Half the World (Shattered Sea #2)(43)

“Which tribe?” asked Yarvi. “Uzhaks? Barmeks?”

Jenner stared back blankly. “There are tribes?”

“All with their own ways.”

“Well, they mostly shoot the same kind of arrows, far as I can see, and the Prince of Kalyiv isn’t making much distinction between ’em either. He’s grown sick of their taunting, and means to teach them a bloody lesson.”

“The best kind,” said Odda, baring his filed teeth.

“Except he’s not planning to do it with his own hands.”

“Princes rarely do,” said Yarvi.

“He’s strung a chain across the Denied and is letting no fighting crew pass until we Northerners have helped him give the Horse People their proper chastisement.”

Rulf puffed up his broad chest. “Well he won’t be stopping the Minister of Gettland.”

“You don’t know Prince Varoslaf and no sensible man would want to. There’s no telling what that bald bastard will do one moment to the next. Only reason we got away is I spun him a tale about spreading the news and bringing more warriors from the Shattered Sea. If I was you I’d turn back with us.”

“We’re going on,” said Yarvi.

“Then the very best of weatherluck to you all, and let’s hope you don’t need weaponluck.” Blue Jenner took a long draft from his cup. “But I fear you might.”

“As might anyone who takes the tall hauls.” Skifr lay on her back, arms behind her head, bare feet toward the fire. “Perhaps you should test yours while you can?”

“What did you have in mind, woman?” growled Crouch.

“A friendly test of arms with practice blades.” Skifr yawned wide. “My pupil has beaten everyone on our crew and needs new opponents.”

“Who’s your pupil?” asked Jenner, peering over at Dosduvoi, who seemed a mountain in the flickering shadows.

“Oh, no,” said the giant. “Not me.”

Thorn put on her bravest face, stood, and stepped into the firelight. “Me.”

There was a silence. Then Crouch gave a disbelieving cackle, soon joined by others.

“This half-haired waif?”

“Can the girl even heft a shield?”

“She could heft a needle, I reckon. I need someone to stitch a hole in my sock!”

“You’ll need someone to stitch a hole in you after she’s done,” growled Odda.

A lad maybe a year older than Thorn begged for the chance to give her the first beating and the two crews gathered in a noisy circle with torches to light the contest, shouting insults and encouragement, making wagers on their crew-mate. He was a big one with great thick wrists, fierce in the eyes. Thorn’s father always said, fear is a good thing. Fear keeps you careful. Fear keeps you alive. That was just as well because Thorn’s heart was thudding so hard she thought her skull might burst.

“Bet on this scrap of nothing?” yelled Crouch, chopping one of his armrings in half with a hatchet and betting it against Thorn. “Might as well throw your money in the river! You having a piece of this?”

Blue Jenner quietly stroked his beard so his own armrings rattled. “I like my money where it is.”

The nerves vanished the moment their wooden blades first clashed and Thorn knew she had the lad well beaten. She dodged his second blow, steered away the third and let him stumble past. He was strong but he came at her angrily, blindly, his weight set all wrong. She ducked under a heedless sweep, almost laughing at how clumsy it was, hooked his shield down and struck him across the face with a sharp smack. He sat down hard in the dirt, blinking stupidly with blood pouring from his nose.

“You are the storm,” she heard Skifr murmur over the cheering. “Do not wait for them. Make them fear. Make them doubt.”

She sprang screaming at the next man the instant Jenner called for the fight to start, barged him into his shocked friends, chopped him across the stomach with her practice sword and put a dent in his helmet with a ringing blow of her wooden ax. He stumbled drunkenly for a moment while the South Wind’s crew laughed, trying to pry the rim back up over his brows.

“Men used to fighting in the shield wall tend to think only ahead. The shield becomes a weakness. Use the flanks.”

The next man was short but thick as a tree-trunk, cautious and watchful. She let him herd her back with his shield long enough for the boos of the Black Dog’s crew to turn to cheers. Then she came alive, feinted left and darted right, went high with her sword and, as he raised his shield, hooked his ankle with her ax, dragged him squealing over and left her sword’s point tickling at his throat.

“Yes. Be never where they expect you. Always attack. Strike first. Strike last.”

“You useless dogs!” snapped Crouch. “I’m shamed to be one of you!” And he snatched up the fallen sword, took up a shield with a white arrow painted on it and stepped into the circle.

He was a vicious one, and fast, and clever, but she was faster and cleverer and far more vicious and Skifr had taught her tricks he never dreamed of. She danced about him, wore him down, rained blows on him until he hardly knew which way he was facing. Finally she slipped around a lunge and gave him a smack across the arse with the flat of her sword they might have heard in Kalyiv.

“This was no fair test,” he growled as he stood up. It was plain he desperately wanted to rub his stinging buttocks but was forcing himself not to.