The Collected Joe Abercrombie (327 page)

Eider bowed her head. ‘Your Excellency, I would hate to intrude. I am here merely to wish you the best of fortune.’

‘Sure you wouldn’t care to fight?’ snapped Monza at her.

‘Oh, there are other ways of fighting than bloody in the mud, Murcatto.’ She leaned from her saddle and hissed it. ‘You’ll see!’

‘Your Excellency!’ A shrill call, soon joined by others, a ripple of excitement spreading through the horsemen. One of Rogont’s officers was pointing over the river, towards the ridge on the far side of the valley. There was movement there against the pale sky. Monza nudged her horse towards it, sliding out a borrowed eyeglass and scanning across the ridge.

A scattering of horsemen came first. Outriders, officers and standard-bearers, banners held high, white flags carrying the black cross of Talins, the names of battles stitched along their edges in red and silver thread. It hardly helped that a good number of the victories she’d had a hand in herself. A wide column of men tramped into view behind them, marching steadily down the brown stripe of the Imperial road towards the lower ford, spears shouldered.

The foremost regiment stopped and began to spread out about a half-mile from the water. Other columns began to spill from the road, forming battle lines across the valley. There was nothing clever about the plan, as far as she could see.

But they had the numbers. They didn’t need to be clever.

‘The Talinese have arrived,’ murmured Rogont, pointlessly.

Orso’s army. Men she’d fought alongside this time last year, led to victory at Sweet Pines. Men Ganmark had led until Stolicus fell on him. Men Foscar was leading now. That eager young lad with the fluff moustache who’d laughed with Benna in the gardens of Fontezarmo. That eager young lad she’d sworn to kill. She chewed her lip as she moved the eyeglass across the dusty front ranks, more men and more flooding over the hill behind them.

‘Regiments from Etrisani and Cesale on their right wing, some Baolish on their left.’ Ragged-marching men in fur and heavy chain mail, savage fighters from the hills and the mountains in the far east of Styria.

‘The great majority of Duke Orso’s regular troops. But where, oh where, are your comrades of the Thousand Swords?’

Monza nodded up towards Menzes Hill, a green lump speckled with olive groves above the upper ford. ‘I’d bet my life they’re there, behind the brow. Foscar will cross the lower ford in strength and give you no choice but to meet him head on. Once you’re committed, the Thousand Swords will cross the upper ford unopposed and take you in the flank.’

‘Very likely. What would be your advice?’

‘You should’ve turned up to Sweet Pines on time. Or Musselia. Or the High Bank.’

‘Alas, I was late for those battles then. I am extremely late for them now.’

‘You should have attacked long before this. Taken a gamble as they marched down the Imperial road from Puranti.’ Monza frowned at the valley, the great number of soldiers on both sides of the river. ‘You have the smaller force.’

‘But the better position.’

‘To get it you gave up the initiative. Lost your chance at surprise. Trapped yourself. The general with the smallest numbers is well advised to stay always on the offensive.’

‘Stolicus, is it? I never had you down for book learning.’

‘I know my business, Rogont, books and all.’

‘My epic thanks to you and your friend Stolicus for explaining my failures. Perhaps one of you might furnish an opinion on how I might now achieve success?’

Monza let her eyes move over the landscape, judging the angles of the slopes, the distances from Menzes Hill to the upper ford, from the upper to the lower, from the striped walls of the city to the river. The position seemed better than it was. Rogont had too much ground to cover and not enough men for the job.

‘All you can do now is the obvious. Hit the Talinese with all your archers as they cross, then all your foot as soon as their front ranks touch dry land. Keep the cavalry here to at least hold up the Thousand Swords when they show. Hope to break Foscar quickly, while his feet are in the river, then turn to the mercenaries. They won’t stick if they see the game’s against them. But breaking Foscar . . .’ She watched the great body of men forming up into lines as wide as the wide ford, more columns belching from the Imperial road to join them. ‘If Orso thought you had a chance at it he’d have picked a commander more experienced and less valuable. Foscar’s got more than twice your numbers on his own, and all he has to do is hold you.’ She peered up the slope. The Gurkish priests sat observing the battle not far from the Styrian ladies, their white robes bright in the sunlight, their dark faces grim. ‘If the Prophet sent you a miracle, now might be the time.’

