Half a War

The Killer

Father Earth trembled and Raith felt fear stab him, scrambled up, fumbling his bowl and spraying soup across the yard.

Bright Yilling was bringing down his mine.

They’d all known it was coming. Ever since Rakki was buried in the last mine and the High King’s men made no secret of digging another.

King Uthil had made sure the defenders weren’t idle. He’d ordered a new wall built inside the fortress. A wall of worm-riddled beams torn from the low buildings, of strakes and masts from broken-up ships, of barnacle-crusted timbers from broken-up wharves, of roof joists and wagon wheels and barrel staves and dead men’s shields. A wooden crescent not much higher than a man, running from elf-walls on one side to elf-walls on the other and with a meagre walkway where folk could stand, and fight, and die. Not much of a wall to keep out ten thousand warriors.

But a long stride better than nothing if Gudrun’s Tower came down.

Most of the thousand defenders still able to run were running towards it now, barging into each other, shouting over each other, drawing weapons as they went, and Raith was carried by the tide. Blue Jenner offered his hand, helped him clamber onto the walkway, and as he stood at the parapet the ground shivered again, harder even than before.

Everyone gaped at the ugly mass of Gudrun’s Tower and the crumbling man-built stretch of wall beside it. Willing it to hold firm. Praying it might. Raith wished he knew the right gods to plead with, settled for clenching his aching fist and hoping. Some birds flapped from the broken roof, but that was all. As tense a silence as Raith ever knew stretched out.

‘It’s held!’ someone shouted.

‘Quiet!’ roared Gorm, holding up the sword Raith used to carry.

As if that was a signal there was a cracking bang, men cringing as dust and chunks of stone flew from the back of Gudrun’s Tower, a rock big as a man’s head bouncing across the yard and hammering against the wooden wall near Raith.

There was an almighty groaning and the ivy that covered the tower seemed to twist, cracks shooting through the stonework, the roof leaning sideways, birds showering up into the sky.

‘Gods,’ whispered Raith, his jaw dropping. With awful slowness the whole tower began to fold in on itself.

‘Get down!’ bellowed Blue Jenner, hauling Raith onto the walkway beside him.

It sounded as if the whole world was shaking itself apart. Raith squeezed his eyes shut, stones pattering on his back like hail. He was ready to die. Just wished he’d died with Skara.

He opened his eyes but all was murk. A ship in fog.

Something plucked at him and he slapped it clumsily away.

He saw Blue Jenner’s lined face, all pale, all ghostly, shouting something but Raith couldn’t hear him. His ears were ringing.

He dragged himself up by the parapet, coughing as he stared into the man-made fog. He could see the faint shape of the elf-built tower on the left, of the elf-built wall on the right, but in between, where Gudrun’s Tower had stood, there was only a great gap. A broken mass of boulders and shattered beams, the yard between it and the wooden wall littered with rubble.

‘Least it fell outwards,’ he muttered, but he couldn’t even hear his own voice.

He realized he’d left the fine helmet he took from that ship’s captain outside Skara’s door, but there was no going back for it. He’d just have to ask nicely that no one hit his head. Such a fool’s notion he nearly laughed.

Then he saw shapes in the gloom. Shadows of men. The High King’s warriors, clambering over the fallen ruins and through the breach. Dozens of them, painted shields turned dusty grey, swords and axes dulled in the gloom, mouths yawning in silent war-cries. Hundreds of them.

Arrows flitted into that heaving mass of men. From the crescent of defenders, from the elf-walls high above. Arrows came from all around them, and struggling over that broken rubble they couldn’t have formed a decent shield-wall if they’d wanted. Men fell in the yard, fell among the boulders, crawled, and rolled and sat down staring. He saw a big old warrior shambling on with four or five shafts lodged in his mail. He saw a red-haired man who’d got his boot wedged between two rocks tear off his helmet and fling it away in frustration. He saw a warrior with golden armrings limping along using his sword like a crutch.

They kept coming, battle-cries a faint burble over the ringing in Raith’s ears, surging to the foot of the wooden wall. They kept coming, as men above stabbed with spears, flung rocks down, leant out to hack with axes. They kept coming, some kneeling with shields above their heads as steps while others clawed their way up the timbers of the makeshift wall. Would’ve been bravery to admire if it hadn’t all been bent on getting Raith killed.

He shut his eyes, wedged that battered old peg in his jaws, but no battle-joy surged up now. Used to be Raith had a thirst for violence felt like it’d never be satisfied. Seemed he’d finally drunk his fill, but Mother War kept on pouring. He thought of Skara looking down. Thought of her laugh. To hear that one more time seemed something worth fighting for. He forced his eyes open.

The High King’s warriors were swarming over the wall, half the walkway seething with struggling men. One was lifting his sword to chop at Jenner and Raith hit him on the side of the head with his axe, left a great dent in his helmet and sent him sprawling. A hand clutched at the parapet and Raith hacked it in half, punched a man in the mouth with the rim of his shield and flung him back, dagger spinning from his fingers as he tumbled off the wall.

