Sharp Ends

by Joe Abercrombie

  As he finally got his sword drawn and looked up, he realised it hardly mattered now. There were things moving in the air. Arrows. Arrows from kneeling Northmen, before the trees, bows raised. His wide eyes darted over the dark background of the woods, drawn by flickers of movement. He ducked uselessly, the arrows whispering past him and dropping among the carts. He saw one thud into wood and lodge there, quivering. Another stuck into a horse’s flank and it reared up, screaming.

  ‘With me!’ he bellowed, no idea who he was bellowing at, not bothering to check if anyone was with him or not, doing his best to lift his feet over the barley as he floundered on, all the silly frustrations of being assigned supply duty suddenly banished. Action! Here was action!

  Gorst was up ahead in combat with two Northmen. His long steel hit a shield with a loud crack and sent one stumbling back. Gorst dodged a two-handed axe-blow, the heavy blade missing him by a terrifying whisker. Even as it thudded into the earth Gorst was spinning around, swift as lightning in spite of his bulk, long steel feathering the crops. It took the axeman’s right leg off cleanly at the knee and snatched the other out from under him, sending the unfortunate man cartwheeling in a spray of blood. His friend was just struggling to get up when Gorst’s long steel left a great dent in the front of his helmet and knocked him back, mouth silently gaping, arms spread, sword tumbling from one nerveless hand.

  Kerns felt a shock run through him as he realised that he had seen two men killed before his eyes. Shock, and disbelief, and breathless excitement. Here was most definitely action! To stand alongside Colonel Gorst, a man who had been the king’s First Guard! To be smilingly acknowledged by him after the engagement, to be clapped on the shoulder and greeted as a brother! It was everything Kerns had dreamed of when he first tried on the uniform. Three more Northmen were jumping through the crops towards Gorst now, and Kerns hurried up to his side, raising his sword.

  ‘Colonel Gorst!’

  He saw a flash of movement at the corner of his eye, jerked his head away on an instinct, and—

  Gorst felt his long steel crunch into something at the very end of his swing, twisting the grip in his fist as the Northman before him toppled back, blood squirting from his neatly slit throat. But he had no time to think on it. I have other business.

  Namely a short man in tarnished chain mail, ageing and running somewhat to fat, roaring as lustily as he could after a charge through the crops, ruddy cheeks full of broken veins. Those cheeks. They surprised Gorst with a stray memory of his father, shortly before his death when he had been confined to his bed, unable to speak properly and eternally surprised by the animal noises that emerged from his twisted mouth. Fussing with the tassels on his nightgown, shrivelled to a ghostly prune of his former self. A ghostly prune with prune-coloured cheeks.

  How many years did I put up with that old fool’s disappointment, and his rebukes, and his jokes about ladies’ voices, and smile and nod like a dutiful son? Gorst’s lips curled back in an animal snarl. A passing resemblance to a close relative was not about to break his stride. Rather it urged him on. After all, Father, I never could shut you up in life …

  The Northman swung his sword in an overhead arc as Gorst came close, a clumsy motion, easily anticipated. One would think these fools had never drawn a sword before. Not really my job to show them how it’s done, but … Gorst deflected it effortlessly with his long steel, blades scraping, closed and stabbed once with his short, getting it tangled with the rim of the painted shield. There was enough force behind it to twist its prune-faced owner sideways, though. Gorst stabbed again and felt the blade slide through mail and into flesh, the man’s mouth opening wide to scream. Quiet, now, Father. Gorst stabbed once more and cut that scream off in a last twisted gurgle. He shouldered the Northman away and chopped one ruddy cheek wide open with a swing of the long steel, showering blood and making another man check in his charge, check enough that Gorst could split his head, too, on the backswing and snatch him off his feet before he had time to remind Gorst of any other dead relatives.

  No more enemies in easy reach, he spun about. There was fighting near the column. He saw a guard running, throwing his spear away as a wild-haired Northman bounded after him. Another was on his knees with an arrow in his shoulder. Dark shapes darted between the wagons. Someone had tossed a lit torch into a cart full of hay and quickly turned the cargo into a hearty fireball, rolls of oily smoke pouring up into the grey sky, horses screaming and plunging, harnesses tangling, dragging carts over in their terror.

