A man grabbed at him and Raith smashed the butt of his axe into his head, smashed him again as he fell and stomped on his clutching hand, slipped and almost went down, the cobbles slick with blood and rain.
Wasn’t sure which way he was facing of a sudden. The yard pitched and tossed like a ship in a storm. He saw Rakki, blood in his white hair as he stabbed with his sword, anger burned up again and Raith pushed in beside him, locking shields with his brother, shoving, butting, hacking. Something smashed him sideways and he went stumbling through a fire, kicking sparks.
Metal flashed and he jerked away, felt a burning on his face, something scraping against his helmet and knocking it skewed. He pressed past the spear, tried to ram his shield into a snarling face, got all tangled and realized it was a broken wreck, two of the planks dangling from the bent rim.
‘Die, you bastard!’ he snarled, the words just meaningless spit around the peg, flailing away at a helmet until it was dented all out of shape. Came to him he was hitting a wall, carving grey gashes in the stone, arm buzzing from the blows.
Someone was dragging him. Thorn with her black face a mess of spatter. She pointed with a red knife and her red mouth made words but Raith couldn’t hear them.
A great sword tore at the wet air, split a shield, flung the man who held it against the wall in a shower of blood. Raith knew it. He’d carried that blade for three years, held it close as a lover in the darkness, made it sing with his whetstone.
Grom-gil-Gorm stepped forward, huge as a mountain, the dozens of jewelled and gilded pommels on his long chain glittering, his shield black as the night and his sword bright as Father Moon.
‘Your death comes!’ he roared, so loud the deep-rooted bones of Bail’s Point seemed to shake.
Courage can be a brittle thing. Once panic clutches one man it spreads faster than plague, faster than fire. The High King’s warriors had been warm and happy behind strong walls, expecting nothing worse from the night than a stiff wind. Now the Breaker of Swords rose from the storm in his full battle glory, and all at once they broke and fled.
Thorn cut one down with her axe, Gorm caught another by the scruff of his neck and smashed his face into the wall. Raith ripped his knife out, sprang onto a warrior’s back as he ran, stabbing, stabbing. He leapt after another but his foot went out from under him and he tottered a wobbling step or two, bounced off the wall and fell.
Everything was blurry. He tried to stand but his knees wouldn’t have it so he sat down. The peg had fallen out and his mouth ached, tasting of wood and metal. Feet stamped past. A man lay laughing at him. He was caught by a flying boot and rolled flopping over. A dead man, laughing at nothing. Laughing at everything.
Raith squeezed his eyes shut, opened them.
Soryorn was stabbing the wounded with a spear, calmly as if he was planting seeds. Men were still clattering through the small gate, drawing weapons, stepping over bodies.
‘Always have to be first in the fight, eh, brother?’ Rakki. He undid the buckle and pulled Raith’s helmet off, tilted his face to look at the new cut. ‘Doing your best to make sure I stay the pretty one, eh?’
Words felt strange on Raith’s sore tongue. ‘You need all the help you can get.’ He shrugged his brother off and fought his way to standing, trying to shake his wrecked shield from his arm, trying to shake the dizziness from his head.
Bail’s Point was vast, a jumble of thatched and slated buildings grown up all around the towering elf-walls. There was crashing and shouting everywhere, Gettlanders and Vanstermen rooting through the fortress like ferrets down a warren, dragging the High King’s men from their hiding places, pouring down the long ramp that led to the harbour, gathering in a crescent about a pair of carved double doors, King Gorm and King Uthil among them.
‘We will smoke you out if we must!’ Father Yarvi shouted at the wood. Like the crows, ministers always arrived as the fighting was done, eager to pick over the results. ‘You had your chance to fight!’
A voice came muffled from beyond the door. ‘I was putting on my armour. It has fiddly buckles.’
‘The little ones can trick a big man’s fingers,’ Gorm admitted.
‘I have it on now, though!’ came the voice. ‘Are there storied warriors among you?’
Father Yarvi gave a sigh. ‘Thorn Bathu is here, and the Iron King Uthil, and Grom-gil-Gorm, the Breaker of Swords.’
A satisfied grunt from behind the door. ‘I feel less sour about defeat against such famous names. Will any of them consent to fight me?’
Thorn sat on some steps nearby, wincing as Mother Scaer squeezed at a cut on her shoulder and made the blood run. ‘I’ve fought enough for one evening.’
‘I too.’ Gorm handed his shield to Rakki. ‘Let the flames take this unready fool and his small-buckled armour.’
Raith’s feet stepped forward. His finger lifted. His mouth said, ‘I’ll fight the—’
Rakki caught hold of his arm and dragged it down. ‘No you won’t, brother.’