Raith wove between the campfires, around the tents, among the gathered warriors of Vansterland. He’d done the same a hundred times, before duels, before raids, before battles. This was where he was happiest. This was home to him. Or it should’ve been. Things weren’t quite what they used to be.
The men were tired, and far from their fields and their families, and knew the odds they faced. Raith could see the doubt in their firelit faces. Could hear it in their voices, their laughter, their songs. Could smell their fear.
He wasn’t the only one wandering through the camp. Death walked here too, marking out the doomed, and every man felt the chill of her passing.
He struck away towards a low hill with a single fire on top, strode up towards the summit, the chatter fading behind him. Rakki knelt on a blanket by the fire, Gorm’s shield between his knees, frowning as he polished the bright rim with a rag. Gods, it was good to see him. Like a sight of home for a man a long time gone.
‘Hey, hey, brother,’ said Raith.
‘Hey, hey.’ When Rakki looked around it was like staring in a mirror. The magic mirror Horald brought back from his voyages, that showed a man the better part of himself.
Sitting down beside him was as comfortable as slipping on a favourite pair of boots. Raith watched his brother work in silence for a moment, then looked down at his own empty hands. ‘Something’s missing.’
‘If it’s your brains, your looks or your sense of humour, I’ve got ’em all.’
Raith snorted. ‘I was thinking of a sword for me to work on.’
‘Queen Skara’s scabbard doesn’t need a polish?’
Raith glanced across and saw that crooked little smile on Rakki’s mouth. He snorted again. ‘I’m standing ready, but no royal invitation yet.’
‘I wouldn’t hold your breath, brother. While you’re waiting you could always eat.’ And Rakki nodded towards the old grease-blackened pot over the fire.
‘Rabbit?’ Raith closed his eyes and dragged in a long sniff. Took him back to happier times, sharing the same meals, and the same hopes, and the same master. ‘I do love rabbit.’
‘Course. Know each other better’n anyone, don’t we?’
‘We do.’ Raith gave Rakki a sideways glance. ‘So what do you want?’
‘I can’t just cook for my brother?’
‘Course you can, but you never do. What do you want?’
Rakki put Gorm’s great shield aside and fixed him with his eye. ‘I see you with the young Queen of Throvenland, and that broken-down pirate of hers, and that chubby excuse for a minister, and you look happy. You never look happy.’
‘They’re not so bad,’ said Raith, frowning. ‘And we’re all on the same side, aren’t we?’
‘Are we? Folk are starting to wonder whether you even want to come back.’
Rakki had always known just how to sting him. ‘I never chose a bit of this! All I’ve done is make the best of where I was put. I’d do anything to come back!’
The answer came from behind him. ‘That is good to hear.’
He was no helpless child any more but that voice still made him cringe like a puppy expecting a slap. He forced himself to turn, forced himself to look straight into Mother Scaer’s blue, blue eyes.
‘I have missed you, Raith.’ She squatted in front of him, bony wrists on her knees and her long hands dangling. ‘I think it high time you returned to your rightful place.’
Raith swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. To fill his king’s cup, carry his king’s sword, fight at his brother’s side? To go back to being the fiercest, the hardest, the bloodiest? To go back to burning, and killing, and to one day be weighed down with a chain of pommels of his own? ‘That’s all I want,’ he croaked out. ‘All I’ve ever wanted.’
‘I know,’ said the minister, that soothing tone that scared him more even than the harsh one. ‘I know.’ And she reached out, and scrubbed at his hair like you might scrub a puppy between the ears. ‘There is just one service your king needs you to perform.’
Raith felt a cold shiver between his shoulders at her touch. ‘Name it.’
‘I fear Father Yarvi has a ring through the young Queen Skara’s pretty nose. I fear he leads her where he pleases. I fear he will lead her to her doom, and drag all of us along in a stumbling procession behind.’
Raith glanced at his brother, but there was no help there. There rarely was. ‘She’s got her own mind, I reckon,’ he muttered.
Mother Scaer gave a scornful snort. ‘Father Yarvi plans to break the most sacred laws of the Ministry, and bring elf-weapons out of Strokom.’
‘Elf-weapons?’
She leaned hissing towards him and Raith flinched back. ‘I have seen it! Blinded by his own arrogance, he plans to unleash the magic that broke God. I know you are not the clever one, Raith, but do you see what is at stake?’
‘I thought no one can enter Strokom and live—’
‘The witch Skifr is here, and she can, and she will. If that little bitch gives Yarvi her vote.’
Raith licked his lips. ‘I could talk to her …’