  ‘The horses!’ Gorst squealed, not even bothering to deepen his voice. ‘The horses!’ Not that I really give a damn about horses. Or anything else. And he sprang over one of the corpses he had made and charged back towards the column, eager to make more.

  Wrongside had never actually killed a man. Strange thing for a Thrall six years in the black business to take pride in, perhaps, and it wasn’t like he was advertising the fact, but take pride in it he did. More’n once he’d had an arrow nocked and beaded on an enemy, or a side or back turned to him in a fight, and it had come to him at that moment what his mother’s face would’ve looked like when he told her. She was long dead, o’ course, plague took her a dozen winters since, but still. That same look she’d had when he’d got up to some mischief or other, all hurt. Wrongside didn’t want to let his mother down. So he was proud he could say he’d never killed a man, even if he was only saying it to himself. Pale-as-Snow had said kill the horses, though, and when his Chief said a thing, Wrongside tried to do it.

  So he squeezed his face into a wince and sank his spear into the nearest flank, keeping well clear of the thrashing hooves. Nothing the poor horse could do about it, harnessed as it was to three others. He dragged his spear clear as it fell and moved on to the next. Shit business, killing horses. But war’s a steady stream of shit business, and Wrongside always did have bad luck with his jobs. Ended up on the wrong side of every case, hence the name. Was only a week ago he’d taken part in another of Pale-as-Snow’s raids, just as the sun was going down and in the pissing rain, and a right bloody mess it had become, as usual. He’d ended up getting all turned around, splashing across a stream and well and truly onto the wrong side, with Union scouts crashing about everywhere looking for him.

  Was only yesterday he’d finally found his way back to the rest of Scale’s boys, talked ’em into believing that he hadn’t run off on purpose and had been trying to get back best he could, so they didn’t hang him and burn him, as Black Dow was in the habit o’ doing to deserters. Then the very next day, another raid. How was that for shitty luck? Felt like he’d only just heard Pale-as-Snow’s bloody peach of a raid speech and he was listening to it again. Wrongside hated fighting. Far as he could tell, it was the one major drawback of the soldiering life. Apart from the hunger. And the cold. And the threat of hanging and burning. The soldiering life had a lot of drawbacks, in fact, now he came to consider the case. But now wasn’t the time for considering cases.

  He gritted his teeth and stabbed another horse in its belly, his ears full of the screaming, crying, whinnying of dying animals. Sounded like children. They weren’t children. They weren’t, but it was still a bloody shame. He’d never seen such big, strong, beautiful beasts as these. Hurt his heart to think of what these lovely glossy horses might’ve fetched back at the market in his village. How the farmers’ jaws would’ve dropped just to see ’em in the rough-carved pen. How it might’ve changed the lives of his old mum and dad to have a horse like one of these to drag the plough and pull the haycart, and show off on festival days. How proud they’d have been to own just one. And here he was making mud out of a dozen. Made his heart hurt, it did.

  But war’s a heart-hurting sort of an exercise, one way and another.

  He dragged his blood-daubed spear from another horse, leaving it tottering sideways in its harness, neck arching. He turned for the next wagon and found himself staring, at reasonably close quarters,
straight into the face of a Union man. A strange-looking one, unarmed, holding up his trousers with one hand while the broken buckle on his belt clinked at his knees.

  Wrongside could tell from one glance at his eyes that he’d no more interest in fighting than Wrongside did. Not a word said, they made an agreement. Each man took a step back, circling gently away. Then another. Then they parted in good humour, more’n likely never to boast of or, indeed, mention it at all, but neither man the worse off for their meeting, which Wrongside felt was about the best that could be hoped for from two enemies on a battlefield.

  He hurried away between two wagons, no wish to loiter, the air sticky and his nose tickly with the tang of burning now. He ducked some flying hooves, saw old Racket lifting an axe, eyes wide, then he heard a high screech and a sword came down and split Racket’s grey-haired head wide open, knees crumpling like he was made of leaves.

