Half the World (Shattered Sea #2)(98)
“Don’t think Hunnan sees it that way. He’d like to tell everyone I’m a disgrace but he’d have to admit his raid was a disgrace, so …” He puffed out his cheeks, looking more puzzled than ever. “I’m swearing my warrior’s oath tomorrow. Along with some lads never swung a blade in anger.”
Thorn put on Father Yarvi’s voice. “Let Father Peace spill tears over the methods! Mother War smiles upon results! You must be pleased.”
He looked down at the ground. “I suppose so.”
“You’re not?”
“Do you ever feel bad? About those men you’ve killed?”
“Not a lot. Why should I?”
“I’m not saying you should. I’m just asking if you do.”
“I don’t.”
“Well, you’re touched by Mother War.”
“Touched?” Thorn snorted. “She’s slapped me purple.”
“Being a warrior, brothers at my shoulder, it’s what I always wanted …”
“There’s no disappointment like getting what you’ve always wanted.”
“Some things are worth the wait,” he said, looking her in the eye.
She had no doubts at all what that look meant now. She was starting to wonder if getting across this frozen lake of theirs might not be so hard. Maybe you just took one step at a time, and tried to enjoy the thrill of it. So she took a little pace closer to him. “Where are you sleeping?”
He didn’t back off. “Under the stars, I reckon.”
“A Chosen Shield gets a tent.”
“You trying to make me jealous?”
“No, it’s only a small one.” She moved another little step. “But it’s got a bed.”
“I’m getting to like this story.”
“Bit cold, though.” She moved another little step, and they were both smiling. “On my own.”
“I could have a word with Sordaf for you, reckon he could warm a blanket with one fart.”
“Sordaf’s everything most women could ask for, but I’ve always had odd tastes.” She reached up, using her fingers like a comb, and pushed the hair out of his face. “I had someone else in mind.”
“There’s a lot of folk watching,” said Brand.
“Like I care a damn.”
COWARDICE
They knelt in a line. Three of the young lads and Brand. Two had pointed spears at an old farmer. One had cried as he set fire to some houses. The last had let the only slave they took go.
Some warriors.
Yet here they were, with the fighting men of Gettland gathered about them in an armed and armored crowd, ready to welcome them into their brotherhood. Ready to have them at their shoulders when they met Grom-gil-Gorm and his Vanstermen at the appointed place. Ready to carry them into the iron embrace of Mother War.
King Uthil had changed a lot in the year since Brand saw him last, and not for the better. His skin had turned the same iron-gray as his hair, rheumy eyes sunken in dark shadows. He seemed shrivelled in his chair, scarcely moving, as though the King’s Circle on his brow was a crushing weight, hands trembling as he hugged his naked sword.
Father Yarvi perched on a stool at the king’s side, Queen Laithlin sat bolt upright on the other, shoulders back, fists clenched on her knees, sweeping the crowd with her pale stare as though she could make up for her husband’s weakness with her strength.
Thorn stood at the queen’s shoulder, pointed chin up and with a challenge in her eyes, arms folded and the elf-bangle burning a chill white on her wrist. She looked like something from the songs, a Chosen Shield from her toes to her half-shaved scalp. Brand could hardly believe he’d clambered out of her bed an hour before. At least he had one thing to feel pleased about.
The king looked slowly down the line of boys to Brand, and cleared his throat.
“You are young,” he said, voice so crackly quiet it could hardly be heard over the wind flapping the tent cloth. “But Master Hunnan has judged you worthy, and Gettland is beset by enemies.” He raised himself a little in his seat, a glimpse of the man whose speech Brand had thrilled to on the beach before Thorlby. “We march to Amon’s Tooth to meet the Vanstermen in battle, and we need every shield!” He was caught by a coughing fit, and croaked out, “Steel is the answer.” Then slumped back in his chair, Father Yarvi leaning close to whisper in his ear.
Master Hunnan stepped up with sword in hand and frown on face to stand over the first of the boys. “Do you swear loyalty to Gettland?”
The lad swallowed. “I do.”
“Do you swear to serve your king?”
“I do.”
“Do you swear to stand by your shoulder-man in the shield wall, and obey your betters?”
“I do.”
“Then rise a warrior of Gettland!”
The boy did, looking a lot more scared than happy, and all about him men drummed fists on their chests, clattered ax-hafts on shield rims, thumped boots on the earth in approval.
It took a moment’s struggle for Brand to swallow. Soon it would be his turn. Should have been the proudest day of his life. But as he thought of the ashes of Halleby and Rissentoft, of the old man bleeding on his doorstep and the woman with the rope around her neck, pride wasn’t his first feeling.