Rakki had that crooked little grin Raith could never quite make, however much alike their faces might be. ‘He finally found a man won’t trip over his own feet in the charge.’
‘Not you, then?’
Rakki snorted. ‘You should leave the jokes to funnier men.’
‘You should leave the fighting to harder ones.’ Raith caught him, half-hug, half-grapple, and pulled him close. He’d always been the stronger. ‘Don’t let Gorm trample you, eh, brother? All my hopes have got you in ’em.’
‘Don’t let Uthil drown you,’ said Rakki, twisting free. ‘I brought you something.’ And he held out a heel of reddish bread. ‘Since these godless Throvenlanders don’t eat the last loaf.’
‘You know I don’t believe too much in luck,’ said Raith, taking a chew and tasting the blood in it.
‘But I do,’ said Rakki, starting to back off. ‘I’ll see you after we’re done, and you can marvel at my plunder!’
‘I’ll marvel if you get any, skulking in last!’ And Raith flung the rest of the bread at him, scattering crumbs.
‘It’s the skulkers who do best, brother!’ called Rakki as he dodged it. ‘Folk love to sing about heroes but they hate standing next to ’em!’ And he was away among the crews, off to fight in battle beside the Breaker of Swords. To fight with Soryorn and the rest of Gorm’s closest, men Raith had looked up to half his life and that the better half, and he clenched his fists, wishing he could follow his brother. Wishing he could watch over him. He’d always been the strong one, after all.
‘Do you miss him?’
You’d have thought time would’ve made him more comfortable around her, but the sight of Skara’s sharp-boned face still knocked all thought from Raith’s head. She watched Rakki thread his way back through the warriors. ‘You must have spent your whole lives together.’
‘Aye. I’m sick of the sight of him.’
Skara looked less than convinced. She’d a knack for guessing what was going on in his head. Maybe his head wasn’t much of a puzzle. ‘If we win today, perhaps Father Peace can have his time.’
‘Aye.’ Though Mother War usually had other ideas.
‘Then you can join your brother, and fill Gorm’s cup again.’
‘Aye.’ Though the prospect gave Raith less joy than it used to. Being Queen Skara’s dog might be slim on honour, but she was an awful lot prettier than the Breaker of Swords. And there was something to be said for not having to prove himself the hardest bastard going every moment. And for not being cuffed around the head when he didn’t manage it.
The jewels in Skara’s earring twinkled with the evening sun as she turned to Blue Jenner. ‘How much longer do we wait?’
‘Not long now, my queen. The High King has too many men and too few ships.’ He nodded towards the headland, a black outline with the shifting water glimmering around its foot. ‘They’re dropping them bit by bit on the beach beyond that spur. When Gorm judges the time right, he’ll give a blast on his horn and crush the ones who’ve landed. We’ll already be rowing out, hoping to catch the ships fully loaded in the straits. That’s Uthil’s plan, anyway.’
‘Or Father Yarvi’s,’ muttered Skara, frowning out to sea. ‘It sounds simple enough.’
‘Saying it’s always simpler than doing it, sadly.’
‘Father Yarvi has a new weapon,’ said Sister Owd. ‘A gift from the Empress of the South.’
‘Father Yarvi always has something—’ Skara flinched, touched one hand to her cheek and her fingers came away red.
A prayer-weaver was threading among the warriors with the blood of a sacrifice to Mother War, wailing out blessings in a broken voice, dipping his red fingers in the bowl and flicking weaponluck over the men.
‘That’s good fortune for the battle,’ said Raith.
‘I won’t be there.’ Skara stared out at the ruins of Valso, her mouth a flat, angry line. ‘I wish I could swing a sword.’
‘I’ll swing your sword.’ And before he really knew what he was doing Raith had knelt on the rocks and offered his axe up across both palms, like Hordru the Chosen Shield did in the song.
Skara looked down with one brow lifted. ‘That’s an axe.’
‘Swords are for clever men and pretty men.’
‘One of two isn’t bad.’ She had her hair bound in a thick, dark braid and she flicked it back over her shoulder and, like Ashenleer did in the song, leaned down with her eyes on his and kissed the blade. Raith couldn’t have got a warmer tingle if she’d kissed him on the mouth. All foolishness, but men can be forgiven a little foolishness when the Last Door yawns wide before them.
