Half the World

by Joe Abercrombie

  “So it is with hopes,” muttered Brand.

  She was a long way from forgiving him for humiliating her in front of Queen Laithlin, or for all those drops into Roystock’s cold harbor, but she had to give a grim snort of agreement.

  “There’ll be excitement enough before we’re back this way,” said Rulf, giving a nudge to the steering oar. “Excitement enough you’ll be begging for boredom. If you live through it.”

  Mother Sun was sinking toward the ragged treetops when Father Yarvi ordered the South Wind grounded for the night and Thorn could finally ship her oar, flinging it roughly across Brand’s knees and rubbing at her blistered palms.

  They dragged the ship from the water by the prow rope in a stumbling, straining crowd, the ground so boggy it was hard to tell where river ended and earth began.

  “Gather some wood for a fire,” called Safrit.

  “Dry wood?” asked Koll, kicking through the rotten flotsam clogged on the bank.

  “It does tend to burn more easily.”

  “Not you, Thorn.” Skifr was leaning on one of the ship’s spare oars, the blade high above her head. “In the day you belong to Rulf, but at dawn and dusk you are mine. Whenever there is light, we must seize every chance to train.”

  Thorn squinted at the gloomy sky, huddled low over the gloomy land. “You call this light?”

  “Will your enemies wait for morning if they can kill you in the dark?”

  “What enemies?”

  Skifr narrowed her eyes. “The true fighter must reckon everyone their enemy.”

  The sort of thing Thorn used to airily proclaim to her mother. Heard from someone else, it sounded like no fun at all. “When do I rest, then?”

  “In the songs of great heroes, do you hear often of resting?”

  She watched Safrit tossing flat loaves among the crew, and her mouth flooded with spit. “You sometimes hear of eating.”

  “Training on a full stomach is unlucky.”

  Even Thorn had precious little fight left after a long day competing with Brand at the oar. But she supposed the sooner they started, the sooner they’d finish. “What do we do?”

  “I will try to hit you. You will try not to be hit.”

  “With an oar?”

  “Why not? To hit and not be hit is the essence of fighting.”

  “There’s no way I could work this stuff out on my own,” grunted Thorn.

  She didn’t even gasp when Skifr darted out a hand and cuffed her across the cheek. She was getting used to it.

  “You will be struck, and when you are, the force of it must not stagger you, the pain of it must not slow you, the shock of it must not cause you to doubt. You must learn to strike without pity. You must learn to be struck without fear.” Skifr lowered the oar so that the blade hovered near Thorn’s chest. “Though I advise you to get out of the way. If you can.”

  She certainly tried. Thorn dodged, wove, sprang, rolled, then she stumbled, lurched, slipped, floundered. To begin with she hoped to get around the oar and bring Skifr down, but she soon found just staying out of its way took every grain of wit and energy. The oar darted at her from everywhere, cracked her on the head, on the shoulders, poked her in the ribs, in the stomach, made her grunt, and gasp, and whoop as it swept her feet away and sent her tumbling.

  The smell of Safrit’s cooking tugged at her groaning belly, and the crew ate and drank, spreading their fingers to the warmth of the fire, propping themselves easily on their elbows, watching, chuckling, making bets on how long she could last. Until the sun was a watery glow on the western horizon and Thorn was soaked through and mud-caked from head to toe, throbbing with bruises, each breath ripping at her heaving chest.

  “Would you like the chance to hit me back?” asked Skifr.

  If there was one thing that could have made Thorn enthusiastic about holding an oar again, it was the chance to club Skifr with one.

  But the old woman had other ideas. “Brand, bring me that bar.”

  He scraped the last juice from his bowl, stood up wrapped in a blanket and brought something over, licking at his teeth. A bar of rough-forged iron, about the length of a sword but easily five times the weight.

  “Thanks,” said Thorn, voice poisonous with sarcasm.

  “What can I do?”

  All she could think of was him wearing that same helpless look on the beach below Thorlby, as Hunnan sent three lads to kill her dreams. “What do you ever do?” Not fair, maybe, but she wasn’t feeling too fair. Wasn’t as if anyone was ever fair to her.

