Half the World (Shattered Sea #2)(58)

“Just like a loyal slave.”

“You are the expert there. Does your neck still chafe?”

Yarvi’s smile grew strained at that. “The scars are quite healed.”

“Are they?” Scaer leaned close, her thin lips curling from her teeth. “If I were you, I would return to the Shattered Sea before you pick up some more.” And she brushed past, Thorn and the Vansterman exchanging one more lingering scowl before he strode away.

“She’s trouble,” whispered Thorn once they were out of earshot.

“Yes.”

“And she’s close with the duke.”

“Yes.”

“And was sent here ahead of us.”

“Yes.”

“So … Grandmother Wexen guessed what you’d do long before you did it.”

“Yes.”

“I’ve a feeling we’re not going to get an audience with anything this way.”

Yarvi looked sourly across at her. “See? You’re a diplomat after all.”





OLD FRIENDS


Gods, she was quick now. Brand was twice the fighter he’d been when they left Thorlby just from fighting her, but every day he was less her equal. He felt like a lumbering hog against her, always three steps behind. Alone he had no chance at all, whatever the ground. Even with two comrades beside him he was starting to feel outnumbered. Less and less she was on the defensive, more and more she was the hunter and they the helpless prey.

“Koll,” called Brand, jerking his head, “take the left.” They started to spread out about the courtyard of the crumbling palace Yarvi had found for them, trying to trap her, trying to tempt her with the gaps between them. “Dosduvoi, get—”

Too late he realized Thorn had lured the big man into the one bright corner of the yard and Dosduvoi cringed as Mother Sun stabbed him suddenly in the eyes.

Thorn was on him like lightning, staggered him in spite of his size with a splintering ax-blow on the shield, slid her sword under the rim and rammed the point into his considerable gut. She reeled away laughing as Brand lashed at the air where she’d stood a moment before, making sure one of the flaking pillars that ringed the yard was between her and Koll.

“Oh, God,” wheezed Dosduvoi as he folded up, clutching at his belly.

“Promising,” said Skifr, circling them with her hands clasped behind her back. “But don’t let your own wind sweep you away. Treat every fight as if it is your last. Every enemy as though they are your worst. The wise fighter seems less than they are, however mean the opposition.”

“Thanks for that,” Brand forced through gritted teeth, trying to wipe some trickling sweat off on his shoulder. Gods, it was hot. Sometimes it didn’t seem there was a breath of wind anywhere in this cursed city.

“My father used to say never get proud.” Thorn’s eyes darted from Brand to Koll and back as they tried to herd her into a corner. “He said great warriors start believing their own songs, start thinking it’ll have to be a great thing that kills them. But a little thing can kill anyone.”

“Scratch gone bad,” said Safrit, watching with hands on hips.

“Frayed shield strap,” grunted Brand, trying to keep his eyes on Thorn’s weapons but finding her clinging vest something of a distraction.

“Slip on a sheep’s turd,” said Koll, nipping in and jabbing at Thorn but giving her the chance to land a crashing blow on his shield and slip around him into space again.

“Your father sounds a sensible man,” said Skifr. “How did he die?”

“Killed in a duel with Grom-gil-Gorm. By all accounts, he got proud.”

Thorn changed direction in an instant and, fast as Koll was getting, she was far faster. Fast as a scorpion and less merciful. Her ax thudded into the lad’s leg, made it buckle and he gasped as he staggered sideways. Her sword slapped into his side and he went tumbling across the courtyard with a despairing cry.

But that gave Brand his chance. Even off-balance she managed to turn his sword away so it thudded hard into her shoulder. Gods, she was tough, she didn’t even flinch. He crashed into her with his shield, drove her snarling back against the wall, rim gouging out a shower of loose plaster. They staggered in an ungainly tussle and, for a moment, he was sure he had her. But even as he was forcing her back she somehow twisted her foot behind his, growled as she switched her weight and sent him tumbling over it.

They went down hard, him on the bottom. Gods, she was strong. It was like Bail wrestling the great eel in the song, but more than likely with a worse outcome.

“You’re supposed to be killing him!” called Skifr, “not coupling with him! That you can do on your own time.”

They rolled in a tangle and came out with Thorn on top, teeth bared as she tried to work her forearm up under his jaw to choke him, he with a grip on her elbow, straining to twist it away, both snarling in each other’s faces.

So close her two eyes blurred into one. So close he could see every bead of sweat on her forehead. So close her chest pressed against him with each quick, hot, sour-sweet breath.

And for a moment it felt as if they weren’t fighting at all, but something else.

Then the heavy door shuddered open and Thorn sprang off him as quickly as if she’d been slapped.

“Another win?” snapped Father Yarvi, stepping over the threshold with Rulf frowning at his shoulder.