Half a War (Shattered Sea, Book 3)

Monsters

‘My allies,’ Skara began. ‘My friends.’ As if by calling them friends she might make them feel less like her enemies. ‘I thought it wise to call only the six of us together so we can discuss our situation without too many … interruptions.’ Meaning the onslaught of petty arguments, insults and threats that strangled their full-scale moots.

King Uthil and King Gorm frowned at one another. Father Yarvi and Mother Scaer frowned at one another. Sister Owd sat back with arms grimly folded. A breeze sighed off the sea and stirred the long grass on the barrows, making Skara shiver even though the day was warm.

An intimate meeting out of doors, butterflies fluttering among the flowers that grew on the graves of the parents Skara had hardly known. An intimate meeting of two kings, three ministers, and her. And with the wrath of Grandmother Wexen about to crash upon them.

‘Our situation, then.’ Mother Scaer turned one of her elf-bangles around and around on her thin wrist. ‘Here is a pretty pickle.’

‘Ten thousand of the High King’s warriors descend upon us,’ said Uthil. ‘And with the banners of many storied heroes among them.’

‘More swarm across the straits from Yutmark every day,’ said Gorm. ‘We must fall back. We must abandon Throvenland.’

Skara flinched. Abandon Bail’s Point. Abandon her land and her people. Abandon her grandfather’s memory. The thought made her sick. Or even sicker.

Uthil let his naked sword slide through his hand until its point was in the grass. ‘I do not see victory that way.’

‘Where do you see it?’ pleaded Skara, struggling to sit straight and plaster a queen’s dignity onto her face, even if she would far rather have curled up crying under her chair. But Uthil only twisted his sword gently, face as hard as the cliffs below them.

‘I stand always ready to trust to my weaponluck, but I am not alone. I must think of my wife and my son. I must think of what I might leave them.’

Skara felt her gorge rising and fought it down. When even the Iron King could not say steel was the answer, things were truly desperate.

Mother Scaer turned her shaved head and spat over her shoulder. ‘Perhaps the time has come to send a bird to Grandmother Wexen.’

Father Yarvi snorted. ‘Mother Adwyn made it very clear she will never make peace with me.’

‘So you say.’

Yarvi narrowed his eyes. ‘Do you think I lie?’

Scaer glared back. ‘Usually.’

‘King Fynn made peace with Grandmother Wexen,’ said Skara, her voice cracking. ‘Some good it did him!’

But the two kings sat in brooding silence as Mother Scaer leaned in, tattooed forearms resting on her knees. ‘Every war is only a prelude to peace. A negotiation with swords instead of words. Let us go to Grandmother Wexen while we still have something to bargain with—’

‘There’ll be no bargains!’ came a barking voice. ‘There’ll be no peace.’

Thorn Bathu stalked around the nearest howe. At first, Skara felt a rush of gladness at the sight of her. The very woman you needed when you faced impossible odds. Then Thorn jerked a chain and brought a prisoner staggering after her, hands bound behind him and a bloodstained bag over his face. Then Skara saw a figure following in a cloak of rags, hood drawn up. Finally she met Thorn’s eyes, smouldering in blackened sockets with a fury almost painful to look upon.

‘Bright Yilling attacked Thorlby,’ she snarled, kicking her prisoner onto his knees before the three rulers and their three ministers. ‘He burned half the city. Queen Laithlin is still there with her son, caring for the wounded. He killed men, women, children. He killed—’ She gave a strangled cough, and bared her teeth, and she mastered herself again and raised her sharp chin, eyes glistening. ‘He killed Brand.’

Gorm frowned sideways at his minister. Uthil’s fist whitened about the grip of his sword. Father Yarvi’s eyes went wide, and he seemed to slump on his stool.

‘Gods,’ he whispered, all the colour drained from his face.

‘I am … so sorry …’ stammered Skara. She remembered how Thorn had held her when she was first brought to Thorlby. Wished she could do the same for her now. But her face was so twisted with anger Skara hardly dared look at her, let alone touch her.

The newcomer pushed back her ragged hood. A dark-skinned southerner, lean as a whip and with burns scattered across the left side of her face. They would have made Skara wince to look upon once, but she was growing used to scars.

‘Greetings, great kings, great queens, great ministers,’ she bowed, and showed burned bald patches in her cropped grey hair. ‘In the Land of the Alyuks they call me Sun-nara-Skun. In Kalyiv they call me Scarayoi, the Walker in the Ruins.’

‘What do they call you here?’ snapped Mother Scaer.

