What do you think?
Rate this book
502 pages, Kindle Edition
First published March 4, 2016
The noise of battle is like nothing else in all the world. The noise was like a storm wind howling through a woodland. It was like the crashing of ocean waves onto a rocky shore. And it ebbed and flowed like both. So much so that it was possible to understand at what stage a battle was at by the sound alone. The early stages of a battle were composed of individual shouts and insults and the sounds of feet and hooves running to and fro. Toward the end of a battle, the air would be filled with groaning, moaning, weeping and men begging for aid, for a priest, for their mother. In Lincoln that day, I heard the sound of battle in full swing. The clash of iron upon iron. The thud of iron on wood. Horses hooves stamping. Bowstrings twanging, crossbows clacking, arrows splitting the air, tapping, and clattering against stone and wood. The loudest noise was the shouting. The noise that thousands of shouting men can make is breathtaking. A cacophony of insults, orders and incoherent cries of rage as men try to murder other men and to stay alive themselves that build to a roaring the likes of which exists nowhere else on earth. It is a humming of discord that fills every octave, rising, falling, and rising sometimes into a strange and beautiful harmony, just for a moment, before crashing into a thousand cries once more.
“My thanks,” I said. “You are a murderer of the innocent. You have slaughtered entire villages. I wish I had more time to make you suffer properly but this will have to suffice.” I forced him onto his face, snapped the arrow shafts off and held him down while I smashed his limbs with his own hammer. He screamed loud enough to wake the dead.