Joe Abercrombie - Half a War

‘Not hard enough, it seems.’ He glanced sideways at her. ‘You told me you knew enough magic to do much harm, but not enough to do much good.’

‘This is a war. I came to do harm.’

‘That isn’t very reassuring.’

‘No.’

‘Where did you learn magic?’

‘I cannot say.’

‘Cannot or will not?’

‘Cannot and will not.’

Koll sighed. Every answer she gave seemed to leave him knowing less. ‘Can you really take us safely into Strokom?’

‘Take you into Strokom? Yes. Safely?’ She shrugged her shoulders.

‘That isn’t very reassuring either.’

‘No.’

‘Will we find weapons there?’

‘More than Mother War herself could make use of.’

‘And if we use them … do we risk another Breaking of God?’

‘As long as we break Grandmother Wexen, I will be satisfied.’

‘That’s less reassuring than ever.’

Skifr stared out towards the grey sea. ‘If you suppose I came here to reassure you, you are very much mistaken.’

‘Why is nothing ever easy?’ Father Yarvi was frowning at the long ramp of pitted elf-stone that led to the yard of the fortress. A lean figure was coming down it. A tall, shaven-headed figure with elf-bangles stacked up her tattooed arm. ‘Mother Scaer, what a surprise! I thought you wanted no part of this madness?’

The Minister of Vansterland turned her head and spat. ‘I want no one to have any part of this madness, but my king has chosen his path. My place is to make sure he walks it to victory. That is why I am coming with you.’

‘Your company will be a delight.’ Yarvi stepped close to her. ‘As long as you mean to help me. Stand in my way, you will regret it.’

‘We understand one another, then,’ said Mother Scaer, curling her lip.

‘We always have.’

Koll sighed to himself. What better foundation for an alliance than mutual hatred and suspicion?

‘To your oars, then!’ called Rulf. ‘I’m getting no younger!’

It was a beautiful morning in late summer, Mother Sun making last night’s rain glitter like jewels in the grass.

‘This is our weakest point,’ said Raith.

It took no great warrior to see that. The northeastern corner of the fortress had been sliced away by the Breaking of God as if by a giant knife, and kings of the distant past had built a tower to plug the gap. It was an ill-made and neglected thing, its roof fallen in and birds swarming on the dropping-caked rafters, the man-built stretch of wall beside it bowing outwards, shored up with crumbling bastions.

‘Gudrun’s Tower,’ murmured Skara.

‘How did it get the name?’ asked Mother Owd.

Skara had been greatly annoyed when Mother Kyre taught her the story but, like most of the minister’s lessons, she found she remembered it well enough. ‘Princess Gudrun was the granddaughter of a king of Throvenland.’

‘A poor start,’ grunted Mother Owd. She tended to be grumpy in the mornings. ‘Still, I know a few of those who turned out well.’

‘Not this one. She fell in love with a stable-boy.’

‘That was rash.’

‘I suppose love falls where it falls.’

Mother Owd raised one brow. ‘Generally one can see it toppling from afar, and make an effort to get out of the way.’

‘Well Gudrun didn’t. Throvenland had three kings in those days, and her grandfather promised her to one of the others. She tried to run away, so he hung her lover from that tower and locked her in the top of it until she learned her duty.’

Mother Owd scratched at the loose bun her hair was gathered into. ‘I’m having trouble seeing where the happy ending will come from.’

‘It won’t. Gudrun flung herself from the battlements and died in the ditch.’

‘Let’s hope we don’t all end up following her example,’ said Raith.

‘Killing ourselves for love?’ asked Skara.

‘Dying in the ditch.’

Raith had seemed grim lately, even for him, and though she hardly needed to look further than the approach of ten thousand armed enemies to explain anyone’s bad mood, Skara wondered if her deal with Gorm could be behind it. She was far from all delight at that herself, but there was nothing to be done. She gave a weary sigh. There were bigger things to worry about than anyone’s feelings, even her own.

The sound of hoofbeats drew her eyes and she saw riders spilling from the gate. Two hundred or more horses in a fast-moving column, earth showering as they thundered past the men still digging the ditch deeper and across the muddied ground where Gorm and Uthil’s camps had been pitched.

Blue Jenner was striding up the gentle rise towards them and Skara called out to him. ‘Whoever doesn’t want to stay for what’s coming?’

‘Thorn Bathu,’ said Jenner, turning to watch the riders pass. ‘But only because Bright Yilling isn’t getting here fast enough for her taste. She’s taking two hundred of Gettland’s bloodiest to hurt him however she can.’

‘That could be quite a lot of hurt,’ murmured Skara, watching the riders stream out of the long shadow of Bail’s Point, through the deserted village and away to the north.

‘We’ve no fodder for the horses in any case, my queen.’ Jenner stopped beside them, hands planted on his hips. ‘There isn’t too much fodder for the men. Bright Yilling burned most of the farms within a hundred miles and picked clean most of the rest. Uthil and Gorm reckon only a thousand men can stay. Those with families to worry over and harvests to bring in will be taking ship north to Thorlby and beyond.’

Skara blinked at that. ‘We’ll be outnumbered ten to one.’

‘The longer the odds the greater the glory,’ muttered Raith. ‘Or so I’ve heard …’

‘It’ll be picked warriors who remain.’ Jenner tried as usual to plot an optimistic course. ‘And plenty to man the walls until Father Yarvi comes back. Four hundred Vanstermen, four hundred Gettlanders, a hundred smiths, cooks, servants. A hundred of ours.’

‘We have that many willing to stay?’

‘There’s five times that many willing to die for you, my queen, and I can pick a hundred who’ll kill a few of the High King’s men doing it.’

‘I’m humbled,’ said Skara, ‘truly. But you shouldn’t be one of them. You’ve already done far more than-’

Blue Jenner snorted. ‘Oh, I’m staying and that deal’s done. I’ve promised my crew a hell of a pay-off when you beat the High King. If I don’t deliver I’ll look quite the fool. You should go, though.’

Her turn to snort. ‘How can I expect others to risk their lives if I won’t?’

‘My queen,’ said Mother Owd, ‘your blood is worth more to Throvenland than-’

‘I am a queen in my own fortress. The only person who can give me orders is the High King, and since I am in open rebellion against him, you are out of luck. I stay, and that is all.’

‘Then I stay too.’ Mother Owd sighed. ‘A healer’s place is among the wounded. A minister’s place is beside her queen.’

Skara felt a rush of gratitude that almost brought tears to her eyes. They were hardly the advisors she would have picked but she would not have traded them for anyone now. ‘The gods may have taken my grandfather.’ Skara put one arm around Mother Owd, and one around Blue Jenner, and hugged them tight. ‘But they sent me two pillars to lean upon.’

Mother Owd frowned down at herself. ‘I am a little squat for a pillar.’

‘You hold me up admirably even so. Now go.’ Skara pushed them off towards the fortress. ‘Pick me the hundred warriors who’ll kick Bright Yilling hardest in his balls.’

‘We’ll pick ’em, my queen,’ said Blue Jenner, grinning back. ‘And find ’em the heaviest boots we can.’