fumbling for weapons or throwing themselves flat on their faces. A couple more arrows whizzed over, one clattering into the fire and sending up a shower of sparks.
Logen threw his stew away, snatched up his sword and started running. He blundered into one of the boys on the way and knocked him on his face, slipped and slid, righted himself and ran full tilt for the trees where the arrow came from. It was run right at them, or run away, and he made the choice without thinking. Sometimes it doesn't matter too much what choice you make, as long as you make it quick and stick to it. Logen saw one of the archers as he rushed up close, a flash of his pale skin in the darkness as he reached for another arrow. He pulled the Maker's sword from its tattered sheath and let go a fighting roar.
The bowman could've got his arrow away before Logen was on him, most likely, but it would've been a close thing, and in the end he didn't have the bones to stand there waiting. Not many men can weigh their choices properly while death comes racing up at them. He dropped the bow too late and turned to run, and Logen hacked him in the back before he got more than a stride or two, knocked him screaming into the bushes. He dragged himself round face up, all tangled in the brush, screeching and fumbling for a knife. Logen lifted the sword to finish the job. Then blood sprayed out of the archer's mouth and he trembled, fell back and was quiet.
'Still alive,' Logen mouthed to himself, squatting down low beside the corpse, straining into the darkness. It would probably have been better for all concerned if he'd run the other way, but it was a bit late for that. Probably have been better if he'd stayed in Adua, but it was a bit late for that too.
'Bloody North,' he cursed in a whisper. If he let these bastards go they'd be making mischief all the way to the front and Logen wouldn't get a wink of sleep for worrying, aside from the good chance of an arrow in his face. Better odds coming for them, than waiting for them to come to him. A lesson he'd learned from hard experience.
He could hear the rest of the ambush crashing away through the brush and he set out after them, fist clenched tight round the grip of his sword. He felt his way between the trunks, keeping his distance. The light of the fire and the noise of the Union boys shouting dwindled behind him until he was deep in the woods, smelling of pines and wet earth, only the sound of men's hurrying feet to guide him. He made himself part of the forest, the way he had in the old days. It wasn't so hard to do. The knack came right back as though he'd been creeping in the trees every night for years. Voices echoed through the night, and Logen pressed himself still and silent up behind a pine-trunk, listening.
'Where's Dirty-Nose?'
There was a pause. 'Dead, I reckon.'
'Dead? How?'
'They had someone with 'em, Crow. Some big fucker.' Crow. Logen knew the name. Knew the voice too, now that he heard it. A Named Man who'd fought for Littlebone. You couldn't have called them friends, him and Logen, but they'd known each other. They'd been close together in the line at Carleon, fighting side by side. And now here they were again with no more than a few strides between them, more than willing to kill each other. Strange, the turns fate can take. Fighting with a man and fighting against him are only a whisker apart. Far closer together than not fighting at all.
'Northman, was he?' came Crow's voice.
'Might've been. Whoever it was he knew his business. Came up real quick. I didn't have time to get a shaft away.'
'Bastard! We ain't letting that pass. We'll camp out here and follow 'em tomorrow. Might be we'll get him then, this big one.'
'Oh aye, we'll fucking get him. Don't you worry about that none. I'll cut his neck for him, the bastard.'
'Good for you. 'Til then you can keep an eye open for him while the rest of us catch some sleep. Might be the anger'll keep you awake this time, eh?'
'Aye, chief.
Logen threw his stew away, snatched up his sword and started running. He blundered into one of the boys on the way and knocked him on his face, slipped and slid, righted himself and ran full tilt for the trees where the arrow came from. It was run right at them, or run away, and he made the choice without thinking. Sometimes it doesn't matter too much what choice you make, as long as you make it quick and stick to it. Logen saw one of the archers as he rushed up close, a flash of his pale skin in the darkness as he reached for another arrow. He pulled the Maker's sword from its tattered sheath and let go a fighting roar.
The bowman could've got his arrow away before Logen was on him, most likely, but it would've been a close thing, and in the end he didn't have the bones to stand there waiting. Not many men can weigh their choices properly while death comes racing up at them. He dropped the bow too late and turned to run, and Logen hacked him in the back before he got more than a stride or two, knocked him screaming into the bushes. He dragged himself round face up, all tangled in the brush, screeching and fumbling for a knife. Logen lifted the sword to finish the job. Then blood sprayed out of the archer's mouth and he trembled, fell back and was quiet.
'Still alive,' Logen mouthed to himself, squatting down low beside the corpse, straining into the darkness. It would probably have been better for all concerned if he'd run the other way, but it was a bit late for that. Probably have been better if he'd stayed in Adua, but it was a bit late for that too.
'Bloody North,' he cursed in a whisper. If he let these bastards go they'd be making mischief all the way to the front and Logen wouldn't get a wink of sleep for worrying, aside from the good chance of an arrow in his face. Better odds coming for them, than waiting for them to come to him. A lesson he'd learned from hard experience.
He could hear the rest of the ambush crashing away through the brush and he set out after them, fist clenched tight round the grip of his sword. He felt his way between the trunks, keeping his distance. The light of the fire and the noise of the Union boys shouting dwindled behind him until he was deep in the woods, smelling of pines and wet earth, only the sound of men's hurrying feet to guide him. He made himself part of the forest, the way he had in the old days. It wasn't so hard to do. The knack came right back as though he'd been creeping in the trees every night for years. Voices echoed through the night, and Logen pressed himself still and silent up behind a pine-trunk, listening.
'Where's Dirty-Nose?'
There was a pause. 'Dead, I reckon.'
'Dead? How?'
'They had someone with 'em, Crow. Some big fucker.' Crow. Logen knew the name. Knew the voice too, now that he heard it. A Named Man who'd fought for Littlebone. You couldn't have called them friends, him and Logen, but they'd known each other. They'd been close together in the line at Carleon, fighting side by side. And now here they were again with no more than a few strides between them, more than willing to kill each other. Strange, the turns fate can take. Fighting with a man and fighting against him are only a whisker apart. Far closer together than not fighting at all.
'Northman, was he?' came Crow's voice.
'Might've been. Whoever it was he knew his business. Came up real quick. I didn't have time to get a shaft away.'
'Bastard! We ain't letting that pass. We'll camp out here and follow 'em tomorrow. Might be we'll get him then, this big one.'
'Oh aye, we'll fucking get him. Don't you worry about that none. I'll cut his neck for him, the bastard.'
'Good for you. 'Til then you can keep an eye open for him while the rest of us catch some sleep. Might be the anger'll keep you awake this time, eh?'
'Aye, chief.
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