  His brow furrowed, and he opened his mouth as if to snap something at her. Then he seemed to think better of it, and turned back to the fire, dragging his blanket tight over his hunched shoulders.

  “Aye!” she called after him, “you go and sit down!” A feeble sort of jibe, since she would have liked nothing better.

  Skifr slid a shield onto her arm. “Well, then? Hit me.”

  “With this?” It took an effort just to lift the damn thing. “I’d rather use the oar.”

  “To a fighter, everything must be a weapon, remember?” Skifr rapped Thorn on the forehead with her knuckles. “Everything. The ground. The water. That rock. Dosduvoi’s head.”

  “Eh?” grunted the giant, looking up.

  “Dosduvoi’s head would make a fearsome weapon, mark you,” said Odda. “Hard as stone and solid right through.”

  Some chuckling at that, though laughter seemed a foreign tongue to Thorn as she weighed that length of iron in her hand.

  “For now, that is your weapon. It will build strength.”

  “I thought I couldn’t win with strength.”

  “You can lose with weakness. If you can move that bar fast enough to hit me, your sword will be quick as lightning and just as deadly. Begin.” Skifr opened her eyes very wide and said in a piping mimicry of Thorn’s voice. “Or is the task not fair?”

  Thorn set her jaw even harder than usual, planted her feet, and with a fighting growl went to work. It was far from pretty. A few swings and her arm was burning from neck to fingertips. She reeled about after the bar, struck great clods of mud from the ground, one landing in the fire and sending up a shower of sparks and a howl of upset from the crew.

  Skifr danced her lurching dance, dodging Thorn’s clumsy efforts with pitiful ease and letting her lumber past, occasionally knocking the bar away with a nudge of her shield, barking out instructions Thorn could barely understand, let alone obey.

  “No, you are trying to lead the way, you must follow the weapon. No, more wrist. No, elbow in. The weapon is part of you! No, angled, angled, like so. No, shoulder up. No, feet wider. This is your ground! Own it! You are queen of this mud! Try again. No. Try again. No. Try again. No, no, no, no, no. No!”

  Thorn gave a shriek and flung the bar to the wet earth, and Skifr shrieked back, crashed into her with the shield, and sent her sprawling. “Never lower your guard! That is the moment you die. Do you understand?”

  “I understand,” Thorn hissed back through her gritted teeth, tasting a little blood.

  “Good. Let us see if your left hand has more spice in it.”

  By the time Skifr called a grudging halt Father Moon was smiling in the sky and the night was noisy with the strange music of frogs. Apart from a handful keeping watch the crew was sleeping soundly, bundled in blankets, in furs and fleeces, and in the luckiest cases bags of seal-skin, sending up a thunder of snores and a smoking of breath in the ruddy light of the dying fire.

  Safrit sat crosslegged, Koll sleeping with his head in her lap and her hand on his sandy hair, eyelids flickering as he dreamed. She handed up a bowl. “I saved you some.”

  Thorn hung her head, face crushed up tight. Against scorn, and pain, and anger she was well-armored, but that shred of kindness brought a sudden choking sob from her.

  “It’ll be all right,” said Safrit, patting her knee. “You’ll see.”

  “Thanks,” whispered Thorn, and she smothered her tears and crammed cold stew into he
r face, licking the juice from her fingers.

  She thought she saw Brand’s eyes gleaming in the dark as he shifted up to leave a space, shoving Odda over and making him mew like a kitten in his fitful sleep. Thorn would have slept happily among corpses then. She didn’t even bother to take her boots off as she dropped onto ground still warm from Brand’s body.

  She was almost asleep when Skifr gently tucked the blanket in around her.

  THE GODS’ ANGER

  The days were lost in a haze of rowing, and wood creaking, and water slopping against the South Wind’s flanks, Thorn’s jaw muscles bunching with every stroke, Rulf’s eyes narrowed to slits as he gazed upriver, Father Yarvi’s withered hand clutched behind his back in his good one, Koll’s endless questions and Safrit’s scolding, stories told about the fire, shadows shifting over the scarred faces of the crew, the constant muttering of Skifr’s instructions and the rattle, grunt and clatter of Thorn’s training as Brand drifted off to sleep.

