‘Do I want to see?’
‘All will see, whether they wish to or no.’ And Skifr planted one boot on the battlements, elbow propped on her knee so that her elf-weapon pointed at the grey sky. High above them, birds were gently circling. Sensing a meal would soon be served, perhaps. ‘Be happy, boy, if you know how.’ Skifr took a long breath through her nose, and smiling blew it out. ‘The signs are auspicious.’
Soft and low, in the language of the elves, she began to chant.
Skara saw them now, and her heart began to beat even faster. A group of warriors, forming a loose arrowhead like theirs, striking out from the High King’s lines across the open ground towards them. Time crawled. She burned to run, to fight, to scream, to do anything but stand still and wait.
No ordinary warriors, these. Their fame was displayed for the world to see in the bright ring-money on their arms and their fingers. Their victories boasted of by the gold on their sword-hilts, the amber on their shield-rims, the engraved patterns on their high helmets.
‘Pretty bastards,’ snarled Raith through tight lips.
‘More jewels between ’em than a royal wedding,’ grunted Blue Jenner.
They all smiled. Just as they had smiled when they killed the people she loved. Just as they had smiled when they burned the hall, the city, the country she grew up in, and Skara felt her stomach give a painful squeeze, sweat prickling under the weight of her mail.
‘How many of them?’ she heard Gorm mutter.
‘I count twenty-five,’ said Rulf. ‘And a minister.’
‘Mother Adwyn,’ growled Scaer. ‘Grandmother Wexen’s errand-girl.’ Somewhere behind them, faint on the breeze, Skara could hear chanting.
‘Twenty or twenty thousand,’ Father Yarvi shifted his grip about his elf-staff, ‘this will end the same way.’
Skara wondered what way that would be as she watched Bright Yilling amble forward at the head of his Companions.
Apart from the fresh cut Uthil had given him, it was the same face she had seen when her grandfather died. The same bland smile he had worn when he cut off Mother Kyre’s head. The same dead eyes that had looked into Skara’s in the darkness of the Forest. She felt her gorge rising, clenched her fists, clenched her jaw, clenched her arse, as Yilling swaggered to a stop a few strides from Father Yarvi.
‘A shame,’ he said. ‘I was looking forward to coming in there for you.’
‘We have saved you the trouble,’ snapped Skara.
‘No trouble, Queen Skara.’ She felt her breath catch as Yilling’s eyes met hers, and he gave a puzzled little frown. ‘Wait, though … have we met before?’ He jumped up in a boyish little caper of excitement. ‘I know you! The slave in King Fynn’s hall!’ He slapped at his thigh in delight. ‘You surely outwitted me that night!’
‘And will again,’ she said.
‘I fear that time has passed.’ Yilling’s eyes wandered on. ‘Have you come to fight me, Breaker of Swords, as Uthil did?’
Gorm shook his head as he watched Yilling’s companions, hands loose on sword-hilts, axe-handles, spear-hafts, all confident menace. ‘I fear that time has passed too,’ he said.
‘A shame. I had hoped to send Death another famed warrior, and add your song to mine and so make a greater.’ Yilling squinted over his shoulder at Mother Sun, and gave a smoky sigh. ‘Perhaps Thorn Bathu will step from the shadows now. She killed my favourite horse in one of her raids, you know.’ He raised a brow at the man beside him. A tall man with a horn at his belt. ‘Rude of her, eh, Vorenhold?’
Vorenhold’s teeth showed white in his beard. ‘That is her reputation.’
‘Warriors.’ Bright Yilling puffed out his smooth cheeks. ‘Obsessed with their fame. You must be Father Yarvi.’
‘He is.’ Adwyn’s purple-stained lips were twisted with contempt. ‘And I am surprised to see you here. I felt sure you had wriggled away as soon as the fighting started.’
Gettland’s minister shrugged. ‘I wriggled back.’ The blood was thumping in Skara’s skull. Mother Scaer shifted her shoulders, something moving beneath her coat.
Bright Yilling kept smiling. ‘I am glad to finally meet you in person. You are a young man, to have caused so much trouble.’
‘One could say the same of you,’ said Yarvi. The chanting was growing louder. One of the Companions was frowning up towards the gatehouse. ‘Is it true that after you killed King Bratta you made a cup from his skull?’
‘I did.’ Yilling gave a happy shrug. ‘But the wine leaked out of the nose-holes.’