‘If you see Death on the water,’ she said. ‘Try to give her room.’
‘A warrior’s place is at Death’s side,’ said Raith as he stood. ‘So he can introduce her to his enemies.’
Down, then, towards Mother Sea, the coming sunset glittering on the waves. Down towards the hundred ships shifting with the swell, their pack of prow-beasts silently snarling, hissing, screeching. Down, among a host of jostling brothers, only their skill and courage and fury standing between them and the Last Door, a tide of men washing out to meet the tide of water washing in.
Raith felt that heady brew of fear and excitement as he found his place near the prow, always among the first into the fight, the battle-joy already niggling at his throat.
‘Wish you were beside the Breaker of Swords?’ asked Jenner.
‘No,’ said Raith, and he meant it. ‘A wise man once told me war’s a matter of making the best of what you’re given. No warrior more fearsome than the Breaker of Swords with his feet on Father Earth.’ He grinned at Jenner. ‘But you’re an old bastard who knows his way around a boat, I reckon.’
‘I can tell one end from the other.’ Blue Jenner slapped him on the shoulder. ‘Glad to have you on the crew, boy.’
‘I’ll try not to disappoint you, old man.’ Raith had meant it to drip scorn, the sort of manly jibe he’d have jabbed his brother with, but the words came out plain. Even a little cracked.
Jenner smiled, leathery face all creasing up. ‘You won’t. The king speaks.’
Uthil had climbed onto the steering platform of his ship, one arm cradling his sword, one boot on the curving top rail, one hand gripping the stern below its iron-forged prow-beast of a snarling wolf. He had no mail, no shield, no helm, the King’s Circle glinting in his grey hair. He trusted in his skill and his weaponluck, and his scorn for Death made him feared by his enemies, and admired by his followers, and that was worth more than armour to a leader.
‘Good friends!’ he called out in a grinding voice, stilling the nervous muttering on the boats. ‘Bold brothers! Warriors of Gettland and Throvenland! You have waited long enough. Today we give Mother War her due. Today will be a red day, a blood day, a day for the crows. Today we fight!’
Raith gave a growl in his throat, and all about him other men did the same.
‘This is a day the ministers will write of in their high books,’ called Uthil, ‘and the skalds will sing of about the firepits. A day you will tell your grandchildren’s children of and swell with pride at your part in it. We are the sword that will cut away Bright Yilling’s smile, the hand that will slap Grandmother Wexen’s face. Grom-gil-Gorm and his Vanstermen will crush the High King’s men against unyielding Father Earth. We will drive them into the cold arms of Mother Sea.’
The king stood taller, the grey hair flicking about his scarred face, his fever-bright eyes. ‘Death waits for us all, my brothers. Will you skulk past her through the Last Door? Or will you face her with your heads high and your swords drawn?’
‘Swords drawn! Swords drawn!’ And all across the water blades hissed eagerly from their scabbards.
Uthil grimly nodded. ‘I am no minister. I have no more words.’ He took the sword from the crook of his arm and thrust it towards the sky. ‘My blade shall speak for me! Steel is the answer!’
A cheer went up, men hammering their oars with their fists, blunting careful
ly-sharpened weapons on their shield-rims, holding blades high to make a glittering forest over every ship and Raith shouted louder than anyone.
‘Didn’t think to hear you cheering for the King of Gettland,’ murmured Jenner.
Raith cleared his sore throat. ‘Aye, well. The worst enemies make the best allies.’
‘Ha. You’re learning, boy.’
A long quiet stretched out. The small sounds came thunderous. The gentle creaking of wood under Raith’s boots and the slow breakers washing up the beach. The hissing of skin as Blue Jenner rubbed his calloused palms together and the mutter of a final prayer to Mother War. The rattling of oars in their sockets and the croaking of a single gull as it curved low over the ships and away to the south.
‘A good omen,’ said King Uthil, then brought his sword chopping down.
‘Heave!’ roared Jenner.
And the men set to their oars, blood hot with fear and hate and the hunger for plunder, the thirst for glory. Like a hound off the leash the Black Dog sped out to sea, ahead of Uthil’s grey-sailed ship, spray flying from the high prow and the salt wind rushing in Raith’s hair. Wood groaned and water thundered against the ship’s flanks, and over the noise he heard the bellowing of other helmsmen as they urged their crews to be the first into battle.
