Half the World (Shattered Sea, Book 2)

RISSENTOFT

In the songs, Angulf Clovenfoot’s Gettlanders fell upon the Vanstermen like hawks from an evening sky.

Master Hunnan’s misfits fell on Rissentoft like a herd of sheep down a steep flight of steps.

The lad with the game leg could hardly walk by the time they reached the river and they’d left him sore and sorry on the south bank. The rest of them got soaked through at the ford and one lad had his shield carried off by the current. Then they got turned around in an afternoon mist and it wasn’t until near dark, all worn-out, clattering and grumbling, that they stumbled on the village.

Hunnan cuffed one boy around the head for quiet then split them up with gestures, sent them scurrying in groups of five down the streets, or down the hardened dirt between the shacks, at least.

‘Stay close!’ Brand hissed to Rauk, who was straggling behind, shield dangling, looking more pale and tired than ever.

‘The place is empty,’ growled the toothless old-timer, and he looked to have the right of it. Brand crept along a wall and peered through a door hanging open. Not so much as a dog moving anywhere. Apart from the stink of poverty, an aroma he was well familiar with, the place was abandoned.

‘They must’ve heard us coming,’ he muttered.

The old man raised one brow. ‘You think?’

‘There’s one here!’ came a scared shriek, and Brand took off running, scrambled around the corner of a wattle shack, shield up.

An old man stood at the door of a house with his hands raised. Not a big house, or a pretty house. Just a house. He had a stoop to his back, and grey hair braided beside his face the way the Vanstermen wore it. Three of Hunnan’s lads stood in a half-circle about him, spears levelled.

‘I’m not armed,’ he said, holding his hands higher. They had something of a shake to them and Brand hardly blamed him. ‘I don’t want to fight.’

‘Some of us don’t,’ said Hunnan, stepping between the lads with his sword drawn. ‘But sometimes a fight finds us anyway.’

‘I got nothing you want.’ The old man stared about nervously as they gathered around him. ‘Please. Just don’t want my house burned. Built it with my wife.’

‘Where’s she?’ asked Hunnan.

The old man swallowed, his grey-stubbled throat shifting. ‘She died last winter.’

‘What about those in Halleby? You think they wanted their houses burned?’

‘I knew folk in Halleby.’ The man licked his lips. ‘I didn’t have nought to do with that.’

‘Not surprised to hear about it, though, are you?’ And Hunnan hit him with his sword. It opened a great gash in his arm and he yelped, staggered, clutched at his doorframe as he fell.

‘Oh,’ said one of the boys.

Hunnan stepped up with a snarl and chopped the old man in the back of the head with a sound like a spade chopping earth. He rolled over, shuddering, tongue stuck out rigid. Then he lay still, blood spreading across his door-stone, pooling in the deep-cut runes of the gods that guarded his house.

Same gods that guarded the houses in Thorlby. Seemed they weren’t watching right then.

Brand stared, cold all over. Happened so fast he’d no time to stop it. No time to think about whether he wanted to stop it, even. Just happened, and they all stood there and watched.

‘Spread out,’ said Hunnan. ‘Search the houses, then burn ’em. Burn ’em all.’ The bald old man shook his head, and Brand felt sick inside, but they did as they were bid.

‘I’ll stay here,’ said Rauk, tossing down his shield and sitting on it.

Brand shouldered open the nearest door and froze. A low room, much like the one he and Rin used to share, and by the firepit a woman stood. A skinny woman in a dirty dress, couple of years older than Brand. She stood with one hand on the wall, staring at him, breathing hard. Scared out of her wits, he reckoned.

‘You all right?’ called Sordaf from outside.

‘Aye,’ said Brand.

‘Well, bloody hell!’ The fat lad grinned as he ducked his head under the low doorway. ‘Not quite empty, I reckon.’ He uncoiled some rope, sawed off a length with his knife, and handed it over. ‘Reckon she’ll get a decent price, you lucky bastard.’

‘Aye,’ said Brand.

Sordaf went out shaking his head. ‘War’s all bloody luck, I swear …’

The woman didn’t speak and neither did Brand. He tied the rope around her neck, not too tight, not too loose, and she didn’t so much as twitch. He made the other end fast around his wrist, and all the while he felt numb and strange. This was what warriors did in the songs, wasn’t it? Take slaves? Didn’t seem much like doing good to Brand. Didn’t seem anywhere near it. But if it wasn’t him took her it’d be one of the others. That was what warriors did.

Outside they were already torching the houses. The woman made a sort of moan when she saw the dead old man. Another when the thatch on her hovel went up. Brand didn’t know what to say to her, or to anyone else, and he was used to keeping silent, so he said nothing. One of the boys had tears streaking his face as he set his torch to the houses, but he set it to them all the same. Soon the air was thick with the smell of burning, wood popping and crackling as the fire spread, flaming straw floating high into the gloom.

‘Where’s the sense in this?’ muttered Brand.

But Rauk just rubbed at his shoulder.

‘One slave.’ Sordaf spat with disgust. ‘And some sausages. Not much of a haul.’

‘We didn’t come for a haul,’ said Master Hunnan, frown set tight. ‘We came to do good.’

And Brand stood, holding on to a rope tied around a woman’s neck, and watched a village burn.

They ate stale bread in silence, stretched out on the chill ground in silence. They were still in Vansterland and could afford no fire, every man alone with his thoughts, all darkling strangers to each other.

Brand waited for the faintest glimmer of dawn, grey cracks in the black cloud overhead. Wasn’t as if he’d been sleeping, anyway. Kept thinking about that old man. And the boy crying as he set fire to the thatch. Kept listening to the woman breathing who was now his slave, his property, because he’d put a rope around her neck and burned her house.

‘Get up,’ hissed Brand, and she slowly stood. He couldn’t see her face but there was a slump to her shoulders like nothing mattered any more.

Sordaf was on watch, now, blowing into his fat hands and rubbing them together and blowing into ’em again.

‘We’re going off a bit,’ said Brand, nodding towards the treeline not far away.

Sordaf gave him a grin. ‘Can’t say I blame you. Chilly night.’

Brand turned his back on him and started walking, tugged at the rope and felt the woman shuffling after. Under the trees and through the undergrowth they went, no words said, sticks cracking under Brand’s boots, until the camp was far behind. An owl hooted somewhere and he dragged the woman down into the brush, waiting, but there was no one there.

He wasn’t sure how long it took them to reach the far side of the wood, but Mother Sun was a grey smudge in the east when they stepped from the trees. He pulled out the dagger Rin made for him and cut the rope carefully from around the woman’s neck.

‘Go, then,’ he said. She just stood staring. He pointed out the way. ‘Go.’

She took one step, and looked back, then another, as if she expected some trick. He stood still.

‘Thanks,’ she whispered.

Brand winced. ‘I don’t deserve thanking. Just go.’

She took off fast. He watched her run back the way they’d come, through the wet grass, down the gentle slope. As Mother Sun crawled higher he could see Rissentoft in the distance, a black smear on the land, still smouldering.

He reckoned it must’ve looked a lot like Halleby before the war started.

Now it did again.