Thorn glared at her. “Thanks for that.”
“No need for thanks, I am paid to teach you!” The old woman hopped back aboard the South Wind, leaving Brand and Thorn facing each other once again, wooden weapons in hand, he nearest to the town, she with the sea at her back.
“Well, children? Do you await an invitation by eagle?”
“Here?” Thorn frowned down at the few paces of narrow wharf between them, cold Mother Sea slapping at the supports below.
“Where else? Fight!”
With a growl Thorn set to work, but with so little space all she could do was jab at him. It was easy for Brand to fend her efforts off with his shield, pushing her back a quarter-step each time.
“Don’t tickle him!” barked Skifr, “Kill him!”
Thorn’s eyes darted about for an opening but Brand gave her no room, easing forward, herding her toward the end of the wharf. She came at him with her usual savagery, their shields clashing, grating, but he was ready, used his weight to doggedly shove her back. She snarled and spat, her boots scraping at the mossy boards, flailed at him with her sword but the blows were weak.
It was inevitable. With a despairing cry Thorn toppled off the end of the wharf and splashed into the welcoming arms of Mother Sea. Brand winced after her, very much doubting this would make a year of rowing beside her any easier.
Kalyiv was a long, long way off, but it was starting to seem farther than ever.
The crew chuckled to each other over the result. Koll, who’d shinned up to the South Wind’s yard as usual in spite of his mother’s warnings, whooped from above.
Skifr put long finger and thumb to her temples and gently rubbed at them. “Inauspicious.”
Thorn flung her shield onto the wharf and dragged herself up by a barnacle-crusted ladder, soaked to the skin and white with fury.
“You seem distressed,” said Skifr. “Is the test not fair?”
Thorn forced through her clenched teeth, “The battlefield is not fair.”
“Such wisdom in one so young!” Skifr offered out Thorn’s fallen practice sword. “Another go?”
The second time she went into the sea even faster. The third she ended up on her back tangled with the South Wind’s oars. The fourth she beat at Brand’s shield so hard she broke off the end of her practice sword. Then he barged her off the wharf again.
By now a merry crowd had gathered on the docks to watch. Some crew from their ship, some crew from others, some folk from the town come to laugh at the girl being knocked into the sea. There was even some lively betting on the result.
“Let’s stop,” begged Brand. “Please.” The only outcomes he could see were enraging her further or going into the sea himself, and neither particularly appealed.
“Damn your please!” snarled Thorn, setting herself for another round. No doubt she’d still have been tumbling into the sea by the light of Father Moon if she’d been given the chance, but Skifr steered her broken sword down with a gentle fingertip.
“I think you have entertained the good folk of Roystock enough. You are tall and you are strong.”
Thorn stuck her jaw out. “Stronger than most men.”
“Stronger than most boys in the training square, but …” Skifr flopped one lazy hand out toward Brand. “What is the lesson?”
Thorn spat on the boards, and wiped a little stray spit from her chin, and kept sullen silence.
“Do you like the taste of salt so much you wish to try him again?” Skifr walked to Brand and seized him by the arms. “Look at his neck. Look at his shoulders. What is the lesson?”
“That he is stronger.” Fror stood with his forearms dangling over the South Wind’s rail, rag and block in his hands. Might’ve been the first time Brand had heard him speak.
“Exactly so!” called Skifr. “I daresay this tight-lipped Vansterman knows battle. How did you get that scar, my dove?”
“I was milking a reindeer and she fell on me,” said Fror. “She was ever so sorry afterward, but the damage was done.” And Brand wondered if he winked his misshapen eye.
“Truly a hero’s mark, then,” grunted Thorn, curling her lip.
Fror shrugged. “Someone must bring in the milk.”
“And someone must hold my coat.” Skifr whipped off her cloak of rags and tossed it to him.
She was lean as a whip, narrow-waisted as a wasp, wound about with strips of cloth, coiled with belts and straps, bristling with knives and hooks, pouches and picks, scrags, rods, papers and devices Brand could not guess at the purpose of.