Half the World

by Joe Abercrombie

  The forest gave way to the open steppe. Terribly open. Ruthlessly flat. Mile upon mile of lush, green, waving grass.

  To Thorn, brought up among the hills and mountains and cliffs of Gettland, there was something crushing in all that emptiness, all that space, stretching off under a bottomless sky to the far, far horizon.

  “Why does no one farm it?” asked Koll, straddling the downed mast with the wind whipping the shavings from under his knife.

  “The Horse People graze it,” said Dosduvoi. “And don’t like finding other folk out here.”

  Odda snorted. “They like it so little they skin ’em alive, indeed.”

  “A practice the Prince of Kalyiv taught them.”

  “Who learned it in the First of Cities,” said Fror, wiping his misshapen eye with a fingertip.

  “Though I understand it was taken there by travellers from Sagenmark,” said Rulf.

  “Who were taught it when Bail the Builder first raided them,” said Yarvi.

  “So are the skinners skinned,” mused Skifr, watching the wind sweep patterns in the grass, “and the bloody lessons turn in circles.”

  “Well enough.” Rulf scanned the river ahead, and behind, and the flat land around with eyes more fiercely narrowed than ever. “Long as we take no instruction.”

  “Why are you so worried?” asked Thorn. “We haven’t seen a ship for days.”

  “Exactly. Where are they?”

  “Here are two,” said Father Yarvi, pointing downriver.

  He had sharp eyes. It wasn’t until they came much closer that, straining over her shoulder, Thorn could see what the black heaps on the river’s bank were. The charred skeletons of a pair of small ships in a wide patch of trampled grass. The blackened circle of a spent fire. A fire just like the one they warmed their hands at every night.

  “It doesn’t look good for the crews,” muttered Brand, with a knack for saying what everyone could already see.

  “Dead,” said Skifr brightly. “Perhaps some lucky ones are enslaved. Or unlucky ones. The Horse People are not known as gentle masters.”

  Odda frowned out across the expanse of flat grass. “You think we’ll make their acquaintance?”

  “Knowing my luck,” murmured Dosduvoi.

  “From now on we look for high ground to camp on!” bellowed Rulf. “And we double the guard! Eight men awake at all times!”

  So it was with everyone nervous, frowning out across the steppe and startling at every sound, that they caught sight of a ship rowing upriver.

  She was of a size with the South Wind, sixteen oars a side or so. Her prow-beast was a black wolf, so Thorn guessed her crew to be Throvenlanders, and by the scars on the shields at the rail, men ready for a fight. Maybe even hungry for one.

  “Keep your weapons close!” called Rulf, his horn bow already in his hand.

  Safrit watched nervously as men struggled to manage oar-blades and war-blades at once. “Shouldn’t we smooth the path for Father Peace?”

  “Of course.” Father Yarvi loosened his own sword in its sheath. “But the words of an armed man ring that much sweeter. Well met!” he called across the water.

  A mailed and bearded figure stood tall at the prow of the other ship. “And to you, friends!” It would have sounded more peaceable if he hadn’t had men with drawn bows on either side of him. “Our ship is the Black Dog, come up the Denied from the First of Cities!”

  “The South Wind, come down the Divine from Roystock!” Yarvi shouted back.

  “How were the tall hauls?”

  “Thirsty work for those who did the lifting.” Yarvi held up his crippled hand. “But I got through it.”

  The other captain laughed. “A leader should share his men’s work, but take a fair share and they’ll lose all respect for him! May we draw close?”

  “You may, but know we are well armed.”

  “In these parts it’s the unarmed men who cause suspicion.” The captain signalled to his crew, a weathered-looking group, all scars, beards and bright ring-money, who skilfully drew the Black Dog into the middle of the current and alongside the South Wind, prow to stern.

  Their captain burst out in disbelieving laughter. “Who’s that old bastard you have at the helm there? Bad Rulf or I’m a side of ham! I was sure you were dead and had lost no sleep over it!”

  Rulf barked out a laugh of his own. “A side of ham and a rotten one at that, Blue Jenner! I was sure you were dead and had tapped a keg in celebration!”

  “Bad Rulf?” muttered Thorn.

