Joe Abercrombie - Half the World

“To a fighter, everything must be a weapon, remember?” Skifr rapped Thorn on the forehead with her knuckles. “Everything. The ground. The water. That rock. Dosduvoi’s head.”

“Eh?” grunted the giant, looking up.

“Dosduvoi’s head would make a fearsome weapon, mark you,” said Odda. “Hard as stone and solid right through.”

Some chuckling at that, though laughter seemed a foreign tongue to Thorn as she weighed that length of iron in her hand.

“For now, that is your weapon. It will build strength.”

“I thought I couldn’t win with strength.”

“You can lose with weakness. If you can move that bar fast enough to hit me, your sword will be quick as lightning and just as deadly. Begin.” Skifr opened her eyes very wide and said in a piping mimicry of Thorn’s voice. “Or is the task not fair?”

Thorn set her jaw even harder than usual, planted her feet, and with a fighting growl went to work. It was far from pretty. A few swings and her arm was burning from neck to fingertips. She reeled about after the bar, struck great clods of mud from the ground, one landing in the fire and sending up a shower of sparks and a howl of upset from the crew.

Skifr danced her lurching dance, dodging Thorn’s clumsy efforts with pitiful ease and letting her lumber past, occasionally knocking the bar away with a nudge of her shield, barking out instructions Thorn could barely understand, let alone obey.

“No, you are trying to lead the way, you must follow the weapon. No, more wrist. No, elbow in. The weapon is part of you! No, angled, angled, like so. No, shoulder up. No, feet wider. This is your ground! Own it! You are queen of this mud! Try again. No. Try again. No. Try again. No, no, no, no, no. No!”

Thorn gave a shriek and flung the bar to the wet earth, and Skifr shrieked back, crashed into her with the shield, and sent her sprawling. “Never lower your guard! That is the moment you die. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” Thorn hissed back through her gritted teeth, tasting a little blood.

“Good. Let us see if your left hand has more spice in it.”

By the time Skifr called a grudging halt Father Moon was smiling in the sky and the night was noisy with the strange music of frogs. Apart from a handful keeping watch the crew was sleeping soundly, bundled in blankets, in furs and fleeces, and in the luckiest cases bags of seal-skin, sending up a thunder of snores and a smoking of breath in the ruddy light of the dying fire.

Safrit sat crosslegged, Koll sleeping with his head in her lap and her hand on his sandy hair, eyelids flickering as he dreamed. She handed up a bowl. “I saved you some.”

Thorn hung her head, face crushed up tight. Against scorn, and pain, and anger she was well-armored, but that shred of kindness brought a sudden choking sob from her.

“It’ll be all right,” said Safrit, patting her knee. “You’ll see.”

“Thanks,” whispered Thorn, and she smothered her tears and crammed cold stew into her face, licking the juice from her fingers.

She thought she saw Brand’s eyes gleaming in the dark as he shifted up to leave a space, shoving Odda over and making him mew like a kitten in his fitful sleep. Thorn would have slept happily among corpses then. She didn’t even bother to take her boots off as she dropped onto ground still warm from Brand’s body.

She was almost asleep when Skifr gently tucked the blanket in around her.

The days were lost in a haze of rowing, and wood creaking, and water slopping against the South Wind ’s flanks, Thorn’s jaw muscles bunching with every stroke, Rulf’s eyes narrowed to slits as he gazed upriver, Father Yarvi’s withered hand clutched behind his back in his good one, Koll’s endless questions and Safrit’s scolding, stories told about the fire, shadows shifting over the scarred faces of the crew, the constant muttering of Skifr’s instructions and the rattle, grunt and clatter of Thorn’s training as Brand drifted off to sleep.

He couldn’t say he liked her, but he had to admire the way she kept at it, always fighting no matter the odds, always getting up no matter how often she was put down. That was courage. Made him wish he was more like her.

From time to time they came ashore at villages belonging to no land or lord. Turf-roofed fishers’ huts huddling in loops of the river, wattle hovels shepherds shared with their animals under the eaves of the silent forest, which made the one Brand had shared with Rin seem a palace indeed and brought a surge of sappy homesickness welling up in him. Father Yarvi would trade for milk and ale and still-bleating goats, knowing every tongue spoken by men or beasts, it seemed, but there were few smiles traded on either side. Smiles might be free, but they were in short supply out there on the Divine.

They passed boats heading north, and sometimes their crews were dour and watchful, and sometimes they called out cautious greetings. Whichever they did Rulf kept careful eyes on them until they were well out of sight with his black bow ready in one hand, a fearsome thing near as tall as a man, made from the great ridged horns of some beast Brand had never seen and never wanted to.

“They seemed friendly enough,” he said, after one almost-merry encounter.

“An arrow from a smiling archer kills you just as dead,” said Rulf, setting his bow back beside the steering oar. “Some of these crews will be heading home with rich cargo, but some will have failed, and be looking to make good on their trip by taking a fat ship, and selling her pretty young pair of back oars for slaves.”

Thorn jerked her head toward Brand. “They’ll only find one pretty back oar on this boat.”

“You’d be prettier if you didn’t scowl so much,” said Rulf, which brought a particularly ugly scowl, just as it was meant to.

“Might be the minister’s prow keeps the raiders off,” said Brand, wedging his ax beside his sea-chest.

Thorn snorted as she slid her sword back into its sheath. “More likely our ready weapons.”

“Aye,” said Rulf. “Even law-abiding men forget themselves in lawless places. There’s a limit on the reach of the Ministry. But the authority of steel extends to every port. It’s a fine sword you have there, Thorn.”

“My father’s.” After a moment of considering, she offered it up to him.

“Must’ve been quite a warrior.”

“He was a Chosen Shield,” said Thorn, puffing with pride. “He was the one made me want to fight.”

Rulf peered approvingly down the blade, which was well-used and well-kept, then frowned at the pommel, which was a misshapen lump of iron. “Don’t reckon this can be its first pommel.”

Thorn stared off toward the tangled trees, jaw working. “It had a better, but it’s strung on Grom-gil-Gorm’s chain.”

Rulf raised his brows, and there was an awkward silence as he passed the sword back. “How about you, Brand? Your father a fighting man?”

Brand frowned off toward a heron wading in the shallows of the other bank. “He could give a blow or two.”

Rulf puffed out his cheeks, clear that subject was firmly buried. “Let’s row, then!”

Thorn spat over the side as she worked her hands about her oar. “Bloody rowing. I swear, when I get back to Thorlby I’ll never touch an oar again.”

“A wise man once told me to take one stroke at a time.” Father Yarvi was just behind them. There were many bad things about being at the back oar, but one of the worst was that you never knew who might be at your shoulder.

“Done a lot of rowing, have you?” Thorn muttered as she bent to the next stroke.

“Oy!” Rulf kicked at her oar and made her flinch. “Pray you never have to learn what he knows about rowing!”