Unhappy the land that 11 page

‘Don’t get killed, eh, Brack?’

The hillman looked at Craw as if he’d only just realised he was there. ‘What?’

‘You all right?’

‘Aye.’ Taking Craw’s hand and giving it a clammy press. ‘’Course.’

‘That leg good to run on?’

‘I’ve had more pain taking a shit.’

Craw raised his brows. ‘Well, a good shit can be quite punishing, can’t it?’

‘Chief.’ Drofd nodded over towards the light beyond the trees and Craw hunched a little lower. There were men moving out there. Mounted men, though only their heads and shoulders showed from where Craw was crouching.

‘Union scouts,’ whispered Wonderful in his ear. Dogman’s lads, maybe, worked their way through the fields and the farmhouses and were casting out towards the treeline. The forest the whole length of the valley was crawling with armed and armoured Northmen. It was a wonder they weren’t seen yet.

Dow knew it, ’course. He coolly waved his axe over to the east, like he was asking for some beer to be brought over. ‘Best tell Reachey to go, ’fore they spoil our surprise.’ The word went out, that same gesture of Dow’s arm copied down the line in a wave.

‘Here we bloody go again, then,’ grunted Craw between chewing on his nails.

‘Here we go,’ Wonderful forced through tight lips, sword drawn in her hand.

‘I’m too old for this shit.’

‘Yep.’

‘Should’ve married Colwen.’

‘Aye.’

‘High time I retired.’

‘True.’

‘Could you stop fucking agreeing with me?’

‘Ain’t that the point of a Second? Support the Chief, no matter what! So I agree. You’re too old and you should’ve married Colwen and retired.’

Craw sighed as he offered his hand. ‘My thanks for your support.’

She gave it a squeeze. ‘Always.’

The deep, low blast of Reachey’s horn throbbed out from the east. Seemed to make the earth buzz, tickle at the roots of Craw’s hair. More horns, then came the feet, like distant thunder mixed with metal. He strained forwards, peering between the black tree trunks, trying to get a glimpse of Reachey’s men. Could hardly see more than a few of Osrung’s roofs across the sun-drenched fields. Then the war cries started, floating out over the valley, echoing through the trees like ghosts. Craw felt his skin tingling, part fear at what was coming and part wanting to spring up and add his own voice to the clamour.

‘Soon enough,’ he whispered, licking his lips as he stood, hardly noticing the pain in his leg no more.

‘I’d say so.’ Whirrun came up beside him, Father of Swords drawn and held under the crosspiece, his other hand pointing towards the Heroes. ‘Do you see that, Craw?’ Looked like there might be men moving at the top of the green slopes. Gathering around a standard, maybe. ‘They’re coming down. Going to be a happy meeting with Golden’s lads out in those fields, ain’t it?’ He gave his soft, high chuckle. ‘A happy meeting.’

Craw slowly shook his head. ‘Ain’t you worried at all?’

‘Why? Didn’t I say? Shoglig told me the time and place of my death, and—’

‘It’s not here and it’s not now, aye, only about ten thousand bloody times.’ Craw leaned in to whisper. ‘Did she tell you whether you’d get both your legs cut off here, though?’

‘No, that she didn’t,’ Whirrun had to admit. ‘But what difference would that make to my life, will you tell me? You can still sit around a fire and talk shit with no legs.’

‘Maybe they’ll cut your arms off too.’

‘True. If that happens … I’ll have to at least consider retirement. You’re a good man, Curnden Craw.’ And Whirrun poked him in the ribs. ‘Maybe I’ll pass the Father of Swords on to you, if you’re still breathing when I cross to the distant shore.’

Craw snorted. ‘I ain’t carrying that bastard thing around.’

‘You think I chose to carry it? Daguf Col picked me out for the task, on his death-pyre after the Shanka tore out his innards. Purplish.’

‘What?’

‘His innards. It has to go to someone, Craw. Ain’t you the one always saying there’s a right way to do things? Has to go to someone.’

They stood in silence for a moment longer, peering into the brightness beyond the trees, the wind stirring the leaves and making them rustle, shaking a few dry bits of green down onto the spears, and helmets, and shoulders of all those men kneeling in the brush. Birds chirping in the branches, tweet bloody tweet, and even quieter the distant screaming of Reachey’s charge.

