The First Law Trilogy Boxed Set: The Blade Itself, Before They Are Hanged, Last Argument of Kings

by Joe Abercrombie

  ‘I did it,’ he muttered, and the apprentice nodded slowly. ‘I did it!’ he shouted, waving his bloody short steel in the air.

  Quai frowned, and then his eyes went wide. ‘Behind you!’ he shouted, half jumping up out of his seat. Jezal turned, bringing up his steels, saw something moving out of the very corner of his eye.

  There was a mighty crunching and his head exploded with brilliant light.

  Then all was darkness.

  The Fruits of Boldness

  The Northmen stood on the hill, a thin row of dark figures with the white sky behind them. It was still early, and the sun was nothing more than a bright smear among thick clouds. Patches of half-melted snow were scattered cold and dirty in the hollows of the valley sides, a thin layer of mist was still clinging to the valley floor.

  West watched that row of black shapes, and frowned. He did not like the flavour of this. Too many for a scouting, or a foraging party, far too few to mount any challenge, and yet they stayed there on the high ground, watching calmly as Ladisla’s army continued its interminable, clumsy deployment in the valley beneath them.

  The Prince’s staff, and a small detachment of his guards, had made their headquarters on a grassy knoll opposite the Northmen’s hill. It had seemed a fine, dry spot when the scouts found it early that morning, well below the enemy perhaps, but still high enough to get a good view of the valley. Since then the passage of thousands of sliding boots, squashing hooves, and churning cartwheels, had ground the wet earth to sticky black muck. West’s own boots and those of the other men around were caked with it, their uniforms spattered with it. Even Prince Ladisla’s pristine whites had acquired a few smears.

  A couple of hundred strides ahead, on lower ground, was the centre of the Union battle line. Four battalions of the King’s Own infantry formed the backbone, each one a neat block of bright red cloth and dull steel, looking at this distance as though they had been positioned with a giant ruler. In front of them were a few thin ranks of flatbowmen in their leather jerkins and steel caps; behind were the cavalry, dismounted for the time being, the riders looking strangely ungainly in full armour. Spread out to either side were the haphazard shapes of the levy battalions, with their assortment of mismatched equipment, their officers bellowing and waving their arms, trying to get the gaps to close up, the skewed ranks to straighten, like sheepdogs barking at a flock of wayward sheep.

  Ten thousand men, perhaps, all told. Every one of them, West knew, was looking up at that thin screen of Northmen, no doubt with the same nervous mixture of fear and excitement, curiosity and anger that he was feeling at his first sight of the enemy.

  They hardly seemed too fearsome through his eyeglass. Shaggy-headed men, dressed in ragged hides and furs, gripping primitive looking weapons. Just what the least imaginative members of the Prince’s staff might have been expecting. They scarcely looked like any part of the army that Threetrees had described, and West did not like that. There was no way of knowing what was on the far side of that hill, no reason for those men to be there but to distract them, or draw them on. Not everyone shared his doubts, however.

  ‘They mock us!’ snapped Smund, squinting up through his own eyeglass. ‘We should give them a taste of Union lances! A swift charge and our horsemen will sweep that rabble aside and carry that hill!’ He spoke almost as if the carrying of that hill, irrelevant except for the fact that the Northmen were standing on it, would bring the campaign to a swift and glorious conclusion.

  West could do nothing but grit his teeth and shake his head, as he had done a hundred times already today. ‘They have the high ground,’ he explained, taking care to speak slowly and patiently. ‘Poor terrain for a charge, and they may have support. Bethod’s main body, for all we know, just over the rise.’

  ‘They look like nothing more than scouts,’ muttered Ladisla.

  ‘Looks can lie, your Highness, and that hill is worthless. Time is with us. Marshal Burr will be marching to our aid, while Bethod can expect no help. We have no reason to seek a battle now.’

  Smund snorted. ‘No reason except that this is a war, and the enemy stand before us on Union soil! You are always carping on the poor state of the men’s morale, Colonel!’ He jabbed his finger up at the hill. ‘What could be more damaging to their spirits than to sit idle in the face of the enemy?’

  ‘A sharp and purposeless defeat?’ growled West.

