The document describes a chaotic scene of a fire and violent struggle, with the protagonist, Onna, fighting for survival amid the chaos while reflecting on her fears and confrontations with others. It transitions to the character Predo, who contemplates his newfound life as a soldier after a series of failed ventures, discussing the upcoming battle with fellow soldiers. The narrative highlights the bonds formed among the soldiers and their mixed feelings about the impending conflict, ultimately emphasizing themes of camaraderie and the harsh realities of warfare.

1. 122
Sharp Ends ¡ Joe Abercrombie
Down in the yard bodies heaved, metal flashed by mad firelight. The
dry ivy up the side of the building was burning right to the roof. Folk
screamed, fought, wrestled with one another, dragged at the locked
gates in a snarling crowd, crushed up against the bars. She saw blades
swung. She saw bodies crushed and crumpled.
She jerked back, breath whimpering with fear, scratching and wheez-
ing in her throat. She ran to the door, twisted her ankle in her high
shoes and fell against the frame. She stumbled into the corridor, dim
at the best of times, dark with smoke now.
Someone clutched at her, coughing, threatening to drag her right
over. ‘Help me!’ she croaked. ‘Help!’
Merilee, her mask all skewed, eyes all mad and wide inside, a great
dead weight on her arm.
‘Get off me, fucker!’ Onna punched her in the face, and again,
knocked her squealing through the doorway. Blood on her buzzing
knuckles. Seemed enough fire would find the nasty in anyone.
Shattering glass tinkled. Burning wood popped and burst. Shouts
of pain and fury came muffled through the choking murk. Flames
flickered from under a door. Onna clapped a hand over her mouth,
tottered a few steps. Someone clattered past, caught her with an elbow
and knocked her into the wall.
She sank to her knees, coughing, retching, spitting. She couldn’t see
for the smoke. Couldn’t breathe for the smoke. Someone was shouting.
‘The king! The king!’
‘Help,’ she croaked.
But no one heard.
Ospria, Summer 580
‘Can I get a surcoat?’ asked Predo.
Three months in and he’d decided soldiering was the life for him.
He’d tried a lot of other things and they hadn’t worked out so good.
He’d cut purses in Etrisani ’til he nearly got caught, then he’d held a
mirror for a gambler in Musselia ’til he nearly got caught, then he’d
looked out for a gang of footpads in Etrea ’til they did all get caught
and hanged – apart from him, on account of he hadn’t been looking out
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Wrong Place, Wrong Time
too thoroughly. But mostly he’d sucked cocks. Worked in a brothel in
Talins for a while, which had been grand, but he’d had to sleep under
the stairs then got thrown out for fighting with one of the girls. Girls
were a lot more popular, in the main, which had always seemed upside
down to Predo. If you wanted someone who really knew their way
around a cock, you’d surely pick someone who had a cock themselves.
Simple good sense, no? Go to an expert. But it seemed to Predo that
very few people had good sense, and a lot of things were upside down.
Just life, ain’t it? You make the best of what you’re offered.
He’d been thrown out of the whorehouse, and when he looked up
from the gutter a recruiting sergeant was over on the other side of
the street promising good food and glory for any man who’d fight for
Grand Duke Orso and Predo had thought, I’ll try me some of that on
for size. And here he was, three months later, sat around a campfire on
a hillside near bloody Ospria, of all places. You couldn’t make it up.
‘Surcoats are for veterans,’ said Franchi, rubbing gently at the names
of the battles stitched into his in gold and silver thread, around the edge
of the white cross of Talins. A lifetime of victories. The more stitches a
man had, the more respect he got. Predo wanted some respect. Wanted
to feel part of a family. He’d never had a family. Or respect, for that
matter.
Sculia slapped him on the shoulder, nearly made him spill his soup.
‘Might be you’ll get a surcoat after the battle.’
Predo gave a little shudder at that. Soldiering might be the profession
for him but he had to admit he wasn’t much looking forward to the
actual fighting part. ‘So there’s sure to be a battle . . . is there?’
‘There is.’ The firelight picked out the scar through Sergeant
Mazarine’s grizzled beard as he leaned forwards. If anyone knew when
there was going to be a battle, it was Mazarine. Had more stitching on
his weather-stained surcoat than anyone except old Volfier, and it was
only the names of forgotten battles that were keeping Volfier’s surcoat
together. ‘The Duke of Delay’s got nowhere to withdraw to any more.
We’ve herded him right back to his own walls.’
‘Won’t he just stay behind ’em?’ asked Predo, trying not to sound
too hopeful.
