‘Every hero is someone’s villain.’
‘Hero or villain,’ said Mother Scaer, her blue, blue eyes fixed on those men below, ‘he has not made his warriors ready.’
She was right. They had formed a shield-wall in the dunes above the beach, facing inland towards the sullen forest, a high pole topped with the seven-rayed sun of the One God in their centre, but even Skara, whose experience of battle went little further than watching the boys in the training square behind her grandfather’s hall, could tell it was an ill-made line, crooked and full of gaps.
‘Grandmother Wexen has gathered men from many places,’ said Father Yarvi. ‘They are not used to fighting together. They do not even speak one tongue.’
King Uthil’s fleet had rounded the headland, an arrow-shaped mass of ships, sea-birds circling above the white-frothed wake curving back towards the blackened ruins of Valso. The High King’s fleet must have sighted them, some turning towards the threat, others away, others ploughing on towards the beach, oars tangling and boats clashing in the confusion.
‘Surprise is on our side,’ said Sister Owd, having finally got her breath back. ‘Surprise is half the battle.’
Skara frowned sideways. ‘How many battles have you fought in?’
‘I have faith in our alliance, my queen,’ said the minister, folding her arms. ‘I have faith in the Breaker of Swords, and in King Uthil, and in Blue Jenner.’
‘And Raith,’ Skara found she had added. She had not even realized she had faith in him, let alone that she would ever say so.
Sister Owd raised one brow. ‘Him somewhat less.’
A long, low horn blast throbbed out, so deep it seemed to make Skara’s guts tremble.
Mother Scaer stretched up tall. ‘The Breaker of Swords comes to the feast!’
All at once men spilled from the trees, surging onto the dunes above the beach. Skara supposed they were running at full tilt but they seemed to move slowly as honey in winter.
She found she had reached out to clutch at Sister Owd’s shoulder with her bandaged hand. She had not felt so scared since the night the Forest burned, but now with the fear there was an almost unbearable thrill. Her fate, the fate of Throvenland, the fate of the alliance, the fate of the Shattered Sea itself all balanced on a sword’s edge. She could hardly stand to watch, could not bear to look away.
A warrior had rushed out from the High King’s men, was waving his arms frantically, trying to ready the shield-wall to meet the charge. Skara could hear his cracked screams, faint, faint on the wind, but it was too late.
The Breaker of Swords was upon them. She saw his black banner flying, steel glittering beneath it like the spray at the head of a wave.
‘Your death comes,’ she whispered.
Her face hurt she was grimacing so hard, her chest burned she was gasping in the air so fast. She sent up a prayer to Mother War, a cold and vicious prayer that these invaders might be driven from her land and into the sea. That she might spit on Bright Yilling’s carcass before Mother Sun set, and so win her courage back from him.
It seemed her prayers were answered before her eyes.
In a black tide the Vanstermen swept down the grassy dunes, their war-cries echoing high and strange on the wind, and like a wall of sand before a great wave the centre of the High King’s crooked shield-wall crumbled. She felt Sister Owd’s hand on top of hers and gripped it tight.
Gorm’s men crashed into the faltering line and Mother War spread her wings over the coast of Throvenland and smiled upon the slaughter. Her voice was a storm of metal. A clamour like a thousand smithies and a hundred slaughter-yards. Sometimes by some unknown chance the wind would waft some word, or phrase, or cry full-formed to Skara’s ear, of fury or pain or begging fear, and make her startle as if it was spoken at her shoulder.
Father Yarvi stepped forward, knuckles white about his elf-metal staff and his eager eyes fixed on the beach. ‘Yes,’ he hissed. ‘Yes!’
Now the right wing of the High King’s men slowly buckled and in an instant gave, men fleeing down the shingle, flinging their weapons away. But there was nowhere to run but into the arms of Mother Sea, and that was a comfortless embrace indeed.
On the higher dunes a few knots of the High King’s warriors still held, striving to make a stand worth singing of, but they were islands in a flood. And Skara saw the ruin panic can work on a great army, and learned how a battle can turn on a single moment, and watched the gilded symbol of the One God topple and be crushed beneath the heels of Mother War’s faithful.
In the wake of Gorm’s charge the beach was left dotted with black shapes, like driftwood after a tempest. Broken shields, broken weapons. Broken men. Skara’s wide eyes darted over the wreckage, trying to reckon the number of the dead, and she could hardly swallow for the sudden tightness in her throat.