He saw Jenner’s eyes go wide, spun around to see a big Lowlander bearing down on him, a great axe held in both fists and the One God’s seven-rayed sun bouncing on a thong around his neck. Sometimes the best thing you can do with danger is run straight at it. Raith dived at him, the axe-haft catching on his shoulder and the blade just grazing his back, jarring from the Lowlander’s hands and clattering into the yard below.

They grappled, waddled, clawing and spitting at each other. Raith dropped his axe, forced his burned arm down, fumbling for the grip of his knife. The Lowlander butted at him, caught him in the jaw, made enough room to bring his fist back for a punch, but enough for Raith to jerk his knife free too.

There might be no joy in it, but he wasn’t lying down for anyone.

He dipped his chin so the Lowlander’s fist caught him on the forehead instead of the nose, a trick he’d learned fighting boys way bigger than him. The peg was jolted out of his mouth, his ears ringing all the louder, but he felt the crunching of the man’s handbones. Raith stabbed him in the side, blade scraping against mail, not going through, but still a hard enough poke to double the Lowlander up wheezing. He pawed at Raith’s arm with his broken hand but Raith tore free of it and rammed the knife under the rim of his helmet, just below his ear.

The Lowlander looked quite surprised as his blood poured over the holy symbol he wore. Probably been sure he’d got the right god, the right king, the right cause. Everyone finds a way to make their side the right one, after all. Now, as he stumbled back trying to hold his neck together, he found it’s not the righteous win, but them who strike first and strike hardest.

Raith ducked, caught him between the legs and hefted him over the parapet, knocking another man sprawling among the corpses on the way. No doubt they’d all thought they were on the right side too.

Raith stood staring, trying to catch his breath. He saw Mother Owd behind the wall, dragging a wounded man away. He saw Blue Jenner trying to untangle his sword from a dead man’s bloody hair. He saw Grom-gil-Gorm send a man flying with a sweep of his shield. The High King’s warriors had been driven off the wooden wall, but more were still pouring through the breach.

Then Raith saw something tumble from the walls above, and flinched as liquid fire showered the men crammed into that narrow space. He felt the heat of it across his face, remembered the heat of it underground. Even through the ringing in his ears he could hear the screams.

Another clay jar fell, another burst of flame, and the High King’s men crumbled and fled. No one stays brave forever, no matter how right they think they are. Gettlanders were cheering, and Vanstermen jeering, and Throvenmen whooping, chanting the names of King Uthil and King Gorm and even Queen Skara in celebration. Raith kept quiet. He knew they’d be back soon enough.

‘You all right?’ he heard Blue Jenner ask.

‘Aye,’ muttered Raith, but the truth was he was sick. Sick of fighting and he wanted to be back in Skara’s bed.

There were corpses everywhere, and a stink of oil and cooking meat, and wounded men squealing for help that wasn’t coming. In place of the settling dust smoke drifted, and from the murk a high voice came calling.

‘Well that was quite a start to the day! That surely got the blood flowing!’

Something edged into the breach. A door with a splintered corner and the hinges still hanging off. Three knocks rang out, then Bright Yilling’s soft face appeared around one side. ‘Might I come in and talk without being pricked full of arrows?’ He gave his bland little smile. ‘That would make a poor song, after all.’

‘Reckon Skara would sing it happily enough,’ Raith muttered, and he’d have hummed along himself with few regrets.

But Gorm was more interested in glory. ‘Come forward, Bright Yilling! We will listen.’

‘You are most gracious!’ The High King’s champion let his door topple down the hill of smoking masonry and sprang nimbly after it, into that stained, ruined, arrow-strewn corner of the yard.

‘What brings you here?’ called Uthil. ‘Do you want to surrender?’ There was some laughter at that, but Yilling only grinned up alone at the crescent of frowns. They said he worshipped Death. Certainly seemed he’d no fear of meeting her.

‘I want what I wanted when we first spoke. To fight.’ Yilling took his sword by the crosspiece and drew it, scratching daintily at his top lip with the pommel. ‘Will one of you two kings test his sword-work against mine?’

There was a pause, while nervous muttering spread down the length of the wooden walls. Uthil raised one brow at Gorm, grey hair flicking about his scarred face with the breeze, and Gorm raised one brow back, slowly turning a pommel on his chain around and around. Then he gave an extravagant yawn, and waved Bright Yilling away. ‘I have better things to be about. My morning turd will not make itself.’

Yilling only grinned the wider. ‘We must wait to put that famous prophecy of yours to the test. At least until my men kick over your wall of twigs. What of you, Iron King? Is your taste for turds or sword-work?’

Uthil frowned down at Yilling for a long, tense moment. Long enough for the muttering to swell into eager chatter. Two such famous warriors meeting in a duel was a thing a man might see only once in his lifetime. But the King of Gettland didn’t mean to be hurried. He peered at his sword, licked his little finger, gently rubbed some tiny blemish from the blade.

