“God help us,” whispered Suval, but God was not listening. No more than He had been when the riots started in Tazlik and his office was robbed and set on fire and he and his family spent all they had on passage to the Union. Another crash, and he wriggled back against the tree as bits of leaf and twig rained down.
Something spattered his face. Was it blood? Was he wounded? Oh, God, was this the end? He held his trembling fingertips up before his eyes.
Just plum pulp. Just rotten fruit. He wanted to laugh. But he also wanted to cry. His helmet fell off and he jammed it on again, back to front.
There was a big fat man in a big red uniform heavy with golden ropes. The one who had smiled from horseback as they set off a week before. A thin man with combed-back black hair was shouting something at him, stabbing a finger at the broken bridge, at the wagons. He wanted them to cross. But how could they cross with the world on fire? How could they even think of moving? He might as well have demanded they fly to the moon.
Suval was no soldier. He copied texts. He had a lovely hand, everyone said so. Had taken great care over his manuscripts.
“I’m not sure… that is to say… I don’t see how…” Barezin stared about at the ruins of the legion he had been so very proud of, mouth mindlessly opening and closing like that of a fish jerked from the river. “My Gurkish Legion—” And he twisted around as another cannon-stone crashed through the trees no more than thirty strides away, his fat jowls wobbling.
Antaup had never liked the man. Never liked any of these Open Council bastards. Never trusted them. Flatterers and blowhards. But somehow, he’d bought into the big talk. And it was too late now. No choice but to work with what they had.
He grabbed Barezin by a fistful of braid and hissed the words one at a time. “Just… get… them… across!” He pulled his horse around. “Now!”
He had to head back to Leo. Tell him he couldn’t rely on these fools.
He shoved a low branch aside and was out from among the trees. Things were no less confused in the open. Dead and wounded everywhere. One dissolving unit was half moving forward, half back, breaking open in the middle and scattering yellow-jacketed men in every direction. A riderless horse frisked maddened through the chaos, empty stirrups bouncing at its flanks.
Antaup saw a flicker at the corner of his eye then dirt showered up in the midst of a column. Dirt and weapons and bits of people in a flailing cloud. Men were flung down like dolls, flung themselves down, covering their heads.
Antaup only just kept his seat as his horse swerved around the shattered column, soil showering down on him, pinging from his saddle, screams of injured men fading under the drumming of hooves.
That had been close.
Off to the west, through the haze of smoke, he caught a glimpse of more organised lines. Blue-uniformed troops. Isher’s regiments, maybe, spared the worst of the cannon fire, still keeping some shape. But as he galloped across the fields, he saw nothing but an exhibition of cowardice. Every tree had a little clump of men huddled behind it, fighting each other for more cover. Men without weapons. Men without purpose. Wounded crawling for the rear.
A nervous company had gathered at the side of a farmhouse. You could see their terror as they gazed across the body-speckled fields towards the burning orchards and the fuming hill beyond. An officer rode up and down in front of them, waving his sword, screaming himself hoarse. “Forward! For pity’s sake, forward!” But like a stubborn herd of goats refusing the shepherd’s commands, they wouldn’t be moved.
Antaup gritted his teeth and dug in his heels. All bloody amateurs. And good men would be paying for it.
He jumped a hedge, jolting down, saw a set of men hiding on the other side in the midst of pulling off their brightly coloured jackets. Deserting before they’d even reached the enemy. He was tempted to turn his horse and ride the bastards down. But they weren’t alone. He saw others scattering northwards across the fields, occasionally glancing back with terrified eyes.
“Bastard cowards!” he hissed into the wind.
He wished Jurand and Glaward were there. He’d always known what they were. Nothing to be proud of but they were good men still. Leo could be so bloody stubborn. Once he had an idea in his head, there was no shaking it free.
“Out of the way!” he roared, men flattening themselves against the railings of the wooden bridge as he clattered across. One messenger scarcely flung himself aside in time, a flash of his wide eyes, a snatch of his shocked whoop as Antaup whipped past him and on towards Steebling’s tower-house.
