Half a War Page 6

  ‘His home and his heart.’ Gorm combed his fingers carefully through his beard. ‘Where are these boats of Bright Yilling’s?’

  Skara licked her lips. ‘In the harbour at Bail’s Point.’

  ‘Ha!’ The elf-bangles rattled on Mother Scaer’s tattooed wrist as she swatted the whole business away. ‘Safe behind the great chains.’

  ‘The place is elf-built,’ said Father Yarvi. ‘Impregnable.’

  ‘No!’ Skara’s voice echoed back from the dome above like a clap. ‘I was born there and I know its weaknesses.’

  Uthil twitched with annoyance but Laithlin set her hand ever so gently on the back of his clenched fist. ‘Let her speak,’ she murmured, leaning close. As the king looked at his wife his frown softened for an instant, and Skara wondered if he truly was a man of iron, or only one of flesh like others, trapped in the iron cage of his own fame.

  ‘Speak, princess,’ he said, turning his hand over to clasp Laithlin’s as he sat back.

  Skara craned forward, pushing her words to every corner of the chamber, striving to fill the hall with her hopes and her desires and make every listener share them, the way Mother Kyre had taught her. ‘The elf-walls cannot be breached, but parts of them were destroyed by the Breaking of God and the gaps closed by the work of men. Mother Sea chews endlessly at their foundations. To shore them up my grandfather built two great buttresses by the cliffs on the southwest corner. So great they nearly touch. A nimble man could climb up between, and bring others after.’

  ‘A nimble madman,’ murmured Gorm.

  ‘Even if a few could get in,’ said Uthil, ‘Bright Yilling is a tested war-leader. He would not be fool enough to leave the great gates unguarded—’

  ‘There is another gate, hidden, only wide enough for one man at a time, but it could let the rest of your warriors into the fortress.’ Skara’s voice cracked with her desperate need to persuade them, but Blue Jenner was at her side, and a finer diplomat than he appeared.

  ‘I may not know much,’ he said, ‘but I know the Shattered Sea, and Bail’s Point is the lock on it and the key to it. The fortress controls the Straits of Skekenhouse. That’s why Grandmother Wexen was so keen to take it. Long as Bright Yilling holds it he can strike anywhere, but if we can take it from him …’ And he turned to Skara, and gave her a wink.

  ‘We win a victory for the songs,’ she called, ‘and bring the High King’s chair itself under threat.’

  There was a low muttering as men turned over the chances. Skara had caught their interest, but the two kings were restless bulls, hard indeed to yoke to one purpose.

  ‘What if the ships have been moved?’ grated out Uthil. ‘What if you misremember the weaknesses of Bail’s Point? What if Yilling has learned of them and guards them already?’

  ‘Then Death waits for us all, King Uthil.’ Skara would win no battles with meekness, not against such opponents as these. ‘I heard you say we must strike for the heart. Yilling’s heart is his pride. His ships.’

  ‘This is a gamble,’ murmured Gorm. ‘There is much that could go wrong—’

  ‘To win against a stronger opponent you must risk.’ Skara thumped the table with her fist. ‘I heard you say we must meet the enemy on our own ground. What better ground could there be than the strongest fortress in the Shattered Sea?’

  ‘It is not my ground,’ grumbled Gorm.

  ‘But it is mine!’ Skara’s voice cracked again but she forced herself on. ‘You forget! The blood of Bail himself flows in my veins!’

  Skara felt them teeter. Their hatred for each other, and their fear of the High King, and their need to look fearless, and their lust for glory, all balanced on a sword’s edge. She almost had them but at any moment, like doves flying to familiar cages, they might lurch back into their well-ploughed feud and the chance would be lost.

  Where reason fails, Mother Kyre once told her, madness may succeed.

  ‘Perhaps you need to see it!’ Skara reached down and snatched the dagger from Raith’s belt.

  He made a desperate grab at her but too late. She pressed the bright point into the ball of her thumb and slit her palm open to the root of her little finger.

  She had expected a few delicate crimson drops, but Raith clearly kept his knife well-sharpened. Blood spattered the table, flicked across Blue Jenner’s chest and into Sister Owd’s round face. There was a collective gasp, Skara the most shocked of anyone, but there could be no retreat now, only a mad charge forward.