  Wrongside didn’t see who’d swung that blade, and he didn’t wait to find out. Just turned right around and ran. He slipped in some horse-blood, caught his knee against the corner of a tipped-over cart and grabbed at it, stumbling sideways, stifling a groan of pain. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck.’ Rubbing at his kneecap, then limping on, fast as he could. Had to get back across the field but there was a burning wagon on his right, a tower of flame and smoke, dead horses hitched to it and a living one plunging, flank dark with blood, eyes rolling with terror as it tried to get away and only dragged the fireball further into the midst of the column. Wrongside turned the other way, heard a scream and a clash of metal, decided swiftly against, took a deep breath and dived from the muddy track straight into the undergrowth, slithering down behind a tree, peering through the bracken and brambles, heart battering at his ribs.

  ‘Oh, hell,’ he whispered. Stuck in the woods, again, the enemy all around, again, covered head to toe in horse-blood … Well, this was the first time for that. But the rest was starting to become an uncomfortable pattern and no mistake. He wondered if old Pale-as-Snow would take his word for it this time around, when he finally stumbled back into camp after five days’ cold and hungry creeping through the brush. If he made it back to camp.

  ‘Oh, hell.’ By the dead, his knee hurt. War’s a knee-hurting sort of an exercise, one way and another.

  So much for a peach of a raid.

  Pale-as-Snow gave a sigh, licked the chagga juice from his front teeth, worked his tongue around and sourly spat into the undergrowth. He used to be a great man, didn’t he? One of Bethod’s four War Chiefs. He’d led the storming party at Uffrith. He’d shattered the Union line in the mist near the Cumnur. He’d been a man everyone had to respect, or at least show respect to and keep their contrary opinions to themselves. Hard to believe, now. Back to camp, and another of Scale’s bloody rages.

  Still, nothing to be gained by hanging on here. Wasn’t as if everything would suddenly come out right. Surprise is like virginity. You only get the one chance at using it, and that normally turns out a crushing disappointment. Pale-as-Snow frowned towards the confused mess at the bottom of the field, then at Ripjack, squatting in the brush looking greatly sorry for himself with a bloody cloth pressed to his cut head. First thing a fighter needs to know is when to stop fighting.

  ‘Get ’em to sound the horn. We’ll do no more good today.’

  Ripjack nodded, and waved the signal, and the blast of the horn echoed out as Pale-as-Snow turned away from the skirmish and crept off through the bushes, bent double, slowly shaking his head.

  One day. One day he’d mount that perfect raid.

  Pendel heard the faint sound of a horn. Peering out between the spokes of the cartwheel he saw men running back towards the trees. The Northmen, and in retreat. The wave of relief was almost strong enough to make him spontaneously finish the business he had begun in the woods. But he had no time, for relief or other business. Captain Bronkenhorm would no doubt even now be wheezing up with more guards, and it wouldn’t do for him to find Pendel hiding behind a cartwheel. Pendel had already been drummed out of the marshal’s headquarters. He wasn’t sure where you ended up when you were drummed out of the baggage guard, but he had no wish to find out.

  He took a look both ways to check he was unobserved, dragged his trousers up once more, still cursing the broken buckle, then slipped out from under the wagon. He gasped as he nearly tripped over the body of a dead Union soldier, a bloodstained sword lying near one hand. Then he smiled. Serendipity. He snatched up the blade and stood tall, affecting a bellicose expression and striding boldly through the ruined crops, waving his stolen weapon towards the woods.

  ‘Come back here, you bastards! I’ll show you a fight! Get back here, damn you!’

  Once he was confident there were plenty of men looking at him, he flung down his sword in a fury.

  ‘Cowards!’ he roared at the trees.

  Someone was shouting, but Gorst wasn’t listening. He was looking down at one of the corpses. A young Union officer with a split head, one half of the face beyond recognition, the other blood-spotted, wearing the tongue-out leer of a man who has just made a revoltingly lewd suggestion.

