‘Copper,’ murmured Koll, ‘copper, copper, and … silver!’
He flipped his hand over, palming the copper in a twinkling and holding a silver coin up between finger and thumb, Queen Laithlin’s face stamped on it glinting in the firelight
Bald Patches frowned, sitting forward. ‘How d’you do that?’
‘Ha! I’ll show you the trick to it. Lend me your dagger a moment.’
‘What dagger?’
‘Your dagger.’ Koll pointed at his belt. ‘That one.’
Red Face sprang up. ‘What’re you doing with my damn knife?’
‘What?’ Bald Patches gaped at his belt. ‘How—’
‘The One God frowns upon stealing.’ Koll held up his hands in a display of piety. ‘That’s a fact well known.’
Thorn’s black hand clamped down on Red Face’s mouth and her black knife stabbed through his neck. At almost the same moment Bald Patches’ head jerked as Fror hacked his axe into the back of it, and his eyes went crossed, and he muttered something, drooling, then toppled sideways.
‘Let’s move,’ hissed Thorn, lowering her man to the ground, ‘’fore those others join me in realizing what a double-tongued little weasel you are.’
‘By all means, my Chosen Shield,’ said Koll, and he slid the rune-marked bar from its brackets, and heaved the gate open.
The Killer
The faintest dot of light glimmered in the storm and like a blood-drunk hound let off the leash, Raith was away.
He sped across the wet grass, shield on one arm and his axe gripped so tight below the blade his knuckles ached.
Swords were no doubt prettier but pretty weapons, like pretty people, are prone to sulk. Swords need subtlety and when the battle joy was on him Raith could be less than careful. He’d once beaten a man’s head with the flat of a sword until both sword and head were bent far past any further use. Axes weren’t so sensitive.
Lightning lit the sky again, Bail’s Point a brooding blackness above the sea, wind-driven raindrops frozen before the night closed in. He Who Speaks the Thunder bellowed his upset at the world, so close it made Raith’s heart leap.
He could still taste his bite of the last loaf, bread baked with blood salty across his tongue. The Vanstermen thought that good weaponluck, but Raith had always reckoned luck less use than fury. He bit down hard on the old builder’s peg between his teeth. Near chewed the end of his tongue off in a rage once and ever since he’d made sure to wedge his jaws when there was a fight coming.
There was no feeling like charging into battle. Gambling everything on your cunning, your will, your strength. Dancing at the threshold of the Last Door. Spitting in Death’s face.
He’d left Grom-gil-Gorm, and Soryorn, and even his brother Rakki far behind in his eagerness, the rain-slick elf-walls and the one flickering light at their foot rushing up to meet him.
‘In here!’
Father Yarvi’s boy held up a lantern, shadows in the hollows of his gawping face, pointing through a doorway hidden in the angle of the tower beside him.
Raith tore through, bouncing off the walls, bounding up the steps three at a time, growling breath echoing in the narrow tunnel, legs on fire, chest on fire, thoughts on fire, the din of metal, swearing, screaming building in his head as he burst out into the yard above.
He caught a mad glimpse of bodies straining, weapons flashing, spit and splinters, saw Thorn Bathu’s tarred snarl and went crashing past her at full tilt, into the midst of the fight.
His shield crunched into a warrior’s teeth and flung him over, sword skittering from his hand. Another staggered back, the spear poised to stab at Thorn wobbling wide.
Raith hacked at someone and made him scream, raw and broken and sounding like metal. Shoved with his shield and it grated against another, hissing and slobbering around the peg in his jaws as he pushed, wild, savage, driving a man back, his bloody spit spraying in Raith’s face, close enough to kiss. Raith heaved him back again, kneed at him, made him stumble. A hollow thud as Thorn’s sword chopped deep into his neck, stuck there as he fell and she let it go, kicking him away pouring blood.
Someone went down all tangled with a flapping canvas awning. Someone shouted in Raith’s ear. Something pinged off his helmet and everything was bright, too bright to see, but he lashed blindly over his shield, growling, coughing.
A man grabbed at him and Raith smashed the butt of his axe into his head, smashed him again as he fell and stomped on his clutching hand, slipped and almost went down, the cobbles slick with blood and rain.
