Joe Abercrombie - Half a War

They all knew Skara would never draw that sword. It was pure theatre, almost ridiculous. Almost, but not quite. For looming over them on the wall was the painted image of Ashenleer victorious, dressed in mail with hair unbound and her sword-bearer kneeling at her side, and Koll looked from the queen of legend to the queen of now and found them uncannily alike.

Father Yarvi’s smile grew wider. ‘Oh, that’s nice.’

Mother Scaer was less impressed. ‘You certainly like to make an entrance,’ she sneered.

‘Forgive me,’ said Skara. ‘I was getting ready to fight !’ She might have been a small woman but she had the voice of a hero. She barked the last word with as much violence as Thorn might have and even Mother Scaer flinched at it.

Koll leaned close to Father Yarvi. ‘I think she’s arrived.’

‘My allies!’ called Skara, voice ringing out in the silence, bright and confident as if she was born to be there. ‘My guests. Kings, ministers and warriors of Gettland and Vansterland!’

Raith risked a glance at those he’d always counted his friends. The Breaker of Swords himself had his eyes fixed on Skara, but Mother Scaer was staring straight at Raith with the most murderous look he’d ever seen on her, and he’d seen some deadly ones. Soryorn had a bitter twist of hatred to his lip. But it was Rakki’s eye he could hardly bear to meet. No anger, just disappointment. The look of a man betrayed by the one he trusted most. Raith looked down at the floor, the breath crawling in his throat.

‘We have a great decision to make today!’ Skara was saying. ‘Whether to use forbidden weapons against the High King’s army or to fall back before him.’

Raith was hardly listening. He was thinking about last night. He’d knelt before her, ready to do it. Then he’d heard her laugh, and his fingers had betrayed him. The cup had dropped, and the poisoned wine had spattered across the floor, and Skara had passed it off with a joke about the quality of king’s cup-fillers, and he’d lain outside her door staring into the darkness all night like the faithful hound he was.

Lain awake, thinking on how he’d doomed himself.

‘I am the Queen of Throvenland!’ called Skara. ‘The blood of Bail flows in my veins. Others might like to run from the High King, but I never will again. I have sworn vengeance against Bright Yilling and I mean to rip it from his carcass. I mean to scream defiance with my last breath! I mean to fight with every weapon.’ She glared across at Mother Scaer. ‘ Every weapon. And I mean to fight here. I will not abandon Throvenland. I will not abandon Bail’s Point.’

All Raith ever wanted was to serve his king, to fight beside his brother, and he’d thrown it away, and could never have it back. He was on his own, like Rakki said. Sword-bearer to a girl without the strength to even draw a sword.

‘What say you, King Uthil?’ she called.

‘I say there cannot be a warrior here not humbled by your resolve, Queen Skara.’ The Iron King smiled, a sight Raith had never thought to see. ‘Death waits for us all. I will be honoured to face her at your side.’

Raith saw Skara swallow as she turned to the Vanstermen.

‘What say you, King Gorm?’

The weight of the mail was crushing her. The heat of it was baking her. Skara had to force herself to stand straight, stand proud, clamp the haughty challenge to her face. She was a queen, damn it. She was a queen, she was a queen, she was a queen …

‘Humbled by your resolve?’ snarled Mother Scaer. ‘There cannot be a warrior here not disgusted by your play-acting. As if you ever drew a sword, let alone swung one in anger! And now you would have us give our lives for your empty kingdom, your empty pride, your-’

‘Enough,’ said Gorm, softly. His dark eyes did not seem to have left Skara since she first entered the hall.

‘But, my king-’

‘Sit,’ said the Breaker of Swords. Mother Scaer ground her teeth with fury, but she dropped down on her stool.

‘You wish me to fight for your fortress,’ said Gorm mildly, in his sing-song voice. ‘To gamble with my life and the lives of my warriors far from home. To face the High King’s numberless army on the promise of elf-magic from a bald witch and a one-handed liar.’ He gave an open, friendly smile. ‘Very well.’

‘My king-’ hissed Mother Scaer, but he raised his hand to quiet her, eyes still on Skara.

‘I will fight for you. Every man of Vansterland will kill for you and die for you. I will be your shield, today, tomorrow, and every day of my life. But I want something in return.’

It was silent as death in the hall. Skara swallowed. ‘Name your price, great king.’

‘You.’

She felt sweat prickle under her borrowed mail. She felt her gorge rising, wanted nothing more than to spray the table with sick, but she doubted Mother Kyre would have considered that the proper response to a king’s proposal of marriage.

‘For a long time I have been searching for a queen,’ said the Breaker of Swords. ‘A woman my equal in cunning and courage. A woman who can make the coins in my treasury breed. A woman who can give me many children to be proud of.’

Skara found herself glancing at Raith, and he stared back, mouth hanging open, but had no more to offer than a sword she could barely lift.

Father Yarvi had turned pale. Plainly this was one development he had not foreseen. ‘Someone who can give you Throvenland,’ he snapped.

Gorm’s chain of dead men’s pommels rattled faintly as he shrugged his great shoulders. ‘Someone who can join Throvenland to Vansterland and help guide both to glory. I want your hand, your blood and your wits, Queen Skara, and in return I offer you mine. I think it a fair trade.’

‘My queen-’ hissed Mother Owd.

‘You can’t-’ said Blue Jenner.

But it was Skara’s turn to still her advisors with a gesture.

It was a shock, but a queen cannot allow a shock to last long. She was not a child any more.

With the Breaker of Swords beside her she might hold Bail’s Point. She might claim vengeance for her grandfather. She might see Bright Yilling dead. With the key of Vansterland around her neck she might win security for her people, might rebuild Yaletoft, might forge a future for Throvenland.

She was sick of coaxing, wheedling, playing one rival off against another. She was tired of her title dangling by a thread. Skara was far from eager to share Grom-gil-Gorm’s bed. But sharing his power, that was something else.

He might be more than twice her size. He might be more than twice her age. He might be scarred, fearsome, ruthless, and as far as it was possible to be from the husband she had dreamed of as a girl. But dreamers must wake. She reckoned it a match Mother Kyre would have approved of. The world is full of monsters, after all. Perhaps the best one can hope for is to have the most terrible on your side.

And it was hardly as if she had a choice. She made herself smile.

‘I accept.’

‘Are you ready?’ asked Father Yarvi, stacking books in a chest. Those favourite books of his, forbidden writings on elf-ruins and elf-relics. ‘We must leave on the next tide.’

‘Entirely ready,’ said Koll. Meaning he was packed. This was a voyage he’d never be ready for.

‘Talk to Rulf. Make sure we have plenty of ale to shore up the crew’s courage. Even with a favourable wind it will be five days down the coast to Furfinge.’

‘One cannot count on a favourable wind,’ murmured Koll.

‘No, indeed. Especially when we cross the straits to Strokom.’

Koll swallowed. He would have liked to put it off until the end of the world, but it would only make things worse, and he did that enough. ‘Father Yarvi …’ Gods, he was a coward. ‘Perhaps … I should stay behind.’