  ‘Well?’ She held up her fist in the sight of the Tall Gods, blood streaking her arm and pattering from her elbow. ‘Will you proud warriors draw your swords and shed your blood with mine? Will you give yourselves to Mother War and trust to your weaponluck? Or will you skulk here in the shadows, pricking each other with words?’

  Grom-gil-Gorm’s chair toppled over as he rose to his full great height. He gave a grimace, and his jaw muscles bulged, and Skara shrank back, waiting for his fury to crush her. Then she realized he was chewing his tongue. He spat red across the table.

  ‘The men of Vansterland will sail in five days,’ growled the Breaker of Swords, blood running into his beard.

  King Uthil stood, the drawn sword he always carried sliding through the crook of his arm until its point rested before him. He took it under the crosspiece, knuckles whitening as he squeezed. A streak of blood gathered in the fuller, and worked its way down to the point, and spread out in a dark slick around the steel.

  ‘The men of Gettland sail in four,’ he said.

  Warriors on both sides of the room thumped at the tables, and rattled their weapons, and sent up a cheer at seeing blood finally spilled, even if it was far from enough to win a battle, and most of it belonging to a girl of seventeen.

  Skara sat back, suddenly dizzy, and felt the knife plucked from her hand. Sister Owd slit the stitching in her sleeve and ripped away a strip of cloth, then took Skara’s wrist and deftly began to bandage her palm.

  ‘This will serve until I can stitch it.’ She looked up from under her brows. ‘Please never do that again, princess.’

  ‘Don’t worry— ah!’ Gods, it was starting to hurt. ‘I think I’ve learned that lesson.’

  ‘It is a little soon to celebrate our victory!’ called out Father Yarvi, stilling the noise. ‘We have first to decide who will do the climbing.’

  ‘When it comes to feats of strength and skill my standard-bearer Soryorn is unmatched.’ Gorm put his hand through the garnet-studded collar of the tall Shend thrall beside him. ‘He ran the oars and back three times on our voyage from Vansterland, and in stormy seas too.’

  ‘You will find no one as swift and subtle as my apprentice Koll,’ said Father Yarvi. ‘As any man who has seen him swarm up the cliffs for eggs will gladly testify.’ The Gettlanders all nodded along. All except the apprentice himself, who looked almost as queasy as Skara felt at the notion.

  ‘A friendly contest, perhaps?’ offered Queen Laithlin. ‘To see who is the better?’

  Skara saw the cunning in that. A fine distraction, to keep these restless rams from butting each other before they met their enemy.

  Sister Owd set Skara’s bandaged hand gently down on the table. ‘As an equal partner in the alliance,’ she called, ‘by ancient law and long precedent, Throvenland should also be represented in such a contest.’ This time she refused to meet Mother Scaer’s chilling eye, and sat back well pleased with her contribution.

  Skara was less delighted. She had no strong or subtle men, only Blue Jenner.

  He raised his bushy brows as she glanced over at him, and muttered, ‘I find stairs a challenge.’

  ‘I’ll climb for you,’ said Raith. Skara had not seen him smile until then, and it seemed to light a flame in that cold face, his eyes glinting bold and mischievous and making him seem more striking than ever. ‘Got to be better’n talking, hasn’t it?’

  Chances

  ‘We haven’t had a chance to talk,’ said Blue Jenner.

  ‘I’m not much of a t
alker,’ grunted Raith.

  ‘Fighter, eh?’

  Raith didn’t answer. If he had to he’d answer with his fists.

  ‘It’s up to me to make sure the princess stays safe.’

  Raith nodded towards the door. ‘That’s why I’m out here.’

  ‘Aye.’ Jenner narrowed his eyes. ‘But is she safe from you?’

  ‘What if she’s not?’ Raith stepped up to the old raider, teeth bared, right in his face so he was just about butting him. Had to show he was the bloodiest bastard going. Let them see weakness it’ll be the end of you. ‘How would you stop me, old man?’

  Blue Jenner didn’t back off, just raised his lined hands. ‘I’d say “whoa, there, lad, old fool like me fight a young hero like you? I don’t think so!” And I’d back right down soft as you like.’

  ‘Damn right,’ growled Raith.

