Thorn struck him across his broken face, knocked him sideways, lifted her arm to hit him again.
‘Thorn!’ shouted Skara, clutching at her chest. ‘No!’ Thorn stared at her, face twisted with grief and fury at once. ‘Please, if you keep hurting him, you hurt yourself. You hurt us all. I beg you, show some mercy!’
‘Mercy?’ Thorn spat, tears streaking her scarred cheek. ‘Did they show Brand mercy?’
‘No more than they showed my grandfather.’ Skara felt her own eyes stinging as she leaned desperately forward. ‘But we have to be better than them!’
‘No. We have to be worse.’ Thorn hauled Asborn savagely up by his chain, lifting her clenched fist, but he only smiled the wider.
‘Bright Yilling comes!’ he gurgled out. ‘Bright Yilling comes and he brings Death with him!’
‘Oh, Death is here already.’ Skifr turned, raising her arm, a thing of dark metal gripped in her fist. There was a deafening crack that made Skara jolt in her chair, a red mist blew from the back of Asborn’s head and he was flung twisted onto his side with his hair on fire.
Skara stared, wide-eyed, cold with horror.
‘Mother War protect us,’ whispered Gorm.
‘What have you done?’ shrieked Mother Scaer, springing up and sending her stool tumbling over in the grass.
‘Rejoice, my doves, for I have brought you the means of your victory.’ Skifr held the deadly thing high, a wisp of smoke curling from a hole in its end. ‘I know where more of these can be found. Relics beside which the power of this one would seem puny. Elf-weapons forged before the Breaking of God!’
‘Where?’ asked Yarvi, and Skara was shocked to see his eyes shining with eagerness.
Skifr let her head drop on one side. ‘In Strokom.’
‘Madness!’ screeched Mother Scaer. ‘Strokom is forbidden by the Ministry. Anyone who goes there sickens and dies!’
‘I have been there.’ Skifr raised a long arm to point at the elf-bangle burning orange on Thorn’s wrist. ‘I brought that bauble from within, and I still cast a shadow. No ground is forbidden to me. I am the Walker in the Ruins, and I know all the ways. Even those that can keep us safe from the sickness in Strokom. Say the word, and I will put weapons in your hands against which no man, no hero, no army can stand.’
‘And curse us all?’ snarled Mother Scaer. ‘Have you lost your minds?’
‘I yet have mine.’ King Uthil had calmly risen, calmly walked to Asborn’s corpse, calmly squatted beside it. ‘The great warrior is the one who still breathes when the crows feast. The great king is the one who watches the carcasses of his enemies burn.’ He pushed his little finger into the neat hole in Asborn’s forehead, and the mad fire that had seemed burned out was bright again in his eyes. ‘Steel must be the answer.’ He pulled his finger free, red, and raised one brow at it. ‘This is but another kind of steel.’
Skara closed her eyes, gripping tight to the arms of her chair. Tried to still her heaving breath and her churning stomach and smother her horror. Horror at seeing magic. Horror at seeing a prisoner murdered before her eyes. Horror that she was the only one who seemed to care. She had to be brave. Had to be clever. Had to be strong.
‘I say it should stay sheathed lest it cut us all,’ Gorm was saying.
‘I say it should be sheathed in Bright Yilling’s heart!’ snarled Thorn.
‘We can all see you are grief-mad,’ snapped Mother Scaer. ‘Elf-magic? Think what you are saying! We risk another Breaking of God! And with a traitor among us!’
‘A traitor who made Thorlby burn,’ barked Thorn, ‘as you’ve dreamed of doing for years! A traitor working for the High King, who you’d make peace with!’
‘Think carefully before you accuse me, you unnatural—’
Skara forced her eyes open. ‘We all have made sacrifices!’ she shouted. ‘We all have lost friends, homes, families. We must stand united or Grandmother Wexen will crush us each alone!’
‘We have challenged the High King’s authority,’ said Father Yarvi, ‘and that is all he has. All he is. He cannot turn back and neither can we. We have chosen our path.’
‘You have chosen it for us,’ snapped Mother Scaer. ‘One bloody step at a time! And it leads straight to our destruction.’
Skifr barked out a laugh. ‘You were fumbling your way there well enough without me, my doves. Always there are risks. Always there are costs. But I have shown you forbidden magic and Mother Sun still rises.’
‘We rule because men trust us,’ said Gorm. ‘What will this do to their trust?’
‘You rule because men fear you,’ said Father Yarvi. ‘With weapons such as these their fear will be all the greater.’
Scaer gave a hiss. ‘This is evil, Father Yarvi.’
‘I fear it is the lesser evil, Mother Scaer. Glorious victories make fine songs, but inglorious ones are no worse once the bards are done with them. Glorious defeats, meanwhile, are just defeats.’