  “Long time ago.” The old helmsman waved it away as he set his bow down. “Folk generally get less bad with age.”

  The crew of the Black Dog tossed their prow-rope across the water and, in spite of some cursing at their tangling oars, the crews dragged the two ships together. Blue Jenner leaned across and clasped Rulf’s arm, both men beaming.

  Thorn did not smile, and kept her own hand on her father’s sword.

  “How the hell did you get clear of that mess Young Halstam got us into?” Rulf was asking.

  Jenner pulled off his helmet and tossed it back to his men, scrubbing at a tangle of thin gray hair. “I’m ashamed to say I took my chances with Mother Sea and swam for it.”

  “You always had fine weaponluck.”

  “Still took an arrow in my arse, but despite being a bony man I’ve been blessed with a fleshy arse and it’s done no lasting harm. I counted the arrow good luck, for it surely pricked me free of a thrall collar.”

  Rulf fingered gently at his neck, and Thorn saw marks she’d never noticed there, below his beard. “I was less lucky. But thanks to Father Yarvi I find myself a free man again.”

  “Father Yarvi?” Jenner’s eyes went wide. “Gettland’s minister? Who was once the son of the Golden Queen Laithlin?” “The same,” said Yarvi, threading his way between the sea-chests to the back of the boat.

  “Then I’m honored, for I’ve heard you named a deep-cunning man.” Blue Jenner raised his brows at Thorn. “You’ve got women pulling your oars now?”

  “I’ve got whoever moves my boat,” said Rulf.

  “Why the mad hair, girl?”

  “Because damn you,” growled Thorn, “that’s why.”

  “Oh, she’s a fierce one! Never mind the oar, I daresay she could break a man in half.”

  “I’m willing to give it a go,” she said, not a little flattered.

  Jenner showed his teeth, a yellowing set with several gaps. “Were I ten years younger I’d leap at the chance, but age has brought caution.”

  “The less time you have, the less you want to risk what’s left,” said Rulf.

  “That’s the truth of it.” Jenner shook his head. “Bad Rulf back from beyond the Last Door and girls pulling oars and heaven knows what else. Strange times, all right.”

  “What times aren’t?” asked Father Yarvi.

  “There’s the truth of that too!” Blue Jenner squinted up at the muddy sun. “Getting towards dinner. Shall we put ashore and swap news?”

  “By swap news do you mean drink?” asked Rulf.

  “I do, and that excessively.”

  THEY FOUND AN EASILY-DEFENDED loop of the river, set a strong guard and built a great fire, the flames whipped sideways by the ceaseless wind, showering sparks across the water. Then each crew tapped a keg of their ale and there was much singing of ever more tuneless songs, telling of ever more unbelievable tales, and making of ever more raucous merriment. Someone ill-advisedly gave Koll beer, and he got quite a taste for it, then shortly afterward was sick and fell asleep, much to his mother’s profound disgust and everyone else’s profound amusement.

  Merry-making had never made Thorn especially merry, though. In spite of the smiles everyone kept blades to hand and there were several men who laughed as little as she did. The Black Dog’s helmsman, called Crouch and with a white streak in his balding hair, seemed to be nursing some particular grudge against the world. When he got up to piss in the river Thorn noticed him giving the So
uth Wind’s contents a thorough look-over, that iron-bound chest of Father Yarvi’s in particular.

  “I don’t like the look of him,” she muttered to Brand.

  He peered at her over the rim of his cup. “You don’t like the look of anyone.”

  She’d never had any objection to the look of Brand at all, but she kept that to herself. “I like his look less than most, then. One of those people with nought in them but hard stares and hard words. Face like a slapped arse.”

  He grinned into his ale at that. “Oh, I hate those people.”

  She had to grin herself. “Beneath my forbidding exterior I’ve got hidden depths, though.”

  “Well hidden,” he said, as he lifted his cup. “But I might be starting to plumb ’em.”

  “Bold of you. Plumbing a girl without so much as a by your leave.”

  He blew ale out of his nose, fell into a coughing fit and had to be clapped on the back by Odda, who seized the chance to honk out his ill-made verse on Brand lifting the ship. The slope got steeper and the danger greater and the feat more impressive with every telling, Safrit beaming at Brand and saying, “He saved my son’s life.” The only one to dispute the questionable facts was Brand himself, who couldn’t have looked less comfortable at all the praise if he’d been sitting on a spike.

