Half the World (Shattered Sea) - Joe Abercrombie Page 0,48
the straining crew bellowed at one another. Then Koll said, quietly, “Are you my brother, then?”
“Guess so. If you’ll have me.”
“Reckon I could do worse.” The lad shrugged, as if it didn’t matter much either way. But Brand got the feeling it did.
WITH ONE LAST HEAVE the South Wind slid into the churning waters of the Denied and a ragged cheer went up.
“We made it,” said Brand, hardly believing it. “Did we make it?”
“Aye. You can all tell your grandchildren you carted a ship over the tall hauls.” Rulf wiped the sweat from his forehead on one thick forearm. “But we’ve some rowing still to do today!” he called, bringing the celebrations to a quick end. “Let’s get her loaded up and make a few miles before sundown!”
“On your feet, idler.” Dosduvoi swung Brand down from the wagon and onto his still-shaky legs.
Father Yarvi was talking to the leader of the drovers in the gods knew what strange tongue, then they both broke into laughter and gave each other a long hug.
“What did he say?” asked Brand.
“Beware of the Horse People,” said Father Yarvi, “for they are savage and dangerous.”
Thorn frowned toward the oxen, finally freed of their burden. “I don’t see the joke.”
“I asked him what he says to the Horse People, when he trades with them.”
“And?”
“Beware of the Boat People, for they are savage and dangerous.”
“Who are the Boat People?” asked Koll.
“We are,” said Brand, grimacing as he clambered back aboard the South Wind. Every joint and sinew was aching and he went stooped in an old man’s shuffle to his place at the stern, flopping onto his sea chest the moment Thorn thumped it down for him.
“You sure you can row?”
“I’ll keep stroke with you all right,” he muttered back at her, though it felt like a hero’s effort just to sit up.
“You can barely keep stroke with me healthy,” she said.
“We’ll see if you can keep stroke with me, you mouthy string of gristle.” Rulf was standing behind them. “You’re in my place, lad.”
“Where do I go?”
Rulf nodded toward the steering oar on its platform above them. “Thought for this evening you might take the helm.”
Brand blinked. “Me?”
“Reckon you earned it.” And Rulf slapped him on the back as he helped him up.
Grunting at the pain, Brand turned, one arm over the steering oar, and saw the whole crew watching him. Safrit and Koll with the cargo, Odda and Dosduvoi and Fror at their oars, Father Yarvi standing with Skifr near the dove-carved prow and beyond it the Denied flowing away south, Mother Sun scattering gold upon the water.
Brand grinned wide. “I like the view from here.”
“Don’t get used to it,” said Rulf.
And all at once the crew started thumping at their oars, hammering, pounding, a thunder of flesh on wood. A drumming of respect. For him. For him who all his life had been nothing.
“To be fair, it was quite a thing you did up there.” Thorn had the hint of a grin, eyes glinting as she slapped at her oar. “Quite a thing.”
Brand felt pride swelling in him then like he’d never known before. He’d come a long road since Hunnan left him alone on the beach below Thorlby. He might not have sworn a warrior’s oath, but he’d found a crew even so. A family to be part of. He wished Rin was there to see it, and pictured her face if she had been, and had to sniff and pretend he’d got something in his eye. Felt like standing in the light, and no mistake.
“Well don’t just hit ’em, you lazy bastards!” he shouted in a broken voice. “Pull ’em!”
The crew laughed as they set to their oars, and the South Wind pulled smoothly off into the swift Denied, rowing with the current at last, leaving the oxen and their drivers to wait on the bank for a new burden.
STRANGE TIMES
The forest gave way to the open steppe. Terribly open. Ruthlessly flat. Mile upon mile of lush, green, waving grass.
To Thorn, brought up among the hills and mountains and cliffs of Gettland, there was something crushing in all that emptiness, all that space, stretching off under a bottomless sky to the far, far horizon.
“Why does no one farm it?” asked Koll, straddling the downed mast with the wind whipping the shavings from under his knife.
“The Horse People graze it,” said Dosduvoi. “And don’t like finding other folk out here.”
Odda snorted. “They like it so little they skin ’em alive, indeed.”