08 A Little Hatred: Book One (The Age of Madness)

They lumbered about in a pawing circle, bounced off the bridge’s parapet, enough room for Leo to force his free hand up under the man’s chin, push his gauntleted thumb into his mouth, shove it through so he caught a fistful of his cheek, ripping his lip open, tearing his face open, and the man screamed and grabbed Leo’s wrist, letting Leo’s sword loose. With a last growling effort, Leo shoved him away, smashed him on the side of the head, flinched as blood spotted his face, something bouncing off his cheek. A tooth, maybe. The man went reeling over the mossy parapet and splashed into the stream with the other corpses. Bloody thing was more corpse than river now. No corpses, no glory.

Leo flopped down on all fours, clawed up his sword along with a fistful of mud. Up to one knee, with a groan to his feet and he stood swaying, grasping at the slick stones, every muscle throbbing, dragging in air in great wheezing gasps, like a fish hooked and hauled helpless from the river.

‘Have … to pull back.’ It was Jurand, with hardly the breath to talk. Helmet off and his face spotted with blood. He hugged Leo, half holding him up, half leaning on him. ‘Get you to safety.’

‘No,’ growled Leo, gripping him tight, their wet armour scraping, then trying to struggle free, to press on. ‘We fight.’

The rain was hammering down, pinging and spattering. The empty bridge stretched away, a rutted hump scattered with arrow-pricked and spear-pierced corpses, sprawled beside the parapets, heaped against them, draped over them. And at the far end, beneath that wolf standard, more Northmen were gathered.

A group as muddy, bloody and sodden as Leo, teeth bared with hate but weapons drooping from weariness. They faced each other across the rain-drenched bridge, Leo and his friends at one end, this knot of Named Men at the other, and in their midst a tall man, long hair plastered to his snarling face by the rain.

‘Leo dan Brock!’ he shrieked, wet eyes wild with battle-madness, and Leo knew from the gold on his sword and the gold on his belt and the gold on his armour who he had to be.

‘Stour Nightfall!’ Leo roared back, spit flying from his bared teeth. He tried to drag himself forward but Jurand held him back, or maybe held him up, it was only fury stopped Leo’s knees from buckling.

‘We won’t settle this on the field!’ snarled Nightfall.

That was true enough. They were all fought out. Up on the red hill, vague through the rain, the Union were pulling back, but Stour’s men were in no shape to follow and the rain had turned the battlefield to glue.

Stour fought free of his warriors and stood tall, pointing across the bridge with his blood-slathered sword. ‘Let’s settle it like men! In the Circle! You and me!’

Leo hardly even gave a shit about the terms. All he wanted was to fight this bastard. To rip him apart with his bare hands. To bite him with his teeth.

A lion fought a wolf in a circle of blood, and the lion won.

‘In the Circle!’ he bellowed into the rain. ‘You and me!’

PART III

‘Love turns, with a little indulgence,

to indifference or disgust;

hatred alone is immortal.’

William Hazlitt

Demands

Forest stepped into the room wearing his hallmark fur hat and ruggedly grave expression. The hat he removed. The grave expression he kept in place. ‘The Breakers should be here soon, Your Highness.’

‘Good,’ murmured Orso. ‘Good.’ He expressed the exact opposite of his feelings so often, one might have hoped he would be better at it. In fact, the thought of the Breakers’ arrival left him desperately wanting a drink. But dawn was probably considered too early at a peace negotiation, even for a small beer or something. He puffed out a worried sigh.

A local worthy had offered up his dining room as the venue, and though the table was highly polished, Orso found the chairs exceedingly uncomfortable. Or perhaps he simply found himself uncomfortable in the role of negotiator. Or any responsible role, really. He nervously straightened his jacket for the thousandth time. It had fit him perfectly in the safety of Adua, but suddenly it was tight about the throat. He leaned towards Superior Pike with an apologetic smile.

‘I think it might be useful if, when they arrive … you were to play the villain?’

Pike subjected Orso to that withering stare. ‘Because of my hideous burns?’

‘That and all the black.’

The faint twisting of Pike’s face might almost have been a smile. ‘Don’t worry, Your Highness, I have had some practice in the role. Feel free to slap me down if I become too dastardly. I look forward to seeing you as the hero of our little piece.’

‘I hope I can convince,’ murmured Orso, tugging his jacket smooth yet again. ‘I fear I missed all the rehearsals.’

The double doors swung open and the Breakers strode in. Orso’s ever-fertile imagination had built them up into red-handed zealots. In the flesh, they were a slightly disappointingly, then perhaps a rather reassuringly, ordinary group.