‘Bright Yilling,’ murmured Laithlin. ‘I have heard that name too often of late.’
Thorn slowly straightened. There were no tears on her face but Koll could hear her make a strangled moan with every breath. Rin plucked at her shoulder with one hand but Thorn didn’t turn, didn’t move, as though she stood in a dream.
‘He came with two ships,’ Edni was saying. ‘Maybe three. In the night. Not enough to take the city, but enough to burn it. Some Throvenlanders had come the day before. Said they were merchants. We think they’re the ones let him in. Then him and his Companions spread out and started setting fires.’
‘Brand heard them,’ mumbled Rin. ‘Went to set a bell ringing. Said he had to warn folk. Said he had to do good.’
‘Would’ve been worse without that,’ said an old warrior with his arm in a sling, and when he blinked a long streak of tears was squeezed from his swimming eyes. ‘First I knew of it was the bell. Then there were fires everywhere. All chaos, and Bright Yilling laughing in the midst.’
‘Laughing and killing,’ said Edni. ‘Men, women, children.’
Brinyolf shook his head in disgust. ‘What can one expect from a man who prays to no god but Death?’
‘They knew just where the guards would be.’ Edni bunched her fists. ‘Which roads to take. Which buildings to burn. Knew where we were strong and where we were weak. They knew everything!’
‘We fought, though, my queen.’ The prayer-weaver put his fat hand on Edni’s thin shoulder. ‘You would have been proud of the way your people fought! Thanks to the favour of the gods we drove them off, but … the Mother of Crows ever takes a heavy toll …’
‘This is Grandmother Wexen’s debt,’ muttered Koll, wiping his nose. ‘And no one else’s.’
‘Thorn.’ Queen Laithlin stepped forward. ‘Thorn.’ She took her by the shoulders and squeezed hard. ‘Thorn!’
Thorn blinked at her as if waking from a dream.
‘I have to stay,’ said the queen, ‘and try to heal Thorlby’s wounds, and see to those who remain.’
Thorn’s moaning breath had deepened to a jagged growling, the jaw muscles bunched hard on the sides of her scarred face. ‘I have to fight.’
‘Yes. And I would not stop you even if I could.’ The queen lifted her chin. ‘I release you from your oath, Thorn Bathu. You are my Chosen Shield no longer.’ She leaned closer, voice sharp as a blade. ‘You must be our sword instead. The sword that cuts vengeance from Bright Yilling!’
Thorn gave a slow nod, her hands clenched to quivering fists. ‘I swear it.’
‘My queen,’ said Edni, ‘we caught one of them.’
Laithlin narrowed her eyes. ‘Where is he?’
‘Chained and guarded in the citadel. He hasn’t spoken a word. But from his armour and his ring-money we reckon him one of Bright Yilling’s Companions.’
Thorn bared her teeth. The elf-bangle had started to glow again, but hot as a coal now, putting a red flush on the stark hollows of her face, sparking a bloody gleam in the corners of her eyes.
‘He will speak to me,’ she whispered.
Monsters
‘My allies,’ Skara began. ‘My friends.’ As if by calling them friends she might make them feel less like her enemies. ‘I thought it wise to call only the six of us together so we can discuss our situation without too many … interruptions.’ Meaning the onslaught of petty arguments, insults and threats that strangled their full-scale moots.
King Uthil and King Gorm frowned at one another. Father Yarvi and Mother Scaer frowned at one another. Sister Owd sat back with arms grimly folded. A breeze sighed off the sea and stirred the long grass on the barrows, making Skara shiver even though the day was warm.
An intimate meeting out of doors, butterflies fluttering among the flowers that grew on the graves of the parents Skara had hardly known. An intimate meeting of two kings, three ministers, and her. And with the wrath of Grandmother Wexen about to crash upon them.
‘Our situation, then.’ Mother Scaer turned one of her elf-bangles around and around on her thin wrist. ‘Here is a pretty pickle.’
‘Ten thousand of the High King’s warriors descend upon us,’ said Uthil. ‘And with the banners of many storied heroes among them.’
‘More swarm across the straits from Yutmark every day,’ said Gorm. ‘We must fall back. We must abandon Throvenland.’
Skara flinched. Abandon Bail’s Point. Abandon her land and her people. Abandon her grandfather’s memory. The thought made her sick. Or even sicker.
Uthil let his naked sword slide through his hand until its point was in the grass. ‘I do not see victory that way.’
‘Where do you see it?’ pleaded Skara, struggling to sit straight and plaster a queen’s dignity onto her face, even if she would far rather have curled up crying under her chair. But Uthil only twisted his sword gently, face as hard as the cliffs below them.