Half a War (Shattered Sea, Book 3)

The Killer

‘Don’t do nothing foolish, eh?’ said Blue Jenner.

Raith was thinking of the training square in Vulsgard. Dropping a lad twice his size he’d hit him so hard and so fast. Looking at him huddled on the ground. The shadow of his boot across the lad’s bloody face. He remembered Grom-gil-Gorm’s great hand falling on his shoulder.

What are you waiting for?

He fixed his eyes on the High King’s fleet, a muddle of stretched rope and heaved oar, wind-whipped sailcloth and straining men. ‘The only foolish thing in a fight is holding back,’ he growled, and wedged that battle-scarred joiner’s peg in his mouth, his teeth fitting the dents as neatly as the two halves of a broken bowl fit together.

The Black Dog’s swift-hauled keel plunged through a wave and sent spray fountaining to spatter down on the grimacing oarsmen and the crouching warriors between them.

Raith glanced back towards land, coast bobbing as Mother Sea lifted the Black Dog and dropped her, wondered if Skara was watching, thought of her eyes, those big green eyes that seemed to swallow him. Then he thought of Rakki, alone in the fight with no one to watch his back and he gripped the handle of his shield so tight his battered knuckles burned.

The High King’s ships were rushing up fast, he could see the painted shields: grey gate, boar’s head, four swords in a square. He could see the straining faces of the oarsmen at the rails. He could see bows full-drawn as a boat tipped, and arrows came flickering across the water.

Raith dropped behind his shield, felt a shaft click against its face and spin away over his shoulder. Another lodged in the rail beside him. The breath was getting hot in his throat and he shifted the peg with his tongue and bit down harder.

He heard bowstrings behind him, saw shafts looping the other way, caught by the wind, flitting down among the High King’s ships. He heard helmsmen of King Uthil’s fleet roaring for more speed. He heard the clashing of weapons on shields and rails and oars as men gathered their courage, making ready to kill, to die, and Raith heaved in another breath and did the same, knocking his axe tap, tap, tap against the rail in time to his pounding heart.

‘Pull to the left!’ roared Blue Jenner, picking out his target. Had to be a Lowlander ship – no prow-beast, just a carved whirl. Its crew were struggling to come about to meet the Black Dog prow to prow, helmsman straining desperate at his steering oar, but the wind was against him.

‘Heart of iron!’ came a roar. ‘Head of iron! Hand of iron!’

‘Your death comes!’ someone screamed, and others took up the shout, and Raith snarled it too but with the peg in his mouth it was only a slobbering growl. He felt his breath burning, burning, and hacked at the rail with his axe, woodchips flying.

More arrows whipped angry over the water, and a clamour of prayers and war-cries, the Black Dog ploughing on towards the Lowlander’s ship, the men at her rail bulge-eyed as they scrambled back and Raith could smell their fear, smell their blood, and he stood tall and gave a great howl.

Keel struck timber with a shattering, shuddering crash, oars ripped up, snapping, splintering, sliding about the Black Dog’s prow like spears. The timbers trembled, warriors tottered and clutched, the Lowlander ship was tipped by the impact, men tumbling from their sea-chests and an archer fell and shot his arrow high, high towards sinking Mother Sun.

Grapples snaked out across the churning gap, iron fingers clutching. One hooked a Lowlander under the arm and dragged him whooping into the water.

‘Heave!’ roared Jenner and the ships were dragged together, a skein of rope and tangled oar between them, and Raith bared his teeth and planted one boot on the rail.

A rock tumbled from the air, bonked onto the head of the man beside Raith and knocked him flat, mouth yawning, a great dent in his helmet and the bloody rim jammed down over his nose.

What are you waiting for?

He sprang, cleared the frothing water and fell in the midst of men, a spear raking his shield, near twisting it from his hand.

Raith chopped with his axe, snarling, chopped again, slavering, shoved a man over backwards, saw another with a red beard just raising an axe of his own. He’d a jackdaw wing on a thong around his neck, a charm to make him fast. Didn’t make him fast enough. An arrow stuck under his eye and he fumbled at the shaft.