‘She is Skifr,’ murmured Yarvi.

‘The witch Skifr?’ Scaer’s lip twisted with disgust. ‘The thief of elf-relics? The one denounced by Grandmother Wexen?’

‘The very same, my dove.’ Skifr smiled. ‘Grandmother Wexen burned my house and killed my kin, and so I am your bitter enemy’s bitter enemy.’

‘The best kind of ally.’ The Breaker of Swords frowned at the chained man. ‘And must we play a guessing game over this visitor?’

Thorn snorted, and ripped the bag from his head.

Skara was sickened at first to see his face. Battered shapeless, bloated with bruises, one eye swollen shut and the white of the other stained red. Then she realized she knew him. He was one of those who had stood in the Forest the night it burned. One of those who had laughed as King Fynn toppled into the firepit. She knew she should hate him, but all she felt at the sight of his ruined face was pity. Pity, and disgust at what had been done to him.

Be as generous to your enemies as your friends, her grandfather had always said. Not for their sake, but for your own.

Thorn’s mood was anything but generous, however. ‘This is Asborn the Fearless, Companion to Bright Yilling.’ She dug her fingers into his blood-crusted hair and wrenched his face up towards her. ‘He was caught in the raid on Thorlby, and he proves to have fear in him after all. Tell them what you told me, worm!’

Asborn’s mouth lolled slack and toothless and broken words croaked out. ‘A message … came to Bright Yilling. To attack Thorlby. When … and where … and how to attack.’ Skara winced as his wet breath clicked and crackled. ‘You have … a traitor among you.’

Father Yarvi sat forward, his withered hand clenched in a mockery of fist. ‘Who is it?’

‘Only Yilling knows.’ His one bloodshot eye was fixed on Skara’s. ‘Perhaps they sit here now … among you.’ His broken mouth curled into a red smile. ‘Perhaps—’

Thorn struck him across his broken face, knocked him sideways, lifted her arm to hit him again.

‘Thorn!’ shouted Skara, clutching at her chest. ‘No!’ Thorn stared at her, face twisted with grief and fury at once. ‘Please, if you keep hurting him, you hurt yourself. You hurt us all. I beg you, show some mercy!’

‘Mercy?’ Thorn spat, tears streaking her scarred cheek. ‘Did they show Brand mercy?’

‘No more than they showed my grandfather.’ Skara felt her own eyes stinging as she leaned desperately forward. ‘But we have to be better than them!’

‘No. We have to be worse.’ Thorn hauled Asborn savagely up by his chain, lifting her clenched fist, but he only smiled the wider.

‘Bright Yilling comes!’ he gurgled out. ‘Bright Yilling comes and he brings Death with him!’

‘Oh, Death is here already.’ Skifr turned, raising her arm, a thing of dark metal gripped in her fist. There was a deafening crack that made Skara jolt in her chair, a red mist blew from the back of Asborn’s head and he was flung twisted onto his side with his hair on fire.

Skara stared, wide-eyed, cold with horror.

‘Mother War protect us,’ whispered Gorm.

‘What have you done?’ shrieked Mother Scaer, springing up and sending her stool tumbling over in the grass.

‘Rejoice, my doves, for I have brought you the means of your victory.’ Skifr held the deadly thing high, a wisp of smoke curling from a hole in its end. ‘I know where more of these can be found. Relics beside which the power of this one would seem puny. Elf-weapons forged before the Breaking of God!’

‘Where?’ asked Yarvi, and Skara was shocked to see his eyes shining with eagerness.

Skifr let her head drop on one side. ‘In Strokom.’

‘Madness!’ screeched Mother Scaer. ‘Strokom is forbidden by the Ministry. Anyone who goes there sickens and dies!’

‘I have been there.’ Skifr raised a long arm to point at the elf-bangle burning orange on Thorn’s wrist. ‘I brought that bauble from within, and I still cast a shadow. No ground is forbidden to me. I am the Walker in the Ruins, and I know all the ways. Even those that can keep us safe from the sickness in Strokom. Say the word, and I will put weapons in your hands against which no man, no hero, no army can stand.’

‘And curse us all?’ snarled Mother Scaer. ‘Have you lost your minds?’

‘I yet have mine.’ King Uthil had calmly risen, calmly walked to Asborn’s corpse, calmly squatted beside it. ‘The great warrior is the one who still breathes when the crows feast. The great king is the one who watches the carcasses of his enemies burn.’ He pushed his little finger into the neat hole in Asborn’s forehead, and the mad fire that had seemed burned out was bright again in his eyes. ‘Steel must be the answer.’ He pulled his finger free, red, and raised one brow at it. ‘This is but another kind of steel.’

