Joe Abercrombie - Half the World

Thorn was one of five carrying the part-carved mast. Brand could feel her eyes sharp as arrows in his back and guessed she was still furious over what he’d said about her mother. He hardly blamed her. Wasn’t Thorn who’d trotted off and left Rin to fend for herself, was it? Seemed whenever Brand lost his temper it was really himself he was angry at. He knew he ought to say sorry for it but words had never come easy to him. Sometimes he’d spend days picking over the right ones to say, but when he finally got his mouth open the wrong ones came drooling straight out.

“Reckon I’d be better off if I never said another word,” he grunted to himself.

“You’d get no bloody complaints from me,” he heard Thorn mutter, and was just turning to give her a tongue-lashing he’d no doubt soon regret when he felt a jolt through his rope that dragged him floundering into a heap of leaves, only just keeping his feet.

“Easy!” roared Dosduvoi, and hauled back hard on his own rope. A knot slipped with a noise like a whip cracking and he gave a shocked yelp and went flying over backwards.

Odda squealed out, “Gods!” as he was jerked onto his face, knocking the next man over so he lost his grip on his own rope, the loose end snapping like a thing alive.

There was a flurry of wingbeats as a bird took to the sky and the South Wind lurched forward, one of the men on the other side shrieking as his rope tore across his shoulders and spun him around, knocking Fror sideways, the sudden weight dragging the rest of the men over like skittles.

Brand saw Koll leaning in with his pitch, staring up in horror as the high prow shuddered over him. He tried to scramble clear, slipped on his back under the grinding keel.

No time for first thoughts, let alone second ones. Maybe that was a good thing. Brand’s father had always told him he wasn’t much of a thinker.

He bounded off the track in a shower of old leaves, dragging his rope around the nearest tree, a thick-trunked old beast with gnarled roots grasping deep into the hillside.

Folk were screaming over each other, timbers groaning, wood snapping, but Brand paid them no mind, wedged one boot up against the tree and then the other. With a grunt he forced his legs and his back out straight, leaning into the rope across his shoulders, hauling it taut so he was standing sideways from the trunk like one of the branches.

If only he’d been made of wood too. The rope twanged like a harpstring and his eyes bulged at the force of it, hemp grating against bark, slipping in his hands, biting into his arms. He clenched his teeth and closed his eyes and gripped at the rags around the rope. Gripped them tight as Death grips the dying.

Too much to lift. Way too much, but once the load’s on you what choice do you have?

More grinding in his ears as the South Wind shifted and the weight grew, and grew, and crushed a slow groan out of him, but he knew if he let his knees, or his back, or his arms bend once the rope would fold him in half.

He opened his eyes for an instant. Sunlight flickered through leaves. Blood on his quivering fists. The rope smoking about the trunk. Voices echoed far away. He hissed as the rope twitched and pinged then slipped again, biting into him surely as a saw.

Couldn’t let go. Couldn’t fail his crew. Bones creaking as the hemp cut into his shoulders, his arms, his hands, sure to rip him apart, the jagged breath tearing at his chest and snorting from his clenched teeth.

Couldn’t let go. Couldn’t fail his family. His whole body trembling, every last thread of muscle on fire with the effort.

Nothing in the world but him and the rope. Nothing but effort and pain and darkness.

And then he heard Rin’s voice, soft in his ear. “Let go.”

He shook his head, whimpering, straining.

“Let go, Brand!”

An ax thudded into wood and he was falling, the world turning over. Strong arms caught him, lowered him, weak as a child, floppy as rags.

Thorn, with Mother Sun behind her, glowing in the fuzz on the side of her head.

“Where’s Rin?” he whispered, but the words were just a croak.

“You can let go.”

“Uh.” His fists were still gripping. Took a mighty effort to make his pulsing fingers come open, enough for Thorn to start unwinding the rope, hemp dark with blood.

She winced, and shrieked out, “Father Yarvi!”

“I’m sorry,” he croaked.

“What?”

“Shouldn’t have said that … about your mother-”

“Shut up, Brand.” There was a pause, then, a babble of voices in the distance, a bird sending up a trilling call in the branches above. “Thing that really burns is I’m starting to think you were right.”

“I was?”

“Don’t get carried away. Doubt it’ll happen again.”

There were people gathering about them, blurry outlines looking down.

“You ever see the like o’ that?”

“He had her whole weight for a moment.”

“A feat to sing of, all right.”

“Already setting it to a verse,” came Odda’s voice.

“You saved my life,” said Koll, staring down with wide eyes, pitch smeared up his cheek.

Safrit put the neck of the waterskin to Brand’s lips. “The ship would have crushed him.”

“The ship might’ve crushed herself,” said Rulf. “We’d have brought no help to Gettland then.”

“We’d have needed a stack of help ourselves.”

Even swallowing was an effort. “Just … done what anyone would do.”

“You remind me of an old friend of ours,” said Father Yarvi. “Strong arm. Strong heart.”

“One stroke at a time,” said Rulf, voice a little choked.

Brand looked down at what the minister was doing and felt a surge of sickness. The rope-burns coiled up his arms like red snakes around white branches, raw and bloody.

“Does it hurt?”

“Just a tingle.”

“Just a damn tingle!” bellowed Odda. “You hear that? What rhymes with tingle?”

“It’ll hurt soon enough,” said Father Yarvi. “And leave you some scars.”

“Marks of a great deed,” murmured Fror who, when it came to scars, had to be reckoned an expert. “Hero’s marks.”

Brand winced as Yarvi wound the bandages around his forearms, the cuts burning like fury now. “Some hero,” he muttered, as Thorn helped him sit up. “I fought a rope and lost.”

“No.” Father Yarvi slid a pin through the bandages and put his withered hand on Brand’s shoulder. “You fought a ship. And won. Put this under your tongue.” And he slipped a dried leaf into Brand’s mouth. “It’ll help with the pain.”

“The knot slipped,” said Dosduvoi, blinking at the frayed end of his rope. “What kind of awful luck is that?”

“The kind that afflicts men who don’t check their knots,” said Father Yarvi, glaring at him. “Safrit, make space for Brand in the wagon. Koll, you stay with him. Make sure he’s moved to perform no further heroics.”

Safrit made a bed among the supplies from the crew’s blankets. Brand tried to tell her he could walk but they could all see he couldn’t.

“You’ll lie there and you’ll like it!” she snapped, her pointed finger in his face.

So that was that. Koll perched on a barrel beside him and the wagon set lurching off down the slope, Brand wincing at every jolt.

“You saved my life,” muttered the lad, after a while.

“You’re quick. You’d have got out of the way.”

“No I wouldn’t. I was looking through the Last Door. Let me thank you, at least.”

They looked at each other for a moment. “Fair enough,” said Brand. “I’m thanked.”

“How did you get that strong?”

“Work, I guess. On the docks. At the oar. In the forge.”

“You’ve done smith work?”