  ‘Then I’d nip to my crew and get six big fellows. Middle oars, you know, used to pulling but light on their feet. And when it got dark two of ’em would wrap you up real nice and warm in your blanket.’ And he gave the blanket over Raith’s shoulder a little brush with the back of his hand. ‘Then the other four would bring out some stout timbers and beat that pretty package till it had nothing hard in it. Then I’d deliver the slop left over back to Grom-gil-Gorm, probably still in the blanket ’cause we wouldn’t want to get mess all over Princess Skara’s floor, and tell the Breaker of Swords that, sadly, the boy he lent us was a shade too prickly and it didn’t work out.’ Jenner smiled, his weathered face creasing up like old boots. ‘But I’d rather not add to my regrets. The gods know I got a queue of the bastards. I’d sooner just give you the chance to prove you’re trustworthy.’

  It was a good answer, Raith had to admit. Clever, but with iron in it. Made him look a clumsy thug, and he didn’t like to look that way. Subtle thug was better. He shifted back, gave Jenner a little more room and a lot more respect. ‘And what if I’m not trustworthy?’

  ‘Give men the chance to be better, I find most of ’em want to take it.’

  Raith hadn’t found that at all. ‘You sure, old man?’

  ‘Guess we can find out together, boy. You want another blanket? Could get cold out here.’

  ‘I’ve dealt with colder.’ Raith would’ve loved another blanket but he had to seem like nothing could hurt him. So he drew the one he had tight around his shoulders and sat down, listened to the old man’s footsteps scrape away. He missed Gorm’s sword. He missed his brother. But the cold draught and the cold stones and the cold silence were much the same.

  He wondered if the dreams would be too.

  How to Win

  ‘When I ring the bell, you climb.’

  ‘Yes, my queen,’ croaked Koll. There were few people in the world he was as much in awe of as Queen Laithlin and most of them were here, now, watching. It felt like half the people of the Shattered Sea were rammed into the yard of the citadel in the shade of the great cedar, or crammed at the windows, or peering down from the roofs and the battlements.

  King Uthil stood on the steps of the Godshall, Father Yarvi leaning on his staff at his right hand, Rulf beside him, scratching at the short grey hair above his ears, giving Koll what was no doubt meant to be a reassuring grin. Opposite, on a platform carefully built to just the same height, stood Grom-gil-Gorm, zigzag lines of gold forged into his mail glittering in the morning sun, his white-haired shield-bearer kneeling by him, Mother Scaer with her blue eyes fiercely narrowed.

  Rin had found a way in, just as she always did, on a roof high up on Koll’s left. She waved like a mad woman as he looked up, flailing her open palm around for luck. Gods, Koll wished he was over there with her. Or better yet in her forge. Or better yet in her bed. He pushed the idea away. Brand was standing right beside her, after all, and might not stay oblivious forever.

  Queen Laithlin raised one long white arm to point towards the top of the cedar, gold glinting on the highest branch. ‘The winner is the one who brings Princess Skara back her armring.’

  Koll shivered from his toes to the roots of his hair, trying to shake free of the tingling nerves. He glanced up at the mast that stood rooted in the yard beside Thorn, carved from foot to head by his own hands on the long journey to the First of Cities and back.

  Gods, he was proud of that mast. The carving he’d done on it, and his part in the story it told. There’d been brave deeds in plenty on that voyage, and he had to be brave now. He was sure he could win. What he wasn’t sure of was whether he wanted to. For a man reckoned clever, he got wedged in a lot of stupid corners.

  He gave one of those sighs that made his lips flap. ‘The gods have a silly sense of humour.’

  ‘They surely do.’ Gorm’s ex-cup-filler, Raith, frowned about at the crowd. ‘When I got on the boat in Vulsgard I never thought I’d end up climbing trees.’ He leaned close, as if he’d a secret to share, and Koll couldn’t help leaning in with him. ‘Nor playing nursemaid to some skinny girl.’

  Princess Skara stood between a wide-eyed Sister Owd and an unkempt Blue Jenner, seeming as perfect and brittle as the pottery statues Koll had stared at in the First of Cities, long ago, trying to work out how they were made.

  ‘Life is too easy for very pretty people,’ he said. ‘They get all manner of advantages.’

  ‘I assure you it’s as hard for us beauties as anyone,’ said Raith.