Skara closed her eyes, gripping tight to the arms of her chair. Tried to still her heaving breath and her churning stomach and smother her horror. Horror at seeing magic. Horror at seeing a prisoner murdered before her eyes. Horror that she was the only one who seemed to care. She had to be brave. Had to be clever. Had to be strong.

‘I say it should stay sheathed lest it cut us all,’ Gorm was saying.

‘I say it should be sheathed in Bright Yilling’s heart!’ snarled Thorn.

‘We can all see you are grief-mad,’ snapped Mother Scaer. ‘Elf-magic? Think what you are saying! We risk another Breaking of God! And with a traitor among us!’

‘A traitor who made Thorlby burn,’ barked Thorn, ‘as you’ve dreamed of doing for years! A traitor working for the High King, who you’d make peace with!’

‘Think carefully before you accuse me, you unnatural—’

Skara forced her eyes open. ‘We all have made sacrifices!’ she shouted. ‘We all have lost friends, homes, families. We must stand united or Grandmother Wexen will crush us each alone!’

‘We have challenged the High King’s authority,’ said Father Yarvi, ‘and that is all he has. All he is. He cannot turn back and neither can we. We have chosen our path.’

‘You have chosen it for us,’ snapped Mother Scaer. ‘One bloody step at a time! And it leads straight to our destruction.’

Skifr barked out a laugh. ‘You were fumbling your way there well enough without me, my doves. Always there are risks. Always there are costs. But I have shown you forbidden magic and Mother Sun still rises.’

‘We rule because men trust us,’ said Gorm. ‘What will this do to their trust?’

‘You rule because men fear you,’ said Father Yarvi. ‘With weapons such as these their fear will be all the greater.’

Scaer gave a hiss. ‘This is evil, Father Yarvi.’

‘I fear it is the lesser evil, Mother Scaer. Glorious victories make fine songs, but inglorious ones are no worse once the bards are done with them. Glorious defeats, meanwhile, are just defeats.’

‘We need time to consider,’ said Skara, holding out her palms as if to calm a pack of fighting dogs.

‘Not too long.’ Skifr darted out one hand, catching a dried-up leaf as it whirled past. ‘The sands slip through the glass and Bright Yilling marches ever closer. Will you do what you must to beat him? Or will you let him beat you?’ She crushed the leaf as she turned away and, holding her hand high, let the dust blow on the breeze. ‘If you ask me, my doves, that is no choice at all!’

‘There’ll be no peace,’ growled Thorn Bathu, hauling the chain over her shoulder. ‘Not while Bright Yilling and I both live. That I promise you!’ And she turned to follow Skifr, the heels of Asborn’s corpse leaving two grooves in the grass as she dragged the murdered man after her.

Gorm slowly stood, a heavy frown on his battle-worn face. ‘Let us have a great moot at sunrise tomorrow, then, where we will decide the future of our alliance. The future of the whole Shattered Sea, perhaps.’

King Uthil was the next to rise. ‘We have much to discuss, Father Yarvi.’

‘We do, my king, but I must speak to Queen Skara first.’

‘Very well.’ Uthil twitched his naked sword up into the crook of his arm. ‘While I try to stop Thorn Bathu killing every Vansterman in the world searching for traitors. Send a bird to Queen Laithlin. Tell her to kiss my son from me.’ He turned away towards Bail’s Point. ‘Tell her I fear I will be late to dinner.’

Skara waited until King Uthil was gone and Mother Scaer had stalked away bitterly shaking her shaved head before she spoke. ‘You knew this moment would come.’ She carefully turned the pieces about until they fitted together in her mind. ‘That is why you wanted me to summon only the six of us here. So that this business of elf-relics could not leak out.’

‘Not everyone is as … considered as you, my queen.’ Flattery, flattery. She tried not to let it sway her. ‘It is wise to keep the circle tight. Especially if there truly is a traitor amongst us.’

It all made fine sense, but Skara frowned even so. ‘I could tire of finding myself dancing to your tune, Father Yarvi.’

‘It is Grandmother Wexen’s music we all dance to, and I have sworn to stop the piper. You have a great decision to make, my queen.’

‘One follows hard upon another.’

‘That is the cost of power.’ Yarvi stared down at the bloodstained grass, and for a moment he seemed to be struggling with some sickness of his own. ‘Forgive me. I just learned as good a man as I ever knew is dead. Sometimes it is hard … to pick the right thing.’

