Half a War (Shattered Sea, Book 3)

Loyalty

Raith wove between the campfires, around the tents, among the gathered warriors of Vansterland. He’d done the same a hundred times, before duels, before raids, before battles. This was where he was happiest. This was home to him. Or it should’ve been. Things weren’t quite what they used to be.

The men were tired, and far from their fields and their families, and knew the odds they faced. Raith could see the doubt in their firelit faces. Could hear it in their voices, their laughter, their songs. Could smell their fear.

He wasn’t the only one wandering through the camp. Death walked here too, marking out the doomed, and every man felt the chill of her passing.

He struck away towards a low hill with a single fire on top, strode up towards the summit, the chatter fading behind him. Rakki knelt on a blanket by the fire, Gorm’s shield between his knees, frowning as he polished the bright rim with a rag. Gods, it was good to see him. Like a sight of home for a man a long time gone.

‘Hey, hey, brother,’ said Raith.

‘Hey, hey.’ When Rakki looked around it was like staring in a mirror. The magic mirror Horald brought back from his voyages, that showed a man the better part of himself.

Sitting down beside him was as comfortable as slipping on a favourite pair of boots. Raith watched his brother work in silence for a moment, then looked down at his own empty hands. ‘Something’s missing.’

‘If it’s your brains, your looks or your sense of humour, I’ve got ’em all.’

Raith snorted. ‘I was thinking of a sword for me to work on.’

‘Queen Skara’s scabbard doesn’t need a polish?’

Raith glanced across and saw that crooked little smile on Rakki’s mouth. He snorted again. ‘I’m standing ready, but no royal invitation yet.’

‘I wouldn’t hold your breath, brother. While you’re waiting you could always eat.’ And Rakki nodded towards the old grease-blackened pot over the fire.

‘Rabbit?’ Raith closed his eyes and dragged in a long sniff. Took him back to happier times, sharing the same meals, and the same hopes, and the same master. ‘I do love rabbit.’

‘Course. Know each other better’n anyone, don’t we?’

‘We do.’ Raith gave Rakki a sideways glance. ‘So what do you want?’

‘I can’t just cook for my brother?’

‘Course you can, but you never do. What do you want?’

Rakki put Gorm’s great shield aside and fixed him with his eye. ‘I see you with the young Queen of Throvenland, and that broken-down pirate of hers, and that chubby excuse for a minister, and you look happy. You never look happy.’

‘They’re not so bad,’ said Raith, frowning. ‘And we’re all on the same side, aren’t we?’

‘Are we? Folk are starting to wonder whether you even want to come back.’

Rakki had always known just how to sting him. ‘I never chose a bit of this! All I’ve done is make the best of where I was put. I’d do anything to come back!’

The answer came from behind him. ‘That is good to hear.’

He was no helpless child any more but that voice still made him cringe like a puppy expecting a slap. He forced himself to turn, forced himself to look straight into Mother Scaer’s blue, blue eyes.

‘I have missed you, Raith.’ She squatted in front of him, bony wrists on her knees and her long hands dangling. ‘I think it high time you returned to your rightful place.’

Raith swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. To fill his king’s cup, carry his king’s sword, fight at his brother’s side? To go back to being the fiercest, the hardest, the bloodiest? To go back to burning, and killing, and to one day be weighed down with a chain of pommels of his own? ‘That’s all I want,’ he croaked out. ‘All I’ve ever wanted.’

‘I know,’ said the minister, that soothing tone that scared him more even than the harsh one. ‘I know.’ And she reached out, and scrubbed at his hair like you might scrub a puppy between the ears. ‘There is just one service your king needs you to perform.’

Raith felt a cold shiver between his shoulders at her touch. ‘Name it.’

‘I fear Father Yarvi has a ring through the young Queen Skara’s pretty nose. I fear he leads her where he pleases. I fear he will lead her to her doom, and drag all of us along in a stumbling procession behind.’

Raith glanced at his brother, but there was no help there. There rarely was. ‘She’s got her own mind, I reckon,’ he muttered.

Mother Scaer gave a scornful snort. ‘Father Yarvi plans to break the most sacred laws of the Ministry, and bring elf-weapons out of Strokom.’

‘Elf-weapons?’