‘If he stays behind ’em we’ll only starve him out, and he knows he’s
got no help coming.’ Mazarine had a way of way of laying every word
down heavy and solid like a stone in a wall, so you couldn’t possibly
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Sharp Ends ¡ Joe Abercrombie
think otherwise. Made Predo feel brave to hear it. ‘No. Time’s come
for Rogont to fight, and he knows it. He’s no fool.’
Franchi snorted as he licked his fingers and smoothed the feather
on that silly little hat of his. ‘No fool. Just a coward.’ And Sculia gave
a grim grunt of agreement.
Mazarine only shrugged, though. ‘I’d rather fight a brave idiot than
a clever coward. Far, far rather.’
‘He’s got Murcatto with him, though, no?’ Predo shuffled forward,
voice dropping quiet, like he was scared the Butcher of Caprile might
hear her name and come dashing from the darkness with two swords
in each hand. ‘She’s brave and clever.’
Franchi and Sculia exchanged a worried glance, but Mazarine was a
solid rock of indifference. ‘And quick and ruthless as a scorpion, too,
but Murcatto’s just one person, and battles ain’t won by one person.’
He sounded so sure and steady it made Predo feel sure and steady, too.
‘We got the numbers. That’s the fact.’
‘And right on our side!’ said Predo, getting a little carried away now.
Mazarine shrugged. ‘Not sure what that’s worth, but we got the
numbers.’
‘And battles ain’t so bad, lad!’ Sculia clapped Predo on the shoulder
again and this time actually did spill his soup, just a bit. ‘Long as you’re
on the winning side, of course.’
‘And we’ve been on the winning side for a long, long time,’ said
Mazarine, and the others nodded. ‘It gets to be a habit. Mop up Rogont
and the job’s done. The League of Eight’s finished, and Orso will be
King of Styria.’
‘Bless his eternal Majesty,’ said Franchi, with a smile up towards the
star-dusted night sky.
That gave Predo a stab of nerves. He didn’t fancy being kicked out
of the army like he’d been kicked out of the whorehouse. ‘But . . . won’t
Orso be getting rid of his soldiers, once he’s won?’
Mazarine split a lined smile. ‘Orso didn’t get where he is by throwing
his sword in the river. No, he’ll keep us close to hand, don’t worry
about that.’
Sculia gave a grunt of agreement. ‘He who prepares for peace prepares
for defeat, Verturio said.’
‘Who’s he?’ asked Predo.
‘A very clever man,’ said Franchi.
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Wrong Place, Wrong Time
‘There’ll be a place for us still, I reckon.’ And Mazarine leaned over
and clapped Predo on the knee with his great scarred hand. ‘And if
there’s a place for me, there’ll be a place for all of you. Plague took my
wife and my daughter, but the Fates sent me a new family, and I don’t
plan on losing that one.’
‘A family.’ Made Predo feel warm all over, that did, to have someone
looking out for him. Someone so tough and solid. Never had anyone
looking out for him before. ‘Soldiering’s a good life, I reckon.’ He
glanced nervously into the darkness beyond the firelight, towards the
faint lights of Ospria. Towards the fords of the Sulva where they’d fight
tomorrow. ‘Apart from the battles, maybe.’
‘Battles ain’t so bad,’ said Franchi.
Mazarine leaned back onto one elbow, grinning. ‘Long as you’re on
the winning side.’
‘It hurts,’ snarled Sculia through his red teeth. ‘Shit, it hurts.’
‘What do I do?’ There was blood everywhere. Blood all over Predo’s
hands. Blood bubbling from around the shaft of the bolt and from the
joints in Sculia’s armour and washing off in the frothing river. The white
cross of Talins on his surcoat had turned red with it.
‘What the hell do I do?’ Predo screeched, but no one was listening,
even if he could’ve been heard.
The noise was deafening. The sound of hell. Everyone shouting over
each other. All questions and no answers. Howling, hardly like people
at all. Men floundering past through the river, showering water over
each other, falling, getting up, wounded screaming as they were dragged
back the other way, arrows and bolts flitting from the blue sky without
warning. Predo could see men sitting above the crowd. Riders. Metal
twinkling as they hacked from their saddles with sword and axe. Predo
wasn’t sure whether they were friends or enemies. Didn’t look like things
could possibly be going to plan. Didn’t look like there could be a plan.
He knelt there, icy water babbling around his legs, soaked with spray
as men splashed past, just staring. Sculia wasn’t saying it hurt any more.
He wasn’t saying anything.
‘What do I do?’ Predo whispered, and he felt someone grab him
under the arm.
‘He’s dead.’ Sergeant Mazarine, calm and steady as ever, a rock in this
storm-tossed sea of men, pointing the way with his spear. ‘Forward!’ he
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