‘Sometimes there is no right thing.’ Skara tried to imagine what her grandfather would have done in her place. What advice Mother Kyre would have given her. But she had been taught no lessons for this. She was far out on uncharted seas, with a storm coming and no stars to steer by. ‘What should I do, Father Yarvi?’

‘A wise man once told me that a king must win, the rest is dust. It is no different for a queen. Take Skifr’s offer. Without something to tip the scales, the High King will sweep us all aside. Grandmother Wexen will take no pity on you. The people of Throvenland will not be spared. Bright Yilling will not thank you for your forbearance. Ask yourself what he would do in your place.’

Skara could not stop herself from shuddering at that. ‘So I must become Bright Yilling?’

‘Let Father Peace shed tears over the methods. Mother War smiles upon results.’

‘And when the war is over?’ she whispered. ‘What kind of peace will we have won?’

‘You want to be merciful. To stand in the light. I understand it. I admire it. But, my queen …’ Father Yarvi stepped close, and held her eye, and spoke softly. ‘Only the victors can be merciful.’

There was no choice at all. She had known it since Skifr worked her magic. Looking into Father Yarvi’s face she knew that he had known it too. He had seen it from far off, and twitched their course towards it so gently she had thought she held the steering oar. But she knew also that as the High King’s army drew closer, her borrowed power was slipping away. This might be her last vote. She had to win something for her grandfather, for her people, for Throvenland. For herself.

‘I have a price.’ She looked towards the battlements of Bail’s Point, black against the white sky. ‘You must convince King Uthil to fight Bright Yilling here.’

Father Yarvi gave Skara a searching stare. As though he could dig out her intentions with his eyes. Perhaps he could. ‘He will be reluctant to fight so far from home. Gorm even more so.’

‘Then I will speak to Mother Scaer, and see what she can offer for a vote against you.’ Skara waved one hand towards the elf-walls looming over her mother’s howe. ‘There is no stronger fortress anywhere. If we hold it, Bright Yilling will have to come to us. Because of his pride. Because he cannot march past and leave us free behind him. We will fix the High King’s men here, all in one place. We will be the shield on which Grandmother Wexen’s strength will break. You will be free to find your weapons …’ She tried not to let her revulsion show as she glanced towards the bloodied grass where Asborn had fallen. ‘When you return we can crush Bright Yilling’s army in one throw.’

Yarvi considered her. ‘There is wisdom in it, but warriors are rarely interested in wisdom.’

‘Warriors like polished metal and tales of glory and songs in which steel is the answer. I daresay you can sing the two kings one of those. Do you have a fine singing voice, Father Yarvi?’

He raised one brow. ‘As it happens.’

‘I will not abandon the fortress my father died for. I will not abandon the land my grandfather died for.’

‘Then I will fight for it alongside you, my queen.’ Yarvi glanced at Sister Owd. ‘Have you anything to add?’

‘I speak when Queen Skara needs my advice.’ She gave the mildest of smiles. ‘I feel she handled you perfectly well without me.’

Father Yarvi snorted, and strode off between the barrows towards King Uthil’s camp.

‘That is a deep-cunning man,’ murmured Sister Owd, coming to stand beside Skara. ‘A man who could make any course seem wise.’

Skara looked sideways. ‘I need read no omens to sense the “but” coming.’

‘His plan is desperate. He would step onto forbidden ground with this witch Skifr to guide the way.’ Sister Owd let her voice drop softer. ‘He would step into hell with a devil to point out his path, and he would have us follow. If they cannot find these elf-relics? We will be left penned up in Bail’s Point surrounded by ten thousand warriors. If they can?’ A whisper now, and a fearful one. ‘Will we risk another Breaking of the World?’

Skara thought of the burned farms, the burned villages, her grandfather’s hall in ruins. ‘The world is already broken. Without these weapons the High King will win. Grandmother Wexen will win.’ She felt the sickness at the back of her throat, and swallowed it. ‘Bright Yilling will win.’

Sister Owd’s shoulders slumped. ‘I do not envy you your choice, my queen.’ She frowned off after Father Yarvi. ‘But I fear in destroying one monster you may make another.’

Skara took one last look at her father’s howe. ‘I used to think the world had heroes in it. But the world is full of monsters, Sister Owd.’ She turned away from the dead, back towards Bail’s Point. ‘Perhaps the best we can hope for is to have the most terrible of them on our side.’