She leaned hissing towards him and Raith flinched back. ‘I have seen it! Blinded by his own arrogance, he plans to unleash the magic that broke God. I know you are not the clever one, Raith, but do you see what is at stake?’

‘I thought no one can enter Strokom and live—’

‘The witch Skifr is here, and she can, and she will. If that little bitch gives Yarvi her vote.’

Raith licked his lips. ‘I could talk to her …’

Scaer darted out a hand and he couldn’t help cringing, but she only placed her cool palm ever so gently on his cheek. ‘Do you think I would be so cruel as to pit you in a battle of words against Father Yarvi? No, Raith, I think not. You are no talker.’

‘Then …’

‘You are a killer.’ Her brow creased, like she was disappointed he hadn’t seen it right off. ‘I want you to kill her.’

Raith stared. What else could he do? He stared into Mother Scaer’s eyes, and felt cold all over. ‘No …’ he whispered, but no word had ever been spoken so feebly. ‘Please …’

Pleading had never won anything from Mother Scaer. It only showed her his weakness.

‘No?’ Her hand clamped painful tight about his face. ‘Please?’ He tried to pull away but there was no strength in him and she dragged him so close their noses almost touched. ‘This is no request, boy,’ she hissed, ‘this is your king’s command.’

‘They’ll know I did it,’ he whined, scrabbling for excuses like a dog for a buried bone.

‘I have done the thinking for you.’ Mother Scaer slid out a little vial between two long fingers, what looked like water in the bottom. ‘You were a king’s cup-filler. Slipping this into a queen’s cup can be no harder. One drop is all it will take. She will not suffer. She will fall asleep and never wake. Then there can be an end to this elf-madness. Perhaps even peace with the High King.’

‘King Fynn thought he could make peace—’

‘King Fynn did not know what to offer.’

Raith swallowed. ‘And you do?’

‘I would start with Father Yarvi, in a box.’ Mother Scaer let her head drop on one side. ‘Along with, perhaps, the southern half of Gettland? Everything north of Thorlby should be ours, though, don’t you agree? I feel confident Grandmother Wexen could be persuaded to listen to that argument …’

Mother Scaer took Raith’s limp wrist, and turned his hand over, and dropped the vial into his palm. Such a little thing. He thought of Skara’s words, then. Why send an honest fool to do a clever liar’s job?

‘You sent me to her because I’m a killer,’ he muttered.

‘No, Raith.’ Mother Scaer caught his face again, tilted it towards her. ‘I sent you because you are loyal. Now claim your reward.’ She stood, seeming to tower over him. ‘This time tomorrow, you will be back where you belong. At the king’s side.’ She turned away. ‘At your brother’s side.’ And she was gone into the night.

Raith felt Rakki’s hand on his shoulder. ‘How many people have you killed, brother?’

‘You know I’m not much at counting.’

‘What’s one more, then?’

‘There’s a difference between killing a man who’d just as soon kill you first and killing someone …’ Someone who’s done you no harm. Someone who’s been kind to you. Someone you—

Rakki dragged him close by his shirt. ‘The only difference is there’s far more to gain now, and far more to lose! If you don’t do it … you’ll be on your own. We’ll both be on our own.’

‘What happened to sailing off together down the wide Divine?’

‘You told me to thank Mother War that we stand with the winners, and you were right! Let’s not pretend you’ve only killed warriors. How much have I gone along with for your sake? What about that woman at that farm, eh? What about her children—’

‘I know what I’ve done!’ The fury boiled up and Raith closed his aching fist tight around the vial and shook it in his brother’s face. ‘Did it for us, didn’t I?’ He caught Rakki by the collar, made him stumble, knocking the pot off the fire and spilling stew across the grass.

‘Please, brother.’ Rakki held him by the shoulders, more hug than clinch. The more Raith hardened, the more he softened. Knew him better than anyone, didn’t he? ‘If we don’t look out for each other who will? Do this. For me. For us.’

Raith looked into his brother’s eyes. Didn’t seem to him they looked much alike, right then. He sucked in air, and slowly breathed it out, and all the fight went with it.

‘I’ll do it.’ He hung his head, staring at the little vial in his palm. How many people had he killed, after all? ‘I was trying to think of a good reason not to, but … you’re the clever one.’ He closed his fist tight. ‘I’m the killer.’

