Joe Abercrombie - Half the World

“Where else? Fight!”

With a growl Thorn set to work, but with so little space all she could do was jab at him. It was easy for Brand to fend her efforts off with his shield, pushing her back a quarter-step each time.

“Don’t tickle him!” barked Skifr, “Kill him!”

Thorn’s eyes darted about for an opening but Brand gave her no room, easing forward, herding her toward the end of the wharf. She came at him with her usual savagery, their shields clashing, grating, but he was ready, used his weight to doggedly shove her back. She snarled and spat, her boots scraping at the mossy boards, flailed at him with her sword but the blows were weak.

It was inevitable. With a despairing cry Thorn toppled off the end of the wharf and splashed into the welcoming arms of Mother Sea. Brand winced after her, very much doubting this would make a year of rowing beside her any easier.

Kalyiv was a long, long way off, but it was starting to seem farther than ever.

The crew chuckled to each other over the result. Koll, who’d shinned up to the South Wind ’s yard as usual in spite of his mother’s warnings, whooped from above.

Skifr put long finger and thumb to her temples and gently rubbed at them. “Inauspicious.”

Thorn flung her shield onto the wharf and dragged herself up by a barnacle-crusted ladder, soaked to the skin and white with fury.

“You seem distressed,” said Skifr. “Is the test not fair?”

Thorn forced through her clenched teeth, “The battlefield is not fair.”

“Such wisdom in one so young!” Skifr offered out Thorn’s fallen practice sword. “Another go?”

The second time she went into the sea even faster. The third she ended up on her back tangled with the South Wind ’s oars. The fourth she beat at Brand’s shield so hard she broke off the end of her practice sword. Then he barged her off the wharf again.

By now a merry crowd had gathered on the docks to watch. Some crew from their ship, some crew from others, some folk from the town come to laugh at the girl being knocked into the sea. There was even some lively betting on the result.

“Let’s stop,” begged Brand. “Please.” The only outcomes he could see were enraging her further or going into the sea himself, and neither particularly appealed.

“Damn your please!” snarled Thorn, setting herself for another round. No doubt she’d still have been tumbling into the sea by the light of Father Moon if she’d been given the chance, but Skifr steered her broken sword down with a gentle fingertip.

“I think you have entertained the good folk of Roystock enough. You are tall and you are strong.”

Thorn stuck her jaw out. “Stronger than most men.”

“Stronger than most boys in the training square, but …” Skifr flopped one lazy hand out toward Brand. “What is the lesson?”

Thorn spat on the boards, and wiped a little stray spit from her chin, and kept sullen silence.

“Do you like the taste of salt so much you wish to try him again?” Skifr walked to Brand and seized him by the arms. “Look at his neck. Look at his shoulders. What is the lesson?”

“That he is stronger.” Fror stood with his forearms dangling over the South Wind ’s rail, rag and block in his hands. Might’ve been the first time Brand had heard him speak.

“Exactly so!” called Skifr. “I daresay this tight-lipped Vansterman knows battle. How did you get that scar, my dove?”

“I was milking a reindeer and she fell on me,” said Fror. “She was ever so sorry afterward, but the damage was done.” And Brand wondered if he winked his misshapen eye.

“Truly a hero’s mark, then,” grunted Thorn, curling her lip.

Fror shrugged. “Someone must bring in the milk.”

“And someone must hold my coat.” Skifr whipped off her cloak of rags and tossed it to him.

She was lean as a whip, narrow-waisted as a wasp, wound about with strips of cloth, coiled with belts and straps, bristling with knives and hooks, pouches and picks, scrags, rods, papers and devices Brand could not guess at the purpose of.

“Have you never seen a grandmother without her cloak before?” And from behind her back she brought an ax with a shaft of dark wood and a thin, bearded blade. A beautiful weapon, snakes of strange letters etched into the bright steel. She held up her other hand, thumb folded in and fingers pressed together. “Here is my sword. A blade fit for the songs, no? Put me in the sea, boy, if you can.”

Skifr began to move. It was a baffling performance, lurching like a drunkard, floppy as a doll, and she swung that ax back and forth, knocking the boards and striking splinters. Brand watched her over his shield’s rim, trying to find some pattern to it, but he’d no idea where her next footstep might fall. So he waited for the ax to swing wide, then aimed a cautious swipe at her.

He could hardly believe how fast she moved. His wooden blade missed her by a hair as she darted in, caught the rim of his shield with that hooked ax and dragged it away, slipped past his sword arm and jabbed him hard in the chest with her fingertips, making him grunt and stagger back on his heels.

“You are dead,” she said.

The ax flashed down and Brand jerked his shield up to meet it. But the blow never came. Instead he winced as Skifr’s fingers jabbed him in the groin, and looking down saw her smirking face beneath the bottom rim of his shield.

“You are dead twice.”

He tried to barge her away but he might as well have barged the breeze. She somehow slipped around him, fingers jabbing under his ear and making his whole side throb.

“Dead.”

She chopped him in the kidneys with the edge of her hand as he tried to turn.

“Dead.”

He reeled around, teeth bared, sword flashing at neck height but she was gone. Something trapped his ankle, turning his war cry to a gurgle of shock, and he kept spinning, balance gone, lurching off the edge of the wharf-

He stopped, choking as something caught him around the neck.

“You are the deadest boy in Roystock.”

Skifr had one foot on his heel, the bearded blade of her ax hooked into his collar to keep him from falling, leaning sharply away to balance his weight. He was held helpless, teetering over the cold sea. The watching crowd had fallen silent, almost as dumbstruck at Skifr’s display as Brand was.

“You will not beat a strong man with strength any more than I will beat you with youth,” Skifr hissed at Thorn. “You must be quicker to strike and quicker when you do. You must be tougher and cleverer, you must always look to attack, and you must fight without honor, without conscience, without pity. Do you understand?”

Thorn slowly nodded. Of all those in the training square, she’d been the one who hated most being taught. But she’d been the one quickest to learn.

“Whatever happened here?” Dosduvoi had strolled up and stood staring at Brand as he dangled spluttering over the water.

“They’re training,” called Koll, who’d leaned out from the mast to flip a copper coin nimbly across his knuckles. “Why are you back so soon?”

“I lost terribly at dice.” He rubbed sadly at his great forearm, where a couple of silver rings had gone missing. “Awful luck, it was.”

Skifr gave a disgusted hiss. “Those with bad luck should at least attempt to balance it with good sense.” She twisted her wrist. The ax blade tore through Brand’s shirt collar and it was his turn to plunge flailing into cold water. His turn to drag himself up the ladder. His turn to stand dripping under the scorn of the crowd.

He found he enjoyed his turn even less than he had Thorn’s.

The Vansterman threw Skifr’s ragged cloak back to her. “An impressive performance.”