‘Yes, and I was properly terrified then too.’
‘Madmen and fools feel no fear. Heroes fear and face the danger anyway.’
‘Could I be none of the three and go home?’ muttered Koll.
‘There can be no going back,’ snapped Mother Scaer over her shoulder, shifting the elf-relic under her coat.
‘Have no fear, friend.’ Dosduvoi hoisted the pole he carried a little higher, the South Wind’s prow-beast mounted at the top. ‘We have a minister’s dove to keep the shafts off.’
‘A pretty enough piece of carving,’ said Koll, flinching at a flicker of movement on the battlements, ‘but a little slender for stopping arrows.’
‘The purpose of a minister’s dove,’ hissed Father Yarvi over his shoulder, ‘is to stop the arrows being shot at all. Now be still.’
‘Halt there!’ came a shrill command, and their party clattered to a stop. ‘Three dozen bows are upon you!’
Father Yarvi puffed out his chest as if offering it as a good home for arrows, though Koll noticed he kept his elf-metal staff gripped tight in his good hand.
‘Put away your weapons!’ His voice could not have been steadier if he was the one atop the wall. ‘We are ministers, come to speak for Father Peace!’
‘You have armed men with you too!’
‘We will speak for Mother War if we must, and in voices of thunder.’ Father Yarvi gestured towards the armed men spreading out through the muddy fields around the city. ‘The warriors of Gettland and Throvenland surround your walls. The Breaker of Swords himself approaches from the sea. And behind us on the hill the sorceress Skifr watches. She whose magic laid low the High King’s army. She waits for my word. That you will agree to terms, and can have peace.’ Yarvi let his arms drop. ‘Or that you will not, and can have what Bright Yilling had.’
When the voice came the challenge had all drained away. ‘You are Father Yarvi.’
‘I am, and I have Mother Scaer of Vansterland with me.’
‘My name is Utnir. I am elected to speak for the people of Skekenhouse.’
‘Greetings, Utnir. I hope we can save some lives between us. Where is Grandmother Wexen?’
‘She has sealed herself in the Tower of the Ministry.’
‘And the High King?’
‘He has not been seen since news came of the defeat at Bail’s Point.’
‘Every victory is someone’s defeat,’ muttered Koll.
‘Just as every hero is someone’s villain,’ said Rulf.
‘Your leaders have abandoned you!’ called out Mother Scaer.
‘Best you abandon them,’ said Father Yarvi, ‘before they drag all of Skekenhouse through the Last Door with them.’
Another pause, perhaps the muttering of voices above, and a chill breeze whipped up and made the long banners flap against the elf-stone.
‘There is a rumour you have made an alliance with the Shends,’ came Utnir’s voice.
‘So I have. I am an old friend of their high priestess, Svidur. If you resist us, I will give the city to her, and when it falls its citizens will be slaughtered or made slaves.’
‘We had no part in the war! We are not your enemies!’
‘Prove yourself our friends, then, and play your part in the peace.’
‘We hear you spoke fine words before Bright Yilling. Why should we trust you?’
‘Bright Yilling was a mad dog who worshipped Death. He murdered King Fynn and his minister. He burned women and children in Thorlby. Over his end I shed no tears and harbour no regrets.’ Father Yarvi lifted his withered hand, his voice firm and his face open. ‘But I am a minister, and stand for Father Peace. If you wish to walk in his footsteps you will find me there beside you. Open the gates to us, and I swear a sun-oath and a moon-oath that I will do all I can to safeguard the lives and property of the people of Skekenhouse.’
After all the blood spilled it made Koll proud to see his master making of the fist an open hand. More voices whispered above, but finally Utnir seemed satisfied. Or satisfied he had no choice, at least. ‘Very well! We will give the keys to the city into the hands of your men!’
‘History will thank you!’ called Father Yarvi.
Koll realized he’d been holding his breath, and let it out in a cheek-puffing sigh. Mother Scaer gave a grunt in her throat, and shrugged her coat closed. Dosduvoi leaned down to Koll, grinning. ‘I told you the dove would keep the arrows off.’
‘I think Father Yarvi’s words were our shield today,’ he answered.
The minister himself was drawing Rulf into a huddle. ‘Gather your best-behaved men and take command of the gates.’
‘I’ve not many left,’ said Rulf. ‘Some of those that were on the South Wind with us have fallen sick.’
‘Those that rowed to Strokom?’ muttered Koll.
Father Yarvi ignored him. ‘Use what you have and see the defenders disarmed. I want good discipline and good treatment for all.’
‘Yes, Father Yarvi,’ said the old helmsman, turning to beckon men forward with one broad hand.
‘Then give the city to the Shends.’
Rulf looked back at him, eyes wide. ‘You’re sure?’
‘They demand vengeance for all the High King’s raids upon them. I gave my word to Svidur that she could have the city first. But let Thorn Bathu and Grom-gil-Gorm have their pieces of it too. That is the lesser evil.’
‘You swore an oath,’ muttered Koll, as Rulf walked off to give the orders, shaking his bald head.
‘I swore an oath to do all I can. I can do nothing.’
‘But these people-’
Yarvi caught Koll’s shirt with his withered hand. ‘Did these people complain when Yaletoft burned?’ he snarled. ‘Or Thorlby? When King Fynn was killed? Or Brand? No. They cheered Bright Yilling on. Now let them pay the price.’ He smoothed Koll’s shirt gently as he let him go. ‘Remember. Power means having one shoulder always in the shadows.’
End of the Rope
Father Yarvi might’ve said no fires, but something was burning somewhere.
The smoke was a faint haze that turned day in the streets of Skekenhouse to muddy dusk. It scratched at Raith’s throat. Made every breath an effort. Shapes moved in the murk. Running figures. The looters or the looted.
Strange how smells can bring the memories rushing up so clear. The stink of burning snatched Raith back to that village on the border between Vansterland and Gettland. Halleby, had they called it? That one they’d torched for nothing, and Raith drowned a man in a pig trough. It’d seemed a fine thing to do at the time. He’d boasted of it afterwards and Grom-gil-Gorm had laughed with his warriors and called him a bloody little bastard, and smiled to have so vicious a dog on his leash.
Now Raith’s mouth was sour with fear and his heart thud-thudding in his aching head and his palm all tacky around the grip of his axe. He startled at a crash somewhere, a long scream more like an animal than a man, spun about straining into the gloom.
Maybe he should’ve been giving thanks to Mother War that he stood with the winners. That’s what he used to tell his brother, wasn’t it, when Rakki shook his head over the ashes? But if there was a right side, it was hard to imagine Thorn Bathu’s crew of killers on it.
It was a vicious crowd he’d joined up with, bright-eyed like foxes, slinking like wolves, their persons neglected but their weapons lavished with gleaming care. Most were Gettlanders, but Thorn welcomed anyone with a score to settle and no qualms over how they went about it. Raith didn’t even know the names of most of them. They were nothing to each other, bound together only by hate. Men who’d lost families or friends. Men who’d lost themselves and had nothing left but taking from others what’d been taken from them.
Some dragged folk from their houses while others crashed through inside, smashing chests and slitting mattresses and turning over furniture, supposedly to find hidden treasure but really just for the joy of breaking. The victims fought no more than sheep dragged to the slaughter-pen. Used to surprise Raith, that they didn’t fight. Used to disgust him. Now he understood it all too well. He’d no fight left himself.