  “How are things around the Shattered Sea?” Blue Jenner asked when the song was over. “It’s been a year since we’ve seen home.”

  “Much as they were,” said Yarvi. “Grandmother Wexen makes ever greater demands on behalf of the High King. The latest talk is of taxes.”

  “A pox on him and his One God!” snapped Jenner. “A fellow should own what he takes, not have to rent it from some other thief just because he has the bigger chair.”

  “The more some men get the more they want,” said Yarvi, and folk on both sides of the fire murmured their agreement.

  “Was the Divine clear?”

  “We found no trouble, anyway,” said Rulf. “And the Denied?”

  Jenner sucked at the gaps in his teeth. “The damn Horse People are stirred up like angry bees, attacking boats and caravans, burning steadings within sight of Kalyiv.”

  “Which tribe?” asked Yarvi. “Uzhaks? Barmeks?”

  Jenner stared back blankly. “There are tribes?”

  “All with their own ways.”

  “Well, they mostly shoot the same kind of arrows, far as I can see, and the Prince of Kalyiv isn’t making much distinction between ’em either. He’s grown sick of their taunting, and means to teach them a bloody lesson.”

  “The best kind,” said Odda, baring his filed teeth.

  “Except he’s not planning to do it with his own hands.”

  “Princes rarely do,” said Yarvi.

  “He’s strung a chain across the Denied and is letting no fighting crew pass until we Northerners have helped him give the Horse People their proper chastisement.”

  Rulf puffed up his broad chest. “Well he won’t be stopping the Minister of Gettland.”

  “You don’t know Prince Varoslaf and no sensible man would want to. There’s no telling what that bald bastard will do one moment to the next. Only reason we got away is I spun him a tale about spreading the news and bringing more warriors from the Shattered Sea. If I was you I’d turn back with us.”

  “We’re going on,” said Yarvi.

  “Then the very best of weatherluck to you all, and let’s hope you don’t need weaponluck.” Blue Jenner took a long draft from his cup. “But I fear you might.”

  “As might anyone who takes the tall hauls.” Skifr lay on her back, arms behind her head, bare feet toward the fire. “Perhaps you should test yours while you can?”

  “What did you have in mind, woman?” growled Crouch.

  “A friendly test of arms with practice blades.” Skifr yawned wide. “My pupil has beaten everyone on our crew and needs new opponents.”

  “Who’s your pupil?” asked Jenner, peering over at Dosduvoi, who seemed a mountain in the flickering shadows.

  “Oh, no,” said the giant. “Not me.”

  Thorn put on her bravest face, stood, and stepped into the firelight. “Me.”

  There was a silence. Then Crouch gave a disbelieving cackle, soon joined by others.

  “This half-haired waif?”

  “Can the girl even heft a shield?”

  “She could heft a needle, I reckon. I need someone to stitch a hole in my sock!”

  “You’ll need someone to stitch a hole in you after she’s done,” growled Odda.

  A lad maybe a year older than Thorn begged for the chance to give her the first beating and the two crews gathered in a noisy circle with torches to light the contest, shouting insults and encouragement, making wagers on their crew-mate. He was a big one with great thick wrists, fierce in the eyes. Thorn’s father always said, fear is a good thing. Fear keeps you careful. Fear keeps you alive. That was just as well because Thorn’s heart was thudding so hard she thought her skull might burst.

  “Bet on this scrap of nothing?” yelled Crouch, chopping one of his armrings in half with a hatchet and betting it against Thorn. “Might as well throw your money in the river! You having a piece of this?”

  Blue Jenner quietly stroked his beard so his own armrings rattled. “I like my money where it is.”

  The nerves vanished the moment their wooden blades first clashed and Thorn knew she had the lad well beaten. She dodged his second blow, steered away the third and let him stumble past. He was strong but he came at her angrily, blindly, his weight set all wrong. She ducked under a heedless sweep, almost laughing at how clumsy it was, hooked his shield down and struck him across the face with a sharp smack. He sat down hard in the dirt, blinking stupidly with blood pouring from his nose.

