There might be no joy in it, but he wasn’t lying down for anyone.
He dipped his chin so the Lowlander’s fist caught him on the forehead instead of the nose, a trick he’d learned fighting boys way bigger than him. The peg was jolted out of his mouth, his ears ringing all the louder, but he felt the crunching of the man’s handbones. Raith stabbed him in the side, blade scraping against mail, not going through, but still a hard enough poke to double the Lowlander up wheezing. He pawed at Raith’s arm with his broken hand but Raith tore free of it and rammed the knife under the rim of his helmet, just below his ear.
The Lowlander looked quite surprised as his blood poured over the holy symbol he wore. Probably been sure he’d got the right god, the right king, the right cause. Everyone finds a way to make their side the right one, after all. Now, as he stumbled back trying to hold his neck together, he found it’s not the righteous win, but them who strike first and strike hardest.
Raith ducked, caught him between the legs and hefted him over the parapet, knocking another man sprawling among the corpses on the way. No doubt they’d all thought they were on the right side too.
Raith stood staring, trying to catch his breath. He saw Mother Owd behind the wall, dragging a wounded man away. He saw Blue Jenner trying to untangle his sword from a dead man’s bloody hair. He saw Grom-gil-Gorm send a man flying with a sweep of his shield. The High King’s warriors had been driven off the wooden wall, but more were still pouring through the breach.
Then Raith saw something tumble from the walls above, and flinched as liquid fire showered the men crammed into that narrow space. He felt the heat of it across his face, remembered the heat of it underground. Even through the ringing in his ears he could hear the screams.
Another clay jar fell, another burst of flame, and the High King’s men crumbled and fled. No one stays brave forever, no matter how right they think they are. Gettlanders were cheering, and Vanstermen jeering, and Throvenmen whooping, chanting the names of King Uthil and King Gorm and even Queen Skara in celebration. Raith kept quiet. He knew they’d be back soon enough.
‘You all right?’ he heard Blue Jenner ask.
‘Aye,’ muttered Raith, but the truth was he was sick. Sick of fighting and he wanted to be back in Skara’s bed.
There were corpses everywhere, and a stink of oil and cooking meat, and wounded men squealing for help that wasn’t coming. In place of the settling dust smoke drifted, and from the murk a high voice came calling.
‘Well that was quite a start to the day! That surely got the blood flowing!’
Something edged into the breach. A door with a splintered corner and the hinges still hanging off. Three knocks rang out, then Bright Yilling’s soft face appeared around one side. ‘Might I come in and talk without being pricked full of arrows?’ He gave his bland little smile. ‘That would make a poor song, after all.’
‘Reckon Skara would sing it happily enough,’ Raith muttered, and he’d have hummed along himself with few regrets.
But Gorm was more interested in glory. ‘Come forward, Bright Yilling! We will listen.’
‘You are most gracious!’ The High King’s champion let his door topple down the hill of smoking masonry and sprang nimbly after it, into that stained, ruined, arrow-strewn corner of the yard.
‘What brings you here?’ called Uthil. ‘Do you want to surrender?’ There was some laughter at that, but Yilling only grinned up alone at the crescent of frowns. They said he worshipped Death. Certainly seemed he’d no fear of meeting her.
‘I want what I wanted when we first spoke. To fight.’ Yilling took his sword by the crosspiece and drew it, scratching daintily at his top lip with the pommel. ‘Will one of you two kings test his sword-work against mine?’
There was a pause, while nervous muttering spread down the length of the wooden walls. Uthil raised one brow at Gorm, grey hair flicking about his scarred face with the breeze, and Gorm raised one brow back, slowly turning a pommel on his chain around and around. Then he gave an extravagant yawn, and waved Bright Yilling away. ‘I have better things to be about. My morning turd will not make itself.’
Yilling only grinned the wider. ‘We must wait to put that famous prophecy of yours to the test. At least until my men kick over your wall of twigs. What of you, Iron King? Is your taste for turds or sword-work?’
Uthil frowned down at Yilling for a long, tense moment. Long enough for the muttering to swell into eager chatter. Two such famous warriors meeting in a duel was a thing a man might see only once in his lifetime. But the King of Gettland didn’t mean to be hurried. He peered at his sword, licked his little finger, gently rubbed some tiny blemish from the blade.