Raith gave a growl in his throat, and all about him other men did the same.
‘This is a day the ministers will write of in their high books,’ called Uthil, ‘and the skalds will sing of about the firepits. A day you will tell your grandchildren’s children of and swell with pride at your part in it. We are the sword that will cut away Bright Yilling’s smile, the hand that will slap Grandmother Wexen’s face. Grom-gil-Gorm and his Vanstermen will crush the High King’s men against unyielding Father Earth. We will drive them into the cold arms of Mother Sea.’
The king stood taller, the grey hair flicking about his scarred face, his fever-bright eyes. ‘Death waits for us all, my brothers. Will you skulk past her through the Last Door? Or will you face her with your heads high and your swords drawn?’
‘Swords drawn! Swords drawn!’ And all across the water blades hissed eagerly from their scabbards.
Uthil grimly nodded. ‘I am no minister. I have no more words.’ He took the sword from the crook of his arm and thrust it towards the sky. ‘My blade shall speak for me! Steel is the answer!’
A cheer went up, men hammering their oars with their fists, blunting carefully-sharpened weapons on their shield-rims, holding blades high to make a glittering forest over every ship and Raith shouted louder than anyone.
‘Didn’t think to hear you cheering for the King of Gettland,’ murmured Jenner.
Raith cleared his sore throat. ‘Aye, well. The worst enemies make the best allies.’
‘Ha. You’re learning, boy.’
A long quiet stretched out. The small sounds came thunderous. The gentle creaking of wood under Raith’s boots and the slow breakers washing up the beach. The hissing of skin as Blue Jenner rubbed his calloused palms together and the mutter of a final prayer to Mother War. The rattling of oars in their sockets and the croaking of a single gull as it curved low over the ships and away to the south.
‘A good omen,’ said King Uthil, then brought his sword chopping down.
‘Heave!’ roared Jenner.
And the men set to their oars, blood hot with fear and hate and the hunger for plunder, the thirst for glory. Like a hound off the leash the Black Dog sped out to sea, ahead of Uthil’s grey-sailed ship, spray flying from the high prow and the salt wind rushing in Raith’s hair. Wood groaned and water thundered against the ship’s flanks, and over the noise he heard the bellowing of other helmsmen as they urged their crews to be the first into battle.
This was what he was made for. And Raith tipped back his head and gave a wolf’s howl at the joy of it.
Watching
Skara’s heart was thudding in her mouth as she caught a tree-root and dragged herself up towards the crest. Hardly the most regal of behaviour, as Sister Owd had been keen to point out, but Skara would not simply sit on the beach chewing her nails while the future of Throvenland was decided.
She might not be able to fight in the battle. She could at least watch it.
The ground was levelling out now and she crept upward, bent low. The ragged coast of Yutmark came into view to the south. The faint hills, then the grey beaches, then the sparkling water of the straits themselves and, finally, halfway across, ships.
‘The High King’s fleet,’ whispered Sister Owd, her face even more than usually peach-like from the climb.
Dozens of ships, oars dipping. Some low and sleek and built for battle, some fat-bellied traders, no doubt crammed with warriors sent north by Grandmother Wexen. Warriors fixed on sweeping their alliance aside and crushing Skara’s little pocket of Throvenland as a callous boy might crush a beetle.
The anger surged up hot and she clenched her fists, took the last few steps to the summit of the headland and stood between Father Yarvi and Mother Scaer, gazing westward, a long beach stretching away towards sinking Mother Sun.
‘Gods,’ she breathed.
The shingle crawled with men like ants seething from a broken nest, their shields painted dots, steel flashing and winking, coloured banners flapping in the wind to mark where crews should gather. Those of the High King’s warriors who had already landed. Two full loads of those transports, maybe three. Hundreds of them. Thousands. It hardly seemed real.
‘So many,’ she whispered.
‘The more we allow across,’ said Mother Scaer, ‘the more Grom-gil-Gorm will catch on the beach, the more we kill.’
The last word came harsh as a stabbing dagger and Skara felt a surge of nerves, clutching at one hand with the other. ‘Do you think …’ Her voice faded to a croak as she made herself speak the name. ‘Bright Yilling is down there?’ She saw that calm, soft face again, heard that high, soft voice, felt an echo of the terror of that night and was furious at her own cowardice. She was a queen, damn it. A queen cannot fear.
Father Yarvi looked across at her. ‘Any true hero leads from the front.’
‘He’s no hero.’