Wasn’t sure which way he was facing of a sudden. The yard pitched and tossed like a ship in a storm. He saw Rakki, blood in his white hair as he stabbed with his sword, anger burned up again and Raith pushed in beside him, locking shields with his brother, shoving, butting, hacking. Something smashed him sideways and he went stumbling through a fire, kicking sparks.
Metal flashed and he jerked away, felt a burning on his face, something scraping against his helmet and knocking it skewed. He pressed past the spear, tried to ram his shield into a snarling face, got all tangled and realized it was a broken wreck, two of the planks dangling from the bent rim.
‘Die, you bastard!’ he snarled, the words just meaningless spit around the peg, flailing away at a helmet until it was dented all out of shape. Came to him he was hitting a wall, carving grey gashes in the stone, arm buzzing from the blows.
Someone was dragging him. Thorn with her black face a mess of spatter. She pointed with a red knife and her red mouth made words but Raith couldn’t hear them.
A great sword tore at the wet air, split a shield, flung the man who held it against the wall in a shower of blood. Raith knew it. He’d carried that blade for three years, held it close as a lover in the darkness, made it sing with his whetstone.
Grom-gil-Gorm stepped forward, huge as a mountain, the dozens of jewelled and gilded pommels on his long chain glittering, his shield black as the night and his sword bright as Father Moon.
‘Your death comes!’ he roared, so loud the deep-rooted bones of Bail’s Point seemed to shake.
Courage can be a brittle thing. Once panic clutches one man it spreads faster than plague, faster than fire. The High King’s warriors had been warm and happy behind strong walls, expecting nothing worse from the night than a stiff wind. Now the Breaker of Swords rose from the storm in his full battle glory, and all at once they broke and fled.
Thorn cut one down with her axe, Gorm caught another by the scruff of his neck and smashed his face into the wall. Raith ripped his knife out, sprang onto a warrior’s back as he ran, stabbing, stabbing. He leapt after another but his foot went out from under him and he tottered a wobbling step or two, bounced off the wall and fell.
Everything was blurry. He tried to stand but his knees wouldn’t have it so he sat down. The peg had fallen out and his mouth ached, tasting of wood and metal. Feet stamped past. A man lay laughing at him. He was caught by a flying boot and rolled flopping over. A dead man, laughing at nothing. Laughing at everything.
Raith squeezed his eyes shut, opened them.
Soryorn was stabbing the wounded with a spear, calmly as if he was planting seeds. Men were still clattering through the small gate, drawing weapons, stepping over bodies.
‘Always have to be first in the fight, eh, brother?’ Rakki. He undid the buckle and pulled Raith’s helmet off, tilted his face to look at the new cut. ‘Doing your best to make sure I stay the pretty one, eh?’
Words felt strange on Raith’s sore tongue. ‘You need all the help you can get.’ He shrugged his brother off and fought his way to standing, trying to shake his wrecked shield from his arm, trying to shake the dizziness from his head.
Bail’s Point was vast, a jumble of thatched and slated buildings grown up all around the towering elf-walls. There was crashing and shouting everywhere, Gettlanders and Vanstermen rooting through the fortress like ferrets down a warren, dragging the High King’s men from their hiding places, pouring down th
e long ramp that led to the harbour, gathering in a crescent about a pair of carved double doors, King Gorm and King Uthil among them.
‘We will smoke you out if we must!’ Father Yarvi shouted at the wood. Like the crows, ministers always arrived as the fighting was done, eager to pick over the results. ‘You had your chance to fight!’
A voice came muffled from beyond the door. ‘I was putting on my armour. It has fiddly buckles.’
‘The little ones can trick a big man’s fingers,’ Gorm admitted.
‘I have it on now, though!’ came the voice. ‘Are there storied warriors among you?’
Father Yarvi gave a sigh. ‘Thorn Bathu is here, and the Iron King Uthil, and Grom-gil-Gorm, the Breaker of Swords.’
A satisfied grunt from behind the door. ‘I feel less sour about defeat against such famous names. Will any of them consent to fight me?’