  What did he say his name was? Gorst crushed up his face as though that might somehow squeeze the answer out, but it was gone. Let us be honest, I was not listening. He had been married, Gorst remembered him saying that. And something about a child. Berns, was it? Ferns? Gorst remembered the feeling of his long steel crunching into something. For me, a moment barely registered. For him, the end of everything. Not that Gorst was entirely sure. It might have been his blade that did it. It might have been another. There was no shortage of hard-swung steel here a few moments ago, and certainties are sadly rare in combat.

  Gorst sighed. What difference does it really make, anyway? Would he be any less dead if it had been a Northern sword that split his head? He found himself reaching out, pressing at the dead man’s face, trying to make it register a more dignified expression, but however he kneaded the flesh it returned to that red-speckled leer.

  Should I not be choked with guilt? The little fatherless boy? The penniless widow? The family all clustered around to hear happy news from the front, then weeping over the letter? Howling and beating their breasts! Verns, Perns, Smerns, will never come back for the winter festival! Gorst puffed out his cheeks. He felt nothing but mild annoyance, the constant background hum of his own disappointment and some slight uncomfortable sweatiness beneath his armour. What kind of monster am I, that a little sweat upsets me more than a murder?

  Gorst frowned at the last few fleeing Northmen disappearing into the woods. He frowned at the men desperately trying to beat out the flames now wreathing several of the wagons. He frowned at a Union officer, belt hanging undone and trousers sagging, brandishing one bloody fist. He frowned more deeply still, over towards the small house near the top of the field, and its slightly open door. He stood, worked his fist around the grip of his long steel and started to trudge towards it.

  Looked like the fight was done, best Tinder could tell from peering around the doorframe. Who’d won, it was hard to say. In his experience, and he’d more’n enough to tell, rare were the fights after which it was easy to say who’d won. Reasonably rare were the fights anyone in particular did actually win, for that matter. There were a few dead men around, he could see that, and quite a few more wounded, he could hear them. Dying horses, too. More than one of the wagons was on fire, burning hay-stalks fluttering down all around. The Northmen were driven off, the last of ’em shooting a lazy arrow or two from the treeline. But it seemed Tinder had come through it without anyone burning his house down—

  ‘Shit,’ he hissed between his teeth. The big Union man was walking towards the house. The one with the silly voice. The one called Gorst. Striding towards the house with his head down, heavy sword still held in one fist, heavy jaw clenched like a man with some black work in mind. ‘Shit.’

  A thing like this turned men mean. Even men who might
be decent under decent circumstances. Thing like this made men look for someone to blame, and Tinder knew there was no one better placed for that than him. Him and his children.

  ‘What’s happening?’

  Tinder caught his daughter’s arm and started to guide her towards the back, only just forcing words out through the fear clamping his throat up. ‘Listen to me, Riam. You get by the back door, and ready to open it. You hear me shout, run. You run, d’you understand? Just like we talked about. You run over to Old Nairn’s house, and I’ll join up with you later.’

  His daughter’s eyes were wide in her pale face. ‘Will you?’ By the dead, how much she looked like her mother.

  ‘Course I will!’ he said, touching her cheek. ‘I said it, didn’t I? Don’t cry, you got Cowan looking to you.’

  She caught a hold of him, and he felt tears coming, too, as he pushed her off and towards the back door, and she clung to him and wouldn’t let him free, and he had to start prising her fingers away but couldn’t bring himself to do it.

  ‘You got to go,’ he whispered at her, ‘you got to go right—’

  The door was flung open, banging hard against the wall and sending a shower of dust down from the rafters. The Union man was there, a great shadow framed in the bright square of the doorway. He took a quick step into the house and Tinder was facing him, jaw clenched and axe in one hand, Riam held back behind his body with the other. Gorst stopped still, face in shadow, brightness down the edge of his heavy jaw, and his armour, and his sword, spots of blood gleaming on all three.

  There was a long, still silence. Tinder could hear Riam’s breathing, fast and scared, and Cowan’s, faintest edge of a whimper in it, and his own, growling in his throat, and he wondered with each one whether it would be his last.