The Wisdom of Crowds

by Joe Abercrombie

  He heard a scream as someone fell from the next ladder down. He took no notice. Nothing to be done. He fixed on the stones in front of his face, kept ’em moving past.

  Soon enough he was breathing hard, but it weren’t the first time

  Flatstone climbed a ladder, and he knew his business. Nice and steady, feet on the rungs, one by one, hands on the rails, sliding smoothly, though these ladders hadn’t been made too well, and not from the best timber, all a bit rushed, and he was picking up splinters. Still, he’d have worse’n splinters if they didn’t get up there in numbers. Once you’ve pushed the first men onto the walls, you owe it to ’em to fling more up there and smash through.

  “Go, damn you!” he roared at no one in particular. The men below, the men above. “Go!”

  More cries. Couldn’t stop himself glancing sideways. Saw a ladder tipping back. Saw the man at the top clutching at nothing, eyes wide with horror. Saw another dropping, arms flailing, giving a great breathy squeal. Flatstone stuck to the stones in front of his face. Kept climbing. Nice and steady.

  And suddenly he was up. Hauled himself over the parapet and dropped down on the other side, Carleon spread out ahead, a hill of crooked streets and grey roofs with Skarling’s Hall at the top. He pulled his axe from his belt, swung his shield from his back. Not a moment too soon. Arrows flickered from the windows of a building twenty strides away. One clattered against his shield. Another bounced from a man’s helmet just beside him. Another found its mark and someone fell, screaming, barged into someone else, knocked him from the walkway to topple into the town, wriggling in the air.

  Fires were burning. He could smell it. Smoke smudging the sky. Scratch of it in his throat as he struggled to catch his breath. Burning arrows shot overhead. There were men fighting everywhere. Metal clashed as his Carls flooded up the ladders and over the parapet. A grim strain as men struggled to shove back the defenders, shields scraping on shields, boots slipping and sliding in blood, tripping on bodies.

  “Yes!” bellowed Flatstone, pointing north with his axe. Above the writhing men he could see the gatehouse Stour had fallen from. The gatehouse where that witch must be. They’d captured a good thirty strides of wall, were pushing the defenders back. “Push on! Drive ’em! Kill ’em!” There was a Thrall sitting against the parapet, dead no doubt, but Flatstone split his head with his axe. No way he could make it through the press to the fighting, not yet, but it helped to get your weapon red, get your face red, get your hands red, set the tone for what would come later. “Kill the—”

  “Chief!” someone roared in his ear, plucking at his shoulder. “Chief!”

  “Fucking what?” Flatstone bellowed, spinning about, and saw straight away what. A great mass of men were pouring down the long slope to the south of town. Towards the walls Flatstone and his men had just climbed. A tide of coloured shields and twinkling mail. Reinforcements! Come to help him storm the city! He felt a rare smile crack his lips.

  Then he saw the standards streaming with the wind. Then he recognised ’em. “What the…”

  He’d fought some o’ those bastards at Red Hill. Seen those signs bobbing on the broken wall of the ruined fort there, where the Dogman made his stand. Now here they were, charging right at his rear.

  “Where’d those bastards come from?” he gasped.

  “The south, I reckon—”

  “I can see that, you fool!”

  “They must’ve had men hanging back.”

  “You fucking think?”

  Flatstone stared wildly about, but now there was trouble ahead as well. Carls spilling from buildings in the town, surging up the steps to bolster the men fighting on the walkways.

  “Fuck,” he whispered.

  They had to push north, link up with the rest o’ Calder’s men, make a fight of it on the walls and in the fields outside the city. They’d been caught off balance, maybe, but they still had the numbers.

  He leaned over the parapet. “Get up here!” he bellowed at the men on the ladders, at the men at the foot of the ladders, at the men rushing to join ’em, some of ’em realising what was coming up behind and already scattering. “Push north!” he roared at the men already up, pointing towards the gatehouse. He thought he could see that witch on the roof, the bright red of her cloak, which meant the tall bastard beside her was Caul Shivers, sun glinting an instant on his metal eye. “The man who brings me that witch’s head gets its weight in silver!” he roared.

