Joe Abercrombie - Half the World

“If anyone can beat him, you can.” He wished he believed it.

“I know. But I might not have much time left.” She took his wrist, and dragged him into the bed. “I don’t want to spend it talking.”

Brand sat with Thorn’s sword across his knees and polished it.

He’d polished it plain hilt to bright point a dozen times already. As the stars were snuffed out, and the sky brightened, and Mother Sun showed herself behind Amon’s Tooth. The steel couldn’t be any cleaner, the edge any keener. But still he scrubbed, muttering prayers to Mother War. Or the same prayer, over and over.

“… let her live, let her live, let her live …”

You want a thing when you can’t have it. When you get it you suddenly sprout doubts. Then when you think you might lose it you find you need it worse than ever.

Father Yarvi was muttering some prayers of his own while he tended to a pot over the fire, from time to time tossing a few dried leaves from one pouch or another into a brew that smelled like feet.

“You could probably stop polishing,” he said.

“I can’t stand in the square with her.” Brand flipped the sword over and set furiously to work on the other side. “All I can do is polish and pray. I plan to do both the best I can.”

Brand knew Thorn would show no fear. But she even had the hint of a smile as she sat, elbows on her knees and her hands calmly dangling, the elf-bangle on her wrist glowing bright. She had a steel guard on her left arm but otherwise no armor, just leather stitched in places with steel rings, bound tight with straps and belts so there was nothing left loose to catch a hold of. Queen Laithlin stood at her side, binding her tangled hair tight against her skull, fingers moving sure and steady as if it was for a wedding feast rather than a duel. Two brave faces there, and no mistake. The bravest in the camp, for all they were the two with most to lose.

So when Thorn glanced over at him, Brand did his best to nod back with a brave face of his own. That much he could do. That, and polish, and pray.

“Is she ready?” murmured Father Yarvi.

“It’s Thorn. She’s always ready. Whatever these idiots might think.”

The warriors had been gathering since first light and now there was a whispering crowd looking on, pressed in about the tents, peering over one another’s shoulders. Master Hunnan was in the front rank, and couldn’t have frowned any harder without tearing the deep-creased skin on his forehead. Brand could see the dismay and disgust on their faces. That some girl should be fighting for Gettland’s honor while the sworn warriors stood idle. A girl who’d failed a test and been named a murderer. A girl who wore no mail and carried no shield.

Thorn showed no sign of giving a damn for their opinion as she stood, though. She looked as long and lean as a spider, the way Skifr used to but taller, and broader, and stronger, and she spread her arms wide and worked the fingers, her jaw set hard and her narrowed eyes fixed on the valley.

Queen Laithlin set a hand on her shoulder. “May Mother War stand with you, my Chosen Shield.”

“She always has, my queen,” said Thorn.

“It’s nearly time.” Father Yarvi poured some of his brew into a cup and held it out with his good hand. “Drink this.”

Thorn sniffed at it and jerked back. “Smells foul!”

“The best brews do. This will sharpen your senses, and quicken your hands and dull any pain.”

“Is that cheating?”

“Mother Isriun will be using every trick she can devise.” And Yarvi held out the steaming cup again. “A champion must win, the rest is dust.”

Thorn held her nose, swallowed it down, and spat with disgust.

Rulf stepped up, shield held like a tray with two knives laid on it, freshly sharpened. “Sure you don’t want mail?”

Thorn shook her head. “Speed will be my best armor and my best weapon. Speed, and surprise, and aggression. These might come in handy too, though.” She took the blades and slid them into sheaths at her chest and her side.

“One more for luck.” Brand held out the dagger that Rin made him, the one he’d carried up and down the Divine and the Denied. The one that saved his life out on the steppe.

“I’ll keep it safe.” Thorn slid it through her belt at the small of her back.

“I’d rather it kept you safe,” murmured Brand.

“A lot of blades,” said Father Yarvi.

“Got caught without any once and didn’t enjoy the experience,” said Thorn. “I won’t be dying for lack of stabbing back, at least.”

“You won’t be dying.” Brand made sure his voice held no doubts, even if his heart was bursting with them. “You’ll be killing the bastard.”

“Aye.” She leaned close. “I feel like my guts are going to drop out of my arse.”

“I’d never know.”

“Fear keeps you careful,” she muttered, hands opening and closing. “Fear keeps you alive.”

“No doubt.”

“I wish Skifr was here.”

“You’ve got nothing left to learn from her.”

“A little of that elf-magic might not hurt, though. Just in case.”

“And rob you of the glory? No.” Brand showed her both sides of the sword, a frosty glint to the edges he’d been polishing since the first hint of light. “Don’t hesitate.”

“Never,” she said, as she slid the blade through the clasp at her side and held her hand out for the ax. “Why did you? That day on the beach?”

Brand thought back, back down a long, strange year to the training square on the sand. “I was thinking about doing good.” He spun the ax around, steel etched with letters in five tongues flashing. “Looking at both sides of the case, like the fool I am.”

“You’d have beaten me if you hadn’t.”

“Maybe.”

Thorn slid the ax through its loop. “I would’ve failed my test and Hunnan would never have given me another. I wouldn’t have killed Edwal. I wouldn’t have been called a murderer. I wouldn’t have been trained by Skifr, or rowed down the Divine, or saved the empress, or had songs sung of my high deeds.”

“I wouldn’t have lost my place on the king’s raid,” said Brand. “I’d be a proud warrior of Gettland now, doing just as Master Hunnan told me.”

“And my mother would have married me off to some old fool, and I’d be wearing his key all wrong and sewing very badly.”

“You wouldn’t be facing Grom-gil-Gorm.”

“No. But we’d never have had … whatever we’ve got.”

He looked into her eyes for a moment. “I’m glad I hesitated.”

“So am I.” She kissed him, then. One last kiss before the storm. Her lips soft against his. Her breath hot in the dawn chill.

“Thorn?” Koll was standing beside them. “Gorm’s in the square.”

Brand wanted to scream, then, but he forced himself to smile instead. “The sooner you start, the sooner you kill him.”

He drew Odda’s sword and started beating on Rulf’s shield with the hilt, and others did the same with their own weapons, their own armor, noise spreading out through the ranks, and men began to shout, to roar, to sing out their defiance. She was nowhere near the champion they’d have picked, but she was Gettland’s champion even so.

And Thorn strode tall through a thunder of clashing metal, the warriors parting before her like the earth before the plow.

Striding to her meeting with the Breaker of Swords.

“I have been waiting for you,” said Grom-gil-Gorm in his sing-song voice.

He sat upon a stool with his white-haired blade- and shield-bearers kneeling to either side, one of them smiling at Thorn, the other scowling as if he might fight her himself. Behind them, along the eastern edge of the square, twenty of Gorm’s closest warriors were ranged, Mother Isriun glaring from their midst, hair stirred about her gaunt face by a breath of wind, Sister Scaer sullen beside her. Behind them were hundreds more fighting men, black outlines along the top of the ridge, Mother Sun bright as she rose beyond Amon’s Tooth.