‘It has been a while since I was tested,’ said Yilling. ‘I visited Thorlby hoping for a fight, but there was no one there to kill but women and boys.’

Uthil gave a sad smile, then. As if he would’ve liked to give a different answer, but knew there could be only one. ‘That jewel you have for a pommel will make a fine bauble for my son to play with. I will fight you.’ He handed his sword to Master Hunnan, clambered somewhat stiffly over the parapet and slid down to the yard below.

‘That is the best news I have had all month!’ Yilling gave a childish little caper. ‘Shall I fight you with my right hand or my left?’

‘Whichever causes you to die most quickly,’ said Uthil, plucking his blade from the air as Hunnan tossed it down. ‘Your attack interrupted my breakfast and there is a sausage I am keen to get back to.’

Yilling spun his sword about in his left hand as nimbly as a dress-maker might her needle. ‘Old men are particular about their mealtimes, I understand.’

As if the whole business had been arranged for years, the two famed warriors began to circle each other.

‘This will be one for the songs,’ breathed Jenner.

Raith worked his aching hand. ‘I’m less keen on songs than I used to be.’

Fast as a snake Yilling darted in, blade a bright blur. Raith’s own arm twitched as he thought how he’d have blocked, how he’d have struck back. Then he saw he’d have been dead.

Bright Yilling twisted with inhuman speed, sword whipping in a low cut. But Uthil was equal to it. Steel scraped as he parried, stepped effortlessly around the blade, slashed back. As quickly as they’d come together they broke apart, Yilling grinning with his arms spread wide, Uthil frowning, sword dangling by his side.

‘Whoever wins,’ croaked Raith, eyes rooted to the duel, ‘the war goes on.’

‘Aye,’ said Jenner, twitching with the movements of the fighters. ‘None of us have any other choice.’

Another exchange, steel darting faster than Raith could follow, thrust, thrust, slash and parry, and both men spun away into space, picking their way between the bodies, the rubble, the scattered rubbish.

‘All this just for the fame of it?’

‘Fame’s worth more to some men than anything.’

Slow silence, and the slow walking, slow prowling, slow circling around each other. Yilling crouched low, flowing like Mother Sea into different stances, different shapes, chuckling at every exchange like it was a fine new joke. Uthil stood stiff upright, solid as Father Earth, frowning as if he circled a funeral. They watched each other, feeling out the moment, riddling out the opponent, the silence stretching until it seemed it had to snap. Then with no warning the clash and ring and scrape of steel, Death lurking at both men’s shoulders, clinging to the edges of both men’s blades, the steel question asked and the steel answer given then the quick breaking apart and the slow prowling, slow circling, slow silence.

‘It is a great shame that one of us must lose.’ Yilling dodged a high cut, eyes slightly crossed as he watched Uthil’s point flicker past his nose. ‘There is much I could learn from you.’

‘I fear we have time for only one lesson. Death waits for us all.’ Yilling sprang forward as the king was still speaking but Uthil was ready, steering the thrust away, twisting his wrist so his sword raked down the sleeve of Yilling’s mail and across the back of his hand.

Yilling jerked back, blood pattering on the already-bloody stones of the yard. With a carefree chuckle he tossed his sword across to his right hand.

Someone screamed, ‘Bleed, you bastard!’ from the tower above and suddenly everyone was shouting, hooting, roaring their insults and their defiance. They smelled victory. They smelled blood.

Uthil came on, metal twinkling as his sword caught the sun. Deadly thrusts no mail could have stopped. Yilling dodged, twisted, steel screeching as he pushed Uthil’s blade just wide on one side, turned so it whipped past him on the other, tottering back, off-balance.

Uthil sprang forward for the finishing blow and his foot twisted on a stone. The slightest stumble before his sword came hissing down. The slightest stumble, but long enough for Yilling to drop onto his knees, jerking away so the king’s blade left a cut down his smooth cheek and clanged into the stones just beside him.

Yilling’s own sword was left straight through Uthil’s body, most of the blade sticking bloody from his back.

The cheering stuttered out to leave a dumbstruck silence.

‘A stone,’ grunted Uthil, frowning at the sword-hilt pressed against his chest. ‘Poor weaponluck.’ And all of a sudden he fell, Bright Yilling jumping to catch him as he whipped his sword free.

‘No,’ muttered Jenner, slapping at the parapet with his palm.

All along the wooden crescent there were curses, hisses, groans of dismay as Bright Yilling lowered Uthil to the dusty ground, settling his arm so that the Iron King of Gettland clutched his sword to his chest, steel his answer in death as it had been in life.

‘A good death,’ murmured Blue Jenner.

Raith tossed his shield clattering down on the walkway. ‘A death, anyway.’

Mother Sun broke through the clouds as Bright Yilling wiped his sword, making the diamond pommel flash, the blood on his face glisten. He looked like Death’s chosen indeed, smiling among a harvest of corpses with Uthil’s body at his feet.

‘I will come back for the rest of you!’ he called as he turned towards the breach.

So that was the end to the day’s murder.