Men were moving on the eastern flank of the Heroes. Union men, coming down. Craw rubbed his sweaty palms together, and drew his sword. ‘Whirrun.’

‘Aye?’

‘You ever wonder if Shoglig might’ve been wrong?’

‘Every bloody fight I get into.’

Devoutly to be Wished

Your August Majesty,General Jalenhorm’s division has reached the town of Osrung, seized the crossings of the river with the usual focused competence, and the Sixth and Rostod Regiments have taken up a strong position on a hill the Northmen call the Heroes. From its summit one receives a commanding view of the country for miles around, including the all-important road north to Carleon, but, aside from a dead fire, we have seen no sign of the enemy.The roads continue to be our most stubborn antagonists. The leading elements of General Mitterick’s division have reached the valley, but become thoroughly entangled with the rearmost units of Jalenhorm’s, making— Gorst looked up sharply. He had caught the faintest hint of voices on the wind, and though he could not make out the words there was no mistaking a note of frantic excitement.

Probably deluding myself. I have a talent for it. There was no sign of excitement here behind the river. Men were scattered about the south bank, lazing in the sun while their horses grazed contentedly around them. One coughed on a chagga pipe. Another group were singing quietly as they passed around a flask. Not far away their commander, Colonel Vallimir, was arguing with a messenger over the precise meaning of General Jalenhorm’s latest order.

‘I see that, but the general asks you to hold your current position.’

‘Hold, by all means, but on the road? Did he not mean for us to cross the river? Or at least arrange ourselves on the bank? I have lost one battalion across a bog and now the other is in everyone’s way!’ Vallimir pointed out a dust-covered captain whose company was stalled in grumbling column further down the road. Possibly one of the companies the regiments on the hill were missing. Or not. The captain was not offering the information and no one was seeking it out. ‘The general cannot have meant for us to sit here, surely you see that!’

‘I do see that,’ droned the messenger, ‘but the general asks you to hold your current position.’

Only the usual random incompetence. A team of bearded diggers tramped past in perfect unison, shovels shouldered and faces stern. The most organised body of men I’ve seen today, and probably his Majesty’s most valuable soldiers too. The army’s appetite for holes was insatiable. Fire-pits, grave-pits, latrine-pits, dugouts and dig-ins, ramparts and revetments, ditches and trenches of every shape, depth and purpose imaginable and some that would never come to you in a month of thinking. Truly the spade is mightier than the sword. Perhaps, instead of blades, generals should wear gilded trowels as the badge of their vocation. So much for excitement.

Gorst turned his attention back to his letter, wrinkled his lip as he realised he had made an unsightly inkblot and crumpled it angrily in his fist.

Then the wind wafted up again and carried more shouts to his ear. Do I truly hear it? Or do I only want to so badly that I am imagining it? But a few of the troopers around him were frowning up towards the hill as well. Gorst’s heart was suddenly thumping, his mouth dry. He stood and walked towards the water like a man under a spell, eyes fixed on the Heroes. He thought he could see men moving there now, tiny figures on the hill’s grassy flank.

He crunched down the shingle to where Vallimir was standing, still arguing pointlessly over which side of the river his men should be doing nothing on. I suspect that might soon be irrelevant. He prayed it would be.

‘… But surely the general does not—’

‘Colonel Vallimir.’

‘What?’

‘You should ready your men.’

‘I should?’

Gorst did not for a moment take his eyes from the Heroes. From the silhouettes of soldiers on the eastern slope. A considerable body of them. No messengers had crossed the shallows from Marshal Kroy. Which meant the only reason he could see for so many men to be leaving the hill was … an attack by the Northmen elsewhere. An attack, an attack, an attack …

He realised he was still gripping his half-finished letter white-knuckle hard. He let the crumpled paper flutter down into the river, to be carried spinning away by the current. More voices came, even more shrill than before, no question now that they were real.

‘That sounds like shouting,’ said Vallimir.

A fierce joy had begun to creep up Gorst’s throat and made his voice rise higher than ever. He did not care. ‘Get them ready now.’

‘To do what?’

Gorst was already striding towards his horse. ‘Fight.’

Casualties

Captain Lasmark thrashed through the barley at something between a brisk walk and a jog, the Ninth Company of the Rostod Regiment toiling after him as best they could, despatched towards Osrung with the ill-defined order to ‘get at the enemy!’ still ringing in their ears.