  It was an unfortunate chance that one of the Northmen chose that moment to loose an arrow down into the valley. A tiny black sliver sailed up into the sky. It came only from a shortbow. Even with the advantage of height the shaft plopped down harmlessly into open ground a hundred strides or more from the front lines. A singularly pointless gesture, but its effect on Prince Ladisla was immediate.

  He abandoned his folding field chair and leaped to his feet. ‘Damn them!’ he cursed, ‘they are mocking us! Issue orders!’ He strode up and down, shaking his fist. ‘Have the cavalry form up for a charge immediately!’

  ‘Your Highness, I urge you to reconsider—’

  ‘Damn it, West!’ The heir to the throne hurled his hat down on the muddy ground. ‘You oppose me at every turn! Would your friend Colonel Glokta have hesitated with the enemy before him?’

  West swallowed. ‘Colonel Glokta was captured by the Gurkish, and caused the deaths of every man under his command.’ He bent slowly and picked up the hat, offered it respectfully up to the Prince, wondering all the while whether he had just brought his career to an abrupt end.

  Ladisla ground his teeth, breathing hard through his nose, snatched the hat out of West’s hand. ‘I have made my decision! Mine is the burden of command, and mine alone!’ He turned back towards the valley. ‘Sound the charge!’

  West felt suddenly, terribly tired. It seemed he scarcely had the strength to stand as the confident bugle call rang out in the crisp air, as the horsemen struggled into their saddles, eased forward between the blocks of infantry, trotted down the gentle slope, lances up. They broke into a gallop as they crossed the valley floor, half-obscured in a sea of mist, the thunder of their hoofbeats echoing round the valley. A few scattered arrows fell among them, glancing harmlessly from their heavy armour as they streamed forward. They began to lose momentum as they hit the upward slope, their lines breaking as they pushed on over the gorse and the broken ground, but the sight of all that weight of steel and horseflesh had its effect on the Northmen above. Their ragged line began to waver, then to break. They turned tail and fled, some of them tossing away their weapons as they disappeared over the brow of the hill.

  ‘That’s the damn recipe!’ yelled Lord Smund. ‘Drive ’em, damn it! Drive ’em!’

  ‘Ride them down!’ laughed Prince Ladisla, tearing off his hat again and waving it in the air. A scattering of cheers floated up from the levies in the valley, over the distant hammering of hooves.

  ‘Drive them,’ muttered West, clenching his fists. ‘Please.’

  The riders crested the ridge and gradually disappeared from view. Silence fell over the valley. A long, strange, unexpected silence. A few crows circled overhead, croaking their harsh calls to one another. West would have given anything for their view of the battlefield. The tension was almost unbearable. He strode back and forth while the long minutes stretched out, and still no sign.

  ‘Taking their time, eh?’

  Pike was standing right next to him, his daughter just behind. West winced and looked away. He still found it somehow painful to look at that burned face for long, especially coming on him sudden and unannounced. ‘What are you two doing here?’

  The convict shrugged his shoulders. ‘There’s plenty for a smith to do before a battle. Even more after it. Not much while the fighting’s happening, though.’ He grinned, slabs of burned flesh folding up like leather on one side of his face. ‘Thought I’d take a look at Union arms in action. Besides, what safer place could there be than the Prince’s headquarters?’

  ‘Don’t mind us,’ muttered Cathil, a thin smile
on her face, ‘we’ll make sure to keep out of your way.’

  West frowned. If that was a reference to his being constantly in their way he was in no mood to enjoy it. There was still no sign of the cavalry.

  ‘Where the hell are they?’ snapped Smund.

  The Prince took a break from chewing down his fingernails. ‘Give ’em time, Lord Smund, give ’em time.’

  ‘Why doesn’t this mist dry up?’ murmured West. There was enough sunlight breaking through the clouds now, but the mist only seemed to be thickening, creeping up the valley towards the archers. ‘Damn mist, it’ll work against us.’

  ‘That’s them!’ yelled one of the Prince’s staff, shrill with excitement, finger stretched out rigid towards the crest of the hill.

  West raised his eyeglass, breathless, scanned quickly across the green line. He saw the spearpoints, stiff, and regular, rising slowly over the brow. He felt a surge of relief. Rarely had he been happier to be proved wrong.