Raith hit him in the head and ripped him off his feet. A wave struck the side of the ship, soaking friend and enemy. Sea-spray, blood-spray, men pushing, crushing, shoving, screaming. A stew of maddened faces. The swell lifted the back of the ship and Raith went with it, driving men back with his shield, snorting and howling, wolf voice, wolf heart.

All was a storm of splintering wood and clattering metal and broken voices that echoed in Raith’s head until his skull rang with it, split with it, burst with it. The deck was sea-slippery, blood-slippery. Men staggered as the boat heeled and clashed grating against another, its prow-beast so prickled with arrows it looked like a hedgehog.

A man thrust at him with a spear but panic had the Lowlanders and there was no heart in it. Raith was too fast, too eager, reeled around the stabbing point, his axe reeling after him in a shining circle and thudding into the man’s shoulder so hard it sent him tumbling over the rail and into the heaving sea.

Mercy is weakness, Mother Scaer used to make them say before she’d give them their bread. Mercy is failure.

Raith rammed his left arm up and over and the edge of his shield caught an oarsman in the mouth and knocked him staggering, coughing, choking on his own teeth.

He saw Blue Jenner clinging to the prow, boot up on the rail, pointing with his weathered sword. He shouted words but Raith was the great dog now, and if he’d ever known the tongue of men it was long ago in another place.

The ship clashed into another. A man in the water gave a bubbling scream as he was crushed between the hulls. Fire flared, glinting on the blades, fearful faces jerking towards it.

Father Yarvi’s southern weapon. A flaming pot tumbled in the air and smashed, fire blooming across a fat-bellied transport. Men toppled from the deck, burning, squealing, rigging turned to flaming lines, Mother Sea herself pooled with fire.

Raith felt Gorm’s hand on his shoulder. What are you waiting for?

He chopped a man down, stomped on him as he fell, hacked another across the back as he turned to run. He’d fought his way down the ship, a tall warrior ahead of him with gold glinting on his face-guard, bright ring-money on his arms catching the sinking sun.

Raith slunk up growling in a crouch, his slobber spattering the deck, men and the shadows of men dancing about them, lit by gaudy flames.

They sprang together, axe shrieking against sword, sword clattering from shield, a kick and a stumble and a blow gouging the deck as Raith rolled away.

He circled, wet lips quivering, feeling out his balance, weighing his axe, until he saw his shadow stretch across the deck towards the captain. Knew Mother Sun was low, knew she’d take his eyes, and when she did he darted forward.

He hooked the captain’s shield and ripped it down. He had the longer reach but Raith pressed close, butted him in the mouth just under his gilded face-guard.

He fell clutching at the rail, Raith’s axe thudded into wood and the captain’s fingers jumped spinning, sword tumbling over the side into the sea. Raith snarled, spraying pink drool, chopped low and caught the captain just below his flapping mail as he tried to stand. A crack as his knee snapped back the wrong way and he fell moaning onto his hands.

Raith felt Gorm’s slap sting his face. You are a killer!

He gnawed at the peg as he hacked, and hacked, and hacked, snorting and slavering until he could swing no more and he lurched against the ship’s rail, blood on his face, blood in his mouth.

Smoke rolled across the water, made Raith’s eyes leak and his throat burn.

Here, at least, the battle was done. Men dead. Men screaming. The water bobbed with floating bodies, nudging gently against the keel as the ship drifted. Raith’s knees wobbled and he slumped down on his arse in the shadow of the whirl-carved prow.

More of Uthil’s ships were cutting through the waves. Arrows flitting, grapples tumbling, men springing from one boat to another, men roaring and fighting and dying, black shadows in the fading light. Flames spread among the big trading ships and roared up into the dusk, oars a flaming tangle, giant torches on the water.

‘That was some fighting, lad.’ Someone set the captain’s gilded helm on Raith’s lap and gave it a pat. ‘You got no fear in you at all, do you?’

Took an effort for Raith to unlock his aching jaw, to push the spit-slick peg out of his mouth with his sore tongue.

Sometimes felt like all he had in him was fear. Of losing his place. Of being alone. Of the things he’d done. Of the things he might do.

Fighting was the one thing didn’t scare him.