He was working up a new story. Something to really gild his reputation. A nobleman’s wife, this time. Lady something or other. Probably better not to think up a name, that could get him in trouble later. I’ll take it to my grave and all that. Mysterious older woman. Terribly wealthy. Frisson of danger. Husband couldn’t get it hard any more. They’d swallow it whole. Antaup, you dog! How do you do it? Easy when you made it up. And a lot more fun than having to actually persuade women to take you to bed. He’d no patience with women at all.
The hill the tower stood on crawled with activity, but the neat grey lines of Angland’s army weren’t waiting at the foot any more. He could see the dust from the formations as they crossed the stubbled fields to the south.
“Damn it,” he whispered, giving his horse a moment to rest and easing his helmet back to wipe his sweaty forehead.
Had Leo got impatient? Hardly the first time. Or had something forced his hand? He felt a guilty pricking of nostalgia for the days when Lady Finree had been in command. That sense of calm control as she considered the maps, the men, the terrain. No place for a woman, maybe, but no one ever doubted that she knew exactly what she was doing. That she knew exactly what everyone else should be doing. Now no one seemed to have the faintest idea.
He pushed down an unfamiliar feeling of panic. Get to Leo. Tell him what was happening. Do his duty. Like Ritter and good old Barniva had, if that was what it took. He pushed on south, towards the dust clouds, the rows of glinting steel. The buildings of Stoffenbeck grew closer through the gloom. The tall clock tower. He tore on past clusters of wounded men, past stretcher-bearers, past wagons laden with supplies.
He noticed bolts poking from the stubbled fields to either side now. All pointing at the same angle. Within flatbow range, then. Leo would be where the danger was, of course. It was one of the things you had to admire about the—
There was a strange little click, Antaup gasped as his horse swerved, and suddenly he was in the air. He took a whooping breath, clutching at nothing, driven out in a great groan as he hit the ground. The world tumbled and jolted as he rolled, bounced, tumbled and slid to a stop.
He lay there, looking at the sky for a moment.
The sun a bright smudge against the clouds. Peaceful.
He came back to himself with a jolt. He moved his arms and legs, wriggled his fingers. A couple of bruises perhaps, but otherwise uninjured. The ladies of the Union and, indeed, the world, could breathe again. That had been an exceedingly close thing.
His horse lay on its side, kicking weakly, a flatbow bolt buried in its flank.
“You absolute bastards!” he roared at no one in particular.
Canlan pulled the trigger and sent another bolt flying towards the neat blocks of Anglanders.
He didn’t wait to see where it came down. That wasn’t his business.
“Load!” shouted that arsehole of a lieutenant, barely old enough for a beard.
“Arsehole,” mouthed Canlan as he lowered his bow and started to crank.
Drum gave a little snigger, but he was easily amused. “Let’s have some more bolts over here!” he roared over his shoulder.
“They’ll come when we need ’em.” In Canlan’s experience, it didn’t really help thinking about where the bolts came from and certainly not where they were going. And Canlan had a lot of experience. Been a soldier all his life, more or less. He’d shot flatbow bolts in every significant war the Union had been
involved in. He’d shot ’em at Gurkish and Northmen and Styrians and Stariklanders. He’d shot ’em at Ghosts on the barren plains, at pirates on the rolling sea, even at some Imperials, once, in a desultory exchange of arrows outside of arrow range somewhere near the border of the Near Country. Now he was shooting ’em at Anglanders, who in every way that counted should’ve been on his side.
The string was cranked all the way now and he hefted the bow, plucked up a bolt, slotted it home, all smooth and practised. He paused a moment, wondering how many bolts he’d shot in his life. But his job wasn’t to count ’em, just to put ’em in the air, calmly and carefully and quickly as possible.
He lifted the bow to his shoulder, knocked the dowel out of the trigger, lined up on the ranks of marching pikemen, their armour gleaming dully in the sun as they came on. Gave him a worried feeling, for a moment, seeing ’em like that. Weren’t quite close enough to make out their faces. Weren’t quite close enough to tell who they were. But they soon would be. He frowned as he lifted the bow to adjust for distance. So he was looking towards the sky, rather than towards the men. That was better. Who they were wasn’t his business.
