Joe Abercrombie - Half the World

Thorn swallowed. “Give me the chance.”

“Soon enough.” Laithlin leaned close, gripping Thorn’s hand tight. “An oath of loyalty cuts both ways. I forgot that once, and never will again. We shall do great things together, you and I. Things to sing of.”

“My king?” Father Yarvi’s voice, and sharp with worry.

Uthil had stumbled climbing from his own saddle and now he was leaning heavily on his minister, gray as a ghost, chest heaving as he clutched his drawn sword against it.

“We will speak later,” said Laithlin, letting go of Thorn’s hand.

“Koll, boil water!” called Father Yarvi. “Safrit, bring my plants!”

“I saw that man walk a hundred miles through the ice and never falter,” said Rulf, standing beside Thorn with his arms folded. “The king is not well.”

“No.” Thorn watched Uthil shamble into his tent with one arm over his minister’s shoulders. “And with a great battle coming. Poor luck indeed.”

“Father Yarvi doesn’t believe in luck.”

“I don’t believe in helmsmen, but they dog me even so.”

Rulf chuckled at that. “How’s your mother?”

Thorn frowned across at him. “Unhappy with my choices, as always.”

“Still striking sparks from each other?”

“Since you ask, not near so much as we used to.”

“Oh? I reckon one of you must have grown up a little.”

Thorn narrowed her eyes. “Maybe one of us had a wise old warrior to teach them the value of family.”

“Everyone should be so lucky.” Rulf peered down at the ground, rubbing at his beard. “I’ve been thinking, perhaps … I should pay her a visit.”

“You asking my permission?”

“No. But I’d like to have it, still.”

Thorn gave a helpless shrug. “Far be it from me to come between a pair of young lovers.”

“Or me.” Rulf gave a meaningful look past her from under his brows. “Which is why I’ll be dwindling into the west, I think …”

Thorn turned, and Brand was walking toward her.

She had been hoping she might see him, but as soon as she did she felt a surge of nerves. As if she was stepping into the training square for the first time and he was her opponent. They should have been familiar to each other now, surely? But of a sudden she had no idea how to be with him. Prickly-playful, like one oar-mate with another? Simpering soft, like a maiden with a suitor? Frosty-regal, like Queen Laithlin with a debtor? Creepy-cautious, like a clever gambler keeping her dice well hidden?

Each step he came closer felt like a step back out onto that frozen lake, ice creaking under her weight, no notion what the next footfall might bring.

“Thorn,” he said, looking her in the eye.

“Brand,” she said, looking back.

“Couldn’t stand to wait for me any longer, eh?”

Prickly-playful, then. “The suitors were queued up outside my house all the way to the bloody docks. There’s only so much of men weeping over my beauty I can stand.” And she pressed a fingertip to one side of her nose and blew snot into the mud out of the other.

“You’ve a new sword,” he said, looking down at her belt.

She hooked a finger under the plain crosspiece and drew it halfway so he could draw it the rest with the faintest ringing. “From the best blade-maker in the Shattered Sea.”

“Gods, she’s got good.” He brushed Rin’s mark on the fuller with his thumb, swished the blade one way and the other, lifted it to peer with one eye down the length, Mother Sun flashing along the bright steel and glinting on the point.

“Didn’t have time to do anything fancy with it,” said Thorn, “but I’m getting to like it plain.”

Brand softly whistled. “That is fine steel.”

“Cooked with a hero’s bones.”

“Is that so?”

“Reckon I’d had my fathers fingers about my neck for long enough.”

He grinned as he offered the sword back to her, and she found she was grinning too. “I thought Rin said no to you?”

“No one says no to Queen Laithlin.”

Brand had that old puzzled look of his. “Eh?”

“She wanted her Chosen Shield suitably armed,” she said, slapping the sword back into its scabbard.

He gaped at her in silence while that sank in.

“I know what you’re thinking.” Thorn’s shoulders slumped. “I don’t even have a shield.”

He snapped his mouth shut. “I’m thinking you are the shield, and none better. If I was a queen I’d pick you.”

“Hate to crush your hopes, but I doubt you’ll ever be queen.”

“None of the gowns would suit me.” He slowly shook his head, starting to smile again. “Thorn Bathu, Chosen Shield.”

“What about you? Did you save Gettland, yet? Saw you gathering on the beach. Quite the crowd of young champions. Not to mention a couple of ancient ones.”

Brand winced. “Can’t say we saved much of anything. We killed an old farmer. We stole some sausages. We burned a village ’cause it was on the wrong side of a river. We took a slave.” Brand scratched at his head. “I let her go.”

“You just can’t help doing good, can you?”

“Don’t think Hunnan sees it that way. He’d like to tell everyone I’m a disgrace but he’d have to admit his raid was a disgrace, so …” He puffed out his cheeks, looking more puzzled than ever. “I’m swearing my warrior’s oath tomorrow. Along with some lads never swung a blade in anger.”

Thorn put on Father Yarvi’s voice. “Let Father Peace spill tears over the methods! Mother War smiles upon results! You must be pleased.”

He looked down at the ground. “I suppose so.”

“You’re not?”

“Do you ever feel bad? About those men you’ve killed?”

“Not a lot. Why should I?”

“I’m not saying you should. I’m just asking if you do.”

“I don’t.”

“Well, you’re touched by Mother War.”

“Touched?” Thorn snorted. “She’s slapped me purple.”

“Being a warrior, brothers at my shoulder, it’s what I always wanted …”

“There’s no disappointment like getting what you’ve always wanted.”

“Some things are worth the wait,” he said, looking her in the eye.

She had no doubts at all what that look meant now. She was starting to wonder if getting across this frozen lake of theirs might not be so hard. Maybe you just took one step at a time, and tried to enjoy the thrill of it. So she took a little pace closer to him. “Where are you sleeping?”

He didn’t back off. “Under the stars, I reckon.”

“A Chosen Shield gets a tent.”

“You trying to make me jealous?”

“No, it’s only a small one.” She moved another little step. “But it’s got a bed.”

“I’m getting to like this story.”

“Bit cold, though.” She moved another little step, and they were both smiling. “On my own.”

“I could have a word with Sordaf for you, reckon he could warm a blanket with one fart.”

“Sordaf’s everything most women could ask for, but I’ve always had odd tastes.” She reached up, using her fingers like a comb, and pushed the hair out of his face. “I had someone else in mind.”

“There’s a lot of folk watching,” said Brand.

“Like I care a damn.”

They knelt in a line. Three of the young lads and Brand. Two had pointed spears at an old farmer. One had cried as he set fire to some houses. The last had let the only slave they took go.

Some warriors.

Yet here they were, with the fighting men of Gettland gathered about them in an armed and armored crowd, ready to welcome them into their brotherhood. Ready to have them at their shoulders when they met Grom-gil-Gorm and his Vanstermen at the appointed place. Ready to carry them into the iron embrace of Mother War.