Half a War

Watching

Skara’s heart was thudding in her mouth as she caught a tree-root and dragged herself up towards the crest. Hardly the most regal of behaviour, as Sister Owd had been keen to point out, but Skara would not simply sit on the beach chewing her nails while the future of Throvenland was decided.

She might not be able to fight in the battle. She could at least watch it.

The ground was levelling out now and she crept upward, bent low. The ragged coast of Yutmark came into view to the south. The faint hills, then the grey beaches, then the sparkling water of the straits themselves and, finally, halfway across, ships.

‘The High King’s fleet,’ whispered Sister Owd, her face even more than usually peach-like from the climb.

Dozens of ships, oars dipping. Some low and sleek and built for battle, some fat-bellied traders, no doubt crammed with warriors sent north by Grandmother Wexen. Warriors fixed on sweeping their alliance aside and crushing Skara’s little pocket of Throvenland as a callous boy might crush a beetle.

The anger surged up hot and she clenched her fists, took the last few steps to the summit of the headland and stood between Father Yarvi and Mother Scaer, gazing westward, a long beach stretching away towards sinking Mother Sun.

‘Gods,’ she breathed.

The shingle crawled with men like ants seething from a broken nest, their shields painted dots, steel flashing and winking, coloured banners flapping in the wind to mark where crews should gather. Those of the High King’s warriors who had already landed. Two full loads of those transports, maybe three. Hundreds of them. Thousands. It hardly seemed real.

‘So many,’ she whispered.

‘The more we allow across,’ said Mother Scaer, ‘the more Grom-gil-Gorm will catch on the beach, the more we kill.’

The last word came harsh as a stabbing dagger and Skara felt a surge of nerves, clutching at one hand with the other. ‘Do you think …’ Her voice faded to a croak as she made herself speak the name. ‘Bright Yilling is down there?’ She saw that calm, soft face again, heard that high, soft voice, felt an echo of the terror of that night and was furious at her own cowardice. She was a queen, damn it. A queen cannot fear.

Father Yarvi looked across at her. ‘Any true hero leads from the front.’

‘He’s no hero.’

‘Every hero is someone’s villain.’

‘Hero or villain,’ said Mother Scaer, her blue, blue eyes fixed on those men below, ‘he has not made his warriors ready.’

She was right. They had formed a shield-wall in the dunes above the beach, facing inland towards the sullen forest, a high pole topped with the seven-rayed sun of the One God in their centre, but even Skara, whose experience of battle went little further than watching the boys in the training square behind her grandfather’s hall, could tell it was an ill-made line, crooked and full of gaps.

‘Grandmother Wexen has gathered men from many places,’ said Father Yarvi. ‘They are not used to fighting together. They do not even speak one tongue.’

King Uthil’s fleet had rounded the headland, an arrow-shaped mass of ships, sea-birds circling above the white-frothed wake curving back towards the blackened ruins of Valso. The High King’s fleet must have sighted them, some turning towards the threat, others away, others ploughing on towards the beach, oars tangling and boats clashing in the confusion.

‘Surprise is on our side,’ said Sister Owd, having finally got her breath back. ‘Surprise is half the battle.’

Skara frowned sideways. ‘How many battles have you fought in?’

‘I have faith in our alliance, my queen,’ said the minister, folding her arms. ‘I have faith in the Breaker of Swords, and in King Uthil, and in Blue Jenner.’

‘And Raith,’ Skara found she had added. She had not even realized she had faith in him, let alone that she would ever say so.

Sister Owd raised one brow. ‘Him somewhat less.’

A long, low horn blast throbbed out, so deep it seemed to make Skara’s guts tremble.

Mother Scaer stretched up tall. ‘The Breaker of Swords comes to the feast!’

All at once men spilled from the trees, surging onto the dunes above the beach. Skara supposed they were running at full tilt but they seemed to move slowly as honey in winter.

She found she had reached out to clutch at Sister Owd’s shoulder with her bandaged hand. She had not felt so scared since the night the Forest burned, but now with the fear there was an almost unbearable thrill. Her fate, the fate of Throvenland, the fate of the alliance, the fate of the Shattered Sea itself all balanced on a sword’s edge. She could hardly stand to watch, could not bear to look away.

A warrior had rushed out from the High King’s men, was waving his arms frantically, trying to ready the shield-wall to meet the charge. Skara could hear his cracked screams, faint, faint on the wind, but it was too late.

The Breaker of Swords was upon them. She saw his black banner flying, steel glittering beneath it like the spray at the head of a wave.

‘Your death comes,’ she whispered.

Her face hurt she was grimacing so hard, her chest burned she was gasping in the air so fast. She sent up a prayer to Mother War, a cold and vicious prayer that these invaders might be driven from her land and into the sea. That she might spit on Bright Yilling’s carcass before Mother Sun set, and so win her courage back from him.

It seemed her prayers were answered before her eyes.

In a black tide the Vanstermen swept down the grassy dunes, their war-cries echoing high and strange on the wind, and like a wall of sand before a great wave the centre of the High King’s crooked shield-wall crumbled. She felt Sister Owd’s hand on top of hers and gripped it tight.

Gorm’s men crashed into the faltering line and Mother War spread her wings over the coast of Throvenland and smiled upon the slaughter. Her voice was a storm of metal. A clamour like a thousand smithies and a hundred slaughter-yards. Sometimes by some unknown chance the wind would waft some word, or phrase, or cry full-formed to Skara’s ear, of fury or pain or begging fear, and make her startle as if it was spoken at her shoulder.

Father Yarvi stepped forward, knuckles white about his elf-metal staff and his eager eyes fixed on the beach. ‘Yes,’ he hissed. ‘Yes!’

Now the right wing of the High King’s men slowly buckled and in an instant gave, men fleeing down the shingle, flinging their weapons away. But there was nowhere to run but into the arms of Mother Sea, and that was a comfortless embrace indeed.

On the higher dunes a few knots of the High King’s warriors still held, striving to make a stand worth singing of, but they were islands in a flood. And Skara saw the ruin panic can work on a great army, and learned how a battle can turn on a single moment, and watched the gilded symbol of the One God topple and be crushed beneath the heels of Mother War’s faithful.

In the wake of Gorm’s charge the beach was left dotted with black shapes, like driftwood after a tempest. Broken shields, broken weapons. Broken men. Skara’s wide eyes darted over the wreckage, trying to reckon the number of the dead, and she could hardly swallow for the sudden tightness in her throat.

‘I did this,’ she whispered. ‘My words. My vote.’

Sister Owd gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. ‘And you did right, my queen. Lives spared here would have cost lives later. This was the greater good.’

‘The lesser evil,’ muttered Skara, remembering Mother Kyre’s lessons, but her borrowed minister had misunderstood. It was not guilt she felt, but awe at her own power. She felt like a queen at last.

‘The pyre-builders will be busy tonight,’ said Father Yarvi.

‘And, in due course, the slave-markets of Vulsgard too.’ For once Mother Scaer had a tone of grudging approval. ‘So far, all proceeds according to your design.’

Father Yarvi stared out to sea, gaunt face squirming as he worked his jaw. ‘So far.’

The battle on Father Earth was well won, but in the straits the spearhead of King Uthil’s fleet was only now reaching the blunt tangle of the High King’s ships. At the very front Skara saw a blue sail straining with the wind, and she tasted blood as she bit into the quick beneath her thumbnail.