Thorn sat on some steps nearby, wincing as Mother Scaer squeezed at a cut on her shoulder and made the blood run. ‘I’ve fought enough for one evening.’
‘I too.’ Gorm handed his shield to Rakki. ‘Let the flames take this unready fool and his small-buckled armour.’
Raith’s feet stepped forward. His finger lifted. His mouth said, ‘I’ll fight the—’
Rakki caught hold of his arm and dragged it down. ‘No you won’t, brother.’
‘Death is life’s only certainty.’ King Uthil shrugged. ‘I will fight you!’
Father Yarvi looked horrified. ‘My king—’
Uthil silenced him with one bright-eyed look. ‘Faster runners have stolen the glory, and I will have my share.’
‘Good!’ came the voice. ‘I am coming out!’
Raith heard a bar rattle back and the doors were swung wide, shields clattering as the half-circle of warriors set themselves to meet a charge. But only one man stepped into the yard.
He was huge, with a swirling tattoo on one side of his muscle-heavy neck. He wore thick mail with etched plates at the shoulders, and many gold rings upon his bulging forearms, and Raith grunted his approval for this looked a man well worth fighting. He hooked his thumbs carelessly into his gold-buckled sword-belt and sneered at the crescent of shields facing him with a hero’s contempt.
‘You are King Uthil?’ The man snorted mist into the drizzle from his broad, flat nose. ‘You are older than the songs say.’
‘The songs were composed some time ago,’ grated the Iron King. ‘I was younger then.’
Some laughter at that, but not from this man. ‘I am Dunverk,’ he growled, ‘that men call the Bull, faithful to the One God, loyal to the High King, Companion to Bright Yilling.’
‘That only proves your choice is equally poor in friends, kings and gods,’ said Father Yarvi. The laughter was louder this time, and even Raith had to admit it was a decent jest.
But defeat surely dampens a sense of humour, and Dunverk stayed stony. ‘We will see when Yilling returns, and brings Death to you oathbreakers.’
‘We will see,’ tossed out Thorn, grinning even as Mother Scaer was pushing the needle through the meat of her shoulder. ‘You’ll be dead, and will see nothing.’
Dunverk slowly drew his sword, runes etched into the fuller, the hilt worked in gold like a stag’s head with its antlers making the crosspiece. ‘If I win, will you spare the rest of my men?’
Uthil looked scrawny as an old chicken against Dunverk’s brawn, but he showed no fear at all. ‘You will not win.’
‘You are too confident.’
‘If my hundred and more dead opponents could speak they would say I am as confident as I deserve to be.’
‘I should warn you, old man, I fought all across the Lowlands and there was no one who could stand against me.’
A twitch of a smile passed across Uthil’s scarred face. ‘You should have stayed in the Lowlands.’
Dunverk charged, swinging hard and high but Uthil dodged away, nimble as the wind, his sword still cradled in the crook of his arm. Dunverk made a mighty thrust and the king stepped contemptuously away, letting his steel drop down by his side.
‘The Bull,’ scoffed Thorn. ‘He fights like a mad cow, all right.’
Dunverk roared as he chopped right and left, sweat on his forehead from wielding that heavy blade, men shuffling back behind their shields in case a stray backswing took them through the Last Door. But the Iron King of Gettland weaved away from the first blow and ducked under the second so Dunverk’s sword whipped at his grey hair, steel flashing as he reeled away into space again.
‘Fight me!’ bellowed Dunverk, turning.
‘I have,’ said Uthil, and he caught the corner of his cloak, wiped the edge of his sword, and tucked it carefully back into the crook of his arm.
Dunverk snarled as he stepped forward but his leg buckled and he fell to one knee, blood welling over the top of his boot and spreading across the flagstones. That was when Raith realized Uthil had slit the great vein on the inside of Dunverk’s leg.
There was a murmuring of awe from the gathered warriors, and from Raith as much as anyone.
‘The Iron King’s fame is well-deserved,’ murmured Rakki.
‘I hope Bright Yilling’s sword-work is better than yours, Dunverk the Bull,’ said Uthil. ‘You have scarcely given this old man exercise.’
