Joe Abercrombie - Half the World

The armies of Vansterland and Gettland glared at each other across a shallow valley of lush, green grass.

“A fine spot to graze a herd of sheep,” said Rulf.

“Or to fight a battle.” Thorn narrowed her eyes and scanned the ridge opposite. She had never in her life seen a host half the size, the warriors picked out black on the crest against the bright sky, here or there a blade flashing as it caught the light of Mother Sun. The Vanstermen’s shield wall was drawn up loose, their shields blobs of bright-painted color and their spears a bristling forest behind. Grom-gil-Gorm’s dark banner hung limp over the center, a dusting of archers thrust out in front, more lightly armed skirmishers on each wing.

“So like our own army we might be looking in a great mirror,” murmured Yarvi.

“Apart from that damn elf-tower,” said Thorn.

Amon’s Tooth rose from a rocky outcrop at the far end of the Vanstermen’s line, a hollow tower thirty times a man’s height, tall and slender as a tapering sword blade, made from hollow cobwebs of elf-metal bars.

“What did it used to be?” asked Koll, gazing up at it in wonder.

“Who can say now?” said the minister. “A signal tower? A monument to the arrogance of the elves? A temple to the One God they broke into many?”

“I can tell you what it will be.” Rulf gazed grimly at the host gathered in its shadow. “A grave-marker. A grave for many hundreds.”

“Many hundreds of Vanstermen,” snapped Thorn. “I reckon our host the larger.”

“Aye,” said Rulf. “But it’s seasoned warriors win battles, and the numbers there are much the same.”

“And Gorm is known for keeping some horsemen out of sight,” said Father Yarvi. “Our strength is closely matched.”

“And only one of us has our king.” Rulf glanced back toward the camp. Uthil had not left his sick bed since the previous evening. Some said the Last Door stood open for him, and Father Yarvi had not denied it.

“Even a victory will leave Gettland weakened,” said the Minster, “and Grandmother Wexen well knows it. This battle is all part of her design. She knew King Uthil could never turn down a challenge. The only victory here is if we do not fight at all.”

“What elf-spell have you worked to make that happen?” asked Thorn.

Father Yarvi gave his brittle smile. “I hope a little minister’s magic may do the trick.”

Koll plucked at his sparse shadow of a beard as he looked across the valley. “I wonder if Fror’s among them.”

“Maybe,” said Thorn. A man they had trained with, laughed with, fought beside, rowed beside.

“What will you do if you meet him in the battle?”

“Probably kill him.”

“Let’s hope you don’t meet, then.” Koll lifted an arm to point. “They’re coming!”

Gorm’s banner was on the move, a party of horsemen breaking from the center of his host and coming down the slope. Thorn nudged her way through the king’s most favored warriors to Laithlin’s side, but the queen waved her away. “Keep to the back, Thorn, and stay hooded.”

“My place is beside you.”

“Today you are not my shield but my sword. Sometimes a blade is best hidden. If your moment comes, you will know it.”

“Yes, my queen.”

Reluctantly, Thorn pulled up her hood, waited until the rest of the royal party had set off, then slouching in her saddle like a thief, in a place no songs are sung of, followed at the back. Down the long slope they trotted, hooves flicking mud from the soft ground. Two standard-bearers went with them, Laithlin’s gold and Uthil’s iron-gray bravely snapping as the breeze took them.

Closer drew the Vanstermen, and closer. Twenty of their most storied warriors, high-helmed, stern-frowned, braids in their hair and gold rings forged into their mail. And at the fore, the necklace of pommels twisted from the swords of his fallen enemies four-times looped about his great neck, came the man who killed Thorn’s father. Grom-gil-Gorm, the Breaker of Swords, in his full battle glory. On his left rode his standard bearer, a great Shend slave with a garnet-studded thrall collar, black cloth flapping behind him. On his right rode two stocky white-haired boys, one with a mocking smile and Gorm’s huge shield upon his back, the other with a warlike sneer and Gorm’s great sword. Between them and the king, her jaw working so hard that her shaved scalp squirmed, rode Mother Scaer.

“Greetings, Gettlanders!” The hooves of Gorm’s towering horse squelched as he pulled it up in the valley’s marshy bottom and grinned into the bright sky. “Mother Sun smiles upon our meeting!”

“A good omen,” said Father Yarvi.

“For which of us?” asked Gorm.

“For both of us, perhaps?” Laithlin nudged her own mount forward. Thorn itched to ride up close beside where she could protect her, but forced her heels to be still.

“Queen Laithlin! How can your wisdom and beauty so defy the passing years?”

“How can your strength and courage?” asked the queen.

Gorm scratched thoughtfully at his beard. “When last I was in Thorlby I did not seem to be held in such high regard.”

“The gods give no finer gift than a good enemy, my husband always says. Gettland could ask for no better enemy than the Breaker of Swords.”

“You flatter me, and I enjoy it hugely. But where is King Uthil? I was so looking forward to renewing the friendship we forged in his Godshall.”

“I fear my husband could not come,” said Laithlin. “He sends me in his place.”

Gorm gave a disappointed pout. “Few warriors so renowned. The battle will be the lesser for his absence. But the Mother of Crows waits for no man, whatever his fame.”

“There is another choice.” Yarvi eased his horse up beside the queen’s. “A way in which bloodshed could be spared. A way in which we of the north could free ourselves from the yoke of the High King in Skekenhouse.”

Gorm raised a brow. “Are you a magician as well as a minister?”

“We both pray to the same gods, both sing of the same heroes, both endure the same weather. Yet Grandmother Wexen turns us one against the other. If there is a battle at Amon’s Tooth today, whoever is the victor, only she will win. What could Vansterland and Gettland not achieve together?” He leaned eagerly forward in his saddle. “Let us make of the fist an open hand! Let there be an alliance between us!”

Thorn gave a gasp at that, and she was not alone. A muttering went through the warriors on both sides, breathed oaths and angry glances, but the Breaker of Swords held up his hand for quiet.

“A bold idea, Father Yarvi. No doubt you are a deep-cunning man. You speak for Father Peace, as a minister should.” Gorm worked his mouth unhappily, took a long breath through his nose, and let it sigh away. “But I fear it cannot be. My minister is of a different mind.”

Yarvi blinked at Mother Scaer. “She is?”

“My new minister is.”

“Greetings, Father Yarvi.” Gorm’s young white-haired sword- and shield-bearers parted to let a rider through, a cloaked rider upon a pale horse. She pushed her hood back and the wind blew up chill, lashing the yellow hair about her gaunt face, eyes fever bright as she smiled. A smile so twisted with bitterness it was hard to look upon.

“You know Mother Isriun, I think,” murmured Gorm.

“Odem’s brat,” hissed Queen Laithlin, and it was plain from her voice that this was no part of her plans.

“You are mistaken, my queen.” Isriun gave her a crooked smile. “My only family now is the Ministry, just as Father Yarvi’s is. Our only parent is Grandmother Wexen, eh, brother ? After her abject failure in the First of Cities, she did not feel Sister Scaer could be trusted.” Scaer’s face twitched at that title. “She sent me to take her place.”