Half the World

‘Because Grandmother Wexen does not want her children dead. She wants them to obey. First she sends the Islanders against us, then the Vanstermen. She hopes to lure us into rash action and King Uthil is about to oblige her. It will take time for her to gather her forces, but only because she has so many to call on. In time, she will send half the world against us. If we are to resist her, we need allies.’

‘Where do we find allies?’

Father Yarvi smiled. ‘Among our enemies, where else?’

DEAD MAN’S MAIL

The boys were gathered.

The men were gathered, Brand realized. There might not be much beard among them, but if they weren’t men now they’d passed their tests and were about to swear their oaths, when would they be?

They were gathered one last time with Master Hunnan, who’d taught them, and tested them, and hammered them into shape like Brand used to hammer iron at Gaden’s forge. They were gathered on the beach where they’d trained so often, but the blades weren’t wooden now.

They were gathered in their new war-gear, bright-eyed and breathless at the thought of sailing on their first raid. Of leaving Father Peace at their backs and giving themselves guts and sinew to his red-mouthed wife, Mother War. Of winning fame and glory, a place at the king’s table and in the warriors’ songs.

Oh, and coming back rich.

Some were buckled up prettily as heroes already, blessed with family who’d bought them fine mail, and good swords, and new gear all aglitter. Though he counted her more blessing than he deserved, Brand had only Rin, so he’d loaned his mail from Gaden in return for a tenth share of aught he took – dead man’s mail, tarnished with use, hastily resized and still loose under the arms. But his axe was good and true and polished sharp as a razor, and his shield that he’d saved a year for was fresh painted by Rin with a dragon’s head and looked well as anyone’s.

‘Why a dragon?’ Rauk asked him, one mocking eyebrow high.

Brand laughed it off. ‘Why not a dragon?’ It’d take more than that fool’s scorn to spoil the day of his first raid.

And it wasn’t just any raid. It was the biggest in living memory. Bigger even than the one King Uthrik led to Sagenmark. Brand went up on tiptoe again to see the gathered men stretched far off down the shore, metal twinkling in the sun and the smoke from their fires smudging the sky. Five thousand, Hunnan had said, and Brand stared at his fingers, trying to reckon each a thousand men. It made him dizzy as looking down a long drop.

Five thousand. Gods, how big the world must be.

There were men well-funded by tradesmen or merchants and ragged brotherhoods spilled down from the mountains. There were proud-faced men with silvered sword-hilts and dirty-faced men with spears of flint. There were men with a lifetime of scars and men who’d never shed blood in their lives.

It was a sight you didn’t see often, and half of Thorlby was gathered on the slopes outside the city walls to watch. Mothers and fathers, wives and children, there to see off their boys and husbands and pray for their safe and enriched return. Brand’s family would be there too, no doubt. Which meant Rin, on her own. He bunched his fists, staring up into the wind.

He’d make her proud. He swore he would.

The feeling was more of wedding-feast than war, the air thick with smoke and excitement, the clamour of songs, and jests, and arguments. Prayer-Weavers wove their own paths through the throng speaking blessings for a payment, and merchants too, spinning lies about how all great warriors carried an extra belt to war. It wasn’t just warriors hoping to turn a coin from King Uthil’s raid.

‘For a copper I’ll bring you weaponluck,’ said a beggar-woman, selling lucky kisses, ‘for another I’ll bring you weatherluck too. For a third—’

‘Shut up,’ snapped Master Hunnan, shooing her off. ‘The king speaks.’

There was a clattering of gear as every man turned westwards. Towards the barrows of long-dead rulers above the beach, dwindling away to the north into wind-flattened humps.

King Uthil stood tall before them on the dunes, the long grass twitching at his boots, cradling gently as a sick child his sword of plain grey steel. He needed no ornaments but the scars of countless battles on his face. Needed no jewels but the wild brightness in his eye. Here was a man who knew neither fear nor mercy. Here was a king that any warrior would be proud to follow to the very threshold of the Last Door and beyond.

Queen Laithlin stood beside him, hands on her swollen belly, golden key upon her chest, golden hair taken by the breeze and torn like a banner, showing no more fear or mercy than her husband. They said it was her gold that bought half these men and most of these ships, and she wasn’t a woman to take her eye off an investment.

