‘I stand always ready to trust to my weaponluck, but I am not alone. I must think of my wife and my son. I must think of what I might leave them.’
Skara felt her gorge rising and fought it down. When even the Iron King could not say steel was the answer, things were truly desperate.
Mother Scaer turned her shaved head and spat over her shoulder. ‘Perhaps the time has come to send a bird to Grandmother Wexen.’
Father Yarvi snorted. ‘Mother Adwyn made it very clear she will never make peace with me.’
‘So you say.’
Yarvi narrowed his eyes. ‘Do you think I lie?’
Scaer glared back. ‘Usually.’
‘King Fynn made peace with Grandmother Wexen,’ said Skara, her voice cracking. ‘Some good it did him!’
But the two kings sat in brooding silence as Mother Scaer leaned in, tattooed forearms resting on her knees. ‘Every war is only a prelude to peace. A negotiation with swords instead of words. Let us go to Grandmother Wexen while we still have something to bargain with—’
‘There’ll be no bargains!’ came a barking voice. ‘There’ll be no peace.’
Thorn Bathu stalked around the nearest howe. At first, Skara felt a rush of gladness at the sight of her. The very woman you needed when you faced impossible odds. Then Thorn jerked a chain and brought a prisoner staggering after her, hands bound behind him and a bloodstained bag over his face. Then Skara saw a figure following in a cloak of rags, hood drawn up. Finally she met Thorn’s eyes, smouldering in blackened sockets with a fury almost painful to look upon.
‘Bright Yilling attacked Thorlby,’ she snarled, kicking her prisoner onto his knees before the three rulers and their three ministers. ‘He burned half the city. Queen Laithlin is still there with her son, caring for the wounded. He killed men, women, children. He killed—’ She gave a strangled cough, and bared her teeth, and she mastered herself again and raised her sharp chin, eyes glistening. ‘He killed Brand.’
Gorm frowned sideways at his minister. Uthil’s fist whitened about the grip of his sword. Father Yarvi’s eyes went wide, and he seemed to slump on his stool.
‘Gods,’ he whispered, all the colour drained from his face.
‘I am … so sorry …’ stammered Skara. She remembered how Thorn had held her when she was first brought to Thorlby. Wished she could do the same for her now. But her face was so twisted with anger Skara hardly dared look at her, let alone touch her.
The newcomer pushed back her ragged hood. A dark-skinned southerner, lean as a whip and with burns scattered across the left side of her face. They would have made Skara wince to look upon once, but she was growing used to scars.
‘Greetings, great kings, great queens, great ministers,’ she bowed, and showed burned bald patches in her cropped grey hair. ‘In the Land of the Alyuks they call me Sun-nara-Skun. In Kalyiv they call me Scarayoi, the Walker in the Ruins.’
‘What do they call you here?’ snapped Mother Scaer.
‘She is Skifr,’ murmured Yarvi.
‘The witch Skifr?’ Scaer’s lip twisted with disgust. ‘The thief of elf-relics? The one denounced by Grandmother Wexen?’
‘The very same, my dove.’ Skifr smiled. ‘Grandmother Wexen burned my house and killed my kin, and so I am your bitter enemy’s bitter enemy.’
‘The best kind of ally.’ The Breaker of Swords frowned at the chained man. ‘And must we play a guessing game over this visitor?’
Thorn snorted, and ripped the bag from his head.
Skara was sickened at first to see his face. Battered shapeless, bloated with bruises, one eye swollen shut and the white of the other stained red. Then she realized she knew him. He was one of those who had stood in the Forest the night it burned. One of those who had laughed as King Fynn toppled into the firepit. She knew she should hate him, but all she felt at the sight of his ruined face was pity. Pity, and disgust at what had been done to him.
Be as generous to your enemies as your friends, her grandfather had always said. Not for their sake, but for your own.
Thorn’s mood was anything but generous, however. ‘This is Asborn the Fearless, Companion to Bright Yilling.’ She dug her fingers into his blood-crusted hair and wrenched his face up towards her. ‘He was caught in the raid on Thorlby, and he proves to have fear in him after all. Tell them what you told me, worm!’
Asborn’s mouth lolled slack and toothless and broken words croaked out. ‘A message … came to Bright Yilling. To attack Thorlby. When … and where … and how to attack.’ Skara winced as his wet breath clicked and crackled. ‘You have … a traitor among you.’
Father Yarvi sat forward, his withered hand clenched in a mockery of fist. ‘Who is it?’
‘Only Yilling knows.’ His one bloodshot eye was fixed on Skara’s. ‘Perhaps they sit here now … among you.’ His broken mouth curled into a red smile. ‘Perhaps—’