Dunverk smiled then, a far-off look in his glassy eyes. ‘You all will see Bright Yilling’s sword-work,’ he whispered, his face turned waxy pale. ‘You all will see.’ And he toppled sideways into the widening slick of his own blood.
All agreed it had been an excellent death.
My Land
Mother Sun was a smudge on the eastern horizon, hiding her children the stars behind the iron-grey curtain of the dawn sky. The fortress loomed ahead, sombre as a funeral howe in the colourless dawn, hopeful crows circling above.
‘At least the rain has stopped,’ muttered Skara, pushing back her hood.
‘He Who Speaks the Thunder has taken his tantrums off inland,’ said Queen Laithlin. ‘Like all boys, he makes a great fuss but it’s soon over.’ And she reached out and chucked Prince Druin under the chin. ‘Shall I take him?’
‘No.’ Skara squeezed him tighter. ‘I can hold him.’ Having his little arms around her neck made her feel strong. And the gods knew, she had need of strength then.
Bail’s Point, shining symbol of Throvenland united, was not what she remembered. The village in the shadow of the fortress, where she had once danced at the summer festival, lay in ruins, houses burned or abandoned. The orchard before the crumbling man-built stretch of wall was throttled with ivy, last year’s fruit rotting in the weeds. The great gateway between two soaring elf-built towers had once been decorated with bright banners. Now a hanged man swung on a creaking rope from the battlements, his bare feet dangling.
His fine gold armrings, his shining mail, his gilded weapons had been stripped away, but Skara knew his face at once.
‘One of Bright Yilling’s Companions.’ She gave a shiver in spite of the fur about her shoulders. ‘One of those who burned Yaletoft.’
‘Yet here he swings,’ said Laithlin. ‘It seems praying to Death does not put off a meeting with her.’
‘Nothing puts off that meeting,’ whispered Skara. Probably she should have revelled in his death, spat on his corpse, given thanks to Mother War that this splinter of Throvenland at least was freed, but all she felt was a sick echo of her fear when she last saw him, and a dread that she would never be free of it.
Someone had chopped down the great oak that once grew in the yard of the fortress, the buildings crowding within the ancient elf-walls bare and ugly without its shade. Warriors lounged on the buckled cobbles around the stump, most drunk and getting more drunk, comparing wounds and trophies, cleaning weapons, trading stories.
A would-be skald was composing a verse, shouting the same line over and over while others offered choices for the next word to gales of laughter. A prayer-weaver droned out an elaborate thanks to the gods for their victory. Somewhere, someone
was howling in pain.
Skara wrinkled her nose. ‘What is that smell?’
‘Everything men contain,’ murmured Sister Owd, watching a pair of thralls haul something past between them.
Skara realized with a cold shock that it was a corpse, and then to her horror that they were dragging it onto a whole heap of others. A pale tangle of bare limbs, stained and spattered, mouths lolling silent, eyes unseeing. A pile of meat which last night had been men. Men who had taken years of work to birth, and nurse, and teach to walk, speak, fight. Skara held Prince Druin close, trying to shield his eyes.
‘Should he see this?’ she murmured, wishing she had not seen it herself.
‘He will be king of Gettland. This is his destiny.’ Laithlin glanced dispassionately at the bodies, and Skara wondered if she had ever met so formidable a woman. ‘He should learn to rejoice in it. So should you. This is your victory, after all.’
Skara swallowed. ‘Mine?’
‘The men will argue over whose was the hairiest chest and the loudest roar. The bards will sing of the flashing steel and the blood spilled. But yours was the plan. Yours was the will. Yours were the words that set these men to your purpose.’
Words are weapons, Mother Kyre had told her. Skara stared at the dead men in the yard of Bail’s Point, and thought of the dead men in her grandfather’s hall, and rather than a crime avenged she saw two crimes, and felt the guilt of one piled on the pain of the other.
‘It does not feel like victory,’ she whispered.
‘You have seen defeat. Which do you prefer?’ Skara remembered standing at the Black Dog’s stern, watching the gable of her grandfather’s hall sag into the towering flames, and found she could not argue.
‘I was very impressed with you at the moot,’ said Laithlin.