“Shoot!” said that arsehole of a lieutenant, and Canlan pulled the trigger, and put his bolt in the air, and straight away set to cranking his bow again.
Starling gasped as something bounced from his shoulder plate, flicked his helmet and clattered away behind.
“Was that a flatbow bolt?”
“Keep steady!” called Captain Longridge. “March!”
Starling swallowed. Armour was a good thing. Armour was a very good thing.
“Come on,” someone was growling, just beside him. “Come on.”
Bloody hell, they were getting close now. Over the shoulders of the three ranks in front, he caught a glimpse of the enemy’s lines. A drystone wall, he thought. Some tree trunks with stakes hammered into them, poking out in all directions. Some trenches, maybe. Glitter of steel as a gap in the clouds passed overhead.
A man fell, screaming. As he looked around, Starling saw he had a bolt in his face. A horrible red flash of it before he went down under the stumbling men, and someone near tripped over his pike as he dropped it, everyone wobbling and clanking into each other.
“Close up!” roared Longridge. “Close up the ranks there!”
Starling found he was marching with his eyes slightly narrowed. A shield would’ve been a very good thing, too, but damn, the pike was so heavy, there was no way he could’ve managed both.
“Forward, men!” Starling glanced over his shoulder. The Young Lion himself! On his great warhorse with his officers around him and his sword drawn. A bloody hero, like in the storybooks. Starling joined up ’cause of what that man had done at Red Hill. And beating Stour Nightfall in the Circle, and all. He’d seen the way the girls gasped when they heard the tale told and thought, Bloody hell, that’s the job for me.
Starling puffed his chest and lifted his pike a little higher as the Young Lion rode past, but he was soon lost in the dust, and Starling’s pike drooped again. Shit, the thing was heavy. You were surprised how light it was at first, but once you’d been carrying it a while, damn thing got heavier every step. He coughed. So much dust. Spat, accidently spat down himself, spit all down his breastplate, but what difference did that make? Wasn’t as if he could stop to wipe it off. He was wearing gauntlets. And they weren’t on parade any more.
“Come on, come on, come on,” came that voice. Couldn’t tell who it was but he wished they’d shut up.
Bloody hell, they were getting close now. From the shouting over on the left, he reckoned the fighting had already started there. He flinched as a couple more bolts pinged down, rattled from helmets. He’d never fought in a battle before. Told everyone he’d been in Styria but he never went. Had a couple of brawls, one where he threw the Widow Smiler’s son in the millpond, but they’d been done so fast. Some harsh words and some jostling and all over in a few silly angry moments. This was nothing like it. So big, you were carried along, helpless, like a twig by a river. And so slow. So gradual. So impersonal. All that time to think about it. More like a formal dance than a brawl. He’d much rather have been at a dance, all in all. Didn’t know how to dance, but then he didn’t know how to do this, either.
Wished he was in the front rank, so he could see where he was going. Then he caught sight of where they were going. That drystone wall, and men standing there, lowering their own pikes, and bloody hell was he glad he wasn’t in the front rank. Everyone packed in so tight. No room, no room at all. Sort of a comfort, sort of a fear. Men protecting you, brothers at your shoulder, but how could you get out? You couldn’t. That was the whole point.
“Lower pikes!” roared Longridge. “Ready!” Grunting and scraping as men towards the front levelled their weapons, a gleaming forest of points.
Bloody hell, they were getting close now. He caught a glimpse of the enemy. Pikes and full armour. Open helmets so he could see their faces. Young faces and old. Scared faces and bared teeth. A fellow with a big moustache. Another smiling—smiling at a time like this. Another with tears on his face. Looked a lot like they did, really. Like they were advancing at a bloody mirror. It was mad, wasn’t it? It was mad. He had nothing against these fools, that he had to try to kill them, and for damn sure he’d done nothing to them that they should want to kill him. Unless the Widow Smiler’s son happened to be over there.
