The Belly of the Bow Read online

  It took a very long time to work their way down the side of the combe, maybe more in subjective than objective time, but it’s the time you feel that matters. No signs of any life whatsoever, which was reasonable enough. Either this was the wrong combe and there wasn’t a village down here at all, or else it was the right combe and everyone was safe and warm indoors, where any sensible person would be on a day like this. Only idiots and raiding parties go slobbering about in the rain and the mud. Idiots, raiding parties and people who are hopelessly lost . . .

  Juifrez stopped dead, digging his heels in to keep himself upright. Below, through a curling wisp of cloud, he could see a thatched roof, no more than hundred yards away. Damn it, he thought, holding up his arm for the halt. He stood for a moment, trying to see or hear something, anything at all apart from the patter of rain on his helmet, like the drumming of a bored child’s fingers on a desktop. Around him he could see the fuzzy outlines of his men, blurred by rain and mist, standing the way he’d seen herds of wild ponies, still and aimless in the rain, just standing and dripping. Here goes nothing, he muttered under his breath, and gave the signal for rapid advance.

  The next moment he had more than enough to occupy his mind. Rapid advance was one way of describing it. The general philosophy behind it all seemed to be that if you ran fast enough you had a chance of keeping from falling over, as if instability was a pursuer hot on your heels. The three platoons of the Fifth Company (Austerity and Diligence) scampered down the hill like reckless, over-excited children, skipping and bouncing, sliding and careering, and all amid a dead, eerie silence that was quite unnerving. The danger they were in was very real indeed; if a man stopped suddenly (assuming such a thing was possible) it was virtually certain that someone’d go charging into the back of him and spit him clean through with the spike of his halberd. Being aware of this, everyone was trying to run faster still, so that the whole unit was accelerating, racing ahead like falling rocks bouncing down a mountainside, a hundred and fifty men all terrified of each other, running away from their own men directly towards the enemy. By the time the ground under their feet started to level out and the first houses loomed up at them out of the mist they were covering the ground at speeds most athletes would never aspire to, skimming over the mud like flat stones spun over still water. Ludicrous, Juifrez told himself, ludicrous . . .

  Then a shape reared up at him like a hostile animal - a log-built house, almost a shack, and he was heading straight for it. He did the best he could to avoid it and ended up colliding with the corner, feeling the impact bumping all the air out of his body. His feet shot out from under him and he slammed down onto his back, trying to cry out as his head hit the ground but entirely lacking the breath to cry out with. Somewhere in the mist in front of him he heard a woman screaming, and he could see his men streaming past, halberds levelled, completely out of control. More screams followed, and crashes like someone dropping an armful of scrap metal, and then the first scream that was pain, not terror. An accident, probably; a halberdier blundering into somebody with his weapon at the level, a collision like two carts crunching into each other at a street corner on a foggy day. As he fought for breath he could make out the voice of one of his sergeants, bellowing orders - he couldn’t hear the words but he recognised the inflections - form ranks, dress ranks, present arms. Another scream, quite close. Contact with the enemy established.

  He dragged himself into a sitting position and forced himself to breathe; the instinct to do so seemed to have been buffeted out of him, he had to issue commands to his body to fill and empty his lungs. His halberd must be somewhere; there it was, slippery with mud and unpleasant to hold, like something dead fished out of a river. He trawled it towards him and levered himself up with it; knees weak, body still winded, no pain yet but only because of the shock. As he took a deliberate breath of air, a shape materialised near him out of the fog, a tall man, not a soldier, not a member of the Fifth Company. Instinct, which had abdicated responsibility for getting him to breathe, made him level the halberd and lunge. The man just stood there. The spike went clean through, until the blade obstructed it.

  He looks surprised. Why does he look surprised? Doesn’t he know there’s a war on?

  The man put both hands round the halberd shaft, opened his mouth to speak, died and fell down, sliding neatly off the halberd spike. He didn’t appear to have a weapon of any kind. It was then that the thought occurred to Juifrez: maybe this is the wrong village. Maybe this isn’t the village where, according to our spies, a platoon of Scona archers has been stationed for an attack on Bryzis. Oh, wouldn’t that be . . . ?