The enemy were before them now, all right. Lasmark could see scaling ladders against the mossy logs of the town’s fence. He could see missiles flitting up and down. He could see standards flapping in the breeze, a ragged black one over all the rest, the standard of Black Dow himself, the Northern scouts had said. That was when General Jalenhorm had given the order to advance, and made it abundantly clear nothing would change his mind.

Lasmark turned, hoping he wouldn’t trip and catch a mouthful of barley, and urged his men forward with what was intended to be a soldierly jerk of the hand.

‘On! On! To the town!’

It was no secret General Jalenhorm was prone to poorly considered orders, but saying so would have been terrible form. Usually officers quietly ignored him where possible and creatively interpreted him where not. But there was no room for interpretation in a direct order to attack.

‘Steady, men, keep even!’

They kept even to no noticeable degree, indeed in the main they appeared rather ragged and reluctant, and Lasmark could hardly blame them. He didn’t much care for charging unsupported into an empty mass of barley himself, especially since a good part of the regiment was still clogged up in the shambles of men and equipment on the bad roads south of the river. But an officer has his duty. He had made representations to Major Popol, and the major had made representations to Colonel Wetterlant of the Sixth, who was ranking officer on the hill. The colonel had appeared too busy to take much notice. The battlefield was no place for independent thought, Lasmark supposed, and perhaps his superiors simply knew better than he did.

Alas, experience did not support that conclusion.

‘Careful! Watch the treeline!’

The treeline was some distance away to the north and seemed to Lasmark particularly gloomy and threatening. He did not care to imagine how many men could be concealed in its shadows. But then he thought that whenever he saw woods, and the North was bloody full of them. It was unclear what good watching them would do. Besides, there was no turning back now. On their right, Captain Vorna was urging his company ahead of the rest of the regiment, desperate to get into the action, as ever, so he could go home with a chestful of medals and spend the balance of his life boasting.

‘That fool Vorna’s going to pull us all out of formation,’ growled Sergeant Lock.

‘The captain is simply obeying orders!’ snapped Lasmark and then, under his breath, ‘The arsehole. Forward, men, at the double!’ If the Northmen did come, the worst thing of all would be to leave gaps in the line.

They upped the pace, all tiring, men occasionally catching a boot and sprawling in the crops, their order fraying with every stride. They might have been half way between the hill and the town now, Major Popol in the lead on horseback, waving his sabre and bellowing inaudible encouragements.

‘Sir!’ roared Lock. ‘Sir!’

‘I bloody know,’ gasped Lasmark, no breath to spare for moaning now, ‘I can’t hear a word he’s … oh.’

He saw what Lock was desperately stabbing towards with his drawn sword and felt a horrible wave of cold surprise. There is a gulf of difference, after all, between expecting the worst and seeing it happen. Northmen had broken from the woods and were rushing across the pastures towards them. It was hard to tell how many from this angle – the dipping ground was cut up by ditches and patchy hedgerows – but Lasmark felt himself go colder yet as his eyes registered the width of their front, the glimmer of metal, the dots of colour that were their painted shields.

The Rostod Regiment was outnumbered. Several companies were still following Popol blithely off towards Osrung where even more Northmen waited. Others had stopped, aware of the approaching threat on their left and seeking desperately to form lines. The Rostod Regiment was heavily outnumbered, and out of formation, and caught unsupported in the open.

‘Halt!’ he screamed, rushing into the barley ahead of his company, spinning about and throwing his arms up at his men. ‘Form line! Facing north!’ That was the best thing to do, wasn’t it? What else could they do? His soldiers began to perform a shambolic mockery of a wheel, some faces purposeful, others panicked as they scrambled into position.

Lasmark drew his sword. He’d picked it up cheap, an antique, really, the hilt was prone to rattle. He’d paid less for it than he had for his dress hat. That seemed a foolish decision now. But then one sword looked much like another and Major Popol had been very particular about the appearance of his officers on parade. They were not on parade now, more the pity. Lasmark glanced over his shoulder, found he was chewing so hard at his lip he could taste blood. The Northmen were closing swiftly. ‘Archers, ready your bows, spearmen to the—’

The words froze in his throat. Cavalry had emerged from behind a village even further to their left. A considerable body of cavalry, bearing down on their flank, hooves threshing up a pall of dust. He heard the gasps of alarm, felt the mood shift from worried resolve to horror.

