Half the World (Shattered Sea) - Joe Abercrombie Page 0,15

but to—”

“They know that well enough. It was Grandmother Wexen set them on.”

“How do you—”

“She spoke thunderously in the words she did not say. She means to crush us, and I can put her off no longer.”

Thorn rubbed at her temples. Ministers seemed never to mean quite what they said. “If she’s our enemy, why didn’t she just kill us where we knelt?”

“Because Grandmother Wexen does not want her children dead. She wants them to obey. First she sends the Islanders against us, then the Vanstermen. She hopes to lure us into rash action and King Uthil is about to oblige her. It will take time for her to gather her forces, but only because she has so many to call on. In time, she will send half the world against us. If we are to resist her, we need allies.”

“Where do we find allies?”

Father Yarvi smiled. “Among our enemies, where else?”

DEAD MAN’S MAIL

The boys were gathered.

The men were gathered, Brand realized. There might not be much beard among them, but if they weren’t men now they’d passed their tests and were about to swear their oaths, when would they be?

They were gathered one last time with Master Hunnan, who’d taught them, and tested them, and hammered them into shape like Brand used to hammer iron at Gaden’s forge. They were gathered on the beach where they’d trained so often, but the blades weren’t wooden now.

They were gathered in their new war-gear, bright-eyed and breathless at the thought of sailing on their first raid. Of leaving Father Peace at their backs and giving themselves guts and sinew to his red-mouthed wife, Mother War. Of winning fame and glory, a place at the king’s table and in the warriors’ songs.

Oh, and coming back rich.

Some were buckled up prettily as heroes already, blessed with family who’d bought them fine mail, and good swords, and new gear all aglitter. Though he counted her more blessing than he deserved, Brand had only Rin, so he’d borrowed his mail from Gaden in return for a tenth share of aught he took—dead man’s mail, tarnished with use, hastily resized and still loose under the arms. But his ax was good and true and polished sharp as a razor, and his shield that he’d saved a year for was fresh painted by Rin with a dragon’s head and looked well as anyone’s.

“Why a dragon?” Rauk asked him, one mocking eyebrow high.

Brand laughed it off. “Why not a dragon?” It’d take more than that fool’s scorn to spoil the day of his first raid.

And it wasn’t just any raid. It was the biggest in living memory. Bigger even that the one King Uthrik led to Sagenmark. Brand went up on tiptoe again to see the gathered men stretched far off down the shore, metal twinkling in the sun and the smoke from their fires smudging the sky. Five thousand, Hunnan had said, and Brand stared at his fingers, trying to reckon each a thousand men. It made him as dizzy as looking down a long drop.

Five thousand. Gods, how big the world must be.

There were men well-funded by tradesmen or merchants and ragged brotherhoods spilled down from the mountains. There were proud-faced men with silvered sword-hilts and dirty-faced men with spears of flint. There were men with a lifetime of scars and men who’d never shed blood in their lives.

It was a sight you didn’t see often, and half of Thorlby was gathered on the slopes outside the city walls to watch. Mothers and fathers, wives and children, there to see off their boys and husbands and pray for their safe and enriched return. Brand’s family would be there too, no doubt. Which meant Rin, on her own. He bunched his fists, staring up into the wind.

He’d make her proud. He swore he would.

The feeling was more of wedding-feast than war, the air thick with smoke and excitement, the clamor of songs, and jests, and arguments. Prayer-Weavers wove their own paths through the throng speaking blessings for a payment, and merchants too, spinning lies about how all great warriors carried an extra belt to war. It wasn’t just warriors hoping to turn a coin from King Uthil’s raid.

“For a copper I’ll bring you weaponluck,” said a beggar-woman, selling lucky kisses, “for another I’ll bring you weatherluck too. For a third—”

“Shut up,” snapped Master Hunnan, shooing her off. “The king speaks.”

There was a clattering of gear as every man turned westward. Towards the barrows of long-dead rulers above the