One of the officers lowered an eye-glass. Cavalry! Union Cavalry!
Are you sure?
The Army!
Late to the party, muttered Varuz, but no less welcome for that.
Hurrah for Marshal West!
We are delivered!
Jezal was in no mood to whoop for joy. Hope was a fine thing, of course, and had long been in short supply, but celebrations were decidedly premature. He crossed back to the other side of the tower and frowned down.
More Gurkish were surging into the square outside the citadel, and more still, and they were coming well prepared. They wheeled great sloping wooden screens forward, each one big enough for a score of men or more to hide behind. The foremost of them already bristled with flatbow bolts, but they continued to creep towards the bridge. Arrows flitted up and down. The wounded fell, did their best to crawl for the rear. One of the buildings at the side of the square had already caught fire, flames licking hungrily round the eaves of its roof.
The army! someone whooped from the opposite battlement. Marshal West!
Indeed. Marovia frowned down at the carnage below, the sounds of battle growing steadily more frantic. Let us hope he has not come too late.
The noise of fighting crept up through the cool air. Clashing and clicking, echoing calls. Logen glanced left and right at the men around him, jogging forward over the open fields, quick breath hissing, gear rattling, all blunt frowns and sharp weapons.
Hardly a heartening thing, to be part of all this again.
The sad fact was that Logen had felt more warmth and more trust with Ferro and Jezal, Bayaz and Quai than he did with his own kind now. Theyd been a difficult set of bastards, each in their own way. It wasnt that hed really understood them, or even liked them much. But Logen had liked himself when he was with them. Out there in the deserted west of the World, hed been a man you could rely on, like his father had been. A man with no bloody history breathing on his shoulder, no name blacker than hell, no need to watch his back every moment. A man with hopes for something better.
The thought of seeing those folk again, the chance at being that man again, put the spur to him, made Logen want to run at the grey wall of Adua all the faster. It seemed, in that moment anyway, as if he might be able to leave the Bloody-Nine outside it.
But the rest of the Northmen didnt share his eagerness. It was closer to a stroll than a charge. They ambled up to a stand of trees, a couple of birds went flapping into the white sky, and they stopped altogether. No one said anything. One lad even sat down, with his back to a tree, and started supping water from a flask.
Logen stared at him. By the dead, I dont reckon I ever saw such a piss-weak charge as this. Did you leave your bones back in the North?
There was a bit of mumbling, a few shifty looks. Red Hat glanced sideways, his tongue wedged into his bottom lip. Maybe we did. Dont get me wrong, chief, or your Royal Highness, or whatever it is now. He bowed his head to show he meant no disrespect by it. Ive fought before and hard enough, had my life balanced on a swords edge, and all o that. Just, well why fight now, is what Im saying. What were all thinking, I reckon. Aint none of our business, is it? Aint our fight, this.
Dogman shook his head. The Union are going to take us for a right crowd o cowards.
Who cares what they think? someone said.
Red Hat stepped up close. Look, chief, I dont care much of a shit whether some fool I dont know thinks Im a coward. Ive spilled enough blood for that. We all have.
Huh, grunted Logen. So your votes to stay here, then, is it?
Red Hat shrugged. Well, I guess He squawked as Logens forehead crunched into his face, smashing his nose like a nut on an anvil. He dropped hard on his back in the mud, spluttering blood down his chin.
Logen turned round, and he let his face hang on one side, the way he used to. The Bloody-Nines facecold and dead, caring for nothing. It was easy to do it. Felt as natural on him as a favourite pair of boots. His hand found the cold grip of the Makers sword, and all around him men eased back, shuffled away, muttered and whispered.
Any other one o you cunts want a vote?
The lad dropped his flask in the grass and jumped up from where hed been sitting. Logen gave a few of them his eye, one by one, whoever looked hardest, and one by one they looked at the ground, at the trees, at anything but him. Until he looked at Shivers. That longhaired bastard stared straight back at him. Logen narrowed his eyes. How about you?
Shivers shook his head, hair swaying across his face. Oh no. Not now.
When youre ready, then. When any one o you are ready. Until then, Ill have some work out o you. Weapons, he growled.
Swords and axes, spears and shields were all made ready quick-time. Men fussed about, finding their places, competing all of a sudden to be the first to charge. Red Hat was just getting up, wincing with one hand to his bloody face. Logen looked down at him. If youre feeling hard done by, think on this. In the old days youd be trying to hold your guts in about now.
Aye, he grunted, wiping his mouth. Right yare. Logen watched him walk off back to his boys, spitting blood. Say one thing for Logen Ninefingers, say hes got a talent for turning a friend into an enemy.
Did you have to? asked the Dogman.
Logen shrugged. He hadnt wanted it, but he was leader now. Always a disaster, but there it was, and a man in charge cant have men putting questions. Just cant have it. They come with questions first, then they come with knives. Couldnt see another way. Thats how its always been, aint it?
I was hoping times changed.
Times never change. You have to be realistic, Dogman.
Aye. Shame, though.
A lot of things were a shame. Logen had given up trying to put them right a long time ago. He slid out the Makers sword and held it up. Lets go, then! And this time like we care a shit! He started off through the trees, hearing the rest of the lads following. Out into the open air, and the walls of Adua loomed up, a sheer grey cliff at the top of a grassy rise, studded with round towers. There were quite a number of corpses lying around. Enough to give even a battle-hardened Carl some cold feelings. Gurkish corpses mostly, from the colour of their skin, sprawled among all kinds of broken gear, squashed into muddy earth, trampled with hoof-prints.
Steady! shouted Logen as he jogged on through them. Steady! He caught sight of something up ahead, a fence of sharpened stakes, the body of a horse hanging dead from one of them. Behind the stakes, men moved. Men with bows.
Cover up! A few arrows came zipping down. One thudded into Shivers shield, a couple more into the ground round Logens feet. A Carl not a stride from him got one in the chest and tumbled over.
Logen ran. The fence came wobbling towards him, a good bit slower than hed have liked. Someone stood between two of the stakes, dark-faced, with a shining breastplate, a red plume on his pointed helmet. He was shouting to a crowd of others gathered behind him, waving a curved sword. A Gurkish officer, maybe. As good a thing to charge at as any. Logens boots squelched at the churned-up ground. A couple more arrows spun past him, hastily aimed. The officers eyes went wide. He took a nervous step back, raised his sword.
Logen jerked to his left and the curved blade thudded into the turf at his feet. He growled as he swung the Makers sword round and the heavy length of metal clanged deep into the officers bright breastplate, left a great dent in it. He screeched, then tottered forwards, all doubled up and hardly able to gasp in a breath. His sword spun out of his hand and Logen hit him on the back of his head, crushed his helmet and sent him sprawling in the mud.