  He couldn’t say he liked her, but he had to admire the way she kept at it, always fighting no matter the odds, always getting up no matter how often she was put down. That was courage. Made him wish he was more like her.

  From time to time they came ashore at villages belonging to no land or lord. Turf-roofed fishers’ huts huddling in loops of the river, wattle hovels shepherds shared with their animals under the eaves of the silent forest, which made the one Brand had shared with Rin seem a palace indeed and brought a surge of sappy homesickness welling up in him. Father Yarvi would trade for milk and ale and still-bleating goats, knowing every tongue spoken by men or beasts, it seemed, but there were few smiles traded on either side. Smiles might be free, but they were in short supply out there on the Divine.

  They passed boats heading north, and sometimes their crews were dour and watchful, and sometimes they called out cautious greetings. Whichever they did Rulf kept careful eyes on them until they were well out of sight with his black bow ready in one hand, a fearsome thing near as tall as a man, made from the great ridged horns of some beast Brand had never seen and never wanted to.

  “They seemed friendly enough,” he said, after one almost-merry encounter.

  “An arrow from a smiling archer kills you just as dead,” said Rulf, setting his bow back beside the steering oar. “Some of these crews will be heading home with rich cargo, but some will have failed, and be looking to make good on their trip by taking a fat ship, and selling her pretty young pair of back oars for slaves.”

  Thorn jerked her head toward Brand. “They’ll only find one pretty back oar on this boat.”

  “You’d be prettier if you didn’t scowl so much,” said Rulf, which brought a particularly ugly scowl, just as it was meant to.

  “Might be the minister’s prow keeps the raiders off,” said Brand, wedging his ax beside his sea-chest.

  Thorn snorted as she slid her sword back into its sheath. “More likely our ready weapons.”

  “Aye,” said Rulf. “Even law-abiding men forget themselves in lawless places. There’s a limit on the reach of the Ministry. But the authority of steel extends to every port. It’s a fine sword you have there, Thorn.”

  “My father’s.” After a moment of considering, she offered it up to him.

  “Must’ve been quite a warrior.”

  “He was a Chosen Shield,” said Thorn, puffing with pride. “He was the one made me want to fight.”

  Rulf peered approvingly down the blade, which was well-used and well-kept, then frowned at the pommel, which was a misshapen lump of iron. “Don’t reckon this can be its first pommel.”

  Thorn stared off toward the tangled trees, jaw working. “It had a better, but it’s strung on Grom-gil-Gorm’s chain.”

  Rulf raised his brows, and there was an awkward silence as he passed the sword back. “How about you, Brand? Your father a fighting man?”

  Brand frowned off toward a heron wading in the shallows of the other bank. “He could give a blow or two.”

  Rulf puffed out his cheeks, clear that subject was firmly buried. “Let’s row, then!”

  Thorn spat over the side as she worked her hands about her oar. “Bloody rowing. I swear, when I get back to Thorlby I’ll never touch an oar again.”

  “A wise man once told me to take one stroke at a time.” Father Yarvi was just behind them. There were many bad things about being at the back oar, but one of the worst was that you never knew who might be at your shoulder.

  “Done a lot of rowing, have you?” Thorn muttered as she bent to the next stroke.

  “Oy!” Rulf kicked at her oar and made her flinch. “Pray you never have to learn what he knows about rowing!”

  “Let her be.” Father Yarvi smiled as he rubbed at his withered wrist. “It’s not easy being Thorn Bathu. And it’s only going to get harder.”

  The Divine narrowed and the forest closed in dark about the banks. The trees grew older, and taller, and thrust twisted roots into the slow-flowing water and held gnarled boughs low over it. So while Skifr knocked Thorn over with an oar the rest of the crew rolled up the sail, and took down the mast, and laid it lengthways between the sea-chests on trestles. Unable to climb it, Koll pulled out his knife and set to carving on it. Brand was expecting childish hackings and was amazed to see animals, plants and warriors all intertwined and beautifully wrought spreading steadily down its length.

  “Your son’s got talent,” he said to Safrit when she brought around the water.

  “All kinds of talent,” she agreed, “but a mind like a moth. I can’t keep it on one thing for two moments together.”

