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 gray 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 gray-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, gray 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 toward 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 gray 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 smoldering.
He reckoned it must’ve looked a lot like Halleby before the war started.
Now it did again.
FROZEN LAKES
The king’s household halted in the spitting rain above the camp, a thousand fires sprawling under the darkening sky, pinprick torches trickling into the valley as the warriors of Gettland gathered. Thorn sprang down and offered the queen her hand. Not that Laithlin needed any help, she was twice the rider Thorn was. But Thorn was desperate to be useful.
In the songs, Chosen Shields protected their queens from assassins, or carried secret messages into the mouth of danger, or fought duels on which the fates of nations rested. Probably she should have learned by now not to take songs too seriously.
She found herself lost among an endlessly shifting legion of slaves and servants, trailing after the Golden Queen like the tail after a comet, besieging her with a thousand questions to which, whether she was nursing the heir to the throne at the time or not, she always had the answers. King Uthil might have sat in the Black Chair but, after a few days in Laithlin’s company, it was plain to Thorn who really ruled Gettland.
There was no trace of the easy companionship she’d had with Vialine. No earnest talks or demands to be called by her first name. Laithlin was more than twice Thorn’s age: a wife and mother, a peerless merchant, the mistress of a great household, as beautiful as she was deep-cunning as she was masterfully controlled. She was everything a woman should be and more. Everything Thorn wasn’t.
“My thanks,” Laithlin murmured, taking Thorn’s hand and making even sliding down from a saddle look graceful.
“I want only to serve.”
The queen did not let go of her hand. “No. You were not born to stand
in dusty meetings and count coins. You want to fight.”
Thorn swallowed. “Give me the chance.”
“Soon enough.” Laithlin leaned close, gripping Thorn’s hand tight. “An oath of loyalty cuts both ways. I forgot that once, and never will again. We shall do great things together, you and I. Things to sing of.”
“My king?” Father Yarvi’s voice, and sharp with worry.
Uthil had stumbled climbing from his own saddle and now he was leaning heavily on his minister, gray as a ghost, chest heaving as he clutched his drawn sword against it.
“We will speak later,” said Laithlin, letting go of Thorn’s hand.
“Koll, boil water!” called Father Yarvi. “Safrit, bring my plants!”
“I saw that man walk a hundred miles through the ice and never falter,” said Rulf, standing beside Thorn with his arms folded. “The king is not well.”
“No.” Thorn watched Uthil shamble into his tent with one arm over his minister’s shoulders. “And with a great battle coming. Poor luck indeed.”
“Father Yarvi doesn’t believe in luck.”
“I don’t believe in helmsmen, but they dog me even so.”
Rulf chuckled at that. “How’s your mother?”
Thorn frowned across at him. “Unhappy with my choices, as always.”
“Still striking sparks from each other?”
“Since you ask, not near so much as we used to.”
“Oh? I reckon one of you must have grown up a little.”
Thorn narrowed her eyes. “Maybe one of us had a wise old warrior to teach them the value of family.”
“Everyone should be so lucky.” Rulf peered down at the ground, rubbing at his beard. “I’ve been thinking, perhaps … I should pay her a visit.”
“You asking my permission?”
“No. But I’d like to have it, still.”
Thorn gave a helpless shrug. “Far be it from me to come between a pair of young lovers.”
“Or me.” Rulf gave a meaningful look past her from under his brows. “Which is why I’ll be dwindling into the west, I think …”
Thorn turned, and Brand was walking toward her.
She had been hoping she might see him, but as soon as she did she felt a surge of nerves. As if she was stepping into the training square for the first time and he was her opponent. They should have been familiar to each other now, surely? But of a sudden she had no idea how to be with him. Prickly-playful, like one oar-mate with another? Simpering soft, like a maiden with a suitor? Frosty-regal, like Queen Laithlin with a debtor? Creepy-cautious, like a clever gambler keeping her dice well hidden?
Each step he came closer felt like a step back out onto that frozen lake, ice creaking under her weight, no notion what the next footfall might bring.
“Thorn,” he said, looking her in the eye.
“Brand,” she said, looking back.
“Couldn’t stand to wait for me any longer, eh?”
Prickly-playful, then. “The suitors were queued up outside my house all the way to the bloody docks. There’s only so much of men weeping over my beauty I can stand.” And she pressed a fingertip to one side of her nose and blew snot into the mud out of the other.
“You’ve a new sword,” he said, looking down at her belt.
She hooked a finger under the plain crosspiece and drew it halfway so he could draw it the rest with the faintest ringing. “From the best blade-maker in the Shattered Sea.”
“Gods, she’s got good.” He brushed Rin’s mark on the fuller with his thumb, swished the blade one way and the other, lifted it to peer with one eye down the length, Mother Sun flashing along the bright steel and glinting on the point.
“Didn’t have time to do anything fancy with it,” said Thorn, “but I’m getting to like it plain.”
Brand softly whistled. “That is fine steel.”
“Cooked with a hero’s bones.”
“Is that so?”
“Reckon I’d had my fathers fingers about my neck for long enough.”
He grinned as he offered the sword back to her, and she found she was grinning too. “I thought Rin said no to you?”
“No one says no to Queen Laithlin.”
Brand had that old puzzled look of his. “Eh?”