  ‘It’s them!’ yelled Smund, grinning broadly. ‘They’re back! What did I tell you? They’re . . .’ Helmets appeared beneath the spearpoints, and then mailed shoulders. West felt the relief seeping away, horror creeping up his throat. An organised body of armoured men, their round shields painted with faces, and animals, and trees, and a hundred other patterns, no two alike. More men appeared over the crest of the hill to either side of them. More mailed figures.

  Bethod’s Carls.

  They halted just beyond the highest point of the hill. A scattering of men came forward from the even ranks, knelt in the short grass.

  Ladisla lowered his eyeglass. ‘Are those . . . ?’

  ‘Flatbows,’ muttered West.

  The first volley drifted up, gently almost, a shifting grey cloud of bolts, like a flock of well trained birds. They were silent for a moment, then the angry rattling of the bow strings reached West’s ears. The bolts began to drop towards the Union lines. They fell among the King’s Own, clattered down onto their heavy shields, their heavy armour. There were some cries, a few gaps appeared in their lines.

  The mood in the headquarters had turned, in the space of a minute, from brash confidence, to mute surprise, to stupefied dismay. ‘They have flatbows?’ someone spluttered. West stared at the archers on the hill through his eyeglass, slowly cranking back their bowstrings, pulling bolts from their quivers, fitting them into position. The range had been well judged. Not only did they have flatbows, but they knew how to use them. West hurried over to Prince Ladisla, who was gaping at a wounded man being carried, head lolling, from between the ranks of the King’s Own.

  ‘Your Highness, we must advance and close the distance so that our archers can return fire, or withdraw to higher ground!’ Ladisla only stared at him, giving no sign that he had heard, let alone understood. A second volley arced down into the infantry in front of them. This time it fell among the levies, a unit without shields or armour. Holes opened up all across the ragged formation, holes filled by the rising mist, and the whole battalion seemed to groan and waver. Some wounded man began to make a thin, animal screeching, and would not stop. ‘Your Highness, do we advance, or withdraw?’

  ‘I . . . we . . .’ Ladisla gaped over at Lord Smund, but for once the young nobleman was at a loss for words. He looked even more stupefied than the Prince, if that was possible. Ladisla’s lower lip trembled. ‘How . . . I . . . Colonel West, what is your opinion?’

  The temptation to remind the Crown Prince that his was the burden of command, and his alone, was almost overpowering, but West bit his tongue. Without some sense of purpose, this rag-tag army might swiftly dissolve. Better to do the wrong thing, than nothing at all. He turned to the nearest bugler. ‘Sound the retreat!’ he roared.

  The bugles called the withdrawal: blaring, discordant. Hard to believe they were the same instruments that had so brazenly called the charge just a few short minutes before. The battalions began to edge slowly backwards. Another volley fell among the levies, and another. Their formations were beginning to come apart, men hurrying backwards to escape the murderous fire, stumbling over each other, ranks dissolving into mobs, the air full of shrieks and confusion. West could scarcely tell where the next set of flatbow bolts fell, the mist had risen so high. The Union battalions had become nothing more than wobbling spears and the odd insubstantial helmet above a grey cloud. Even here, high up among the baggage, the mist was curling round West’s ankles.

  Up on the hill the Carls began to move. They thrust their weapons in the air and clashed them against their painted shields. They gave a great shout, but not the deep roar that West might have expected. Instead, a weird and chilling howl floated over the valley, a keening wail that cut through the rattling and scraping of metal and into the ears of those watching, down below. A mindless, a furious, a primitive sound. A sound made by monsters, not by men.

  Prince Ladisla and his staff gawped at one another, and stuttered, and stared, as the Carls began to tramp down the hill, rank upon rank of them, towards the thickening mist in the valley’s bottom where the Union troops were still blindly trying to pull back. West shouldered his way through the frozen officers to the bugler.

  ‘Battle lines!’

  The lad turned from staring at the advancing Northmen to staring at West, his bugle hanging from his nerveless fingers.

  ‘Lines!’ roared a voice from behind. ‘Form lines!’ It was Pike, bellowing loud enough to match any drill sergeant. The bugler snapped his instrument to his lips and blew lines for all he was worth. Answering calls echoed through the mist, risen up all around them, now. Muffled bugles, muffled shouts.

