Joe Abercrombie - Half the World

Tempting. So tempting.

Too tempting, maybe?

Only a fool would think a warrior of his fame would have no tricks, and Thorn was no one’s fool. Be quicker, tougher, cleverer, Skifr said. She had tricks of her own.

She let her eyes rest on that boot, licking her lips as if she watched the meat brought in, long enough to make sure he saw her watching, then she moved. His sword darted out but she was ready, slipped around it, Skifr’s ax whipping across, but shoulder-high, not low where he expected it. She saw his eyes go wide. He lurched back, jerking up the shield, caught her ax with the rim, but the bearded blade still thudded into his shoulder, mail rings flying like dust from a beaten carpet.

She expected him to drop back, maybe even fall, but he shrugged her ax off as if it was a harsh word, pressed forward, too close for his sword or hers. The rim of his shield caught her in the mouth as she tumbled away and sent her staggering. No pain, no doubt, no dizziness. The shock of it only made her sharper. She heard Gorm roar, saw Mother Sun catch steel and dodged back as his blade whistled past.

That exchange she had to judge a draw as well, but they were both marked now.

Blood on his mail. Blood on his shiel rim. Blood on her ax. Blood in her mouth. She bared her teeth at him in a fighting snarl and spat red onto the grass between them.

Like a pack of dogs, the sight of blood brought the gathered warriors suddenly to life, and the noise couldn’t have been more deafening if they’d had the battle after all.

From the ridge in front the Vanstermen screeched prayers and bellowed curses, from the ridge behind the Gettlanders roared out futile encouragements, pointless advice. They rattled axes on shields, swords on helmets, sent up a din of lust and fury to wake the dead in their howes, to wake the gods from slumber.

Of all things, men most love to watch others face Death. It reminds them they yet live.

Across the square, among the snarling, snapping Vanstermen, Brand saw Mother Isriun, livid with fury, and Mother Scaer beside her, eyes calmly narrowed as she watched the contest.

Gorm swung a great overhead and Thorn twitched away, his sword missing her by a hand’s breadth and opening a huge wound in the ground, grass and earth showering up. Brand bit his knuckle, painful hard. It would only take one of those to find her and that heavy steel could cut her clean in half. It felt as if it was a day since the fight began and he hadn’t taken a breath the whole time.

“Mother War, let her live …”

Thorn strutted about the square. It was her grass. She owned it. Queen of this mud. She hardly heard the screaming warriors on the high ground, barely saw Laithlin, or Isriun, or Yarvi, or even Brand. The world had shrunk to her, and the Breaker of Swords, and the few short strides of short grass between them, and she was starting to like what she saw.

Gorm was breathing hard, sweat across his furrowed forehead. The weight of all that gear was bound to tell, but she hadn’t hoped it would be so soon. His shield was beginning to droop. She almost laughed. She could have done this for hours. She had done it for hours, for days, for weeks, down the Divine and the Denied and back.

She sprang in, aiming high with her sword. Too high, so he could duck, and duck he did, but just as she had planned his shield tipped forward. It was an easy thing to step around it, hook the top rim with the bearded head of Skifr’s ax, marked with letters in five tongues. She meant to drag it down, leave him open, maybe tear it from his arm altogether, but she misjudged him. He roared, ripping his shield upwards, tearing the ax from her grip and sending it spinning high into the air.

That left his body unguarded for a moment, though, and Thorn had never been one to hesitate. Her sword hissed in below his shield and struck him in the side. Hard enough to fold him slightly, to make him stumble. Hard enough to cut through mail and find the flesh beneath.

Not hard enough to stop him, though.

He snarled, swung once and made her stagger back, thrust and made her dance away, chopped again, even harder, steel hissing at the air, but she was already backing off, watchful, circling.

As he turned toward her she saw the ragged tear in his mail, links flapping free, blood glistening. She saw how he favored that side as he took up his stance, and she began to smile as she filled her empty left hand with her longest dagger.

She might have lost her ax, but that round was hers.

Now, Thorn was one of them. Now she’d bloodied Grom-gil-Gorm and Master Hunnan thrust his fist in the air, roared his support. Now the warriors who’d sneered at her made a deafening din in admiration of her prowess.

No doubt those with the gift were already setting the song of her triumph in verse. They tasted victory, but all Brand could taste was fear. His heart thudded as loud as Rin’s hammer. He twitched and gasped with every movement in the square. He’d never felt so helpless. He couldn’t do good. He couldn’t do bad. He couldn’t do anything.

Thorn darted forward, going low with her sword, so fast Brand could hardly follow it. Gorm dropped his shield to block but she was already gone, slashing across the top of his shield with her dagger. Gorm jerked his head back, staggered a step, a red line across his cheek, across his nose, under his eye.

The battle joy was on her now. Or maybe Father Yarvi’s brew was.

The breath ripped at her chest, she danced on air. The blood sweet in her mouth, her skin on fire. She smiled, smiled so wide it seemed her scarred cheeks might split.

The cut below Gorm’s eye was leaking, streaks of blood down his face, out of his slit nose, into his beard.

He was tiring, he was hurt, he was growing careless. She had his measure and he knew it. She could see the fear in his eyes. Could see the doubt, ever growing.

His shield had drifted up even higher to guard his wounded face. His stance had loosened, his heavy sword wilting in his grip. That left leg slipped still farther forward, all exposed, knee wobbling.

Perhaps it had been a trick, in the beginning, but what trick could stop her now? She breathed fire and spat lightning. She was the storm, always moving. She was Mother War made flesh.

“Your death comes!” she screamed at him, words even she could hardly hear over the noise.

She would kill the Breaker of Swords, and avenge her father, and prove herself the greatest warrior about the Shattered Sea. The greatest warrior in the world! The songs they would sing of this!

She led him in a circle, led him around until her back was to the Vanstermen, until her back was to the east. She saw Gorm narrow his eyes as Mother Sun stabbed at them, twisting away, leaving his leg unguarded. She feinted high, tightening her fingers about the grip, ducked under an ill-timed chop and screamed out as she swept her sword in a great, low circle.

The blade forged with her father’s bones struck Gorm’s leg above the ankle with all Thorn’s strength, and anger, and training behind it. The moment of her victory. The moment of her vengeance.

But instead of slicing through flesh and bone the bitter edge clanged on metal, jarred in Thorn’s hand so badly she stumbled forward, off-balance.

Hidden armor. Steel glinting beneath the slit leather of Gorm’s boot.

He moved quick as a snake, not near so tired nor so hurt as he had made her think, chopping down, catching her blade with his and tearing it from her numbed fingers.

She lashed at him with her knife but he caught it on his shield and rammed the boss into her ribs. It was like being kicked by a horse and she tottered back, only just staying on her feet.

Gorm glared at her over his shield rim, and it was his turn to smile. “You are a worthy opponent,” he said. “As dangerous as any I have fought.” He stepped forward, planting that armored boot on her fallen sword and grinding it into the sod. “But your death comes.”