This was what he was made for. And Raith tipped back his head and gave a wolf’s howl at the joy of it.
Watching
Skara’s heart was thudding in her mouth as she caught a tree-root and dragged herself up towards the crest. Hardly the most regal of behaviour, as Sister Owd had been keen to point out, but Skara would not simply sit on the beach chewing her nails while the future of Throvenland was decided.
She might not be able to fight in the battle. She could at least watch it.
The ground was levelling out now and she crept upward, bent low. The ragged coast of Yutmark came into view to the south. The faint hills, then the grey beaches, then the sparkling water of the straits themselves and, finally, halfway across, ships.
‘The High King’s fleet,’ whispered Sister Owd, her face even more than usually peach-like from the climb.
Dozens of ships, oars dipping. Some low and sleek and built for battle, some fat-bellied traders, no doubt crammed with warriors sent north by Grandmother Wexen. Warriors fixed on sweeping their alliance aside and crushing Skara’s little pocket of Throvenland as a callous boy might crush a beetle.
The anger surged up hot and she clenched her fists, took the last few steps to the summit of the headland and stood between Father Yarvi and Mother Scaer, gazing westward, a long beach stretching away towards sinking Mother Sun.
‘Gods,’ she breathed.
The shingle crawled with men like ants seething from a broken nest, their shields painted dots, steel flashing and winking, coloured banners flapping in the wind to mark where crews should gather. Those of the High King’s warriors who had already landed. Two full loads of those transports, maybe three. Hundreds of them. Thousands. It hardly seemed real.
‘So many,’ she whispered.
‘The more we allow across,’ said Mother Scaer, ‘the more Grom-gil-Gorm will catch on the beach, the more we kill.’
The last word came harsh as a stabbing dagger and Skara felt a surge of nerves, clutching at one hand with the other. ‘Do you think …’ Her voice faded to a croak as she made herself speak the name. ‘Bright Yilling is down there?’ She saw that calm, soft face again, heard that high, soft voice, felt an echo of the terror of that night and was furious at her own cowardice. She was a queen, damn it. A queen cannot fear.
Father Yarvi looked across at her. ‘Any true hero leads from the front.’
‘He’s no hero.’
‘Every hero is someone’s villain.’
‘Hero or villain,’ said Mother Scaer, her blue, blue eyes fixed on those men below, ‘he has not made his warriors ready.’
She was right. They had formed a shield-wall in the dunes above the beach, facing inland towards the sullen forest, a high pole topped with the seven-rayed sun of the One God in their centre, but even Skara, whose experience of battle went little further than watching the boys in the training square behind her grandfather’s hall, could tell it was an ill-made line, crooked and full of gaps.
‘Grandmother Wexen has gathered men from many places,’ said Father Yarvi. ‘They are not used to fighting together. They do not even speak one tongue.’
King Uthil’s fleet had rounded the headland, an arrow-shaped mass of ships, sea-birds circling above the white-frothed wake curving back towards the blackened ruins of Valso. The High King’s fleet must have sighted them, some turning towards the threat, others away, others ploughing on towards the beach, oars tangling and boats clashing in the confusion.
‘Surprise is on our side,’ said Sister Owd, having finally got her breath back. ‘Surprise is half the battle.’
Skara frowned sideways. ‘How many battles have you fought in?’
‘I have faith in our alliance, my queen,’ said the minister, folding her arms. ‘I have faith in the Breaker of Swords, and in King Uthil, and in Blue Jenner.’
‘And Raith,’ Skara found she had added. She had not even realized she had faith in him, let alone that she would ever say so.
Sister Owd raised one brow. ‘Him somewhat less.’
A long, low horn blast throbbed out, so deep it seemed to make Skara’s guts tremble.
Mother Scaer stretched up tall. ‘The Breaker of Swords comes to the feast!’
All at once men spilled from the trees, surging onto the dunes above the beach. Skara supposed they were running at full tilt but they seemed to move slowly as honey in winter.
