Joe Abercrombie - Half the World

“Like magic!” Koll tossed his coin high but fumbled it on the way back so it flickered down towards the sea.

“Magic?” The old woman darted out a hand to pluck Koll’s coin from the air between finger and thumb. “That was training, and experience, and discipline. Perhaps I will show you magic another day, but let us all hope not.” She flicked the coin spinning far into the air and Koll laughed as he caught it. “Magic has costs you will not wish to pay.”

Skifr shrugged her coat back on with a snapping of cloth. “This style of fighting you have learned,” she said to Thorn, “standing in a row with shield and mail and heavy blade, it does not suit you. It is not meant to suit you.” Skifr dragged the shield from Thorn’s arm and tossed it rattling among the chests on the South Wind . “You will fight with lighter, quicker weapons. You will fight in lighter armor.”

“How will I stand in the shield wall without a shield?”

“Stand?” Skifr’s eyes went wide as cups. “You are a killer, girl! You are the storm, always moving! You rush to meet your enemy, or you trick him into meeting you, and on the ground of your choosing, in the manner of your choosing, you kill him .”

“My father was a famous warrior, he always said-”

“Where is your father?”

Thorn frowned for a moment, mouth half open, then touched her hand to a lump in her damp shirt, and slowly shut it. “Dead.”

“So much for his expertise.” Skifr tossed over the long ax and Thorn plucked it from the air, and weighed it in her hand, and swished it cautiously one way and the other. “What do the letters on the blade mean?”

“They say in five languages, ‘to the fighter everything must be a weapon.’ Good advice, if you are wise enough to take it.”

Thorn nodded, frowning. “I am the storm.”

“As yet, more of a drizzle,” said Skifr. “But we are only beginning.”

The Divine River.

Thorn remembered listening entranced to her father’s stories of journeys up it and down its sister, the Denied, his eyes bright as he whispered of desperate battles against strange peoples, and proud brotherhoods forged in the crucible of danger, and hoards of gold to be won. Ever since she had dreamed of her own voyage, the names of those far places like the words of a magic spell, bursting with power and mystery: the tall hauls, Kalyiv, the First of Cities.

Strange to say, her dreams had not included arse and hands chafed raw from rowing, nor endless clouds of biting midges, nor fog so thick you only got fleeting glimpses of the fabled land, and those of bitter bog and tangled forest, the joys of which were hardly rare in Gettland.

“I was hoping for more excitement,” grunted Thorn.

“So it is with hopes,” muttered Brand.

She was a long way from forgiving him for humiliating her in front of Queen Laithlin, or for all those drops into Roystock’s cold harbor, but she had to give a grim snort of agreement.

“There’ll be excitement enough before we’re back this way,” said Rulf, giving a nudge to the steering oar. “Excitement enough you’ll be begging for boredom. If you live through it.”

Mother Sun was sinking toward the ragged treetops when Father Yarvi ordered the South Wind grounded for the night and Thorn could finally ship her oar, flinging it roughly across Brand’s knees and rubbing at her blistered palms.

They dragged the ship from the water by the prow rope in a stumbling, straining crowd, the ground so boggy it was hard to tell where river ended and earth began.

“Gather some wood for a fire,” called Safrit.

“Dry wood?” asked Koll, kicking through the rotten flotsam clogged on the bank.

“It does tend to burn more easily.”

“Not you, Thorn.” Skifr was leaning on one of the ship’s spare oars, the blade high above her head. “In the day you belong to Rulf, but at dawn and dusk you are mine. Whenever there is light, we must seize every chance to train.”

Thorn squinted at the gloomy sky, huddled low over the gloomy land. “You call this light?”

“Will your enemies wait for morning if they can kill you in the dark?”

“What enemies?”

Skifr narrowed her eyes. “The true fighter must reckon everyone their enemy.”

The sort of thing Thorn used to airily proclaim to her mother. Heard from someone else, it sounded like no fun at all. “When do I rest, then?”

“In the songs of great heroes, do you hear often of resting?”

She watched Safrit tossing flat loaves among the crew, and her mouth flooded with spit. “You sometimes hear of eating.”

“Training on a full stomach is unlucky.”

Even Thorn had precious little fight left after a long day competing with Brand at the oar. But she supposed the sooner they started, the sooner they’d finish. “What do we do?”

“I will try to hit you. You will try not to be hit.”

“With an oar?”

“Why not? To hit and not be hit is the essence of fighting.”

“There’s no way I could work this stuff out on my own,” grunted Thorn.

She didn’t even gasp when Skifr darted out a hand and cuffed her across the cheek. She was getting used to it.

“You will be struck, and when you are, the force of it must not stagger you, the pain of it must not slow you, the shock of it must not cause you to doubt. You must learn to strike without pity. You must learn to be struck without fear.” Skifr lowered the oar so that the blade hovered near Thorn’s chest. “Though I advise you to get out of the way. If you can.”

She certainly tried. Thorn dodged, wove, sprang, rolled, then she stumbled, lurched, slipped, floundered. To begin with she hoped to get around the oar and bring Skifr down, but she soon found just staying out of its way took every grain of wit and energy. The oar darted at her from everywhere, cracked her on the head, on the shoulders, poked her in the ribs, in the stomach, made her grunt, and gasp, and whoop as it swept her feet away and sent her tumbling.

The smell of Safrit’s cooking tugged at her groaning belly, and the crew ate and drank, spreading their fingers to the warmth of the fire, propping themselves easily on their elbows, watching, chuckling, making bets on how long she could last. Until the sun was a watery glow on the western horizon and Thorn was soaked through and mud-caked from head to toe, throbbing with bruises, each breath ripping at her heaving chest.

“Would you like the chance to hit me back?” asked Skifr.

If there was one thing that could have made Thorn enthusiastic about holding an oar again, it was the chance to club Skifr with one.

But the old woman had other ideas. “Brand, bring me that bar.”

He scraped the last juice from his bowl, stood up wrapped in a blanket and brought something over, licking at his teeth. A bar of rough-forged iron, about the length of a sword but easily five times the weight.

“Thanks,” said Thorn, voice poisonous with sarcasm.

“What can I do?”

All she could think of was him wearing that same helpless look on the beach below Thorlby, as Hunnan sent three lads to kill her dreams. “What do you ever do?” Not fair, maybe, but she wasn’t feeling too fair. Wasn’t as if anyone was ever fair to her.

His brow furrowed, and he opened his mouth as if to snap something at her. Then he seemed to think better of it, and turned back to the fire, dragging his blanket tight over his hunched shoulders.

“Aye!” she called after him, “you go and sit down!” A feeble sort of jibe, since she would have liked nothing better.

Skifr slid a shield onto her arm. “Well, then? Hit me.”

“With this?” It took an effort just to lift the damn thing. “I’d rather use the oar.”