Half a War (Shattered Sea, Book 3)

First Man In

The walls of Bail’s Point were frozen in another flash of lightning, the battlements black teeth against a brilliant sky. Gods, they looked a long way up.

‘Is it too late to say I don’t like this plan?’ shrieked Koll over the howling of the wind, the hissing of the rain, the hammering of Mother Sea against their little boat.

‘You can say it whenever you like,’ Rulf bellowed back at him, his bald pate running with wet. ‘Long as you climb up there afterward!’

The wind swept up and lashed spray into the faces of the struggling crew. Thunder crackled loud enough to make the world tremble, but Koll could hardly have been trembling more as they jerked and wobbled closer to the rocks.

‘These skies don’t strike me as a fine omen!’ he called.

‘Nor these seas neither!’ shouted Dosduvoi, wrestling with his oar as if it was a horse that needed breaking. ‘Bad luck all round!’

‘We all have luck, good and bad!’ Thorn weighed the grapple in her hand. ‘It’s how you meet it that matters.’

‘She’s right,’ said Fror, his misshapen eye white in his tar-blacked face. ‘He Who Speaks the Thunder is on our side. His rain will keep their heads indoors. His grumbling will muffle the sounds of our coming.’

‘Provided his lightning doesn’t fry you to a cinder.’ Thorn slapped Koll on the back and nearly knocked him out of the boat.

The base of the wall was made from ancient elf-stone but buckled and broken, rusted bars showing in the cracks, coated in limpet, weed and barnacle. Rulf leaned low, teeth bared as he dragged hard on the steering oar, hauling them side on.

‘Easy! Easy!’ Another wave caught them, brought Koll’s stomach into his mouth and carried them hard against stone, wood grating and squealing. He clung to the rail, sure the boat would break her back and Mother Sea come surging in, ever hungry for warm bodies to drag into her cold embrace, but the seasoned timbers held and he muttered thanks to the tree that had given them.

Thorn tossed the grapple and it caught first time among those ancient rods. She braced her legs on the strakes beside Koll, teeth gritted as she hauled the boat close.

Koll saw the two buttresses Princess Skara had spoken of. Man-built from rough-hewn blocks, mortar crumbled from years of Mother Sea’s chewing. Between them was a shadowy cleft, stone shining slick and wet.

‘Just imagine it’s another mast!’ roared Rulf.

‘Masts often have angry seas at the bottom,’ said Thorn, tar-blacked sinews flexing in her shoulders as she wrestled with the rope.

‘But rarely angry enemies at the top,’ muttered Koll, staring up towards the battlements.

‘You sure you don’t want tar?’ asked Fror, offering out the jar. ‘They see you climbing up—’

‘I’m no warrior. They catch me I’ve a better chance talking than fighting.’

‘You ready?’ snapped Rulf.

‘No!’

‘Best go unready, then, the waves’ll smash this boat to kindling soon enough!’

Koll clambered up onto the rail, one hand gripping the prow, the other jerking some slack into the rope he had tied across his chest and coiled up between the sea-chests. Wet it was some weight, and it’d only get heavier the higher he climbed. The boat yawed, grinding against the foot of the buttress. Angry water clapped between rock and wood and fountained up, would’ve soaked Koll through if rain and sea hadn’t soaked him through already.

‘Hold her steady!’ shouted Rulf.

‘I would!’ called Dosduvoi, ‘but Mother Sea objects!’

The wise wait for their moment, as Father Yarvi was always telling him, but never let it pass. Another wave lifted the boat and Koll muttered one more prayer to Father Peace that he might live to see Rin again, then sprang.

He’d been sure he’d plunge scrabbling and wailing straight through the Last Door, but the chimney between the two buttresses was deeper than a man was tall and just the right width. He stuck there so easily it was almost a disappointment.

‘Ha!’ he shouted over his shoulder, delighted at his unexpected survival.

‘Don’t laugh!’ snarled Thorn, still struggling with the grapple. ‘Climb!’