She found she had reached out to clutch at Sister Owd’s shoulder with her bandaged hand. She had not felt so scared since the night the Forest burned, but now with the fear there was an almost unbearable thrill. Her fate, the fate of Throvenland, the fate of the alliance, the fate of the Shattered Sea itself all balanced on a sword’s edge. She could hardly stand to watch, could not bear to look away.
A warrior had rushed out from the High King’s men, was waving his arms frantically, trying to ready the shield-wall to meet the charge. Skara could hear his cracked screams, faint, faint on the wind, but it was too late.
The Breaker of Swords was upon them. She saw his black banner flying, steel glittering beneath it like the spray at the head of a wave.
‘Your death comes,’ she whispered.
Her face hurt she was grimacing so hard, her chest burned she was gasping in the air so fast. She sent up a prayer to Mother War, a cold and vicious prayer that these invaders might be driven from her land and into the sea. That she might spit on Bright Yilling’s carcass before Mother Sun set, and so win her courage back from him.
It seemed her prayers were answered before her eyes.
In a black tide the Vanstermen swept down the grassy dunes, their war-cries echoing high and strange on the wind, and like a wall of sand before a great wave the centre of the High King’s crooked shield-wall crumbled. She felt Sister Owd’s hand on top of hers and gripped it tight.
Gorm’s men crashed into the faltering line and Mother War spread her wings over the coast of Throvenland and smiled upon the slaughter. Her voice was a storm of metal. A clamour like a thousand smithies and a hundred slaughter-yards. Sometimes by some unknown chance the wind would waft some word, or phrase, or cry full-formed to Skara’s ear, of fury or pain or begging fear, and make her startle as if it was spoken at her shoulder.
Father Yarvi stepped forward, knuckles white about his elf-metal staff and his eager eyes fixed on the beach. ‘Yes,’ he hissed. ‘Yes!’
Now the right wing of the High King’s men slowly buckled and in an instant gave, men fleeing down the shingle, flinging their weapons away. But there was nowhere to run but into the arms of Mother Sea, and that was a comfortless embrace indeed.
On the higher dunes a few knots of the High King’s warriors still held, striving to make a
stand worth singing of, but they were islands in a flood. And Skara saw the ruin panic can work on a great army, and learned how a battle can turn on a single moment, and watched the gilded symbol of the One God topple and be crushed beneath the heels of Mother War’s faithful.
In the wake of Gorm’s charge the beach was left dotted with black shapes, like driftwood after a tempest. Broken shields, broken weapons. Broken men. Skara’s wide eyes darted over the wreckage, trying to reckon the number of the dead, and she could hardly swallow for the sudden tightness in her throat.
‘I did this,’ she whispered. ‘My words. My vote.’
Sister Owd gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. ‘And you did right, my queen. Lives spared here would have cost lives later. This was the greater good.’
‘The lesser evil,’ muttered Skara, remembering Mother Kyre’s lessons, but her borrowed minister had misunderstood. It was not guilt she felt, but awe at her own power. She felt like a queen at last.
‘The pyre-builders will be busy tonight,’ said Father Yarvi.
‘And, in due course, the slave-markets of Vulsgard too.’ For once Mother Scaer had a tone of grudging approval. ‘So far, all proceeds according to your design.’
Father Yarvi stared out to sea, gaunt face squirming as he worked his jaw. ‘So far.’
The battle on Father Earth was well won, but in the straits the spearhead of King Uthil’s fleet was only now reaching the blunt tangle of the High King’s ships. At the very front Skara saw a blue sail straining with the wind, and she tasted blood as she bit into the quick beneath her thumbnail.
The Killer
‘Don’t do nothing foolish, eh?’ said Blue Jenner.
Raith was thinking of the training square in Vulsgard. Dropping a lad twice his size he’d hit him so hard and so fast. Looking at him huddled on the ground. The shadow of his boot across the lad’s bloody face. He remembered Grom-gil-Gorm’s great hand falling on his shoulder.
What are you waiting for?
He fixed his eyes on the High King’s fleet, a muddle of stretched rope and heaved oar, wind-whipped sailcloth and straining men. ‘The only foolish thing in a fight is holding back,’ he growled, and wedged that battle-scarred joiner’s peg in his mouth, his teeth fitting the dents as neatly as the two halves of a broken bowl fit together.