  He’d been thinking about gold, but even at a time like this you have to get value for money.

  They were fighting, up on the wall. Ignet could see ’em, peeking around the corner of her house. Something was burning. She could smell it. Like burned cakes.

  She stared wi’ wide eyes, heart thumping. She saw a man kill another, up there on the walkway. Stab him with a spear. He fell, and tumbled onto a roof not far away, and slid down, his leg dangling from the thatched eaves.

  “Get inside, Ignet!” screeched her mother, catching her wrist and dragging her in. Her da flung the door shut. Shut it and double-bolted it.

  Ignet had always thought how strong those bolts looked, how heavy. Now they seemed spindly little sticks of iron to keep all those furious warriors out o’ the house.

  She shrank into the corner. She could still hear the fighting. The walls had always looked so huge, but they didn’t any more. Would they come over? Would they get into the town? Would they start beating on the door?

  She stared at the bolts, her shoulders up around her ears, waiting for them to jump and rattle in the brackets.

  “What happens if Rikke wins?” asked her ma.

  Her da just stared.

  “What happens if she loses?” asked her ma.

  Her da numbly shook his head.

  “What do we do?” her ma screamed, clutching her da by his wrists.

  “What can we do?” he muttered at her.

  Ignet crawled under the table and put her hands over her head. Outside, deep and throbbing, she heard that horn blow again.

  “Come on, come on,” muttered the Nail, eyes fixed on the crest of the hill, grass thrashing in the wind. “Come on, come on, come on…”

  He was desperate to go. Burning to fight. He could feel the eagerness of the men around him, the men behind him, tensed like drawn bows, straining like dogs at the leash. He could hear the battle joined, the joyous steel and laughter music of it beyond the little rise. He couldn’t hold back, and he wriggled up to the crest, up to the waving grass, and peeked over, tongue-tip wedged between his bared teeth, down into the valley.

  Over on the left—Crinna bastards, bones-and-hides men, up at the walls of Carleon. Straight ahead—Black Calder’s Carls, with ladders to the stones. Over on his right—Hardbread’s men had made it down to the city, fighting in the fields, fighting up on the walls, and he couldn’t help a little giggle.

  So Rikke’s plan had worked. Seemed a mad plan, when she whispered it to him, her eyes in the darkness, the one that saw nothing and the one that saw too much, her breath hot on his face and smelling pleasantly of ale. Seemed a mad plan, but such a bold one he couldn’t say no. Never even thought of saying no. Didn’t know how he’d ever say no to her.

  She was honest and wise and beautiful and strange and knew things no one else knew and said things no one else would’ve dared to and made him laugh when no one else could. He’d never met a woman like her. There weren’t any others.

  “Come on, come on,” he whispered. “Come on.”

  He’d heard of love but never thought it was anything for him to worry about. But maybe this was love, this having of a woman always at the back of your mind. This feeling that any time not with her was time wasted. This aching in him to get back into her bed.

  The memory of her kicking her trousers off, sitting in Skarling’s Chair with her eyes on him and her legs open, would get him hard at all the wrong times. By the dead, he was getting hard right now, lying on the damp hilltop looking down at a battle.

&
nbsp; But this was no day for lovers’ thoughts. This was a red day for red thoughts and red deeds. Rikke needed him, and the Great Leveller would pay a red visit to any man who put himself between them.

  “Come on, come on, come on, come—”

  He was up and sprinting before the echoes of Shivers’ second blast even faded, flying down the sedge-patched hillside.

  He’d never been one for war cries. Why tell your enemy where you are? They’ll learn soon enough.

  Surprise, that’s the key. Whether you’re fighting one man or a thousand or ten thousand. The more you’re fighting, the more important it becomes, ’cause shock spreads faster’n plague, faster’n fire, and turns the bravest into cowards.

  So he rushed up silent as winter, silent as sickness. He knew the others were with him. His brothers, his cousins, every man he could gather, trekked the long, cold road back from the West Valleys in secret darkness to be here.