  A woman was running past, she hadn’t seen him. He reached out and grabbed her by the arm, so that she swung round and thumped against his shoulder. She looked utterly bewildered.

  ‘This village,’ he said. ‘What’s it called?’

  She looked at him as if he was some kind of weird mythical beast. ‘Primen,’ she said. ‘This is Primen.’

  Juifrez winced. ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure. I live here.’

  ‘Damn,’ Juifrez replied, and let her go; no rabbit ever ran faster.

  Fuck, he muttered under his breath. Wrong village. These are our people, loyal subjects of the Foundation. This is absurd. He took a moment to pull himself together, make sure he was breathing properly, stable on his feet; then he took a deep breath to shout out orders, call off the attack. That was when a man darted out of the mist and hit him over the head with a stool.

  When he came round, he could hear voices; screaming and shouting and swearing, but different. These were battle-noises. That can’t be right, we hit the wrong village, he told himself; then he recognised a voice with the low, rolling accent of Scona, someone trying to make orders heard over the noise. Right village? he asked himself. No, can’t be. It took him several seconds to work out what had happened; that somehow someone had got through to the next village down the line and called out the Scona archers to come and save them. Wonderful, Master Juifrez lamented, shaking his head in disbelief. Not only have I massacred the wrong village. I’ve managed to turn them over to the enemy. How the hell am I going to explain this when I get home?

  There were men coming. Boosting himself sideways like a scuttling crab, Master Juifrez managed to scramble under the dead body of the man he’d killed, just as a dozen or so men walked out of the mist. He couldn’t see them clearly, peeping out from under the arm of a dead man, but they were wearing mailshirts and helmets and carrying bows; all he really needed to know, under the circumstances. He lay as still as he could and prayed he wouldn’t sneeze.

  ‘. . . Hiding to nothing,’ one of the men said, in a voice that was all Scona. ‘We’re outnumbered four to one and we can’t see to shoot. We aren’t even supposed to be here, for crying out loud. We want to get out of here while we still can.’

  ‘Can’t see a bloody thing,’ replied another. ‘Definitely wasting our time. Where’d you get that four-to-one stuff from, anyway?’

  ‘Someone said,’ the first voice replied. ‘They said it was four platoons of heavy infantry, just sort of appeared out of nowhere. I don’t mind an even fight, but four platoons—’

  ‘Not up to us,’ a third voice interrupted. ‘The obvious thing’d be to space out, surround the village, pick ’em off as they come out.’

  ‘And let ’em burn down the village?’

  ‘Do they look like they’re burning down the village? Get real.’

  The voices receded. When he was certain they’d gone, Juifrez pushed the body aside and staggered to his feet; he had cramp, and pins and needles in both legs, so there was no way he was going anywhere quickly. Absurd, he thought, if I get killed because I can’t run because I’ve got pins and needles.

  It was time to get a grip, he reflected, as he stood on one leg, leaning against the doorframe of the hut. After all, he was meant to be the officer commanding this situation, the man in control, or at least wrestling for control wi
th his opposite number, the enemy captain. As it was, all he’d done since they’d charged down into the valley was collide with a wall, kill a loyal civilian, get bashed silly and hide from the enemy. He found that he wasn’t too worried about that; but he did have a responsibility to a hundred and fifty men under his command, and it was time he did something about that.

  Assuming he could find them, of course. If anything, the fog was thicker than ever. He tried to call his mind to order, but his mental parliament was a confused racket of shouting and screaming. All he could think of to do was to wander into the fog and try and find some of his men. It sounded like a fairly foolproof way to get killed, but he was aware of no other options. An extended scrabble on his hands and knees eventually revealed his halberd. He punted himself upright, muttered something under his breath and headed into the fog.