  ‘Halt and form up!’

  ‘Form lines now, lads!’

  ‘Prepare!’

  ‘Steady!’

  A chorus of rattles and clanks came through the murk. Men moving in armour, spears being set, swords drawn, calls from man to man and from unit to unit. Above all, growing steadily louder, the unearthly howling of the Northmen as they began their charge, surging down from the high ground and into the valley. West felt a chill in his own blood, even with a hundred strides of earth and a few thousand armed men between him and the enemy. He could well imagine the fear those in the front lines were feeling now, as the shapes of the Carls began to rise out of the mist before them, screaming their war cries with their weapons held high.

  There was no sound that signified the moment of contact. The clattering grew louder and louder, the shouts and the howls were joined by high-pitched cries, low-pitched growls, shrieks of pain or rage mixed into the terrifying din with ever greater frequency. Nobody in the headquarters spoke. Every man, West among them, was peering into the murk, straining with every sense to get some hint of what might be happening just before them in the valley.

  ‘There!’ someone shouted. A faint figure was moving through the gloom ahead. All eyes were fixed on it as it took shape before them. A young, breathless, mud-splattered and highly confused lieutenant. ‘Where the hell is the headquarters?’ he shouted as he stumbled up the slope towards them.

  ‘This is it.’

  The man gave West a flamboyant salute. ‘Your Highness—’

  ‘I am Ladisla,’ snapped the real Prince. The man turned, bewildered, began to salute once more. ‘Speak your message, man!’

  ‘Of course, sir, your Highness, Major Bodzin has sent me to tell you that his battalion is heavily engaged, and . . .’ he was still gasping for breath, ‘he needs reinforcement.’

  Ladisla stared at the young man as though he had been speaking in a foreign language. He looked at West. ‘Who is Major Bodzin?’

  ‘Commander of the first battalion of the Stariksa levies, your Highness, on our left wing.’

  ‘Left wing, I see . . . er . . .’

  A semi-circle of brightly dressed staff officers had congealed around the breathless lieutenant. ‘Tell the Major to hold!’ shouted one of them.

  ‘Yes!’ said Ladisla, ‘tell your Major to hold, and to, er, to drive back the enemy. Yes indeed!’ He
was warming to his role now. ‘To drive them back, and to fight to the last man! Tell Major Clodzin that help is on the way. Most definitely . . . on the way!’ And the Prince strode off manfully.

  The young Lieutenant turned, peered into the murk. ‘Which way is my unit?’ he muttered.

  More figures were already beginning to take form. Running figures, scrambling through the mud, panting for breath. Levies, West saw straight away, broken from the backs of crumbling units as soon as they had made contact with the enemy. As though there had ever been any chance that they would stand for long.

  ‘Cowardly dogs!’ cursed Smund at their receding backs. ‘Get back here!’ He might as well have given orders to the mist. Everyone was running: deserters, adjutants, messengers seeking for help, for direction, for reinforcement. The first wounded too. Some were limping under their own power, or using broken spears for crutches, some were half-carried by comrades. Pike started forward to help a pale fellow with a flatbow bolt sticking from his shoulder. Another casualty was dragged past on a stretcher, muttering to himself. His left arm was off just below the elbow, oozing blood through a tightly bound stretch of dirty cloth.

  Ladisla looked greasy pale. ‘I have a headache. I must sit down. What has become of my field chair?’

  West chewed at his lip. He had no inkling of what to do. Burr had sent him with Ladisla for his experience, but he was every bit as clueless as the Prince. Every plan relied on being able actually to see the enemy, or at any rate one’s own positions. He stood there, frozen, as useless and frustrated as a blind man in a fist fight.

  ‘What is happening, damn it!’ The Prince’s voice cut across the din, shrill and petulant. ‘Where did this damn mist come from? I demand to know what is happening! Colonel West! Where is the Colonel? What is going on out there?’

  If only he had been able to provide an answer. Men stumbled and darted and charged through the muddy headquarters, apparently at random. Faces loomed up from the mist and were gone, faces full of fear, confusion, determination. Runners with garbled messages or garbled orders, soldiers with bloody wounds or no weapons. Disembodied voices floated on the cold air, speaking over one another, anxious, hurried, panicked, agonised.