“Come on! Come on!” snapped that bastard beside him. Everyone had started growling, snarling, grunting, steeling themselves for the slow contact, and the tips of their pikes clicked against the tips of the enemy’s, and the shafts met, and scraped, and slid, closer and closer. A thicket of them, slipping and knocking against each other, and deadly metal on the end.
Someone screamed on the other side. Someone gave a wail on theirs. Now they stopped walking. Boots mashing at the dirt. Starling pressed up tight against the backplate of the man in front, felt someone press up tight against him from behind. His pike had met something, he thought, but he couldn’t tell what. No idea what the hell he was pushing at. He tried to look over the shoulder of the man in front. Tried to lift his pike high and push it downwards, but bloody hell, the weight of it, his shoulders were burning, haft knocking against all the others.
“Push!” roared Captain Longridge. “Push! Kill the bastards!”
Bloody hell, the noise. The growling and spitting and swearing, the squeal and grind of tortured metal and wood, now and again a scream or a whimper or a begging gurgle.
“No!” someone shouted. “No! No! No! No!” Getting higher and higher each time until it became a mad shriek.
Bloody hell, it was hard work, harder work than anything he’d ever done and for no reward but dead men. He snarled and shoved and strained and felt the sweat springing out of his forehead.
“Heave!” roared Longridge. “Heave, damn it!”
Starling saw the blade coming. The man in front pulled his head out of the way and it slid past his face while he stared at it cross-eyed. He tried to twist away but he was stuck fast. Packed in like sticks in a bundle. If he’d picked his feet up off the ground, he’d have been held there by the pressure of the men all around him. The blade kept coming, or maybe he was carried towards it, and the point touched his breastplate and scraped against it. There was a squealing and it made a long, jagged scratch on the metal, right through the embossed hammers of Angland.
“Come on! Come on!”
He strained and struggled and rammed desperately with his own pike, but he couldn’t even see who this one belonged to. Could hardly move his head, let alone anything else. All crushed in so tight.
“Fuck!” he snarled. “Shit! Fuck!” He twisted and kicked ever more desperately, and the bright point of the blade scraped sideways across his breastplate, caught on the metal lip near his armpit. He stared down at it, hardly daring to breathe, begging it to somehow hold there. He let go of his pike, tried desperately to twist around but couldn’t even pull hi
s right hand free, could only get the faintest, useless grip on the shaft between finger and thumb of his left.
“Come on!”
Then with a groan the man beside him shifted, and the point jerked free, and it slid under Starling’s shoulderplate and ever so gradually pierced the padded jacket he wore underneath.
“Push!” yelled Longridge, and the men behind pushed at him, and pushed at him, and pushed him onto the blade.
He gave a snarl through his gritted teeth when it pricked him. Just a cold pinch, and then a biting, and a worse, and his snarl got higher and higher until it was a desperate, slobbering shriek, an impossible, unbearable pain cutting through his chest.
Lake just shoved. Didn’t know what he was shoving at, he just shoved. How could anyone know anything?
Be a man, his father had told him as he saw him off.
Damn it, his pike was stuck. He couldn’t even tell on what. Lodged in some Anglander or stuck in the mud or tangled with the wall. He gritted his teeth and wrenched and twisted but it wouldn’t come free.
“Come on!” someone was shrieking. “Come on!” But he couldn’t even tell which side it came from.
Be a man, he’d said, with his big calloused hand heavy on Lake’s shoulder, and his bottom lip stuck right out as if he was saying something weighty.
Men were being men all around him, crowded in close, stink of sweat and blood and smoke and fear, armoured shoulders crushed together, noise like hail falling on metal, ping, scrape, scratch, and the endless yelling and the orders echoing from the rear that no one could understand. He shoved at his pike again, shoved at it, but it was shoving back at him now. Far as he could tell, beyond the ranks in front the enemy were crowding in closer. No end to them. Clouds had come across the sun and their armour had a dull sheen to it now instead of a glitter. The glitter was off the whole business.
The Trouble with Peace Page 52