The crumbling mortar offered foot and hand holds in plenty and to begin with he made quick progress, humming away to himself as he went, imagining the song the skalds would sing of Koll the Clever, who swarmed up the impenetrable walls of Bail’s Point as swiftly as a gull in flight. The applause he’d won in the yard of Thorlby’s citadel had only given him a taste for more. To be loved, and admired, and celebrated seemed to him no bad thing. No bad thing at all.

The gods love to laugh at a happy man, however. Like a good mast the buttresses tapered towards their tops. The chimney between them grew shallower, wind and rain lashing into it and giving Koll such an icy buffeting he couldn’t hear himself hum any longer. Worse still it grew wider, so he was reaching further for handholds until there was no choice but to give up one buttress and climb in the angle between the other and the wall itself, the stone ice-cold and moss-slick so he had to keep stopping to scrape the wet hair from his face, wipe his battered hands and blow life back into his numb fingers.

The last few strides of sheer man-built stone took longer than all the rest combined. There was a deadly length of rain-heavy rope dragging at his shoulder now, weightier than a warrior’s armour, whipping and snapping about the chimney as the wind took it. It was as hard a test as he’d faced in his life, muscles twitching, trembling, aching past the point of endurance. Even his teeth were hurting, but to turn back would’ve been more dangerous than to go on.

Koll picked his holds as carefully as a ship-builder his keel, knowing one mistake would see him smashed to fish-food on the rocks below, squinting in the moonlight and the storm-flashes, scraping mossy dirt from between the stones, crumbly here as old cheese. He tried not to think about the yawning drop below, or the angry men who might be waiting above, or the—

A stone burst apart in his numb fingers and he lost his grip, whimpering as he swung away, every stretched-out sinew in his arm on fire, clawing and scrabbling at old ivy until finally he found a firm purchase.

He pressed himself to the wall, watched the gravel tumble away, bouncing down around his rope, down to the jagged elf-boulders and the boat tossed on the angry brine.

He felt his mother’s weights pressing into his breastbone, thought of her frowning up at him on the mast, finger wagging. Get down from there before you break your head.

‘Can’t stay wrapped in a blanket all my life, can I?’ he whispered over the pounding of his heart.

It was with legendary relief he peered over the battlements and saw the rain-lashed walkway, wider than a road, deserted. He groaned as he dragged himself over, hauling the rope after him, rolled on to his back and lay, panting, trying to work the blood back into throbbing fingers.

‘That was an adventure,’ he whispered, slithering up onto hands and knees and staring out over Bail’s Point. ‘Gods …’

From up here it wasn’t hard to believe that it was the strongest fortress in the world, the very key to the Shattered Sea.

There were seven vast towers with vast walls between, six elf-built, the perfect stone gleaming wet, one squat and ugly, built by men to plug a breach left by the Breaking of God. Five towers rose from Father Earth on Koll’s left, but on his right two were thrust out beyond the cliffs into Mother Sea, chains strung between them feathering the waves, enclosing the harbour.

‘Gods,’ he whispered again.

It was crammed with ships, just as Princess Skara had said it would be. Fifty at least, some small, some very great. Bright Yilling’s fleet, safe as babes within the mighty elf-stone arms of the fortress, bare masts scarcely shifting despite Mother Sea’s fury beyond.

A long ramp led from the wharves, up the cliffside to the great yard. Buildings of a dozen different ages and designs were piled up about it, their roofs a mismatched maze of mossy thatch, cracked tile, rain-slick slate, broken gutters spurting water to spatter on the flagstones below. A city, almost, clinging to the inside of the great elf-walls, firelight spilling from around the edges of a hundred windows shuttered against the storm.

Koll squirmed free of his rope, cursing his clumsy cold fingers as he looped it about the battlements, dragged hard at the wet knots to make sure they were fast, and finally allowed himself a weary smile. ‘That’ll do it.’

But the gods love to laugh at a happy man, and his smile vanished the moment he turned.

A warrior was trudging down the walkway towards him, spear in one hand, flickering lantern in the other, rain-heavy cloak flapping about his hunched shoulders.

