Joe Abercrombie: Half a War

Fror slipped into the clearing. One hand gripped his heavy axe. With the other he gently undid the buckle on the captain’s gold-trimmed helmet. It was a fine one, and would fetch a fine price.

‘You will be sorry for this,’ breathed the captain, blood on his lips and his grey hair stuck to his sweating forehead.

Fror slowly nodded. ‘I am sorry already.’ And he struck the captain on the crown and knocked him over with his arms spread wide.

‘You can let me up now,’ said Father Yarvi, patting Koll on the side. He realized he’d covered the minister with his body as a mother might her baby in a storm.

‘You couldn’t tell me the plan?’ he asked, scrambling up.

‘You cannot give away what you do not know.’

‘You don’t trust me to act a part?’

‘Trust is like glass,’ said Rulf, swinging his great horn bow over his shoulder and helping Yarvi up with one broad hand. ‘Lovely, but only a fool rests lots of weight on it.’

Hardened warriors of Gettland and Vansterland had surrounded the clearing on every side, and Mother Adwyn cut a lonely figure in their midst. Koll almost felt sorry for her, but he knew it would do neither of them the least good.

‘It seems my treachery was better than yours,’ said Yarvi. ‘Twice, now, your mistress has tried to cut me from the world, yet here I stand.’

‘Treachery is what you are known for, spider.’ Mother Adwyn spat purple bark-juice at his feet. ‘What of your sacred ground of Father Peace?’

Yarvi shrugged. ‘Oh, he is a forgiving god. But it may be wise to hang you from these trees and slit your throat as an offering, just in case.’

‘Do it, then,’ she hissed.

‘Mercy shows more power than murder. Go back to Grandmother Wexen. Thank her for the information you have given me, it will be useful.’ He gestured towards the dead men, already being trussed by the feet to be hung from the branches of the sacred grove. ‘Thank her for these rich offerings to the Tall Gods, no doubt they will appreciate them.’

Father Yarvi jerked close to her, lips curled back, and Mother Adwyn’s mask slipped, and Koll saw her fear. ‘But tell the First of Minsters I piss on her offer! I swore an oath to be avenged on the killers of my father. A sun-oath and a moon-oath. Tell Grandmother Wexen that while she and I both live, there will be no peace.’

‘I’ll kill you, you half-haired bitch!’ snarled Raith, spraying spit as he went for her. Rakki caught his left arm and Soryorn his right and between them they managed to wrestle him back. They’d had plenty of practice at it, after all.

Thorn Bathu didn’t move. Unless you counted the jaw muscles clenching on the shaved side of her head.

‘Let’s all just calm down,’ said her husband, Brand, waving his open palms like a shepherd trying to still a nervous flock. ‘We’re meant to be allies, aren’t we?’ He was a big, strong cow of a man, no edge to him at all. ‘Let’s just … just stand in the light a moment.’

Raith let everyone know how much he thought of that idea by twisting far enough free of his brother to spit in Brand’s face. He missed, sadly, but the point was made.

Thorn curled her lip. ‘Reckon this dog needs putting down.’

Everyone’s got their sore spots, and that tickled Raith’s. He went limp, let his head drop sideways, showing his teeth in a lazy grin as his eyes drifted across to Brand. ‘Maybe I’ll kill this coward wife of yours instead?’

He’d always had a trick for starting fights, and wasn’t half bad at finishing them either, but nothing could’ve made him ready for how fast Thorn came at him.

‘You’re dead, you milk-haired bastard!’

Raith jerked away, near-dragging his brother and Soryorn down in a shocked tangle together on the dockside. Took three Gettlanders to drag her off — the sour old master-at-arms, Hunnan, the bald old helmsman, Rulf, and Brand with his scarred forearm wrapped around her neck. All strong men, straining at the effort, and even then her stray fist landed a good cuff on the top of Raith’s head.

‘Peace!’ snarled Brand as he struggled to wrestle his thrashing wife back. ‘For the gods’ sake, peace!’

But no one was in the mood. There were others growling insults now, Gettlanders and Vanstermen both. Raith saw knuckles white on sword hilts, heard the scrape as Soryorn eased his knife free of its sheath. He could smell the violence coming, far worse than he’d planned on. But there’s violence for you. It rarely keeps to the patch you mark out for it. Wouldn’t be violence if it did.

Raith bared his teeth — half-snarl, half-smile — the fire coming up in his chest, the breath ripping hot at his throat, every muscle tensing.

Could’ve been a battle for the songs right then on the rain-damp docks of Thorlby if Grom-gil-Gorm hadn’t come shoving through the angry press like a huge bull through a crowd of bleating goats.

‘Enough!’ roared the King of Vansterland. ‘What shameful pecking of little birds is this?’

The hubbub died. Raith shook off his brother, grinning his wolf’s grin, and Thorn tore free of her husband, growling curses. No doubt Brand had an uncomfortable night ahead, but it had all worked out well enough to Raith’s mind. He’d come to fight, after all, and wasn’t too bothered who with.

The glaring Gettlanders shifted to let King Uthil through, his drawn sword cradled in his arm. Raith hated him, of course. A good Vansterman had to hate the King of Gettland. But otherwise he seemed very much a man to admire, hard and grey as an iron bar and every bit as unbending, renowned for many victories and few words, a mad brightness to his sunken eyes that said he had only a cold space where the gods usually put a man’s mercy.

‘I am disappointed, Thorn Bathu,’ he grated out in a voice rough as millstones. ‘I expected better from you.’

‘I’m all regret, my king,’ she growled, glaring daggers at Raith, and then at Brand, who winced like daggers from his wife was far from a novelty.

‘I expected no better.’ Grom-gil-Gorm raised one black brow at Raith. ‘But at least hoped for it.’

‘We should let ’em insult us, my king?’ snapped Raith.

‘A little insult must be suffered if one is to maintain an alliance,’ came Mother Scaer’s dry voice.

‘And our alliance is a ship on stormy seas,’ said Father Yarvi, with that honeyed smile of his that cried out for a headbutt. ‘Sink it with squabbling and we surely all will drown alone.’

Raith growled at that. He hated ministers and their two-tongued talk of Father Peace and greater good. To his mind there was no problem you couldn’t best solve by putting your fist through it.

‘A Vansterman never forgets an insult.’ Gorm wedged his thumbs among the knives bristling from his belt. ‘But I have a thirst upon me, and since we are the guests …’ He drew himself up, the chain made from the pommels of his beaten enemies shifting as his great chest swelled. ‘I, Grom-gil-Gorm, Breaker of Swords and Maker of Orphans, King of Vansterland and favourite son of Mother War … will go second into the city.’

His warriors grumbled bitterly. An hour they’d wasted arguing over who’d go first and now the battle was lost. Their king would take the place of less honour, so they’d have less honour and, gods, they were prickly over their honour.

‘A wise choice,’ said Uthil, narrowing his eyes. ‘But expect no gifts for making it.’

‘The wolf needs no gifts from the sheep,’ said Gorm, glowering back. King Uthil’s closest warriors swaggered past, gilded cloak-buckles and sword-hilts and ring-money gleaming, swollen to new heights of undeserved arrogance, and Raith showed his teeth and spat at their feet.