksa Regiment, they’re bogged down on our right—’
Jalenhorm managed to straighten up. ‘The Aduan Volunteers?’
‘Still in the orchard, sir!’
‘We’re getting split up from our support—’ chimed in another.
‘Gorst waved them angrily away, his piping voice making a ludicrous contrast with his blood-spotted aspect. He barely even looked out of breath. ‘Damn the support! We press on!’
‘General, sir, Colonel Vinkler is dead, the men are exhausted, we must pause!’
Jalenhorm stared up at the summit, chewing at his lip. Seize the moment, or wait for support? He saw the spears of the Northmen against the darkening sky. Gorst’s eager, red-speckled face. The clean, nervous ones of his staff. He winced, looked at the handful of men to hand, then shook his head. ‘We will hold here a little while for reinforcements. Secure this position and gather our strength.’
Gorst had the expression of a boy who had been told he could not have a puppy this year. ‘But, General—’
Jalenhorm put a hand on his shoulder. ‘I share your eagerness, Bremer, believe me, but not everyone can run for ever. Black Dow is ready, and cunning, and this retreat might only be a ruse. I do not intend to be fooled by him a second time.’ He squinted up, the clouds getting steadily angrier above them. ‘The weather is against us. As soon as we have the numbers, we must attack.’ They might not be resting long. Union soldiers were flooding over the wall now, choking the stone circle.
‘Where’s Retter?’
‘Here, sir,’ called the lad. He looked pale, and scared, but so did they all.
Jalenhorm smiled to see him. There, indeed, was a hero. ‘Sound the assembly, boy, and ready on the advance.’
They could not be reckless, but nor could they afford to waste the initiative. This was their one chance at redemption. Jalenhorm stared yearningly up at the Heroes, rain tinkling on his helmet. So very near. The last Northmen were swarming up the slopes towards the top. One stood, looking back through the rain.
Ironhead frowned back towards the Children, already riddled with Union soldiers.
‘Shit,’ he hissed.
Hurt him to do this. He’d a hard-won name for never giving ground, but he hadn’t won it in fights he was sure to lose. He wasn’t about to face the might of the Union on his own just so men could blow their noses and say Cairm Ironhead died bravely. He’d no plans to follow after Whitesides, or Littlebone, or Old Man Yawl. They’d all died bravely, and who sang about those bastards these days?
‘Pull back!’ he bellowed at the last of his men, urging ’em between the planted stakes and up towards the Heroes. A shameful thing to show your back to the enemy, but better their eyes on your back than their spears in your front. If Black Dow wanted to fight for this worthless hill and these worthless stones he could do it his worthless self.
He strode up frowning through the thickening rain, through the gap in the mossy wall that ringed the Heroes. He walked slow, shoulders back and head high, hoping folk would think this was all well planned and he’d done nothing the least bit cowardly—
‘Well, well, well. Who should I find running away from the Union but Cairm Ironhead?’ Who else but Glama Golden, the swollen prick, leaning against one of the great stones with a big, fat smile on his big, bruised face.
By the dead, how Ironhead hated this bastard. Those big puffy cheeks. That moustache, like a pair of yellow slugs on his fat top lip. Ironhead’s skin crawled at the sight of him. The sight of him smug made him want to tear his own eyes out. ‘Pulling back,’ he growled.
‘Showing back, I’d call it.’
That got a few laughs, but they sputtered out as Ironhead came forwards, baring his teeth. Golden took a careful step back, narrowed eyes flickering down to Ironhead’s drawn sword, hand dropping to his own axe, making ready.
Then Ironhead stopped himself. He hadn’t got his name by letting anger tug him about by the nose. There was a right time to settle this, and a right way, and it wasn’t now, standing on even terms with all kinds of witnesses. No. He’d wait for his moment, and make sure he enjoyed it too. So he forced his face into a smile of his own. ‘We can’t all have your record of bravery, Glama Golden. Takes some bones to batter a man’s fist with your face the way you did.’
‘Least I fucking fought, didn’t I?’ snarled Golden, his Carls bristling up around him.
‘If you can call it fighting when a man just falls off his horse then runs away.’
Golden’s turn to bare his teeth. ‘You dare talk to me about running away, you cowardly—’
‘Enough.’ Black Dow had Curnden Craw on his left, Caul Shivers on his right and Cracknut Whirrun just behind. That and a whole crowd of heavy-armed, heavy-scarred, heavy-scowled Carls. A fearsome company, but the look on Dow’s face was more fearsome still. He was rigid with rage, eyes bulging as if they might burst. ‘This what you call Named Men these days? A pair o’ great big names with a pair o’ sulking children hiding inside?’ Dow curled his tongue and blew spit onto the mud between Ironhead and Golden. ‘Rudd Threetrees was a stubborn bastard, and Bethod a sly bastard, and the Bloody-Nine an evil bastard, the dead know that, but there are times I miss ’em. Those were men!’ He roared the word in Ironhead’s face, spraying spit and making everyone flinch. ‘They said a thing, they did a fucking thing!’
Ironhead thought it best to make a second quick retreat, eyes on Black Dow’s ready weapons just in case an even quicker one was needful. He was no keener on that fight than he was on the one with the Union. Even less, if anything, but luckily Golden couldn’t resist sticking his broken nose in.
‘I’m with you, Chief!’ he piped up. ‘With you all the way!’
‘Is that right?’ Dow turned to him, mouth curling with contempt. ‘Oh, lucky fucking me!’ And he shouldered Golden out of his way and led his men towards the wall.
When Ironhead turned back he found Curnden Craw giving him a look from under his grey brows. ‘What?’ he snapped.
Craw just kept giving him that look. ‘You know what.’
He shook his head as he brushed between Ironhead and Golden. They were a sorry excuse for a pair of War Chiefs. For a pair of men, for that matter, but Craw had seen worse. Selfishness, cowardice and greed never surprised him these days. Those were the times.
‘Pair o’ fucking worms!’ Dow hissed into the drizzle as Craw came up beside him. He clawed at the old drystone, tore loose a rock and stood, every muscle flexed, lips twisting and moving with no sound as if he didn’t know whether to fling it down the slope or stave in someone’s skull with it or smash his own face with it or what. In the end he just gave a frustrated snarl, and put it helplessly back on top of the wall. ‘I should kill ’em. Maybe I will. Maybe I will. Burn the fucking pair.’
