Half the World. Джо Аберкромби
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King Uthil stood tall before them on the dunes, the long grass twitching at his boots, cradling gently as a sick child his sword of plain grey steel. He needed no ornaments but the scars of countless battles on his face. Needed no jewels but the wild brightness in his eye. Here was a man who knew neither fear nor mercy. Here was a king that any warrior would be proud to follow to the very threshold of the Last Door and beyond.
Queen Laithlin stood beside him, hands on her swollen belly, golden key upon her chest, golden hair taken by the breeze and torn like a banner, showing no more fear or mercy than her husband. They said it was her gold that bought half these men and most of these ships, and she wasn’t a woman to take her eye off an investment.
The king took two slow, swaggering steps forward, letting the breathless silence stretch out, excitement building until Brand could hear his own blood surging in his ears.
‘Do I see some men of Gettland?’ he roared.
Brand and his little knot of new-minted warriors were lucky to be close enough to hear him. Further off the captains of each ship passed on the king’s words to their crews, wind-blown echoes rippling down the long sweep of the shore.
A great clamour burst from the gathered warriors, weapons thrust up towards Mother Sun in a glittering forest. All united, all belonging. All ready to die for the man at their shoulder. Perhaps Brand had only one sister, but he felt then he had five thousand brothers with him on the sand, a sweet mixture of rage and love that wetted his eyes and warmed his heart and seemed in that moment a feeling worth dying for.
King Uthil raised his hand for silence. ‘How it gladdens me to see so many brothers! Wise old warriors often tested on the battlefield, and bold young warriors lately tested in the square. All gathered with good cause in the sight of the gods, in the sight of my forefathers.’ He spread his arms towards the ancient barrows. ‘And can they ever have looked on so mighty a host?’
‘No!’ someone screamed, and there was laughter, and others joined him, shouting wildly, ‘No!’ until the king raised his hand for silence again.
‘The Islanders have sent ships against us. They have stolen from us, and made our children slaves, and spilled our blood on our good soil.’ A muttering of anger began. ‘It is they who turned their backs on Father Peace, they who opened the door to Mother War, they who made her our guest.’ The muttering grew, and swelled, an animal growling that found its way to Brand’s own throat. ‘But the High King says we of Gettland must not be good hosts to the Mother of Crows! The High King says our swords must stay sheathed. The High King says we must suffer these insults in silence! Tell me, men of Gettland, what should be our answer?’
The word came from five thousand mouths as one deafening roar, Brand’s voice cracking with it. ‘Steel!’
‘Yes.’ Uthil cradled his sword close, pressing the plain hilt to his deep-lined cheek as if it was a lover’s face. ‘Steel must be the answer! Let us bring the Islanders a red day, brothers. A day they will weep at the memory of!’
With that he stalked towards Mother Sea, his closest captains and the warriors of his household behind him, storied men with famous names, men Brand dreamed of one day joining. Folk whose names had yet to trouble the bards crowded about the king’s path for a glimpse of him, for a touch of his cloak, a glance of his grey eye. Shouts came of, ‘The Iron King!’ and ‘Uthil!’ until it became a chant, ‘Uthil! Uthil!’, each beat marked with the steely clash of weapons.
‘Time to choose your futures, boys.’
Master Hunnan shook a canvas bag so the markers clattered within. The lads crowded him, shoving and honking like hogs at feeding time, and Hunnan reached inside with his gnarled fingers and one by one pressed a marker into every eager palm. Discs of wood, each with a sign carved into it that matched the prow-beasts on the many ships, telling each boy – or each man – which captain he’d swear his oath to, which crew he’d sail with, row with, fight with.
Those given their signs held them high and whooped in triumph, and some argued over who’d got the better ship or the better captain, and some laughed and hugged each other, finding the favour of Mother War had made them oar-mates.
Brand waited, hand out and heart thumping. Drunk with excitement at the king’s words, and the thought of the raid coming, and of being a boy no more, being poor no more, being alone no more. Drunk on the thought of doing good, and standing in the light, and having a family of warriors always about him.
Brand waited as his fellows were given their places – lads he liked and lads he didn’t, good fighters and not. He waited as the markers grew fewer in the bag, and let himself wonder if he was left till last because he’d won an oar on the king’s own ship, no place more coveted. The more often Hunnan passed him over, the more he allowed himself to hope. He’d earned it, hadn’t he? Worked for it, deserved it? Done what a warrior of Gettland was supposed to?
Rauk was the last of them, forcing a smile onto his crestfallen face when Hunnan brought wood from the bag for him, not silver. Then it was just Brand left. His the only hand still out, the fingers trembling. The lads fell silent.
And Hunnan smiled. Brand had never seen him smile before, and he felt himself smile too.
‘This for you,’ said the master-at-arms as he slowly, slowly drew out his battle-scarred hand. Drew out his hand to show …
Nothing.
No glint of the king’s silver. No wood either. Only the empty bag, turned inside out to show the ragged stitching.
‘Did you think I wouldn’t know?’ said Hunnan.
Brand let his hand drop. Every eye was upon him now and he felt his cheeks burning like he’d been slapped.
‘Know what?’ he muttered, though he knew well enough.
‘That you spoke to that cripple about what happened in my training square.’
A silence, while Brand felt as if his guts dropped into his arse. ‘Thorn’s no murderer,’ he managed to say.
‘Edwal’s dead and she killed him.’
‘You set her a test she couldn’t pass.’
‘I set the tests,’ said Hunnan. ‘Passing them is up to you. And you failed this one.’
‘I did the right thing.’
Hunnan’s brows went up. Not angry. Surprised. ‘Tell yourself that if it helps. But I’ve my own right thing to look to. The right thing for the men I teach to fight. In the training square we pit you against each other, but on the battlefield you have to stand together, and Thorn Bathu fights everyone. Men would have died so she could play with swords. They’re better off without her. And they’re better off without you.’
‘Mother War picks who fights,’ said Brand.
Hunnan only shrugged. ‘She can find a ship for you, then. You’re a good fighter, Brand, but you’re not a good man. A good man stands for his shoulder-man. A good man holds the line.’
Maybe Brand should’ve snarled, ‘It isn’t fair,’ as Thorn had when Hunnan broke her hopes. But Brand wasn’t much of a talker, and he had no words then. No anger in him when he actually needed it. He didn’t make even a mouse’s squeak while Hunnan turned and walked away. Didn’t even bunch his fists while the lads followed their master-at-arms towards the sea. The lads he’d trained with these ten years.
Some looked at him with scorn, some with surprise. One or two even gave him a sorry pat on the shoulder as they passed. But they all passed. Down the beach, towards the breaking waves and their hard-won places on the ships that rocked there. Down to their oaths of loyalty and off on the raid that Brand had dreamed of all his life. It was Rauk who went last, one hand slack on the hilt of his fine new sword, grinning over his shoulder.
‘See you when we get back.’
Brand stood alone for a long time, not moving. Alone, in his borrowed mail,