Koll’s every instinct was to run, but he forced himself to turn his back on the guard, wedged one boot carelessly on the battlements, stared out to sea as though this was the place he felt most at home in all the world, and offered a silent prayer to She Who Spins Lies. One way or another, she got a lot of prayers from Koll.

When he heard boots scraping up he turned with a grin. ‘Hey, hey! Nice evening to be on the walls.’

‘Hardly.’ The man squinted at him as he raised his lantern. ‘Do I know you?’

He sounded like a Yutmarker, so Koll took a guess and trusted to his luck. ‘No, no, I’m one of the Inglings.’

Serve a man one good lie, he might offer you the truth himself. ‘One of Lufta’s boys?’

‘That’s right. Lufta sent me to check the walls.’

‘He did?’

If you can’t fashion a good lie, the truth will have to serve. ‘Aye, there’s these two buttresses, see, and Lufta’s got this worry someone might climb up between them.’

‘On a night like this?’

Koll gave a little chuckle. ‘I know, I know, it’s mad as a hatful of frogs, but you know how Lufta gets …’

‘What’s that?’ asked the man, frowning towards the rope.

‘What’s what what?’ asked Koll, stepping in front of it, run out of lies and now of truths as well. ‘What?’

‘That, you—’ His eyes bulged as a black hand clamped over his mouth and a black blade took him through the neck. Thorn’s face appeared beside his, hardly more than a shadow in the rain, only her eyes standing out white from the tar-smeared skin.

She lowered the warrior’s limp body gently onto the parapet.

‘What do we do with the corpse?’ muttered Koll, catching his lantern before it dropped. ‘We can’t just—’

Thorn took him by the boots and flipped him into space. Koll peered over, open-mouthed, watching the body plummet down, hit the walls near the base and flop off broken into the surging waves.

‘That’s what we do,’ she said as Fror slipped over the wall behind her, dragged the axe from his back and tore away the rag he’d used to muffle the tar-smeared blade. ‘Let’s go.’

Koll swallowed as he followed them. He loved Thorn, but it scared him how easily she could kill a man.

The steps down to the yard were just where Skara had told them, puddled with rainwater in their worn centres. Koll was just letting himself dream again of the harvest of glory he’d reap if this mad plan worked when he heard a voice echo from below, and pressed himself into the shadows.

‘Let’s go inside, Lufta. It’s windy as hell out here!’

A deeper voice answered. ‘Dunverk said guard the little gate. Now stop your bloody whining.’

Koll peered over the edge of the steps. A canvas awning flapped in the wind below them, firelight spilling from underneath.

‘This little gate isn’t so secret as we hoped,’ Thorn whispered in his ear.

‘Like maggots from apples,’ he whispered back, ‘secrets do have a habit of wriggling free.’

‘Fight?’ muttered Thorn. Always her first thought.

Koll smoothed the path for Father Peace, as a good minister should. ‘We might rouse everyone in the fortress.’

‘I’m not climbing back down that chimney,’ said Fror, ‘I can promise you that.’

‘Lend me your cloak,’ whispered Koll. ‘I’ve an idea.’

‘Are you sure now is the best time for ideas?’ Thorn hissed back.

Koll shrugged as he drew the hood up and tried to shake loose muscles still trembling from the climb. ‘They come when they come.’

He left them on the steps and trotted carelessly down, past a half-ruined stable, water dripping from its rotten thatch.

He saw the men, now, seven warriors squatting around their fire, flames torn flickering by the wind that slipped in under their flapping awning. He noted how the firelight fell over the heavy door in the corner behind them, a thick bar lowered across it, the name of She Who Guards the Locks scored deep into the wood. He blew out a misty breath, gathered his courage, and gave a jaunty wave as he walked up.

‘Ach, but damn this weather!’ Koll ducked under the dripping canvas, thrust his hood back and scrubbed his hands through his wet hair. ‘I couldn’t be wetter if I’d gone swimming!’