‘Alas, he sent only money. And kind words.’

Monza snorted. ‘You’ll need more than kind words to win today.’

‘We’ll need,’ he corrected, ‘since you fight beside me. Why do you fight beside me, by the way?’

Because she was too tired and too sick to fight alone any more. ‘Seems I can’t resist pretty men in lots of trouble. When you held all the cards I fought for Orso. Now look at me.’

‘Now look at us both.’ He took in a long breath, and gave a happy sigh.

‘What the hell are you so pleased about?’

‘Would you rather I despaired?’ Rogont grinned at her, handsome and doomed. Maybe the two went together. ‘If the truth be known, I’m relieved the waiting is over, whatever odds we face. Those of us who carry great responsibilities must learn patience, but I have never had much taste for it.’

‘That’s not your reputation.’

‘People are more complicated than their reputations, General Murcatto. You should know that. We will settle our business here, today. No more delays.’ He twitched his horse away to confer with one of his aides, and left Monza slumped in her saddle, arms limp across the bow, frowning up towards Menzes Hill.

She wondered if Nicomo Cosca was up there, squinting towards them through his eyeglass.

Cosca squinted through his eyeglass towards the mass of soldiery on the far side of the river. The enemy, though he held no personal rancour towards them. The battlefield was no place for rancour. Blue flags carrying the white tower of Ospria fluttered above them, but one larger than the others, edged with gold. The standard of the Duke of Delay himself. Horsemen were scattered about it, a group of ladies too, by the look of things, ridden out to watch the battle, all in their best. Cosca fancied he could even see some Gurkish priests, though he could not imagine what their interest might be. He wondered idly whether Monzcarro Murcatto was there. The notion of her sitting side-saddle in floating silks fit for a coronation gave him a brief moment of amusement. The battlefield was most definitely a place for amusement. He lowered his eyeglass, took a swig from his flask and happily closed his eyes, feeling the sun flicker through the branches of the old olive trees.

‘Well?’ came Andiche’s rough voice.

‘What? Oh, you know. Still forming up.’

‘Rigrat sends word the Talinese are beginning their attack.’

‘Ah! So they are.’ Cosca sat forwards, training his eyeglass on the ridge to his right. The front ranks of Foscar’s foot were close to the river now, spread out across the flower-dotted sward in orderly lines, the hard dirt of the Imperial road invisible beneath that mass of men. He could faintly hear the tramping of their feet, the disembodied calls of their officers, the regular thump, thump of their drums floating on the warm air, and he waved one hand gently back and forth in time. ‘Quite the spectacle of military splendour!’

He moved his round window on the world down the road to the glittering, slow-flowing water, across it to the far bank and up the slope. The Osprian regiments were deploying to meet them, perhaps a hundred strides above the river. Archers had formed a long line behind them on higher ground, kneeling, making ready their bows. ‘Do you know, Andiche . . . I have a feeling we will shortly witness some bloodshed. Order the men forwards, up behind us here. Fifty strides, perhaps, beyond the brow of the hill.’

‘But . . . they’ll be seen. We’ll lose the surprise—’

‘Shit on the surprise. Let them see the battle, and let the battle see them. Give them a taste for it.’

‘But General—’

‘Give the orders, man. Don’t fuss.’

Andiche turned away, frowning, and beckoned over one of his sergeants. Cosca settled back with a satisfied sigh, stretched his legs out and crossed one highly polished boot over the other. Good boots. How long had it been since he’d last worn good boots? The front rank of Foscar’s men were in the river. Wading forwards with grim determination, no doubt, up to their knees in cold water, looking without relish at the considerable body of soldiers drawn up in good order on the high ground to their front. Waiting for the arrows to start falling. Waiting for the charge to come. An unenviable task, forcing that ford. He had to admit to being damn pleased he had talked his way clear of it.

He raised Morveer’s flask and wet his lips, just a little.