  Koll looked round at him. ‘You’re a good deal less of a bastard than I took you for.’

  ‘Oh, you don’t know me that well yet. Taking this damned seriously, ain’t he?’

  Grom-gil-Gorm’s Shend standard-bearer had stripped to the waist, a pattern of scars burned into his broad back to look like a spreading tree. He was putting on quite the performance, lean muscles flexing as he stretched, twisted, touched his toes.

  Raith just stood there, scratching at a nick out of his ear. ‘Thought we were climbing, not dancing.’

  ‘So did I.’ Koll grinned. ‘Might be we were misinformed.’

  ‘My name’s Raith.’ And Raith held out a friendly hand.

  The minister’s boy smiled back. ‘Koll.’ And he took it. Just like Raith had known he would, ’cause weak men are always eager for the friendship of strong ones. His smile faded quick enough when he found he couldn’t tug his hand free again. ‘What’re you—’

  Queen Laithlin rang the bell.

  Raith jerked the lad close and butted him in the face.

  He could climb but Raith had no doubts these other two were better at it. If he wanted to win, and he always did, best make the contest about something else. At butting folk in the face he was a master, as Koll now discovered.

  Raith punched him in the ribs three times, doubled him up gurgling with blood pattering from his smashed mouth, then caught his shirt and flung him upside down across a table where some of the Gettlanders were sitting.

  He heard the chaos behind him, the crowd bellowing curses, but by that time the blood was roaring in his ears and his mind was on the tree. Soryorn was already dragging his great long body into the branches and if he got a good start Raith knew he’d never catch him.

  He took a pounding run, sprang onto the lowest branch and swung himself up, jumped to a higher, twigs thrashing from his weight. At the next spring, full stretch, he caught Soryorn by the ankle and dragged him down, a broken stick scratching him all the way up his scar-marked back.

  Soryorn kicked out and caught Raith in the mouth, but he’d never been put off by the taste of his own blood. He growled as he hauled himself on, no thought for the scraping branches, no thought for the aching through his left hand, caught Soryorn’s ankle again, then his belt, and finally his garnet studded thrall-collar.

  ‘What’re you doing?’ snarled the standard-bearer, trying to elbow him away.

  ‘Winning,’ hissed Raith, hauling himself up level.

  ‘Gorm wants me to win!’

  ‘I serve Skara, remember?’

  Raith punched Soryorn right between the legs and his eyes bul
ged. Raith punched him in the mouth and snapped his head back. Raith bit his clutching hand hard and with a wheezing cry Soryorn lost his grip and went tumbling down through the branches, his head bouncing off one, another folding him in half, a third spinning him over and over till he crashed to the ground.

  Which was a shame, but someone had to win, and someone had to fall.

  Raith shinned up further to where the branches grew sparse. He could see over the walls of the citadel from here. Mother Sea glittering, the forest of masts on the dozens of ships crowded into Thorlby’s harbour, the salt breeze kissing his sweating forehead.

  He twitched the armring from the topmost branch. He’d have put it on his wrist but it was sized for Skara’s twig of an arm and there was no way it’d fit. So he stuffed it into the pouch at his belt and started slithering down.

  The wind blew up and made the whole tree sway, branches creaking, needles brushing Raith all over as he clung on tight. He caught a flash of white out of the corner of his eye, but all he could see when he peered down was Soryorn, trying and failing to drag himself up into the lowest branches. No sign of the minister’s boy. More’n likely crept off to cry over his broken face. Might be a fine climber but he’d no guts at all, and to climb into Bail’s Point alone, a man would need guts.

  Raith swung free and dropped to the ground.

  ‘You little bastard!’ snarled Soryorn, clinging to a low branch. He must have hurt his leg when he fell, he was holding it up gingerly, toes trailing.

  Raith laughed as he passed. Then he sprang in and drove a shoulder into Soryorn’s ribs, ramming him so hard into the tree his breath was all driven out in a flopping wheeze.

  ‘You big bastard,’ he tossed out as he left Soryorn groaning in the dirt. The standard-bearer had always been a good friend to Raith.

  So he really should’ve known better than to leave his side open like that.

  ‘Princess Skara.’

  She gave Raith what she hoped was a disapproving look. ‘I would hardly call that a fair contest.’