He knew his father, and his uncles, and his grandfather, soldiers all, would have been thoroughly disgusted to see him now, a coward.
Aliz, his wife-to-be, whose eyes had glistened so very bewitchingly when she saw him in his uniform, what would she have thought to see his shitty sword hand and the dark stain spreading out across his trousers?
The truth was he didn’t care, as long as he didn’t have to fight.
A man stood, teeth gritted, one hand clapped to his bloody side while he gripped his spear with the other. There was bravery.
Another stood roaring insults at the very top of his lungs. “Fuckers! Fuckers! Come on, fuckers!” There was bravery.
Another lay shivering, staring, white as a sheet except for the red blood leaking from the corner of his mouth, one hand still weakly holding up the standard of their company. There was bravery.
But Stillman didn’t care.
He heard other officers around him shouting their encouragements. “Hold! Steady! Here they come! Stand your ground! For the Union! For the king!”
They were like phrases in a foreign tongue. How could anyone be steady with red-handed murder rushing up the hill towards them? How could anyone be steady with the Northmen’s horrible yells, and the screams of dying comrades, and the endless clatter of metal, the thunder of the distant cannons echoing shrill in their ears?
Only the mad could be steady here. The already mad and the turned mad.
Arrows fluttered down. Gentle, almost. One stuck into the ground near him. Another bounced from a man’s shoulder and spun away.
“Help!” someone was squealing. Bloody hell, was it him? No. No. He had his mouth closed.
He could hear them coming. The whooping, wailing war cry and the rush of steel. Rain was spitting down now, pit-pattering on metal. He stood on trembling legs, his lower lip wobbling, as though he would give some order, as though he would shout some encouragement.
“Hold?” he croaked.
He saw the men ahead of him shuffling back, boots slipping and sliding on the slick grass, spears wavering. He heard snarling shouts in Northern, voices scarcely human. They were coming. They were coming.
He saw a flash of steel and blood went up in a black spurt. One of the Union soldiers fell, arms flung wide. A gap yawned in the line, and Northmen boiled out of it.
Northmen, with their bright mail and their bright blades and the bright paint on their shields and their bright eyes full of battle madness, battle hunger. Men fixed on his death. Men made of murder. Animals. Savages.
No game. No story. They meant to kill him. They meant to rip him open and spill his guts down the hillside. They meant to dash his brains out like they’d dashed out Corporal Bland’s brains, and him a very nice man with a sister in Holsthorm who’d just had a daughter.
Stillman made no decision.
Just those bloody legs of his again. He turned to run, tripped over a fallen spear and went sprawling on his face. There was an agonising pain and he realised he’d fallen on his sword and the point had gone right into his cheek.
He whimpered, trembling as he pushed himself up. Then something smashed him in the back and the ground hit him in the face again and everything was cold. His mouth was full of blood, and grass, and he coughed and gurgled and squirmed, clutching, clutching.
Downside snarled as he hacked at the man in the red jacket again, drove a great dent into the back of his helmet and knocked him limp. He was shouting something. Didn’t know what. Not even words, really.
“Die, bastard, fucking die, bastard,” every breath a flood of curses, and he hacked at a shield and put a great scar through the sun pattern on it, hacked at it again and knocked the man holding it over on his back, hacked at his leg and left his foot flopping off by a flap of gristle.
Something crashed into his shoulder, knocked him sideways and he slid on the wet grass, fell, reeled up, almost smashed a man over the head before he realised it was a Northman, turned the other way, screaming, charging, rammed into someone and knocked him down. He squealed something before Downside drove the rim of his shield into his throat, and again.
A sword scraped off his mailed shoulder. Downside spun about, caught the man who’d swung it in the hip with his axe, bent him sideways, lifted his shield high and smashed the rim down on the back of his helmet, reared up and smashed his axe down in the same place so the metal was caved right in.
The fight was a mess. Lines long gone. Melted into tangles of murder. He stomped on a crawling man. Flying blood and flying dirt and flying metal. Stomped him again. Men killing each other. A Union officer with teeth bared was using his sword like a shovel, squatting on a Northman’s chest and digging at his caved-in head. Downside roared as he stepped up and hacked his back wide open, blood spraying. His shield had got tangled with a dead Northman’s cloak, Downside tried to tear it loose, couldn’t, twisted his arm free of the straps, left it behind.
Someone came at him with a spear and Downside sidestepped, caught it below the blade, tugging on it with one hand, and was dragged around while the man who held it tried to jerk it free. He swung with his axe and hit the man in the shoulder, split him open and he gave a strange hoot, mouth a round O of surprise, and suddenly Downside was stumbling around holding the spear. Nearly stabbed himself with it. Hacked at someone and blood spattered him, eyes full of it, mouth full of it, flung the spear away, trying to wipe his face.
Someone barrelled into him and they rolled on the ground. He’d lost his axe. Or tangled on the loop around his wrist, knocking at his side. Downside came out on top, punched, kneed, snarled at the man while the man snarled back, struggling and straining. Downside punched him again, and again, smashed his nose to red pulp, got a hand around the haft of his axe and started chopping. Chopped a dent in his breastplate, chopped a great wound out of his face. Hacked at him with his axe, hacked at him, hacked at him, snorting and spitting, breath ripping at his chest, muscles on fire, blood surging so hard in his skull he thought it’d pop his eyes out.
“Die! Die! Duh—?”
He blinked stupidly as he realised his hand was empty. Loop must’ve broken, axe flown off who knew where. He fumbled a dagger from his belt with numb fingers and straight away dropped it as a man blundered into him, caught him, wrestled with him, the two of them staggering about, slipping on the wet grass, over the wet corpses, the fallen weapons, the fallen shields, the bits of men.
Downside growled and snarled and spat into his beard as he grabbed the man’s head and twisted it, wrenched it around, twisted it, and he fumbled at Downside’s clawing fingers but couldn’t stop him, made a great shrill squeal, cut off as his neck bones crunched apart.
Something smashed into the side of Downside’s face and the world reeled. He rolled on the ground, clawed his way up, fell back onto his hands and knees. Where was he? Clutched at someone and brought him down, clambered on top of him, punching, snapping, punching, started throttling him and his face was all twisted and his eyes bulging as he stared up at Downside, trying to push a finger up his nose. Downside twisted his head away and gave a broken howl like a mad dog slaughtered and dragged the man up and smashed him down, choking him, throttling him, crushing his throat with his hands.
Crush him till there was nothing left.
Crush ’em all.
Cold Blood
There was a sharp crack and several tons of masonry crashed into the town square, throwing out chunks of ornamental carving and a cloud of choking dust. One of Orso’s guards hurled himself down. Lord Hoff shrank into a corner. One might have expected Corporal Tunny to dive for cover, or, indeed, to never have left cover, but instead he was doing his best to shield the Steadfast Standard with his body. Even Gorst flinched. But Orso found himself entirely unmoved.