The king took two slow, swaggering steps forward, letting the breathless silence stretch out, excitement building until Brand could hear his own blood surging in his ears.

‘Do I see some men of Gettland?’ he roared.

Brand and his little knot of new-minted warriors were lucky to be close enough to hear him. Further off the captains of each ship passed on the king’s words to their crews, wind-blown echoes rippling down the long sweep of the shore.

A great clamour burst from the gathered warriors, weapons thrust up towards Mother Sun in a glittering forest. All united, all belonging. All ready to die for the man at their shoulder. Perhaps Brand had only one sister, but he felt then he had five thousand brothers with him on the sand, a sweet mixture of rage and love that wetted his eyes and warmed his heart and seemed in that moment a feeling worth dying for.

King Uthil raised his hand for silence. ‘How it gladdens me to see so many brothers! Wise old warriors often tested on the battlefield, and bold young warriors lately tested in the square. All gathered with good cause in the sight of the gods, in the sight of my forefathers.’ He spread his arms towards the ancient barrows. ‘And can they ever have looked on so mighty a host?’

‘No!’ someone screamed, and there was laughter, and others joined him, shouting wildly, ‘No!’ until the king raised his hand for silence again.

‘The Islanders have sent ships against us. They have stolen from us, and made our children slaves, and spilled our blood on our good soil.’ A muttering of anger began. ‘It is they who turned their backs on Father Peace, they who opened the door to Mother War, they who made her our guest.’ The muttering grew, and swelled, an animal growling that found its way to Brand’s own throat. ‘But the High King says we of Gettland must not be good hosts to the Mother of Crows! The High King says our swords must stay sheathed. The High King says we must suffer these insults in silence! Tell me, men of Gettland, what should be our answer?’

The word came from five thousand mouths as one deafening roar, Brand’s voice cracking with it. ‘Steel!’

‘Yes.’ Uthil cradled his sword close, pressing the plain hilt to his deep-lined cheek as if it was a lover’s face. ‘Steel must be the answer! Let us bring the Islanders a red day, brothers. A day they will weep at the memory of!’

With that he stalked towards Mother Sea, his closest captains and the warriors of his household behind him, storied men with famous names, men Brand dreamed of one day joining. Folk whose names had yet to trouble the bards crowded about the king’s path for a glimpse of him, for a touch of his cloak, a glance of his grey eye. Shouts came of, ‘The Iron King!’ and ‘Uthil!’ until it became a chant, ‘Uthil! Uthil!’, each beat marked with the steely clash of weapons.

‘Time to choose your futures, boys.’

Master Hunnan shook a canvas bag so the markers clattered within. The lads crowded him, shoving and honking like hogs at feeding time, and Hunnan reached inside with his gnarled fingers and one by one pressed a marker into every eager palm. Discs of wood, each with a sign carved into it that matched the prow-beasts on the many ships, telling each boy – or each man – which captain he’d swear his oath to, which crew he’d sail with, row with, fight with.

Those given their signs held them high and whooped in triumph, and some argued over who’d got the better ship or the better captain, and some laughed and hugged each other, finding the favour of Mother War had made them oar-mates.

Brand waited, hand out and heart thumping. Drunk with excitement at the king’s words, and the thought of the raid coming, and of being a boy no more, being poor no more, being alone no more. Drunk on the thought of doing good, and standing in the light, and having a family of warriors always about him.

Brand waited as his fellows were given their places – lads he liked and lads he didn’t, good fighters and not. He waited as the markers grew fewer in the bag, and let himself wonder if he was left till last because he’d won an oar on the king’s own ship, no place more coveted. The more often Hunnan passed him over, the more he allowed himself to hope. He’d earned it, hadn’t he? Worked for it, deserved it? Done what a warrior of Gettland was supposed to?

Rauk was the last of them, forcing a smile onto his crestfallen face when Hunnan brought wood from the bag for him, not silver. Then it was just Brand left. His the only hand still out, the fingers trembling. The lads fell silent.

And Hunnan smiled. Brand had never seen him smile before, and he felt himself smile too.

‘This for you,’ said the master-at-arms as he slowly, slowly drew out his battle-scarred hand. Drew out his hand to show …

Nothing.

No glint of the king’s silver. No wood either. Only the empty bag, turned inside out to show the ragged stitching.

‘Did you think I wouldn’t know?’ said Hunnan.