‘Steady!’ he shouted, but his own voice quavered. When he turned, many of his men were already running. Even though there was nowhere to run to. Even though their chances running were even worse than they were fighting. A calm assessment of the odds was evidently not foremost in their minds. He saw the other companies falling apart, scattering. He caught a glimpse of Major Popol bouncing in his saddle as he rode full tilt for the river, no longer interested in presentation. Perhaps if captains had horses Lasmark would have been right beside him. But captains didn’t get horses. Not in the Rostod Regiment. He really should have joined a regiment where the captains got horses, but then he could never have afforded one. He’d had to borrow the money to purchase his captaincy at an outrageous interest and had nothing to spare …

The Northmen were already horrifyingly close, breaking through the nearest hedgerow. He could pick out faces across their line. Snarling, screaming, grinning faces. Like animals, weapons raised high as they bounded on through the barley. Lasmark took a few steps backwards without thinking. Sergeant Lock stood beside him, his jaw muscles clenched.

‘Shit, sir,’ he said.

Lasmark could only swallow and ready himself as his men flung down their weapons around him. As they turned and ran for the river or the hill, too far, far too far away. As the makeshift line of his company and the company beside them dissolved leaving only a few knots of the most stunned and hard-bitten to face the Northmen. He could see how many there were, now. Hundreds of them. Hundreds upon hundreds. A flung spear impaled a man beside him with a thud, and he fell screaming. Lasmark stared at him for a moment. Stelt. He’d been a baker.

He looked up at the tide of howling men, open-mouthed. You hear about this kind of thing, of course, but you assume it won’t happen to you. You assume you’re more important than that. He’d done none of the things he’d promised himself he’d do by the time he was thirty. He wanted to drop his sword and sit down. Caught sight of his ring and lifted his hand to look at it. Emlin’s face carved into the stone. Didn’t look likely he’d be coming back for her now. Probably she’d marry that cousin of hers after all. Marrying cousins, a deplorable business.

Sergeant Lock charged forward, wasted bravery, hacked a lump from the edge of a shield. The shield had a bridge painted on it. He chopped at it again, just as another Northman ran up and hit him with an axe. He was knocked sideways, then back the other way by a sword that left a long scratch across his helmet and a deep cut across his face. He spun, arms up like a dancer, then was barged over in the rush and lost in the barley.

Lasmark sprang at the shield with the bridge, for some reason barely taking note of the man behind it. Perhaps he wanted to pretend there was no man behind it. His sword instructor would have been livid with him. Before he got there a spear caught his breastplate, sent him stumbling. The point scraped past and he swung at the man who thrust it, an ugly-looking fellow with a badly broken nose. The sword split his skull open and brains flew out. It was surprisingly easy to do. Swords are heavy and sharp, he supposed, even cheap ones.

There was a clicking sound and everything turned over, mud thumped and barley tangled him. One of his eyes was dark. There was a ringing, stupidly loud, as if his head was the clapper in a great bell. He tried to get up but the world was spinning. None of the things he’d promised to do by the time he was thirty. Oh. Except join the army.

The Southerner tried to push himself up and Lightsleep knocked him on the back of the head with his mace and bonked his helmet in. One boot kicked a little and he was done.

‘Lovely.’ The rest of the Union men were all surrounded and going down fast or scattering like a flock o’ starlings, just like Golden said they would. Lightsleep knelt, tucked his mace under his arm and started trying to twist a nice-looking ring off the dead Southerner’s finger. Couple of other lads were claiming their prizes, one was screaming with blood running down his face, but, you know, it’s a battle, ain’t it? If everyone came out smiling there’d be no point. Away south Golden’s riders were mopping up, driving the fleeing Southerners to the river.

‘Turn for the hill!’ Scabna was bellowing, pointing at it with his axe, the smug arse. ‘To the hill, you bastards!’

‘You turn for the hill,’ grunted Lightsleep, legs still sore from all that running, throat sore from all that screaming besides. ‘Hah!’ Finally got the Union lad’s ring off. Held it up to the light and frowned. Just some polished rock with a face cut into it, but he guessed it might fetch a couple of silvers. Tucked it into his jerkin. Took the lad’s sword for good measure and stuck it through his belt, though it was a light little toothpick of a thing and the hilt rattled.

