‘I looked out to sea and I saw a ship speeding, fleet as a grey gull over the water, scattering the ships of the High King like starlings. Iron on the mast, in the hands of her warriors. Iron the eye of her merciless captain. Iron the slaughter she spread on the water. Corpses to sate even Mother Sea’s hunger.’
An iron whisper went through the warriors. Pride at their strength and the strength of their leaders. Pride at the songs they would pass to their sons, more precious to them than gold. Uthil let his mad eyes widen, let the sword slide through the crook of his arm until it rested on its point. His voice came as harsh as the grinding of a whetstone.
‘I looked back to land and I saw a host gather. Black was the banner the wind snapped above them. Black was the fury that fell on their foemen. Into the sea were the High King’s men driven. Thunder of steel as helms split and shields riven. Red was the tide that washed over their ruin. Corpses to sate even Mother War’s hunger.’
The two kings clasped hands over the fire and a mighty cheer went up, a din of metal as men smashed their notched weapons against their gouged shields, and thumped fists on the mailed shoulders of their comrades, and Skara clapped her hands and laughed along with them.
Blue Jenner raised his brows. ‘Acceptable verses, at short notice.’
‘No doubt the skalds can sharpen them later!’ Skara knew what it was to win a great victory, and it was a feeling to sing of. The High King was driven from the land of her forefathers, and her heart felt light for the first time since she fled the burning Forest …
Then she remembered that bland smile, speckled with her grandfather’s blood and shivered. ‘Was Bright Yilling among the dead?’ she called.
Grom-gil-Gorm turned his dark eyes upon her. ‘I saw no sign of that Death-worshipping dog, nor his Companions. It was a rabble we butchered on the beach, weak-armed and weak-led.’
‘Father Yarvi.’ A boy slipped past Skara, catching the minister by his coat. ‘A dove’s come.’
For some reason she felt a weight of cold worry in her stomach as Father Yarvi tucked his elf-metal staff into the crook of his arm and turned the scrap of paper towards the firelight. ‘Come from where?’
‘Down the coast, beyond Yaletoft.’
‘I had men watching the water …’ He trailed off as his eyes scanned the scrawled letters.
‘You have news?’ asked King Uthil.
Yarvi swallowed, a sudden gust fluttering the paper in his fingers. ‘The High King’s army has crossed the straits to the west,’ he muttered. ‘Ten thousand of his warriors stand on the soil of Throvenland and are already marching.’
‘What?’ asked Raith, mouth still smiling but his forehead wrinkled with confusion.
Not far away men were still dancing clumsily to the music of a pipe, laughing, drinking, celebrating, but around the two kings the faces had turned suddenly grim.
‘Are you sure?’ Skara’s voice had the pleading note of a pardoned prisoner who finds they are to die for some other crime.
‘I am sure.’ And Yarvi crumpled the paper in his hand and flung it in the fire.
Mother Scaer gave a bark of joyless laughter. ‘This was all a ruse! A flourish of Grandmother Wexen’s fingers to draw our eyes while she struck the true blow with her other hand.’
‘A trick,’ breathed Blue Jenner.
‘She sacrificed all those men?’ said Skara. ‘As a trick?’
‘For the greater good, my queen,’ whispered Sister Owd. Further down the beach a few fires spluttered out as a cold wave surged up the shingle.
‘She tossed away her leakiest ships. Her weakest fighters. Men she need no longer arm, or feed, or worry over.’ King Uthil gave an approving nod. ‘One must admire her ruthlessness.’
‘I thought Mother War had smiled on us.’ Gorm frowned towards the night sky. ‘It seems her favour fell elsewhere.’
As the news spread the music stuttered to a halt and the celebrations with it. Mother Scaer was scowling towards Yarvi. ‘You thought to outwit Grandmother Wexen, but she has outwitted you and all of us with you. Arrogant fool!’
‘I heard none of your wisdom!’ Father Yarvi snarled back, shadows black in the angry hollows of his face.
‘Stop!’ pleaded Skara, stepping between them. ‘We must be united, now more than ever!’
But a babble of voices had broken out. A clamour like the one she had heard outside her door the night the High King’s warriors came to Yaletoft.
‘Ten thousand men? That could be three times what we fought here!’
‘Twice as many as we have!’
‘There could be more flooding across the straits!’
‘Plainly the High King has found more ships.’
‘We must strike them now,’ snapped Uthil.
‘We must fall back,’ growled Gorm. ‘Draw them onto our ground.’
‘Stop,’ croaked Skara, but she could not seem to take a proper breath. Her heart was surging in her ears. Something clattered from the black sky and she gasped. Raith caught her by the arm and dragged her behind him, whipping free his dagger.