Brand let his hand drop. Every eye was upon him now and he felt his cheeks burning like he’d been slapped.

‘Know what?’ he muttered, though he knew well enough.

‘That you spoke to that cripple about what happened in my training square.’

A silence, while Brand felt as if his guts dropped into his arse. ‘Thorn’s no murderer,’ he managed to say.

‘Edwal’s dead and she killed him.’

‘You set her a test she couldn’t pass.’

‘I set the tests,’ said Hunnan. ‘Passing them is up to you. And you failed this one.’

‘I did the right thing.’

Hunnan’s brows went up. Not angry. Surprised. ‘Tell yourself that if it helps. But I’ve my own right thing to look to. The right thing for the men I teach to fight. In the training square we pit you against each other, but on the battlefield you have to stand together, and Thorn Bathu fights everyone. Men would have died so she could play with swords. They’re better off without her. And they’re better off without you.’

‘Mother War picks who fights,’ said Brand.

Hunnan only shrugged. ‘She can find a ship for you, then. You’re a good fighter, Brand, but you’re not a good man. A good man stands for his shoulder-man. A good man holds the line.’

Maybe Brand should’ve snarled, ‘It isn’t fair,’ as Thorn had when Hunnan broke her hopes. But Brand wasn’t much of a talker, and he had no words then. No anger in him when he actually needed it. He didn’t make even a mouse’s squeak while Hunnan turned and walked away. Didn’t even bunch his fists while the lads followed their master-at-arms towards the sea. The lads he’d trained with these ten years.

Some looked at him with scorn, some with surprise. One or two even gave him a sorry pat on the shoulder as they passed. But they all passed. Down the beach, towards the breaking waves and their hard-won places on the ships that rocked there. Down to their oaths of loyalty and off on the raid that Brand had dreamed of all his life. It was Rauk who went last, one hand slack on the hilt of his fine new sword, grinning over his shoulder.

‘See you when we get back.’

Brand stood alone for a long time, not moving. Alone, in his borrowed mail, with the gulls crying over that vast stretch of sand, empty apart from the bootprints of the men he’d thought his brothers. Alone, long after the last ship had pushed off from the shore and out to sea, carrying Brand’s hopes away with it.

So it goes, with hopes.

POISON

She Who Sings the Wind sang one hell of a wind on the way over from Skekenhouse and they were washed leagues off-course.

They rowed like fury while Rulf roared abuse at them until his voice was hoarse and their oars were all tangled and every one of them was blowing like a fish and soaked with Mother Sea’s salt spray. Thorn was most extremely terrified but she put a brave face on. The only faces she had were brave, though this was a green one, as the thrashing of the ship like an unbroken horse soon made her sick as she’d never been sick in her life. It felt as if everything she’d ever eaten went over the side, over her oar, or over her knees, and half that through her nose.

Thorn had a fair storm blowing on the inside too. The giddy wave of gratitude at being given back her life had soon soaked away, leaving her chewing over the bitter truth that she had traded a future as a proud warrior for one as a minister’s slave, collared by her own over-hasty oath, for purposes Father Yarvi had no intention of sharing.

To make matters even worse, she could feel her blood coming and her guts were stabbed through with aches and her chest was sore and she had a rage in her even beyond the usual. The mocking laughter of the crew at her puking might’ve moved her to murder if she could’ve unpeeled her Death-gripping fingers from the oar.

So it was on wobbling legs she staggered onto the wharf at Yaletoft, the stones of Throvenland pocked with puddles from last night’s storm, twinkling in this morning’s sun. She blundered through the crowds with her shoulders hunched around her ears, every hawker’s squawk and seagull’s call, every wagon’s rattle and barrel’s clatter a knife in her, the over-hearty slaps on the back and snide chuckles of the men who were supposed to be her fellows cutting deeper still.

She knew what they were thinking. What do you expect if you put a girl in a man’s place? And she muttered curses and swore elaborate revenges, but didn’t dare lift her head in case she spewed again.

Some revenge that would be.

‘Don’t be sick in front of King Fynn,’ said Rulf, as they approached the looming hall, its mighty roof beams wonderfully carved and gilded. ‘The man’s famous for his temper.’