  The baggage was ahead. Calder’s soft underbelly. The dirty horses and the mud-caked wagons that held the supplies. The smiths and the cooks. The women and the children who slogged after the men. Killing the fighters was cutting off the fingers, but hitting the baggage was cutting out the guts. And the Nail felt the fierce smile spread across his face, the fierce fire burning through his limbs, stronger and stronger with every stride.

  Might be he loved Rikke, but battle was his oldest love, his first love. That was who he was and who he’d always be.

  There were a few guards, but most were already running. He could hear their desperate cries, tugging him on. Women, too, shrieking and wailing. There was a fighter at the front, in bright mail with a bright spear, trying to turn his men, to form a wobbly shield-wall, but they weren’t halfway there. Far too late and far too few. The Nail ran right for him, faster’n ever, wind in his face. He always went at the hardest-looking bastard he could find. Bring down their toughest, break the rest.

  The Nail was on him. Hit his shield with his axe, staggered him with the force of it, chopped with his sword and it caught the rim, struck a spark, jolted in his hand, a lovely jolt. The breath sawed at his chest, ripped up his throat, hissed through his fixed smile, his clenched teeth. He hacked away, drove the man back into a crouch then caught his leg with his sword and made him howl. Blood spattered.

  The Nail dodged his desperate spear-thrust, hooked his wobbling shield down with his axe, stabbed with his sword, stabbed in the open face of his helmet. He fell back, blood pouring from his split mouth. He was trying to say something but all he could say was blood and that was eloquence enough, in its way. The eloquence o’ the battlefield.

  “Kill ’em all!” screamed the Nail, since there was no need for surprise any longer, just for fury, and he stomped on that warrior’s head as he ran on, trampled him into the mud. Others around him, swinging, hacking, shrieking, laughing, dodging between the wagons, springing around the snorting, tramping horses. Flowing through the baggage like a red flood. All drunk on battle. All mad on it.

  He slipped past a cart up on blocks to have its wheel changed and a mud-covered man came slithering out from under it, sobbing and whimpering. Must’ve been hiding there, flushed out by someone else.

  “Hello,” said the Nail, already swinging as the man twisted about, wet eyes staring. Caught his neck just right and took his head spinning off and it clonked against the side of the cart. Blood sprayed the horse half-harnessed in the traces and it bucked, kicked out and set off at a wild, straining canter, dragging the cart jolting after on one wheel, barrels and boxes bouncing from the back, catching a tent and ripping it up, dragging it after like the train on a bride’s dress, torn clothes and dented pots and bent spoons tumbling out and scattered in its wake through the ripped-up grass.

  Good plunder here, good takings. A tent went up in flames as it fell in a fire. Stink of smoke and fear. The Nail watched a boy run a few steps, off balance, fall, scramble up and totter a few steps, fall again, get up, fall again. Calder’s men had been lazy, foolish, weary from their march and fixed on the city ahead. Now they scattered like a flock of crows and he was the hawk among ’em.

  The Nail hacked someone in an apron in the back with his axe, made him scream, knocked him on his face, one of his boots flying off. Someone smiled as he smashed a man’s head against the corner of a cart. He slashed another across the backs of the legs and brought him down, rolling over and over. Someone was bashing a wooden chest open with a hammer, joyful splinters flying. He hacked his axe into the back of a man’s head and left him staggering around with a big piece of his skull hanging off, and bounded on with a delighted whoop, past some woman sat limp and staring in the grass, shocked tears tracking her blood-streaked face. Someone laughed as they stomped another’s face into the mud. He could hear his brothers, his cousins, his men, whooping and hacking and cheering. He dodged a desperate swing of a sword, hacked at the arm that held it, blood flying, hacked again, barged the man out of his way, hacked at him again as he fell, missed and stumbled on, not caring.

  The Nail clenched his jaw, fixing his eyes on the city. More men ahead, and not running so easily. Starting to gather into something like a line, facing away from Carleon. Facing him. He took a ripping breath, and blew out blood, and smiled wider than ever. The easy killing was done.

  Now came the hard killing.

  “Make a line!” roared Trapper.

