Joe Abercrombie - Half a War

‘And curse us all?’ snarled Mother Scaer. ‘Have you lost your minds?’

‘I yet have mine.’ King Uthil had calmly risen, calmly walked to Asborn’s corpse, calmly squatted beside it. ‘The great warrior is the one who still breathes when the crows feast. The great king is the one who watches the carcasses of his enemies burn.’ He pushed his little finger into the neat hole in Asborn’s forehead, and the mad fire that had seemed burned out was bright again in his eyes. ‘Steel must be the answer.’ He pulled his finger free, red, and raised one brow at it. ‘This is but another kind of steel.’

Skara closed her eyes, gripping tight to the arms of her chair. Tried to still her heaving breath and her churning stomach and smother her horror. Horror at seeing magic. Horror at seeing a prisoner murdered before her eyes. Horror that she was the only one who seemed to care. She had to be brave. Had to be clever. Had to be strong.

‘I say it should stay sheathed lest it cut us all,’ Gorm was saying.

‘I say it should be sheathed in Bright Yilling’s heart!’ snarled Thorn.

‘We can all see you are grief-mad,’ snapped Mother Scaer. ‘Elf-magic? Think what you are saying! We risk another Breaking of God! And with a traitor among us!’

‘A traitor who made Thorlby burn,’ barked Thorn, ‘as you’ve dreamed of doing for years! A traitor working for the High King, who you’d make peace with!’

‘Think carefully before you accuse me, you unnatural-’

Skara forced her eyes open. ‘We all have made sacrifices!’ she shouted. ‘We all have lost friends, homes, families. We must stand united or Grandmother Wexen will crush us each alone!’

‘We have challenged the High King’s authority,’ said Father Yarvi, ‘and that is all he has. All he is. He cannot turn back and neither can we. We have chosen our path.’

‘You have chosen it for us,’ snapped Mother Scaer. ‘One bloody step at a time! And it leads straight to our destruction.’

Skifr barked out a laugh. ‘You were fumbling your way there well enough without me, my doves. Always there are risks. Always there are costs. But I have shown you forbidden magic and Mother Sun still rises.’

‘We rule because men trust us,’ said Gorm. ‘What will this do to their trust?’

‘You rule because men fear you,’ said Father Yarvi. ‘With weapons such as these their fear will be all the greater.’

Scaer gave a hiss. ‘This is evil, Father Yarvi.’

‘I fear it is the lesser evil, Mother Scaer. Glorious victories make fine songs, but inglorious ones are no worse once the bards are done with them. Glorious defeats, meanwhile, are just defeats.’

‘We need time to consider,’ said Skara, holding out her palms as if to calm a pack of fighting dogs.

‘Not too long.’ Skifr darted out one hand, catching a dried-up leaf as it whirled past. ‘The sands slip through the glass and Bright Yilling marches ever closer. Will you do what you must to beat him? Or will you let him beat you?’ She crushed the leaf as she turned away and, holding her hand high, let the dust blow on the breeze. ‘If you ask me, my doves, that is no choice at all!’

‘There’ll be no peace,’ growled Thorn Bathu, hauling the chain over her shoulder. ‘Not while Bright Yilling and I both live. That I promise you!’ And she turned to follow Skifr, the heels of Asborn’s corpse leaving two grooves in the grass as she dragged the murdered man after her.

Gorm slowly stood, a heavy frown on his battle-worn face. ‘Let us have a great moot at sunrise tomorrow, then, where we will decide the future of our alliance. The future of the whole Shattered Sea, perhaps.’

King Uthil was the next to rise. ‘We have much to discuss, Father Yarvi.’

‘We do, my king, but I must speak to Queen Skara first.’

‘Very well.’ Uthil twitched his naked sword up into the crook of his arm. ‘While I try to stop Thorn Bathu killing every Vansterman in the world searching for traitors. Send a bird to Queen Laithlin. Tell her to kiss my son from me.’ He turned away towards Bail’s Point. ‘Tell her I fear I will be late to dinner.’

Skara waited until King Uthil was gone and Mother Scaer had stalked away bitterly shaking her shaved head before she spoke. ‘You knew this moment would come.’ She carefully turned the pieces about until they fitted together in her mind. ‘That is why you wanted me to summon only the six of us here. So that this business of elf-relics could not leak out.’

‘Not everyone is as … considered as you, my queen.’ Flattery, flattery. She tried not to let it sway her. ‘It is wise to keep the circle tight. Especially if there truly is a traitor amongst us.’

It all made fine sense, but Skara frowned even so. ‘I could tire of finding myself dancing to your tune, Father Yarvi.’

‘It is Grandmother Wexen’s music we all dance to, and I have sworn to stop the piper. You have a great decision to make, my queen.’

‘One follows hard upon another.’

‘That is the cost of power.’ Yarvi stared down at the bloodstained grass, and for a moment he seemed to be struggling with some sickness of his own. ‘Forgive me. I just learned as good a man as I ever knew is dead. Sometimes it is hard … to pick the right thing.’

‘Sometimes there is no right thing.’ Skara tried to imagine what her grandfather would have done in her place. What advice Mother Kyre would have given her. But she had been taught no lessons for this. She was far out on uncharted seas, with a storm coming and no stars to steer by. ‘What should I do, Father Yarvi?’

‘A wise man once told me that a king must win, the rest is dust. It is no different for a queen. Take Skifr’s offer. Without something to tip the scales, the High King will sweep us all aside. Grandmother Wexen will take no pity on you. The people of Throvenland will not be spared. Bright Yilling will not thank you for your forbearance. Ask yourself what he would do in your place.’

Skara could not stop herself from shuddering at that. ‘So I must become Bright Yilling?’

‘Let Father Peace shed tears over the methods. Mother War smiles upon results.’

‘And when the war is over?’ she whispered. ‘What kind of peace will we have won?’

‘You want to be merciful. To stand in the light. I understand it. I admire it. But, my queen …’ Father Yarvi stepped close, and held her eye, and spoke softly. ‘Only the victors can be merciful.’

There was no choice at all. She had known it since Skifr worked her magic. Looking into Father Yarvi’s face she knew that he had known it too. He had seen it from far off, and twitched their course towards it so gently she had thought she held the steering oar. But she knew also that as the High King’s army drew closer, her borrowed power was slipping away. This might be her last vote. She had to win something for her grandfather, for her people, for Throvenland. For herself.

‘I have a price.’ She looked towards the battlements of Bail’s Point, black against the white sky. ‘You must convince King Uthil to fight Bright Yilling here.’

Father Yarvi gave Skara a searching stare. As though he could dig out her intentions with his eyes. Perhaps he could. ‘He will be reluctant to fight so far from home. Gorm even more so.’

‘Then I will speak to Mother Scaer, and see what she can offer for a vote against you.’ Skara waved one hand towards the elf-walls looming over her mother’s howe. ‘There is no stronger fortress anywhere. If we hold it, Bright Yilling will have to come to us. Because of his pride. Because he cannot march past and leave us free behind him. We will fix the High King’s men here, all in one place. We will be the shield on which Grandmother Wexen’s strength will break. You will be free to find your weapons …’ She tried not to let her revulsion show as she glanced towards the bloodied grass where Asborn had fallen. ‘When you return we can crush Bright Yilling’s army in one throw.’