But it was not King Fynn but his minister, Mother Kyre, who greeted them at the dozen steps, each one cut of a different-coloured marble. She was a handsome woman, tall and slender with a ready smile that did not quite reach her eyes. She reminded Thorn of her mother, which was a dark mark against her from the off. Thorn trusted few enough people, but hardly any had ready smiles and none at all looked like her mother.

‘Greetings, Father Yarvi,’ said King Fynn’s handsome minister. ‘You are ever welcome in Yaletoft, but I fear the king cannot see you.’

‘I fear you have advised him not to see me,’ answered Father Yarvi, planting one damp boot on the lowest step. Mother Kyre did not deny it. ‘Perhaps I might see Princess Skara? She can have been no more than ten years old when we last met. We were cousins then, before I took the Minister’s Test—’

‘But you did take the test,’ said Mother Kyre, ‘and gave up all your family but the Ministry, as did I. In any case, the princess is away.’

‘I fear you sent her away when you heard I was coming.’

Mother Kyre did not deny that either. ‘Grandmother Wexen has sent me an eagle, and I know why you are here. I am not without sympathy.’

‘Your sympathy is sweet, Mother Kyre, but King Fynn’s help in the trouble that comes would be far sweeter yet. It might prevent the trouble altogether.’

Mother Kyre winced the way someone does who has no intention of helping. The way Thorn’s mother used to wince when Thorn spoke of her hero’s hopes.

‘You know my master loves you and his niece Queen Laithlin,’ she said. ‘You know he would stand against half the world to stand with you. But you know he cannot stand against the wishes of the High King.’ A sea of words, this woman, but that was ministers for you. Father Yarvi was hardly a straight talker. ‘So he sends me, wretched with regret, to deny you audience, but to humbly offer you all food, warmth, and shelter beneath his roof.’

Which, apart from the food, sounded well enough to Thorn.

King Fynn’s hall was called the Forest for it was filled with a thicket of grand columns, said to have been floated down the Divine River from Kalyiv, beautifully carved and painted with scenes from the history of Throvenland. Somewhat less beautiful were the many, many guards, closely watching the South Wind’s dishevelled crew as they shuffled past, Thorn most dishevelled of all, one hand clutched to her aching belly.

‘Our reception in Skekenhouse was … not warm.’ Yarvi leaned close to Mother Kyre and Thorn heard his whisper. ‘If I didn’t know better I might say I am in danger.’

‘No danger will find you here, Father Yarvi, I assure you.’ Mother Kyre gestured at two of the most unreassuring guards Thorn had ever seen, flanking the door to a common room that stank of stale smoke.

‘Here you have water.’ She pointed out a barrel as if it was the highest of gifts. ‘Slaves will bring food and ale. A room for your crew to sleep in is made ready. No doubt you will wish to be away with the first glimpse of Mother Sun, to catch the tide and carry your news to King Uthil.’

Yarvi scrubbed unhappily at his pale hair with the heel of his twisted hand. ‘It seems you have thought of everything.’

‘A good minister is always prepared.’ And Mother Kyre shut the door as she left them, lacking only the turning of a key to mark them out as prisoners.

‘As warm a welcome as you thought we’d get,’ grunted Rulf.

‘Fynn and his minister are predictable as Father Moon. They are cautious. They live in the shadow of the High King’s power, after all.’

‘A long shadow, that,’ said Rulf.

‘Lengthening all the time. You look a little green, Thorn Bathu.’

‘I’m sick with disappointment to find no allies in Throvenland,’ she said.

Father Yarvi had the slightest smile. ‘We shall see.’

Thorn’s eyes snapped open in the fizzing darkness.

She was chilly with sweat under her blanket, kicked it off, felt the sticky wetness of blood between her legs and hissed a curse.

Beside her Rulf gave a particularly ripping snore then rolled over. She could hear the rest of the crew breathing, wriggling, muttering in their sleep, squashed in close together on dirty mats, tight as the fresh catch on market day.

They had made no special arrangements for her and she had asked for none. She wanted none. None except a fresh cloth down her trousers, anyway.

She stumbled down the corridor, hair in a tangle and guts in an aching knot, her belt undone with the buckle slapping at her thighs and one hand shoved down her trousers to feel how bad the bleeding was. All she needed to stop the mocking was a great stain around her crotch, and she cursed He Who Sprouts the Seed for inflicting this stupid business on her, and she cursed the stupid women who thought it was something to celebrate, her stupid mother first among them, and she cursed—

There was a man in the shadows of the common room.