The men all frowned at him, and he grinned back. ‘Still, I suppose it’s no worse than summer in Inglefold, eh?’ He slapped one on the shoulder as he worked his way towards the door and a couple of the others chuckled.

‘Do I know you?’ asked the big man near the fire. By his silver armrings and surly manner, Koll reckoned him the leader.

‘No, no, I’m one of the Yutmarkers. Dunverk sent me. I’ve a message for you, Lufta.’

The big man spat, and Koll was pleased to find he’d reckoned right. ‘Give it, then, before I go deaf from age. It runs in my family.’

Now for the gamble. ‘Dunverk’s heard tell of an attack. Vanstermen and Gettlanders together, trying to take the fortress and burn our ships.’

‘Attack this place?’ One of the men snorted. ‘They must be fools.’

Koll nodded wearily. ‘That was my very thought when I heard the plan and I haven’t changed my mind.’

‘Did it come from this spy?’ asked Lufta.

Koll blinked. That was unexpected. ‘Aye, this spy. What’s their name now …?’

‘Only Bright Yilling knows that. Why don’t you ask him for a name?’

‘I’ve so great a respect for the man I couldn’t bring myself to bother him. They’re coming for the great gate.’

‘Fools? They’re madmen!’ Lufta licked his teeth in some annoyance. ‘You four, with me, we’ll go over to the gate and see. You two, stay here.’

‘I’ll keep watch, don’t worry!’ called Koll as the men trudged off, one holding his shield up over his head against the rain. ‘There’ll be no Gettlanders getting past me!’

The two left behind were a sorry pair. One young but going bald in clumps, the other with a red patch like spilled wine across his face. He had a fine dagger, silver crosspiece all aglitter, shown off in his belt like a thing to be most proud of though he’d no doubt stolen it from some murdered Throvenman.

Soon as Lufta was out of earshot, that one set to complaining. ‘Most of Yilling’s boys are dragging in plunder all over Throvenland and here we are stuck with this.’

‘Without doubt it’s a great injustice. Still.’ Koll pulled Fror’s cloak off and made great show of shaking the rain from it. ‘Reckon there’s no safer place about the Shattered Sea for a man to sit.’

‘Careful with that!’ grunted Red Face, so busy slapping the cloak away as water flicked in his eyes Koll had no difficulty easing the dagger from his belt with his other hand. It’s amazing what a man won’t notice while he’s distracted.

‘So sorry, my king!’ said Koll, backing away. He nudged Bald Patches in the ribs. ‘Got some airs on him, your companion, don’t he?’ And under his flapping cloak, he slipped the dagger into this man’s belt. ‘Let me show you a wonderful thing!’ He held his hand up before either of them could get a word in, flipping a copper coin back and forth over his knuckles, fingers wriggling, both men fixed on it.

‘Copper,’ murmured Koll, ‘copper, copper, and … silver!’

He flipped his hand over, palming the copper in a twinkling and holding a silver coin up between finger and thumb, Queen Laithlin’s face stamped on it glinting in the firelight

Bald Patches frowned, sitting forward. ‘How d’you do that?’

‘Ha! I’ll show you the trick to it. Lend me your dagger a moment.’

‘What dagger?’

‘Your dagger.’ Koll pointed at his belt. ‘That one.’

Red Face sprang up. ‘What’re you doing with my damn knife?’

‘What?’ Bald Patches gaped at his belt. ‘How—’

‘The One God frowns upon stealing.’ Koll held up his hands in a display of piety. ‘That’s a fact well known.’

Thorn’s black hand clamped down on Red Face’s mouth and her black knife stabbed through his neck. At almost the same moment Bald Patches’ head jerked as Fror hacked his axe into the back of it, and his eyes went crossed, and he muttered something, drooling, then toppled sideways.

‘Let’s move,’ hissed Thorn, lowering her man to the ground, ‘’fore those others join me in realizing what a double-tongued little weasel you are.’

‘By all means, my Chosen Shield,’ said Koll, and he slid the rune-marked bar from its brackets, and heaved the gate open.