Half the World (Shattered Sea #2)(95)

Rin snorted. “If the boys show as much interest as they’ve been doing I might count that a fine match.”

They laughed together at that, and ate, and got a little drunk, the furnace still hot on their faces.

“YOU SNORE, DO YOU know that?”

Thorn jerked awake, rubbing her eyes, Mother Sun just showing herself in the stony sky. “It has been commented on.”

“Time to break this open, I reckon. See what we’ve got.”

Rin set to knocking the furnace apart with a hammer, Thorn raking the still smoking coals away, hand over her face as a tricking breeze sent ash and embers whirling. Rin delved in with tongs and pulled the jar out of the midst, yellow hot. She swung it onto a flat stone, broke it open, knocking white dust away, pulling something from inside like a nut from its shell.

The steel bound with her father’s bones, glowing sullen red, no bigger than a fist.

“Is it good?” asked Thorn.

Rin tapped it, turned it over, and slowly began to smile. “Aye. It’s good.”





RISSENTOFT


In the songs, Angulf Clovenfoot’s Gettlanders fell upon the Vanstermen like hawks from an evening sky.

Master Hunnan’s misfits fell on Rissentoft like a herd of sheep down a steep flight of steps.

The lad with the game leg could hardly walk by the time they reached the river and they’d left him sore and sorry on the south bank. The rest of them got soaked through at the ford and one lad had his shield carried off by the current. Then they got turned around in an afternoon mist and it wasn’t until near dark, all worn-out, clattering and grumbling, that they stumbled on the village.

Hunnan cuffed one boy around the head for quiet then split them up with gestures, sent them scurrying in groups of five down the streets, or down the hardened dirt between the shacks, at least.

“Stay close!” Brand hissed to Rauk, who was straggling behind, shield dangling, looking more pale and tired than ever.

“The place is empty,” growled the toothless old-timer, and he looked to have the right of it. Brand crept along a wall and peered through a door hanging open. Not so much as a dog moving anywhere. Apart from the stink of poverty, an aroma he was well familiar with, the place was abandoned.

“They must’ve heard us coming,” he muttered.

The old man raised one brow. “You think?”

“There’s one here!” came a scared shriek, and Brand took off running, scrambled around the corner of a wattle shack, shield up.

An old man stood at the door of a house with his hands raised. Not a big house, or a pretty house. Just a house. He had a stoop to his back, and gray hair braided beside his face the way the Vanstermen wore it. Three of Hunnan’s lads stood in a half-circle about him, spears levelled.

“I’m not armed,” he said, holding his hands higher. They had something of a shake to them and Brand hardly blamed him. “I don’t want to fight.”

“Some of us don’t,” said Hunnan, stepping between the lads with his sword drawn. “But sometimes a fight finds us anyway.”

“I got nothing you want.” The old man stared about nervously as they gathered around him. “Please. Just don’t want my house burned. Built it with my wife.”

“Where’s she?” asked Hunnan.

The old man swallowed, his gray-stubbled throat shifting. “She died last winter.”

“What about those in Halleby? You think they wanted their houses burned?”

“I knew folk in Halleby.” The man licked his lips. “I didn’t have nought to do with that.”

“Not surprised to hear about it, though, are you?” And Hunnan hit him with his sword. It opened a great gash in his arm and he yelped, staggered, clutched at his doorframe as he fell.

“Oh,” said one of the boys.

Hunnan stepped up with a snarl and chopped the old man in the back of the head with a sound like a spade chopping earth. He rolled over, shuddering, tongue stuck out rigid. Then he lay still, blood spreading across his door-stone, pooling in the deep-cut runes of the gods that guarded his house.

Same gods that guarded the houses in Thorlby. Seemed they weren’t watching right then.

Brand stared, cold all over. Happened so fast he’d no time to stop it. No time to think about whether he wanted to stop it, even. Just happened, and they all stood there and watched.

“Spread out,” said Hunnan. “Search the houses, then burn ’em. Burn ’em all.” The bald old man shook his head, and Brand felt sick inside, but they did as they were bid.

“I’ll stay here,” said Rauk, tossing down his shield and sitting on it.

Brand shouldered open the nearest door and froze. A low room, much like the one he and Rin used to share, and by the firepit a woman stood. A skinny woman in a dirty dress, couple of years older than Brand. She stood with one hand on the wall, staring at him, breathing hard. Scared out of her wits, he reckoned.

“You all right?” called Sordaf from outside.

“Aye,” said Brand.

“Well, bloody hell!” The fat lad grinned as he ducked his head under the low doorway. “Not quite empty, I reckon.” He uncoiled some rope, sawed off a length with his knife, and handed it over. “Reckon she’ll get a decent price, you lucky bastard.”