He was dressed in black and standing near the water butt. In one hand he held its lid. In the other a little jar. As if he’d just poured something in. The place was lit by only one guttering candle and he had a bad squint, but Thorn got the distinct feeling he was staring right at her.

They stood unmoving, he with his jar over the water, she with her hand down her trousers, then the man said, ‘Who are you?’

‘Who am I? Who are you?’

Know where your nearest weapon is, her father used to tell her, and her eyes flickered to the table where the wreckage of their evening meal was scattered. An eating knife was wedged into the wood, short blade faintly gleaming. Hardly a hero’s blade, but when surprised at night with your belt open you take what you can get.

She gently eased her hand out of her trousers, gently eased towards the table and the knife. The man gently eased the jar away, eyes fixed on her, or at least somewhere near her.

‘You’re not supposed to be here,’ he said.

‘I’m not? What’re you putting in our water?’

‘What’re you doing with that knife?’

She wrenched it from the table and held it out, somewhat shaky, her voice high. ‘Is that poison?’

The man tossed down the barrel’s lid and stepped towards her. ‘Now don’t do anything stupid, girl.’ As he turned she saw he had a sword at his belt, his right hand reaching for the hilt.

Perhaps she panicked then. Or perhaps she thought more clearly than she ever had. Before she knew it she sprung at him, caught his wrist with one hand and drove the knife into his chest with the other.

It wasn’t hard to do. Much easier than you’d think.

He heaved in a wheezing breath, sword no more than quarter drawn, eyes more crossed than ever, pawing at her shoulder.

‘You …’ And he crashed over on his back, dragging her on top of him.

Thorn tore his limp hand away and struggled up. His black clothes turned blacker as blood soaked them, the eating knife wedged in his heart to the handle.

She squeezed her eyes shut, but when she opened them, he was still there.

Not a dream.

‘Oh, gods,’ she whispered.

‘They rarely help.’ Father Yarvi stood frowning in the doorway. ‘What happened?’

‘He had poison,’ muttered Thorn, pointing weakly at the fallen jar. ‘Or … I think he did …’

The minister squatted beside the dead man. ‘You have a habit of killing people, Thorn Bathu.’

‘That’s a bad thing,’ she said in a voice very small.

‘It does rather depend on who you kill.’ Yarvi slowly stood, looked about the room, walked over to her, peering at her face. ‘He hit you?’

‘Well … no—’

‘Yes.’ He punched her in the mouth and she sprawled against the table. By then he was already throwing the door wide. ‘Bloodshed in King Fynn’s hall! To arms! To arms!’

First came Rulf, who blinked down at the corpse and softly said, ‘That works.’

Then came guards, who blinked down at the corpse and made their weapons ready.

Then came the crew, who shook their shaggy heads and rubbed their stubbled jaws and murmured prayers.

And finally came King Fynn.

Thorn had moved among the powerful since she killed Edwal. She had met five ministers and three kings, one of them High, and the only one to impress her was the one who killed her father. Fynn might have been famed for his anger, but the first thing that struck Thorn was what a strangely shapeless man the King of Throvenland was. His chin melted into his neck, his neck into his shoulders, his shoulders into his belly, his sparse grey hairs in wafting disarray from the royal bed.

‘Kneeling isn’t your strength, is it?’ hissed Rulf, dragging Thorn down along with everyone else. ‘And for the gods’ sake fasten your damn belt!’

‘What happened here?’ roared the king, spraying his wincing guards with spit.

Thorn kept her eyes down as she fumbled with her buckle. Crushing with rocks looked inevitable now. Certainly for her. Possibly for the rest of the crew too. She saw the looks on their faces. This is what happens if you give a girl a blade. Even a little one.

Mother Kyre, immaculate even in her nightclothes, took up the fallen jar between finger and thumb, sniffed at it and wrinkled her nose. ‘Ugh! Poison, my king.’

‘By the gods!’ Yarvi put his hand on Thorn’s shoulder. The same hand he had just punched her with. ‘If it wasn’t for this girl’s quick thinking, I and my crew might have passed through the Last Door before morning.’

‘Search every corner of my hall!’ bellowed King Fynn. ‘Tell me how this bastard got in!’