  It was a case of fortune favouring the brave, or fool’s luck, or at the very least serendipity of an extravagantly high order; but the first men he met were a dozen halberdiers. They’d formed a loose and unwieldy hedgehog formation, a slightly bent oval with everybody facing outwards, so that the men at the rear were walking backwards. Because nobody was navigating and the fog was so thick, they lurched from side to side like a party of drunks, or a boatload of inexperienced oarsmen trying to paddle a longboat against a stiff current. One lurch carried them up against the side of a barn, and the three men on the end were squeezed into the wall and nearly crushed before the formation changed course and staggered the other way. It didn’t help, of course, that the men had their helmets down with the cheekplates fastened, which made it virtually impossible for them to hear a thing.

  It was a start, nevertheless and Juifrez hurried towards them, waving his arms. At once the formation came to a rapid, disorganised halt, shuddering like a flimsy cart hitting a tree. Someone shouted at him. ‘Go away!’ or something like that. ‘It’s me,’ he yelled back, ‘Master Juifrez. Halt and hold your line. Stop!’

  Somehow he got the impression they weren’t terribly pleased to see him. They stood where they were, halberds still resolutely extended as if he were a squadron of heavy cavalry bearing down on them from all directions. ‘Who goes there?’ somebody called out nervously. ‘Advance and be recognised.’

  ‘Oh, for . . .’ said Juifrez. ‘It’s me. Master Juifrez. Don’t you recognise me?’

  ‘Sir! ’ The man who’d challenged him snapped to attention and - yes - actually saluted.

  ‘Cut that out and let me through,’ Juifrez growled, and he shouldered his way into the front edge of the formation. ‘Right,’ he called out, ‘with me. Let’s move. And for pity’s sake, keep up.’

  In the event, of course, he proved to be much more of a hindrance than a help. Now that there was an officer present, the men immediately stopped trying to navigate the formation themselves and kept going along the most recent straight line they’d been following until they heard the officer give a command. That as, of course, the way it should be, according to drills and regulations; but Juifrez couldn’t see any more than anyone else, and the idea of him giving clear, precise, simultaneous orders to a dozen men, half of whom were facing the other way, was clearly absurd. It occurred to him, Do we actually need to huddle up like this? Nobody’s attacked us. Why don’t we just form a column and march out of here?

  Another body of men walked out of the mist, almost colliding with them before either party knew what was going on. The meeting was so sudden that no one even had time to raise their halberds; just as well, since both parties were armed with halberds . . . They’re Us, Juifrez realised with a start. ‘It’s all right,’ he shouted, before anybody got hurt, ‘it’s us. Shastel. It’s all right.’

  From somewhere in the thick of the other party, Juifrez heard a voice he recognised yelling orders, one of the sergeants. ‘Conort,’ he shouted, ‘it’s me, Juifrez.’

  ‘Sir!’ the sergeant barked back.

  Juifrez closed his eyes for a moment; he was shocked to realise that the emotion washing over him was relief at the end of a period of great fear, which he hadn’t been allowing himself to recognise. I was terrified; and now I’ve found some more men and an experienced NCO, apparently it’s all going to be all right. ‘Sergeant, form the men into column. How many have you got with you?’

  It turned out that Conort had reassembled the most part of the second platoon; together, they were now about fifty strong, a force large enough to be able to deal with anything they were likely to bump into. ‘All right,’ Juifrez said, ‘what we’ve got to do now is find the rest of us and get out of here. Their lot don’t want to fight here, and neither do we. Sergeant, form the men into a double line. We’re going to take this village through like a partridge drive.’

  For the first time, Sergeant Conort understood what the officer was talking about; he was a farmer’s son and had been out after partridges with the long net many times. He grinned as he acknowledged the order, and with a few brisk commands organised the men into the double-ply formation (Why can’t I do that? Juifrez asked himself) necessary for the manoeuvre, which would consist of beating through the village in an ever-diminishing spiral. As they went they’d collect their own men and drive the enemy and the villagers before them, until they had them penned up in the notional net in the middle of the village. If they had any sense at all, they’d surrender without a fight, and then they could all go home.