‘Get on!’ Scabna dragged one scavenger up and booted him in the arse to set him going. ‘Bloody get on!’

‘All right, all right!’ Lightsleep jogged on after the others, towards the hill. Upset at not getting the chance to go through the Southerners’ pockets, maybe get his boots off. It’d all be swept by the pickers and the women following after now. Beggar bastards too cowardly to fight, turning a profit out of other men’s work. A disgrace, but he guessed there was no stopping it. Facts of life, like flies and bad weather.

There were Union men up on the Heroes, he could see metal glinting round the drystone wall near the top, spears pricking the sky. He kept his shield up, peering over the rim. Didn’t want to get stuck with one of those evil little arrows they used. Get stuck with one o’ those, you won’t never get yourself unstuck.

‘Will you look at that,’ Scabna grunted.

Now they’d climbed a little higher they could see all the way to the woods up north, and the land between was full of men. Black Dow’s Carls, and Tenways’, and Ironhead’s too. Thralls surging after. Thousands of ’em, all streaming across towards the Heroes. Lightsleep had never seen so many fighters in one place, not even when he fought with Bethod’s army. Not at the Cumnur, or Dunbrec, or in the High Places. He’d half a mind to let ’em take the Heroes while he hung back, maybe pleading a twisted ankle, but he weren’t going to raise a sharp dowry for his daughters on a cheap ring and a little sword, now, was he?

They hopped over a ditch patched with brown puddles and were out of the trampled crops at the foot of the slope. ‘Up the hill, you bastards!’ screeched Scabna, waving his axe.

Lightsleep had swallowed about enough of that fool’s carping, only Chief ’cause he was some friend to one of Golden’s sons. He twisted sideways, snarling, ‘You get up the fucking hill, you—’

There was a thud and an arrowhead stuck out of his jerkin. He spent a silent moment just staring at it, then he took a great whooping breath in and screamed. ‘Ah, fuck!’ He whimpered, shuddered, pain stabbing into his armpit as he tried to breathe again, coughed blood down his front, dropped on his knees.

Scabna stared at him, shield up to cover them both. ‘Lightsleep, what the hell?’

‘Bloody … I’m stuck right … through.’ He had to spit blood out, gurgling with every word. He couldn’t kneel any more, it was hurting him too much. He slumped over on his side. Seemed a shitty way to go back to the mud, but maybe they all are. Boots hammered around him as men started thumping up that hill, spraying spots of dirt in his face.

Scabna knelt, started to unbutton Lightsleep’s jerkin. ‘Let’s have a look here.’

Lightsleep couldn’t move hardly. Everything was going blurry. ‘By the … dead, it … hurts.’

‘Bet it does. Where did you put that ring?’

*

Gaunt lowered his bow, watched a few Northmen in the crowd topple over as the rest of the volley flickered down into them. From this height, the bolts from a heavy flatbow could split their shields and punch through chain mail easily as a lady’s gown. One of them threw his weapons down and ran off hooting, clutching his stomach, left a gently curving trail through the crops. Gaunt had no way of knowing if his own bolt had found a mark or not, but it hardly mattered. It was all about quantity. Crank, load, level, shoot, crank, load …

‘Come on, lads!’ he shouted at the men around him. ‘Shoot! Shoot!’

‘By the Fates,’ he heard Rose whisper, voice all choked off, pointing a wavering forefinger towards the north. The enemy were still pouring from the trees in fearsome numbers. The fields were crawling with them already, surging south towards the hill in a dully twinkling tide. But it took more than a pack of angry apes to make Sergeant Gaunt nervy. He’d watched the numberless Gurkish charge their little hill at Bishak and he’d cranked his flatbow just as hard as he could for the best part of an hour and in the end he’d watched them all run back again. Apart from those they left peppered in heaps. He grabbed Rose by the shoulder and steered him back to the wall.

‘Never mind about that. The next bolt is all that matters.’

‘Sergeant.’ And Rose bent over his bow again, pale but set to his task.

‘Crank, lads, crank!’ Gaunt turned his own at a nice, measured pace, all oiled and clean and working smoothly. Not too fast, not too slow, making sure he did the job right. He fished out another bolt, frowning to himself. No more than ten left in his quiver. ‘What happened to that ammunition?’ he roared over his shoulder, and then at his own people, ‘Pick your targets, nice and careful!’ And he stood, levelled his bow, stock pressing into his shoulder.

