Half a War

A long ramp led from the wharves, up the cliffside to the great yard. Buildings of a dozen different ages and designs were piled up about it, their roofs a mismatched maze of mossy thatch, cracked tile, rain-slick slate, broken gutters spurting water to spatter on the flagstones below. A city, almost, clinging to the inside of the great elf-walls, firelight spilling from around the edges of a hundred windows shuttered against the storm.

Koll squirmed free of his rope, cursing his clumsy cold fingers as he looped it about the battlements, dragged hard at the wet knots to make sure they were fast, and finally allowed himself a weary smile. ‘That’ll do it.’

But the gods love to laugh at a happy man, and his smile vanished the moment he turned.

A warrior was trudging down the walkway towards him, spear in one hand, flickering lantern in the other, rain-heavy cloak flapping about his hunched shoulders.

Koll’s every instinct was to run, but he forced himself to turn his back on the guard, wedged one boot carelessly on the battlements, stared out to sea as though this was the place he felt most at home in all the world, and offered a silent prayer to She Who Spins Lies. One way or another, she got a lot of prayers from Koll.

When he heard boots scraping up he turned with a grin. ‘Hey, hey! Nice evening to be on the walls.’

‘Hardly.’ The man squinted at him as he raised his lantern. ‘Do I know you?’

He sounded like a Yutmarker, so Koll took a guess and trusted to his luck. ‘No, no, I’m one of the Inglings.’

Serve a man one good lie, he might offer you the truth himself. ‘One of Lufta’s boys?’

‘That’s right. Lufta sent me to check the walls.’

‘He did?’

If you can’t fashion a good lie, the truth will have to serve. ‘Aye, there’s these two buttresses, see, and Lufta’s got this worry someone might climb up between them.’

‘On a night like this?’

Koll gave a little chuckle. ‘I know, I know, it’s mad as a hatful of frogs, but you know how Lufta gets …’

‘What’s that?’ asked the man, frowning towards the rope.

‘What’s what what?’ asked Koll, stepping in front of it, run out of lies and now of truths as well. ‘What?’

‘That, you—’ His eyes bulged as a black hand clamped over his mouth and a black blade took him through the neck. Thorn’s face appeared beside his, hardly more than a shadow in the rain, only her eyes standing out white from the tar-smeared skin.

She lowered the warrior’s limp body gently onto the parapet.

‘What do we do with the corpse?’ muttered Koll, catching his lantern before it dropped. ‘We can’t just—’

Thorn took him by the boots and flipped him into space. Koll peered over, open-mouthed, watching the body plummet down, hit the walls near the base and flop off broken into the surging waves.

‘That’s what we do,’ she said as Fror slipped over the wall behind her, dragged the axe from his back and tore away the rag he’d used to muffle the tar-smeared blade. ‘Let’s go.’

Koll swallowed as he followed them. He loved Thorn, but it scared him how easily she could kill a man.

The steps down to the yard were just where Skara had told them, puddled with rainwater in their worn centres. Koll was just letting himself dream again of the harvest of glory he’d reap if this mad plan worked when he heard a voice echo from below, and pressed himself into the shadows.

‘Let’s go inside, Lufta. It’s windy as hell out here!’

A deeper voice answered. ‘Dunverk said guard the little gate. Now stop your bloody whining.’

Koll peered over the edge of the steps. A canvas awning flapped in the wind below them, firelight spilling from underneath.

‘This little gate isn’t so secret as we hoped,’ Thorn whispered in his ear.

‘Like maggots from apples,’ he whispered back, ‘secrets do have a habit of wriggling free.’

‘Fight?’ muttered Thorn. Always her first thought.

Koll smoothed the path for Father Peace, as a good minister should. ‘We might rouse everyone in the fortress.’

‘I’m not climbing back down that chimney,’ said Fror, ‘I can promise you that.’

‘Lend me your cloak,’ whispered Koll. ‘I’ve an idea.’

‘Are you sure now is the best time for ideas?’ Thorn hissed back.

Koll shrugged as he drew the hood up and tried to shake loose muscles still trembling from the climb. ‘They come when they come.’

He left them on the steps and trotted carelessly down, past a half-ruined stable, water dripping from its rotten thatch.

He saw the men, now, seven warriors squatting around their fire, flames torn flickering by the wind that slipped in under their flapping awning. He noted how the firelight fell over the heavy door in the corner behind them, a thick bar lowered across it, the name of She Who Guards the Locks scored deep into the wood. He blew out a misty breath, gathered his courage, and gave a jaunty wave as he walked up.

‘Ach, but damn this weather!’ Koll ducked under the dripping canvas, thrust his hood back and scrubbed his hands through his wet hair. ‘I couldn’t be wetter if I’d gone swimming!’

The men all frowned at him, and he grinned back. ‘Still, I suppose it’s no worse than summer in Inglefold, eh?’ He slapped one on the shoulder as he worked his way towards the door and a couple of the others chuckled.

‘Do I know you?’ asked the big man near the fire. By his silver armrings and surly manner, Koll reckoned him the leader.

‘No, no, I’m one of the Yutmarkers. Dunverk sent me. I’ve a message for you, Lufta.’

The big man spat, and Koll was pleased to find he’d reckoned right. ‘Give it, then, before I go deaf from age. It runs in my family.’

Now for the gamble. ‘Dunverk’s heard tell of an attack. Vanstermen and Gettlanders together, trying to take the fortress and burn our ships.’

‘Attack this place?’ One of the men snorted. ‘They must be fools.’

Koll nodded wearily. ‘That was my very thought when I heard the plan and I haven’t changed my mind.’

‘Did it come from this spy?’ asked Lufta.

Koll blinked. That was unexpected. ‘Aye, this spy. What’s their name now …?’

‘Only Bright Yilling knows that. Why don’t you ask him for a name?’

‘I’ve so great a respect for the man I couldn’t bring myself to bother him. They’re coming for the great gate.’

‘Fools? They’re madmen!’ Lufta licked his teeth in some annoyance. ‘You four, with me, we’ll go over to the gate and see. You two, stay here.’

‘I’ll keep watch, don’t worry!’ called Koll as the men trudged off, one holding his shield up over his head against the rain. ‘There’ll be no Gettlanders getting past me!’

The two left behind were a sorry pair. One young but going bald in clumps, the other with a red patch like spilled wine across his face. He had a fine dagger, silver crosspiece all aglitter, shown off in his belt like a thing to be most proud of though he’d no doubt stolen it from some murdered Throvenman.

Soon as Lufta was out of earshot, that one set to complaining. ‘Most of Yilling’s boys are dragging in plunder all over Throvenland and here we are stuck with this.’

‘Without doubt it’s a great injustice. Still.’ Koll pulled Fror’s cloak off and made great show of shaking the rain from it. ‘Reckon there’s no safer place about the Shattered Sea for a man to sit.’

‘Careful with that!’ grunted Red Face, so busy slapping the cloak away as water flicked in his eyes Koll had no difficulty easing the dagger from his belt with his other hand. It’s amazing what a man won’t notice while he’s distracted.

‘So sorry, my king!’ said Koll, backing away. He nudged Bald Patches in the ribs. ‘Got some airs on him, your companion, don’t he?’ And under his flapping cloak, he slipped the dagger into this man’s belt. ‘Let me show you a wonderful thing!’ He held his hand up before either of them could get a word in, flipping a copper coin back and forth over his knuckles, fingers wriggling, both men fixed on it.

‘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 the 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.

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