  Actually, that’s rather brilliant, Juifrez realised, as the line advanced. Maybe I’m not so bad at this, after all. It seemed to be working just fine as they pushed forward, keeping it slow and steady, with the sergeant shouting out at regular intervals and the point men shouting back, to make sure the line stayed straight and together; it was just like a partridge drive, or maybe more like a boar flush, because of the danger. Yes, better comparison. There was the sense of controlled tension you got when you were driving wild boar through thick woodland, the knowledge that if you did it right you wouldn’t get hurt making you concentrate rather than panic (because of course you knew what you were doing; nobody’s allowed to join the flushing line unless they know what to do; any bloody fool can play at soldiers, but boar flushing’s a serious business).

  Every time someone appeared before the line, the sergeant shouted out the challenge: ‘Who goes there? Advance and be recognised.’ Their own men called back, name, rank and number; the enemy had plenty of time to run away, which was how they wanted it to be; plenty of time to deal with them later, when they’d all been flushed into the net. In fairly short order, they’d regained two-thirds of their strength. So long as they took it nice and steady, kept the line, stayed calm, then it as bound to work. It was all going to be all right.

  And then a line of men appeared out of the mist in front of them, and someone shouted something. Juifrez frowned - he didn’t know what this meant - and an arrow hit the man next to him, stopping him in his tracks. Another arrow hit Juifrez on the right side of his chest, just between his armpit and his collar-bone; he felt the impact, like a hard shove, but couldn’t feel any pain, except that all his strength seemed to drain out of him, like water out of a hole in a bucket. Sergeant Conort was yelling words of command - front rank present arms, make ready - and then suddenly stopped, at which point Juifrez realised that they were no more than thirty yards from two platoons of archers who were making a fight of it. Oh, hell, what had to be done now? Take cover? No cover, can’t stay here, only one place to go. ‘Front rank present arms, at the double forward march’ - someone was yelling that; me. He saw the men on either side of him surge forward, felt someone pressing against his back, pushing him forward. I suppose I’d better go too, though I ought to be excused this, after all, I’m wounded. Yes, that’s a point. I wonder how bad this is? Doesn’t hurt much, but I just want to fall over. Better not to, though; not now. He shuffled towards the vague line in front of him, aware that they were edging back and that arrows were still pitching all round. Still, only a few yards and we’ll be on them, they won’t stand, they�
�ll break and run. He took another step and saw the ground rushing up to meet him, felt somebody’s boot crash into his ribs, sharp pain as the arrow twisted in the wound as he landed. Then something heavy fell across him, knocking all the air out of his lungs. It twitched and struggled (dying man, probably) but he couldn’t move to shrug it off him. He didn’t have a clue what was happening. Probably not relevant now. So this is it, then. Oh, well.

  As far as he knew he didn’t lose consciousness at any point. Rather, he lay still, eyes closed, not listening to the noises, letting his mind drift. That was just pragmatism on his part; if he didn’t try to focus but just let it all slide and blur, then the wound didn’t hurt. It was still there, of course; he pictured it as a mattress of nails, and if he lay perfectly still and relaxed, the nails didn’t hurt. At first he made the effort to breathe, self-consciously filling and emptying his lungs, but that was starting to be more trouble than it was worth. Death, he reflected woozily, is a perfectly natural thing. Nothing to be afraid of. It’ll probably do you good if only you’d let it.

  Then something landed on his chest, and the fragile truce with pain was abruptly broken. Now it all hurt like hell, and he didn’t like it. Some bastard just trod on me, he realised, and for the first time he felt angry. He opened his eyes and saw two men standing over him, staring down at him with terror of almost comic intensity in their eyes; then they reached down and grabbed him, hauling him up - ah shit, that hurts, let me go! - and mauling him about like a big sack of wool. He tried to protest but none of the right bits worked, so he closed his eyes, let it happen and tried to concentrate on dealing with pain. He could feel his feet dragging on the ground, every jolt and bump sending blue lightning up his legs. It all lasted a very long time, until it became no time at all.

  At one point they appeared to have stopped moving. He opened his eyes, let the weight of his head swing sideways until his face was a few inches away from that of the man on his right. He didn’t know who he was.