The sight below gave a moment’s pause, even to a man of his experience. The foremost Northmen had reached the hill and were charging up, slowing on the grassy slope but showing no sign of stopping. Their war cry got worryingly louder as he came up from behind the wall, the vague keening becoming a shrill howl.

He gritted his teeth, aiming low. Squeezed the trigger, felt the jolt, string humming. He saw where this one went, thudding straight into a shield and knocking the man who held it over backwards. Rattle and pop as a dozen or more bows went on his left, two or three Northmen dropping, one shot in the face, going over backwards and his axe spinning into the blue sky.

‘That’s the recipe, lads, keep shooting! Just load and—’ There was a loud click beside him. Gaunt felt a searing pain in his neck, and all the strength went out of his legs.

*

It was an accident. Rose had been tinkering with the trigger of his flatbow for a week or longer, trying to stop it wobbling, worried it might go off at the wrong moment, but he’d never been any good with machines. Why they’d made him a bowman he’d no clue. Would have been better off with a spear. Sergeant Gaunt would have been a lot better off if they’d given Rose a spear, that was a fact most definite. It just went off as he was lifting it, the point of the metal lath leaving a long scratch down his arm. As he was cursing at that, he looked sideways, and Gaunt had the bolt through his neck.

They stared at each other for a moment, then Gaunt’s eyes rolled down, crossed, towards the flights, and he dropped his own bow and reached up to his neck. His quivering fingers came away bloody. ‘Gurgh,’ he said. ‘Bwuthers.’ And his lids flickered, and he dropped all of a sudden, his skull smacking against the wall and knocking his helmet skewed across his face.

‘Gaunt? Sergeant Gaunt?’ Rose slapped his cheek as though trying to wake him from an unauthorised nap, smeared blood across his face. There was more and more blood welling out of him all the time. Out of his nose, out of the neat slit where the bolt entered his neck. Oily dark, almost black, and his skin so white.

‘He’s dead!’ Rose felt himself dragged towards the wall. Someone shoved his empty flatbow back into his bloody hands. ‘Shoot, damn you! Shoot!’ A young officer, one of the new ones, Rose couldn’t remember his name. Could hardly remember his own name.

‘What?’

‘Shoot!’

Rose started cranking, aware of other men around him doing the same. Sweating, struggling, cursing, leaning over the wall to shoot. He could hear wounded men screaming, and above that a strange howl. He fumbled a bolt from his quiver, slotted it into the groove, cursing to himself at his trembling fingers, all smeared pink from Gaunt’s blood.

He was crying. There were tears streaming down his face. His hands felt very cold, though it wasn’t cold. His teeth were chattering. The man beside him threw down his bow and ran towards the top of the hill. There were a lot of men running, ignoring the desperate bellows of their officers.

Arrows flitted down. One went spinning from a steel cap just beside him. Others stuck into the hillside behind the wall. Silent, still, as if they’d suddenly sprung from the ground by magic rather than dropped from the sky. Someone else turned to run, but before he got a step the officer cut him down with his sword.

‘For the king!’ he squealed, his eyes gone all mad. ‘For the king!’

Rose had never seen the king. A Northman jumped up on the wall just to his left. He was stabbed with two spears right away, screamed and fell back. The man beside Rose stood, cursing as he raised his flatbow. The top of his head came off and he stumbled, shot his bolt high into the sky. A Northman sprang over the wall into the gap he left, young-looking, face all twisted up with rage. A devil, screaming like a devil. A Union man came at him with a spear but he turned it away with his shield, swung as he dropped from the wall, axe blade thudding into the man’s shoulder and sending blood flying in dark streaks. Northmen were coming over the wall all around. The gap to their left was choked with straining bodies, a tangle of spears, slipping boots ripping at the muddy grass.

Rose’s head was full of mad noise, clash and clatter of weapons and armour, war cries and garbled orders and howls of pain all mingled with his own terrified, whimpering breath. He was just staring, bow forgotten. The young Northerner blocked the officer’s sword and hit him in the side, twisted him up, chopped into his arm on the next blow, hand flying up bonelessly in its embroidered sleeve. The Northman kicked the officer’s legs away and hacked at him on the ground, grin speckled with blood. Another was clambering over the wall beside him, a big face with a black and grey beard, shouting something in a gravelly voice.

Date: 2015-12-18; view: 617