  “Why is it even called Divine?” grunted Koll, sitting back to stare off upriver, spinning his knife around and around in his fingers and somewhat proving his mother’s point. “I don’t see much holy about it.”

  “I’ve heard because the One God blessed it above all other waters,” rumbled Dosduvoi.

  Odda raised a brow at the shadowy thicket that hemmed them in on both banks. “This look much blessed to you?”

  “The elves knew the true names of these rivers,” said Skifr, who’d made a kind of bed among the cargo to drape herself on. “We call them Divine and Denied because those are as close as our clumsy human tongues can come.”

  The good humor guttered at the mention of elves, and Dosduvoi mumbled a prayer to the One God, and Brand made a holy sign over his heart.

  Odda was less pious. “Piss on the elves!” He leapt from his sea-chest, dragging his trousers down and sending a yellow arc high over the ship’s rail. Some laughter, and some cries of upset from men behind who took a spattering as a gust blew up.

  One man going often made others feel the need, and soon Rulf was ordering the boat held steady mid-stream while half the crew stood at the rail with hairy backsides on display. Thorn shipped her oar, which meant flinging it in Brand’s lap, and worked her trousers down to show a length of muscled white thigh. It was hardly doing good to watch but Brand found it hard not to, and ended up peering out the corner of his eye as she slithered up and wedged her arse over the ship’s side.

  “I’m all amazement!” called Odda at her as he sat back down.

  “That I piss?”

  “That you do it sitting. I was sure you were hiding a prick under there.” A few chuckles from the benches at that.

  “Thought the same about you, Odda.” Thorn dragged her trousers back up and hooked her belt. “Reckon we’re both disappointed.”

  A proper laugh swept the ship. Koll gave a whooping snigger, and Rulf thumped at the prow-beast in appreciation, and Odda laughed loudest of all, throwing his head back to show his mouthful of filed teeth. Safrit slapped Thorn on the back as she dropped grinning back on her sea-chest and Brand thought Rulf had been right. There was nothing ugly about her when she smiled.

  The gust that wetted Odda’s oarmates was the first of many. The heavens darkened and She Who Sings the Wind sent a cold song swirling about the ship, sweeping ripples across the calm Divine and whipping Brand’s
hair around his face. A cloud of little white birds clattered up, a flock of thousands, twisting and swirling against the bruised sky.

  Skifr slid one hand into her ragged coat to rummage through the mass of runes and charms and holy signs about her neck. “That is an ill omen.”

  “Reckon a storm’s coming,” muttered Rulf.

  “I have seen hail the size of a child’s head drop from a sky like that.”

  “Should we get the boat off the river?” asked Father Yarvi.

  “Upend her and get under her.” Skifr kept her eyes on the clouds like a warrior watching an advancing enemy. “And quickly.”

  They grounded the South Wind at the next stretch of shingle, Brand wincing as the wind blew colder, fat spots of rain stinging his face.

  First they hauled out mast and sail, then stores and sea-chests, weapons and shields. Brand helped Rulf free the prow-beasts with wedges and mallet, wrapped them carefully in oiled cloth while Koll helped Thorn wedge the oars in the rowlocks so they could use them as handles to lift the ship. Father Yarvi unlocked the iron-bound chest from its chains, the veins in Dosduvoi’s great neck bulging as he hefted its weight onto his shoulder. Rulf pointed out the spots and six stout barrels were rolled into place around their heaped-up gear, Odda wielding a shovel with marvelous skill to make pits that the tall prow and stern would sit in.

  “Bring her up!” bellowed Rulf, Thorn grinning as she vaulted over the side of the ship.

  “You seem happy enough about all this,” said Brand, gasping as he slid into the cold water.

  “I’d rather lift ten ships than train with Skifr.”

  The rain came harder, so it scarcely made a difference whether they were in the river or not, everyone soaked through, hair and beards plastered, clothes clinging, straining faces beaded with wet.

  “Never sail in a ship you can’t carry!” growled Rulf through gritted teeth. “Up! Up! Up!”

  And with each shout there was a chorus of grunting, growling, groaning. Every man, and woman too, lending all their strength, the cords standing out stark from Safrit’s neck and Odda’s grooved teeth bared in an animal snarl and even Father Yarvi dragging with his one good hand.