“That there’s naught left to fight for. We need to save what we can while there’s still something to save. Stay close and stay low.” And Clover tucked the eyeglass away and drew his sword. Not so much from any desire to swing it, but because having it drawn was the done thing in a battle. Then he clenched his jaw, squared his shoulders and headed exactly the wrong way. Which was to say towards the fighting.
It was bad now. It was always bad, but it was real bad now. Everyone on the arrow-prickled, blood-smeared, mud-churned way was hurt. A Carl spluttered blood and bits of teeth into his hands. Another stared stupidly, hair clotted with blood. A Thrall clutched at the leaking stumps of two fingers, snarling curses. A Named Man sat, pale as milk, staring down at his hands as he tried to poke his guts back in through a great slit in his side. Clover caught his eye and gave him a nod. He was back to the mud, and they both knew it. A nod was all Clover could do for him.
“By the dead,” croaked Flick, wincing as if he was walking into a wind, the terrible, mindless din of it getting louder and louder.
Clover shook his head. Gripped tight to his sword. Could there have been a time he enjoyed this? Looked forward to it? Strained every muscle to get back to it as soon as he could?
“Must’ve been mad,” he whispered.
Some arrows fell fluttering and Clover dropped down, hunching his shoulders. Like hunching your shoulders would do any good. Who was shooting anyway? In all this, there was just as much chance of killing your side as theirs. Maybe it got so you didn’t care any more. So any killing seemed a sensible notion. Everyone else was at it, why be the one fool left out?
Been a long time since Clover felt that way. The mud’s cold embrace waits for everyone. Getting some poor bastard there faster just ’cause he was facing the other way hardly struck him as a thing worth risking your own life for. When there’s a flood, do you waste time raging at the water? By the dead, no, you just try not to drown. Battle’s no different. A natural disaster.
“Fuck,” someone was snarling, down on one knee, staring at the arrow shaft sticking from his shoulder. “Fuck!” Like he never saw a thing so unbelievable, so unfair. Should’ve thought about it. Nothing more natural in a battle than getting shot with an arrow.
Least Clover had managed to keep Sholla out of it this time. Told her someone needed to bring a boat upriver, in case things turned ugly. Hadn’t needed much persuading, in the end. She’d a good head on her, that girl. He’d have liked to leave Flick out, too, but there was one valuable lesson for a boy to learn here. Namely that swords do no good for the men at either end of ’em.
“Chief,” said Flick, tugging on his sleeve.
Downside knelt there on the hill, corpses all about him, leaning on a great axe he must’ve prised from some dead man’s fingers, as if he was about to push himself up but couldn’t find the strength.
He’d taken the approach to battle Clover might’ve when his name was still Steepfield, which was to say running for wherever the fight was wildest, raging and flailing and spilling every drop of blood he could without a thought for shield or helm or consequences. He was so red-spattered, he might as well have gone swimming in a sea of corpses, doing his best imitation of the Bloody-Nine, the mad fucker.
Still, no man can rage for ever, and he was drooping now, bloody hair hanging, mail torn and the cloth beneath ripped, jaw dangling and knuckles raw, two of the fingers on his free hand snapped crooked in opposite directions
“Had your fill, have you?” asked Clover.
Downside’s eyes rolled slowly up, as if even that was too much effort, one turned bright red by a blow to the face and his cheek cut and his forehead scuffed raw and his brow opened up and weeping a dark streak.
“Aye,” he croaked out, voice raw from screaming curses. “And more.”
“The Anglanders are finished. Reckon the day’s done.”
“Aye,” croaked Downside, blowing a bloody bubble from his nose, and he held that broken hand out to Flick so the lad could help him up. “The day’s done.”
“Where’s Stour?”
Downside waved a lazy hand towards the crest of the hill.
Clover saw the King of the Northman’s black wolf standard bobbing over the throng, dancing in the mad tangle of spears and weapons and broken hafts, the stormy sea of heads and helms. Stour had flung himself into the midst, o’ course. Up front where tomorrow’s songs were made, carving himself a legend. The Great Wolf was brave, no doubt. But bravery and folly never had too big a gulf between ’em.
Clover bent down to one of the corpses, some Union man huddled on his side like a child on a cold night. He took a quick peek about but everyone was bent to their own tragedies, so he stuck his hand in the man’s ripped-open jacket and flicked blood on his face, smeared it down his mail, rubbed his sword along the corpse’s side to get a bit of red on it.
He realised the man was looking at him. Cheek twitched a little. Not dead, then. Clover gave him a sad little smile, a sad little shrug.
“Thanks for the gore.” Then he stood and hurried towards the madness.
Piece of luck, he didn’t have to go far. He found Stour sat on a rock looking mightily disgruntled. A woman was trying to bind his bleeding leg, but he kept jumping up to shout orders, or at any rate insults, jerking the bandages out of her hands.
“Clover!” he snarled, blood on his teeth. “Where the fuck have you been?”
“Trying to keep Downside from killing himself.” True enough, in its way. “The Young Lion’s all done. We have to pull back before they get around us.”
“You fucking what?”
Stour cast about him at his various young bastards, but none looked like they fancied another helping of what the Union had served ’em. They’d been a great deal more warlike leading up than in the thick, it had to be said. Greenway was gripping Stour’s standard like a man who can’t swim clinging to the rail of a sinking ship, flinching wild-eyed at every noise. A tough job, as the noise was constant.
“There’s nothing more to prove up here, my king,” Clover shouted over the racket. “Time to bend with the breeze. Save what we can.”
Saving things wasn’t on the menu far as Stour was concerned. He was a man liked to smash things at any cost. “The Great Wolf doesn’t run,” he spat, then gave a pained grunt as the woman pulled the bandage tight.
“’Course not,” said Clover. “But he might back off when it suits him, specially from another man’s fight. Wouldn’t be our victory. Won’t be our defeat.” He leaned close. “The Young Lion dug this fucking hole. He can be the one buried in it.”
“The ships are back at the coast,” muttered Greenway, eyes wide.
“Told my girl Sholla to bring ours up the river. Should be no more than ten miles off. I got horses waiting. Enough to whisk a few of us safe back home.”
Stour narrowed his eyes. “Always thinking, eh, Clover?”
“Honestly, your father told me to make sure you come through whole. You’re not just any man, you’re the future o’ the North.” Clover leaned even closer, speaking soft and urgent. “What are we even fighting for? Glory? There’ll always be more o’ that for the taking. Uffrith? Without Brock to defend it, we can snatch it the old-fashioned way!”