“The Islanders have sent ships against us. They have stolen from us, and made our children slaves, and spilled our blood on our good soil.” A muttering of anger began. “It is they who turned their backs on Father Peace, they who opened the door to Mother War, they who made her our guest.” The muttering grew, and swelled, an animal growling that found its way to Brand’s own throat. “But the High King says we of Gettland must not be good hosts to the Mother of Crows! The High King says our swords must stay sheathed. The High King says we must suffer these insults in silence! Tell me, men of Gettland, what should be our answer?”
The word came from five thousand mouths as one deafening roar, Brand’s voice cracking with it. “Steel!”
“Yes.” Uthil cradled his sword close, pressing the plain hilt to his deep-lined cheek as if it was a lover’s face. “Steel must be the answer! Let us bring the Islanders a red day, brothers. A day they will weep at the memory of!”
With that he stalked toward Mother Sea, his closest captains and the warriors of his household behind him, storied men with famous names, men Brand dreamed of one day joining. Folk whose names had yet to trouble the bards crowded about the king’s path for a glimpse of him, for a touch of his cloak, a glance of his gray eye. Shouts came of, “The Iron King!” and “Uthil!” until it became a chant, “Uthil! Uthil!” each beat marked with the steely clash of weapons.
“Time to choose your futures, boys.”
Master Hunnan shook a canvas bag so the markers clattered within. The lads crowded him, shoving and honking like hogs at feeding time, and Hunnan reached inside with his gnarled fingers and one by one pressed a marker into every eager palm. Discs of wood, each with a sign carved into it that matched the prow-beasts on the many ships, telling each boy—or each man—which captain he’d swear his oath to, which crew he’d sail with, row with, fight with.
Those given their signs held them high and whooped in triumph, and some argued over who’d got the better ship or the better captain, and some laughed and hugged each other, finding the favor of Mother War had made them oarmates.
Brand waited, hand out and heart thumping. Drunk with excitement at the king’s words, and the thought of the raid coming, and of being a boy no more, being poor no more, being alone no more. Drunk on the thought of doing good, and standing in the light, and having a family of warriors always about him.
Brand waited as his fellows were given their places—lads he liked and lads he didn’t, good fighters and not. He waited as the markers grew fewer in the bag, and let himself wonder if he was left till last because he’d won an oar on the king’s own ship, no place more coveted. The more often Hunnan passed him over, the more he allowed himself to hope. He’d earned it, hadn’t he? Worked for it, deserved it? Done what a warrior of Gettland was supposed to?
Rauk was the last of them, forcing a smile onto his crestfallen face when Hunnan brought wood from the bag for him, not silver. Then it was just Brand left. His the only hand still out, the fingers trembling. The lads fell silent.
And Hunnan smiled. Brand had never seen him smile before, and he felt himself smile too.
“This for you,” said the master-at-arms as he slowly, slowly drew out his battle-scarred hand. Drew out his hand to show …
Nothing.
No glint of the king’s silver. No wood neither. Only the empty bag, turned inside out to show the ragged stitching.
“Did you think I wouldn’t know?” said Hunnan.
Brand let his hand drop. Every eye was upon him now and he felt his cheeks burning like he’d been slapped.
“Know what?” he muttered, though he knew well enough.
“That you spoke to that cripple about what happened in my training square.”
A silence, while Brand felt as if his guts dropped into his arse. “Thorn’s no murderer,” he managed to say.
“Edwal’s dead and she killed him.”
“You set her a test she couldn’t pass.”
“I set the tests,” said Hunnan. “Passing them is up to you. And you failed this one.”
“I did the right thing.”
Hunnan’s brows went up. Not angry. Surprised. “Tell yourself that if it helps. But I’ve my own right thing to look to. The right thing for the men I teach to fight. In the training square we pit you against each other, but on the battlefield you have to stand together, and Thorn Bathu fights everyone. Men would have died so she could play with swords. They’re better off without her. And they’re better off without you.”
“Mother War picks who fights,” said Brand.
Hunnan only shrugged. “She can find a ship for you, then. You’re a good fighter, Brand, but you’re not a good man. A good man stands for his shoulder-man. A good man holds the line.”