  “You are the storm,” she heard Skifr murmur over the cheering. “Do not wait for them. Make them fear. Make them doubt.”

  She sprang screaming at the next man the instant Jenner called for the fight to start, barged him into his shocked friends, chopped him across the stomach with her practice sword and put a dent in his helmet with a ringing blow of her wooden ax. He stumbled drunkenly for a moment while the South Wind’s crew laughed, trying to pry the rim back up over his brows.

  “Men used to fighting in the shield wall tend to think only ahead. The shield becomes a weakness. Use the flanks.”

  The next man was short but thick as a tree-trunk, cautious and watchful. She let him herd her back with his shield long enough for the boos of the Black Dog’s crew to turn to cheers. Then she came alive, feinted left and darted right, went high with her sword and, as he raised his shield, hooked his ankle with her ax, dragged him squealing over and left her sword’s point tickling at his throat.

  “Yes. Be never where they expect you. Always attack. Strike first. Strike last.”

  “You useless dogs!” snapped Crouch. “I’m shamed to be one of you!” And he snatched up the fallen sword, took up a shield with a white arrow painted on it and stepped into the circle.

  He was a vicious one, and fast, and clever, but she was faster and cleverer and far more vicious and Skifr had taught her tricks he never dreamed of. She danced about him, wore him down, rained blows on him until he hardly knew which way he was facing. Finally she slipped around a lunge and gave him a smack across the arse with the flat of her sword they might have heard in Kalyiv.

  “This was no fair test,” he growled as he stood up. It was plain he desperately wanted to rub his stinging buttocks but was forcing himself not to.

  Thorn shrugged. “The battlefield isn’t fair.”

  “On the battlefield we fight with steel, girl.” And he flung the practice sword down. “It’d be a different outcome with real blades.”

  “True,” said Thorn. “Rather than nursing a bruised pride and a bruised backside you’d be spilling guts out of your split arse.”

  Laughter from the South Wind’s crew at that, and Jenner tried to calm his helmsman with an offer of more ale but he
shook him off. “Get me my ax and we’ll see, bitch!”

  The laughter guttered out, and Thorn curled her lip and spat at his feet. “Get your ax, sow, I’m ready!”

  “No,” said Skifr, putting her arm across Thorn’s chest. “The time will come for you to face death. This is not it.”

  “Hah,” spat Crouch. “Cowards!”

  Thorn growled in her throat, but Skifr pushed her back again, eyes narrowed. “You are a hatful of winds, helmsman. You are a hollow man.”

  Odda stepped past her. “Far from being hollow, he is full to the crown with turds.” Thorn was surprised to see a drawn knife gleaming in his hand. “I never had a braver oar-mate, man or woman. At your next insult I will take it upon myself to kill you.”

  “You’ll have to beat me to it,” rumbled Dosduvoi, tossing aside his blanket and drawing himself up to his full height.

  “And me.” And Brand was beside her with his bandaged hand on that fine dagger of his.

  Many fingers were tickling at weapons on both sides and—what with the ale, and the injured pride, and the lost silver—things might quickly have turned exceeding ugly. But before a blow was landed Father Yarvi sprang nimbly between the two bristling crews.

  “We all have enemies enough without making more among our friends! Blood shed here would be blood wasted! Let us make of the fist an open hand. Let us give the Father of Doves his day. Here!” And he reached into a pocket and tossed something glinting to Crouch.

  “What’s this?” growled the helmsman.

  “Queen Laithlin’s silver,” said Yarvi, “and with her face upon it.” The minister might have been lacking fingers but the ones he had were quick indeed. Coins spun and glittered in the firelight as he flicked them among the Black Dog’s crew.

  “We don’t want your charity,” snarled Crouch, though many of his oarmates were already scrambling on their knees for it.

  “Consider it an advance, then!” called Yarvi. “On what the queen will pay you when you present yourselves at Thorlby. She and her husband King Uthil are always seeking bold men and good fighters. Especially those who have no great love for the High King.”

  Blue Jenner raised his cup high. “To the beautiful and generous Queen Laithlin, then!” As his crew cheered, and charged their cups, he added more softly, “and her deep-cunning minister,” and even more softly yet, with a wink at Thorn, “not to mention his formidable back oar.”