  He’d been heading for the walls, steeling himself for the climb, when he’d seen the men sweep down from the south. Now men were pouring into their rear from the west as well. Black Calder had been caught with his fucking trousers down and no mistake, and they all had their arses out with him.

  “Make a fucking line!” he snarled, catching a running man by the shoulder.

  “You make a line!” A fist caught him on the side of the jaw, knocked him stumbling.

  He couldn’t even tell who’d thrown it. He had no more’n a score, all of ’em facing different ways, staring numbly at the chaos. He had to drag ’em into place, but he hardly knew which way the line should face. Towards the city, or away?

  “What do we do?” someone whimpered.

  There were enemies everywhere. Trapper wasn’t sure who they were. Where they’d come from. That witch Rikke must’ve witched ’em up out o’ hell. They’d laughed at the Long Eye, back in Currahome. No one was laughing now.

  “Shields, you fucks!”

  They stared at him with wet, wide, terrified eyes. A horse charged past, dragging the shattered remains of a wagon. A man gave a great squeal, an arrow in his side. Another was on his knees, clutching, clutching, hands clamped to his bloody face. “I can’t see, I can’t see!”

  “Shields!” roared Trapper, not knowing what more he could do than shout. But his men were already running. Even the ones he’d gathered. The little knot flying apart in every direction, tossing down their weapons. Trapper would’ve run, too, if he could’ve seen anywhere to run to.

  Men were charging at him. Cutting, hacking, driving running figures ahead of them. At the front was a tall, lean bastard with an axe and a sword and a shock of pale hair, his snarling devil’s face all dashed with red.

  By the dead, the Nail. That mad bastard was supposed to be miles away. Trapper dropped his shield.

  There was nowhere to run to.

  He ran anyway.

  Sholla had thought they’d be far from the fighting on this little hillock in the eaves of the woods. A nice tump with a big flat rock sunk into the lush green on top, a perfect spot to sit and shave some cheese on a happier day. Here they’d be safe, and could get a good view of the carnage, and a sound lesson in why battles are things best avoided.

  She’d watched Calder’s men and the Crinna bastards move forwards, set their ladders, start to climb. Then everything had fallen apart. First what looked like men of Uffrith had come pouring down from the far hills to the south, then what looked like men of the West Valleys had swept in from the west, ripping through the baggage, splitting Calder’s forces in half. Some of
’em were pressing in not too far from where Sholla and Flick were standing.

  There’s the trouble with avoiding battles. Sometimes they reach out and find you anyway.

  Calder’s guards had made a ring of shields about the top of the hillock, and on the crest beside the flat stone where Calder’s standard was set—the same sign Bethod used to fight under. The great man himself stood in its shadow, arms grimly folded, watching his army and all his hopes crumble.

  Clover lurked not far off in that hunched way of his, like he was trying to fade out o’ sight. Sholla was glad he was there, though she didn’t let it show. She liked Clover. He was a reasonably good chief. He was a reasonably good man. And that was about as good as chiefs and men got, in her experience.

  “You all right?” she asked him, her bow in one hand and an arrow in the other so she could at least look like she might be some help.

  “Thus far. You?”

  “Apart from… all this.” And she waved the arrow towards the furious fight not a hundred strides off now. “Where did they come from?”

  “The West Valleys, I reckon. The Nail and his boys. Seems he didn’t fall out with Rikke after all.” Clover rubbed his jaw with something close to admiration. “Reckon she laid a smart trap and we’ve all blundered into it. Knew I should’ve stuck with her.” He put a hand on Sholla’s shoulder, leaning close. “Might be a good move for you and Flick to head into the woods.” There were a lot of other folk heading into the woods. Heading as fast as their legs’d carry ’em. Most of Clover’s boys had already melted away. It was about what their chief would’ve done, after all.

  “What about you?” muttered Sholla.

  Clover glanced sideways at Calder. “I’ve a sense our chief would rather I remained.”

  “I want to stay,” said Flick, weighing his sword in his hand.

  “No, you don’t,” said Clover, simply. “Here’s your last lesson. Winning battles is bad enough. Never hang around to see one lost.”