Rin was mostly silent, lengths of wire held in her mouth as she frowned down at her work. Maybe it was having a girl her age around, or the excitement of the coming moot, but Skara talked for both of them. About her youth at Bail’s Point and her few memories of her parents. About the Forest in Yaletoft, and how it burned, and how she hoped to rebuild it better. About Throvenland and her people, and how with the gods’ help she’d deliver them from the tyranny of the High King, claim vengeance on Bright Yilling and protect the legacy of her murdered grandfather. Sister Owd, now Mother Owd and with a frown to match her station, nodded along approvingly.

Raith didn’t. He would’ve loved to be part of that fine future, but he’d seen what life was. He hadn’t been brought up in a fortress or a king’s hall with slaves hanging on his every whim. He’d clawed himself up with no one but his brother beside him.

He put one hand to his shirt, felt the lump of the little vial under the cloth. He knew what he was. Knew what he had to do.

Then Skara smiled at him, that smile that made him feel like Mother Sun had picked him alone to shine upon. ‘How do you fight in this?’ she said, shaking herself and making the mail rattle. ‘The weight of it!’

Raith’s resolve melted like butter on a hearthstone. ‘You get used to it, my queen,’ he croaked.

She frowned at him. ‘Are you ill?’

‘Me?’ he stammered. ‘Why?’

‘When did you learn manners? Gods, it’s hot.’ She tugged at the collar of the mailshirt and the padded jacket underneath. She’d never looked more alive – flushed, eyes bright and the faintest sheen on her face. She snapped her fingers at her thrall. ‘Bring me some wine, would you?’

‘I’ll do it,’ said Raith, stepping quickly over to the jug.

‘Might as well be served by the best.’ Skara nodded towards him, grinning at Rin. ‘He was a king’s cup-bearer.’

‘Was,’ muttered Raith. And would be again. If he could do this one thing.

He could hardly make out Skara’s words over the thudding of his heart. Slowly, carefully, trying to make sure his shaking hands didn’t give him away, he poured the wine. It looked like blood in the cup.

He’d wanted to be a warrior. A man who stood by his king and won glory on the battlefield. And what had he become? A man who burned farms. Who betrayed trust. Who poisoned women.

He told himself it had to be done. For his king. For his brother.

He could feel Mother Owd’s eyes on his back as he took the sip the cup-filler takes to make sure the wine’s safe for better lips than his. He heard her take a step towards him, then Skara said, ‘Mother Owd! You knew Father Yarvi before he was a minister, didn’t you?’

‘I did, my queen, briefly. He could be ruthless even then …’

Raith heard the minister turn away, and without daring even to breathe he slipped Mother Scaer’s vial from his shirt, eased the stopper out and let one drop fall into the cup. One drop was all it would take. He watched the ripples spread, and vanish, and tucked the vial away. His knees felt weak of a sudden. He leaned on his fists.

He told himself there was no other way.

He took the cup in both hands and turned.

Skara was shaking her head as she watched Rin tucking the mail at her waist, folding it with quick fingers to fit her, fixing it with twisted wire.

‘I swear, you’re as nimble with steel as my old dressmaker was with silk.’

‘Blessed by She Who Strikes the Anvil, my queen,’ muttered Rin, stepping back to consider the results of her work. ‘Don’t feel too blessed lately, though.’

‘Things will change. I know they will.’

‘You sound like my brother.’ Rin gave a sad little smile as she walked around behind Skara. ‘Reckon we’re done. I’ll unlace it and make the adjustments.’

Skara drew herself up as Raith came close with the wine, setting one hand on the dagger at her belt, mail gleaming in the lamplight. ‘Well? Would I pass for a warrior?’

Gods, he could hardly speak. His knees were trembling as he knelt before her, the way he used to before Gorm, after every duel and battle. The way he would again. ‘If every shield-wall looked like that,’ he managed by some great effort to say, ‘you’d have no problem getting men to charge at the bastards.’ And he lifted the cup in both hands towards her.

He told himself he had no choice.

‘I could get used to handsome men kneeling at my feet.’ She gave that laugh. That big, wild laugh she had. And she reached for the cup.