Shivers heard the faint cries of the orders, the rattling rush of a few hundred shafts loosed together. The first volley went up from Rogont’s archers, black splinters drifting, and rained down on the Talinese as they waded on through the shallows.

Shivers shifted in his saddle, rubbed gently at his itching scar as he watched the lines twist and buckle, holes opening up, flags drooping. Some men slowing, wanting to get back, others moving faster, wanting to press on. Fear and anger, two sides to the same coin. No one’s favourite job, trying to march tight over bad terrain while men shoot arrows at you. Stepping over corpses. Friends, maybe. The horrible chance of it, knowing a little gust might be the difference between an arrow in the earth by your boot or an arrow through your face.

Shivers had seen battles enough, of course. A lifetime of ’em. He’d watched them play out or listened to the sounds in the distance, waiting to hear the call and take his own part, fretting on his chances, trying to hide his fear from those he led and those he followed. He remembered Black Well, running through the mist, heart pounding, startling at shadows. The Cumnur, where he’d screamed the war cry with five thousand others as they thundered down the long slope. Dunbrec, where he’d followed Rudd Threetrees in a charge against the Feared, damn near given his life to hold the line. The battle in the High Places, Shanka boiling up out of the valley, mad Easterners trying to climb the wall, fighting back to back with the Bloody-Nine, stand or die. Memories sharp enough to cut himself on – the smells, the sounds, the feel of the air on his skin, the desperate hope and mad anger.

He watched another volley go up, watched the great mass of Talinese coming on through the water, and felt nothing much but curious. No kinship with either side. No sorrow for the dead. No fear for himself. He watched men dropping under the hail of fire, and he burped, and the mild burning up his throat gave him a sight more worry than if the river had suddenly flooded and washed every one of those bastards down there out to the ocean. Drowned the fucking world. He didn’t care a shit about the outcome. It wasn’t his war.

Which made him wonder why he was ready to fight in it, and more’n likely on the losing side.

His eye twitched from the brewing battle to Monza. She clapped Rogont on the shoulder and Shivers felt his face burn like he’d been slapped. Each time they spoke it stung at him. Her black hair blew back for a moment, showed him the side of her face, jaw set hard. He didn’t know if he loved her, or wanted her, or just hated that she didn’t want him. She was the scab he couldn’t stop picking, the split lip he couldn’t stop biting at, the loose thread he couldn’t stop tugging ’til his shirt came all to pieces.

Down in the valley the front rank of the Talinese had worse troubles, floundering from the river and up onto the bank, lost their shape from slogging across the ford under fire. Monza shouted something at Rogont, and he called to one of his men. Shivers heard the cries creep up from the slopes below. The order to charge. The Osprian foot lowered their spears, blades a glittering wave as they swung down together, then began to move. Slow at first, then quicker, then breaking into a jog, pouring away from the archers, still loading and firing fast as they could, down the long slope towards the sparkling water, and the Talinese trying to form some kind of line on the bank.

Shivers watched the two sides come together, merge. A moment later he heard the contact, faint on the wind. That rattling, clattering, jangling din of metal, like a hailstorm on a lead roof. Roars, wails, screams from nowhere floating with it. Another volley fell among the ranks still struggling through the water. Shivers watched it all, and burped again.

Rogont’s headquarters was quiet as the dead, everyone staring down towards the ford, mouths and eyes wide, faces pale and reins clenched tight with worry. The Talinese had flatbowmen of their own ready now, sent a wave of bolts up from the water, flying flat and hissing among the archers. More’n one fell. Someone started squealing. A rogue bolt thudded into the turf not far from one of Rogont’s officers, made his horse startle and near dumped him from the saddle. Monza urged her own mount a pace or two forwards, standing in the stirrups to get a better view, borrowed armour gleaming dully in the morning sun. Shivers frowned.

One way or another, he was here for her. To fight for her. Protect her. Try to make things right between them. Or maybe just hurt her like she’d hurt him. He closed his fist, nails digging into his palm, knuckles sore from knocking that servant’s teeth out. They weren’t done yet, that much he knew.