‘Grandmother Wexen has a long memory for scores,’ murmured Laithlin.
‘She will discover she is not the only one.’ Skifr tipped back her face, mottled burns seeming to glisten. ‘Grandmother Wexen brought Death to me. It is only good manners that I return the favour. I have read the portents. I have watched the birds across the sky. I have deciphered the ripples in the water and you will take me back across the Shattered Sea to Thorlby. Do you still wish to see magic, Koll?’
‘No?’ But it often seemed people loved to ask him questions but hadn’t much interest in his answers.
‘I must speak to Father Yarvi.’ Skifr curled back her lips to show her teeth and barked the words. ‘Then I will go to war!’
Ashes
Uthil’s fleet made ready to spit in the High King’s face.
A red-haired Throvenlander stood tall on a rock, bellowing verses from the Lay of Ashenleer with little tune but lots of vigour, that old fighter’s favourite where the queen’s closest prepare to die gloriously in battle. All around men mouthed along with the often-mouthed words as they gave blades final licks with the whetstone, plucked at bowstrings and hauled buckles tight.
You’d think fighting men would prefer songs about warriors who lived gloriously through a battle to die old and fat and rich, but there’s fighting men for you, not much they do makes sense, once you think on it. One reason Raith tried never to think if he could avoid it.
They’d stripped any useless weight from the ships, supplies left heaped on the shore to make space for more fighters. Some men had chosen to wear mail, for fear of blade or arrow. Some to leave it, for fear of being dragged down into Mother Sea’s cold embrace. A bleak choice that, a madman’s gamble with everything you’ll ever have. But war’s made of such choices.
Every man dug up his own courage his own way. They forced out under-funny jokes and over-ready laughter, or made bets on who’d make the most corpses, or set out how their goods should be shared if they went through the Last Door before nightfall. Some clutched at holy signs and women’s favours, hugged each other, slapped each other, roared defiance and brotherhood in one another’s faces. Others stood silent, staring out at glimmering Mother Sea where their dooms would soon be written.
Raith was ready. He’d been ready for hours. For days. Ever since they held the moot and Skara voted along with Uthil to fight.
So he turned his back on the men, frowning towards the charred ruins of the town above the beach and drawing in deep the smell of salt and smoke. Funny, how you never enjoy your breaths until you feel your last one coming.
‘It was called Valso.’
‘Eh?’ asked Raith, looking round.
‘The town.’ Blue Jenner combed his beard over to the left with his fingers, then the right, then back. ‘There was a good market here. Lambs in the spring. Slaves in the autumn. Sleepy most of the time, but it got rowdy when the men came back from raiding. Spent a few wild nights at a hall here.’ He nodded towards a teetering chimney stack still standing among a mess of scorched beams. ‘Think that might’ve been it. Sung some songs there with men mostly dead now.’
‘Got a fine voice, do you?’
Jenner snorted. ‘When I’m drunk I think I do.’
‘Reckon there’ll be no songs sung there now.’ Raith wondered how many families had made their homes in those burned-out houses. In the ones he’d seen all down the coast of Throvenland as they’d sailed west. Farm after farm, village after village, town after town, turned to ghosts and ashes.
Raith worked the fingers of his left hand, feeling that old ache through the knuckles. The gods knew, he’d set some fires himself. He’d stared in awed joy as the flames leapt up into the night and made him feel powerful as a god. He’d boasted of it, puffed himself up with Gorm’s approval. The ashes were one of the many things he chose not to think about. The ashes, and the folk who’d lost everything, and the folk dead and burned. You can’t choose your dreams, though. They say the gods send you the ones you deserve.
‘Bright Yilling surely loves to burn,’ said Jenner.
‘What can you expect?’ grunted Raith. ‘Worships Death, doesn’t he?’
‘It’d be a good thing to send him to meet her.’
‘This is a war. Best leave good out of it.’
‘You usually do.’
He grinned at the voice, so like his own, and turned to see his brother swaggering through the Black Dog’s crew. ‘If it ain’t the great Rakki, shield-bearer to Grom-gil-Gorm. Who’s the king got carrying his sword now?’
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.’