Half the World (Shattered Sea #2)(100)

THE APPOINTED PLACE


The armies of Vansterland and Gettland glared at each other across a shallow valley of lush, green grass.

“A fine spot to graze a herd of sheep,” said Rulf.

“Or to fight a battle.” Thorn narrowed her eyes and scanned the ridge opposite. She had never in her life seen a host half the size, the warriors picked out black on the crest against the bright sky, here or there a blade flashing as it caught the light of Mother Sun. The Vanstermen’s shield wall was drawn up loose, their shields blobs of bright-painted color and their spears a bristling forest behind. Grom-gil-Gorm’s dark banner hung limp over the center, a dusting of archers thrust out in front, more lightly armed skirmishers on each wing.

“So like our own army we might be looking in a great mirror,” murmured Yarvi.

“Apart from that damn elf-tower,” said Thorn.

Amon’s Tooth rose from a rocky outcrop at the far end of the Vanstermen’s line, a hollow tower thirty times a man’s height, tall and slender as a tapering sword blade, made from hollow cobwebs of elf-metal bars.

“What did it used to be?” asked Koll, gazing up at it in wonder.

“Who can say now?” said the minister. “A signal tower? A monument to the arrogance of the elves? A temple to the One God they broke into many?”

“I can tell you what it will be.” Rulf gazed grimly at the host gathered in its shadow. “A grave-marker. A grave for many hundreds.”

“Many hundreds of Vanstermen,” snapped Thorn. “I reckon our host the larger.”

“Aye,” said Rulf. “But it’s seasoned warriors win battles, and the numbers there are much the same.”

“And Gorm is known for keeping some horsemen out of sight,” said Father Yarvi. “Our strength is closely matched.”

“And only one of us has our king.” Rulf glanced back toward the camp. Uthil had not left his sick bed since the previous evening. Some said the Last Door stood open for him, and Father Yarvi had not denied it.

“Even a victory will leave Gettland weakened,” said the Minster, “and Grandmother Wexen well knows it. This battle is all part of her design. She knew King Uthil could never turn down a challenge. The only victory here is if we do not fight at all.”

“What elf-spell have you worked to make that happen?” asked Thorn.

Father Yarvi gave his brittle smile. “I hope a little minister’s magic may do the trick.”

Koll plucked at his sparse shadow of a beard as he looked across the valley. “I wonder if Fror’s among them.”

“Maybe,” said Thorn. A man they had trained with, laughed with, fought beside, rowed beside.

“What will you do if you meet him in the battle?”

“Probably kill him.”

“Let’s hope you don’t meet, then.” Koll lifted an arm to point. “They’re coming!”

Gorm’s banner was on the move, a party of horsemen breaking from the center of his host and coming down the slope. Thorn nudged her way through the king’s most favored warriors to Laithlin’s side, but the queen waved her away. “Keep to the back, Thorn, and stay hooded.”

“My place is beside you.”

“Today you are not my shield but my sword. Sometimes a blade is best hidden. If your moment comes, you will know it.”

“Yes, my queen.”

Reluctantly, Thorn pulled up her hood, waited until the rest of the royal party had set off, then slouching in her saddle like a thief, in a place no songs are sung of, followed at the back. Down the long slope they trotted, hooves flicking mud from the soft ground. Two standard-bearers went with them, Laithlin’s gold and Uthil’s iron-gray bravely snapping as the breeze took them.

Closer drew the Vanstermen, and closer. Twenty of their most storied warriors, high-helmed, stern-frowned, braids in their hair and gold rings forged into their mail. And at the fore, the necklace of pommels twisted from the swords of his fallen enemies four-times looped about his great neck, came the man who killed Thorn’s father. Grom-gil-Gorm, the Breaker of Swords, in his full battle glory. On his left rode his standard bearer, a great Shend slave with a garnet-studded thrall collar, black cloth flapping behind him. On his right rode two stocky white-haired boys, one with a mocking smile and Gorm’s huge shield upon his back, the other with a warlike sneer and Gorm’s great sword. Between them and the king, her jaw working so hard that her shaved scalp squirmed, rode Mother Scaer.

“Greetings, Gettlanders!” The hooves of Gorm’s towering horse squelched as he pulled it up in the valley’s marshy bottom and grinned into the bright sky. “Mother Sun smiles upon our meeting!”

“A good omen,” said Father Yarvi.

“For which of us?” asked Gorm.

“For both of us, perhaps?” Laithlin nudged her own mount forward. Thorn itched to ride up close beside where she could protect her, but forced her heels to be still.

“Queen Laithlin! How can your wisdom and beauty so defy the passing years?”

“How can your strength and courage?” asked the queen.

Gorm scratched thoughtfully at his beard. “When last I was in Thorlby I did not seem to be held in such high regard.”

“The gods give no finer gift than a good enemy, my husband always says. Gettland could ask for no better enemy than the Breaker of Swords.”