“She wanted her Chosen Shield suitably armed,” she said, slapping the sword back into its scabbard.
He gaped at her in silence while that sank in.
“I know what you’re thinking.” Thorn’s shoulders slumped. “I don’t even have a shield.”
He snapped his mouth shut. “I’m thinking you are the shield, and none better. If I was a queen I’d pick you.”
“Hate to crush your hopes, but I doubt you’ll ever be queen.”
“None of the gowns would suit me.” He slowly shook his head, starting to smile again. “Thorn Bathu, Chosen Shield.”
“What about you? Did you save Gettland, yet? Saw you gathering on the beach. Quite the crowd of young champions. Not to mention a couple of ancient ones.”
Brand winced. “Can’t say we saved much of anything. We killed an old farmer. We stole some sausages. We burned a village ’cause it was on the wrong side of a river. We took a slave.” Brand scratched at his head. “I let her go.”
“You just can’t help doing good, can you?”
“Don’t think Hunnan sees it that way. He’d like to tell everyone I’m a disgrace but he’d have to admit his raid was a disgrace, so …” He puffed out his cheeks, looking more puzzled than ever. “I’m swearing my warrior’s oath tomorrow. Along with some lads never swung a blade in anger.”
Thorn put on Father Yarvi’s voice. “Let Father Peace spill tears over the methods! Mother War smiles upon results! You must be pleased.”
He looked down at the ground. “I suppose so.”
“You’re not?”
“Do you ever feel bad? About those men you’ve killed?”
“Not a lot. Why should I?”
“I’m not saying you should. I’m just asking if you do.”
“I don’t.”
“Well, you’re touched by Mother War.”
“Touched?” Thorn snorted. “She’s slapped me purple.”
“Being a warrior, brothers at my shoulder, it’s what I always wanted …”
“There’s no disappointment like getting what you’ve always wanted.”
“Some things are worth the wait,” he said, looking her in the eye.
She had no doubts at all what that look meant now. She was starting to wonder if getting across this frozen lake of theirs might not be so hard. Maybe you just took one step at a time, and tried to enjoy the thrill of it. So she took a little pace closer to him. “Where are you sleeping?”
He didn’t back off. “Under the stars, I reckon.”
“A Chosen Shield gets a tent.”
“You trying to make me jealous?”
“No, it’s only a small one.” She moved another little step. “But it’s got a bed.”
“I’m getting to like this story.”
“Bit cold, though.” She moved another little step, and they were both smiling. “On my own.”
“I could have a word with Sordaf for you, reckon he could warm a blanket with one fart.”
“Sordaf’s everything most women could ask for, but I’ve always had odd tastes.” She reached up, using her fingers like a comb, and pushed the hair out of his face. “I had someone else in mind.”
“There’s a lot of folk watching,” said Brand.
“Like I care a damn.”
COWARDICE
They knelt in a line. Three of the young lads and Brand. Two had pointed spears at an old farmer. One had cried as he set fire to some houses. The last had let the only slave they took go.
Some warriors.
Yet here they were, with the fighting men of Gettland gathered about them in an armed and armored crowd, ready to welcome them into their brotherhood. Ready to have them at their shoulders when they met Grom-gil-Gorm a
nd his Vanstermen at the appointed place. Ready to carry them into the iron embrace of Mother War.
King Uthil had changed a lot in the year since Brand saw him last, and not for the better. His skin had turned the same iron-gray as his hair, rheumy eyes sunken in dark shadows. He seemed shrivelled in his chair, scarcely moving, as though the King’s Circle on his brow was a crushing weight, hands trembling as he hugged his naked sword.
Father Yarvi perched on a stool at the king’s side, Queen Laithlin sat bolt upright on the other, shoulders back, fists clenched on her knees, sweeping the crowd with her pale stare as though she could make up for her husband’s weakness with her strength.
Thorn stood at the queen’s shoulder, pointed chin up and with a challenge in her eyes, arms folded and the elf-bangle burning a chill white on her wrist. She looked like something from the songs, a Chosen Shield from her toes to her half-shaved scalp. Brand could hardly believe he’d clambered out of her bed an hour before. At least he had one thing to feel pleased about.
The king looked slowly down the line of boys to Brand, and cleared his throat.
“You are young,” he said, voice so crackly quiet it could hardly be heard over the wind flapping the tent cloth. “But Master Hunnan has judged you worthy, and Gettland is beset by enemies.” He raised himself a little in his seat, a glimpse of the man whose speech Brand had thrilled to on the beach before Thorlby. “We march to Amon’s Tooth to meet the Vanstermen in battle, and we need every shield!” He was caught by a coughing fit, and croaked out, “Steel is the answer.” Then slumped back in his chair, Father Yarvi leaning close to whisper in his ear.
Master Hunnan stepped up with sword in hand and frown on face to stand over the first of the boys. “Do you swear loyalty to Gettland?”
The lad swallowed. “I do.”
“Do you swear to serve your king?”
“I do.”
“Do you swear to stand by your shoulder-man in the shield wall, and obey your betters?”
“I do.”
“Then rise a warrior of Gettland!”
The boy did, looking a lot more scared than happy, and all about him men drummed fists on their chests, clattered ax-hafts on shield rims, thumped boots on the earth in approval.
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