Half the World

by Joe Abercrombie

  The King of Vansterland took one more slow step, twisting his boot into the ground again as though he were laying the foundation stone of a hero’s hall. He was all stillness, Thorn all movement.

  “Like Mother Sea against Father Earth,” murmured Rulf.

  “Mother Sea always wins that battle,” said Laithlin.

  “Given time,” said Father Yarvi.

  Brand winced, unable to look, unable to look away. “Mother War, let her live …”

  GORM’S SHIELD WAS SOLID as a citadel’s gate. Thorn couldn’t have broken it down with a ram and twenty strong men. And getting around it would hardly be easier. She’d never seen a shield handled so cleverly. Quick to move it, he was, and even quicker to move behind it, but he held it high. Each step he took that big left boot of his crept too far forward, more of his leg showing below the bottom rim than was prudent. Each time she saw it happen it seemed more a weakness.

  Tempting. So tempting.

  Too tempting, maybe?

  Only a fool would think a warrior of his fame would have no tricks, and Thorn was no one’s fool. Be quicker, tougher, cleverer, Skifr said. She had tricks of her own.

  She let her eyes rest on that boot, licking her lips as if she watched the meat brought in, long enough to make sure he saw her watching, then she moved. His sword darted out but she was ready, slipped around it, Skifr’s ax whipping across, but shoulder-high, not low where he expected it. She saw his eyes go wide. He lurched back, jerking up the shield, caught her ax with the rim, but the bearded blade still thudded into his shoulder, mail rings flying like dust from a beaten carpet.

  She expected him to drop back, maybe even fall, but he shrugged her ax off as if it was a harsh word, pressed forward, too close for his sword or hers. The rim of his shield caught her in the mouth as she tumbled away and sent her staggering. No pain, no doubt, no dizziness. The shock of it only made her sharper. She heard Gorm roar, saw Mother Sun catch steel and dodged back as his blade whistled past.

  That exchange she had to judge a draw as well, but they were both marked now.

  Blood on his mail. Blood on his shiel rim. Blood on her ax. Blood in her mouth. She bared her teeth at him in a fighting snarl and spat red onto the grass between them.

  BLOOD

  Like a pack of dogs, the sight of blood brought the gathered warriors suddenly to life, and the noise couldn’t have been more deafening if they’d had the battle after all.

  From the ridge in front the Vanstermen screeched prayers and bellowed curses, from the ridge behind the Gettlanders roared out futile encouragements, pointless advice. They rattled axes on shields, swords on helmets, sent up a din of lust and fury to wake the dead in their howes, to wake the gods from slumber.

  Of all things, men most love to watch others face Death. It reminds them they yet live.

  Across the square, among the snarling, snapping Vanstermen, Brand saw Mother Isriun, livid with fury, and Mother Scaer beside her, eyes calmly narrowed as she watched the contest.

  Gorm swung a great overhead and Thorn twitched away, his sword missing her by a hand’s breadth and opening a huge wound in the ground, grass and earth showering up. Brand bit his knuckle, painful hard. It would only take one of those to find her and that heavy steel could cut her clean in half. It felt as if it was a day since the fight began and he hadn’t taken a breath the whole time.

  “Mother War, let her live …”

  THORN STRUTTED ABOUT THE SQUARE. It was her grass. She owned it. Queen of this mud. She hardly heard the screaming warriors on the high ground, barely saw Laithlin, or Isriun, or Yarvi, or even Brand. The world had shrunk to her, and the Breaker of Swords, and the few short strides of short grass between them, and she was starting to like what she saw.

  Gorm was breathing hard, sweat across his furrowed forehead. The weight of all that gear was bound to tell, but she hadn’t hoped it would be so soon. His shield was beginning to droop. She almost laughed. She could have done this for hours. She had done it for hours, for days, for weeks, down the Divine and the Denied and back.

  She sprang in, aiming high with her sword. Too high, so he could duck, and duck he did, but just as she had planned his shield tipped forward. It was an easy thing to step around it, hook the top rim with the bearded head of Skifr’s ax, marked with letters in five tongues. She meant to drag it down, leave him open, maybe tear it from his arm altogether, but she misjudged him. He roared, ripping his shield upwards, tearing the ax from her grip and sending it spinning high into the air.

  That left his body unguarded for a moment, though, and Thorn had never been one to hesitate. Her sword hissed in below his shield and struck him in the side. Hard enough to fold him slightly, to make him stumble. Hard enough to cut through mail and find the flesh beneath.

  Not hard enough to stop him, though.

  He snarled, swung once and made her stagger back, thrust and made her dance away, chopped again, even harder, steel hissing at the air, but she was already backing off, watchful, circling.

  As he turned toward her she saw the ragged tear in his mail, links flapping free, blood glistening. She saw how he favored that side as he took up his stance, and she began to smile as she filled her empty left hand with her longest dagger.

  She might have lost her ax, but that round was hers.

  NOW, THORN WAS ONE of them. Now she’d bloodied Grom-gil-Gorm and Master Hunnan thrust his fist in the air, roared his support. Now the warriors who’d sneered at her made a deafening din in admiration of her prowess.

  No doubt those with the gift were already setting the song of her triumph in verse. They tasted victory, but all Brand could taste was fear. His heart thudded as loud as Rin’s hammer. He twitched and gasped with every movement in the square. He’d never felt so helpless. He couldn’t do good. He couldn’t do bad. He couldn’t do anything.

  Thorn darted forward, going low with her sword, so fast Brand could hardly follow it. Gorm dropped his shield to block but she was already gone, slashing across the top of his shield with her dagger. Gorm jerked his head back, staggered a step, a red line across his cheek, across his nose, under his eye.

  THE BATTLE JOY WAS on her now. Or maybe Father Yarvi’s brew was.

  The breath ripped at her chest, she danced on air. The blood sweet in her mouth, her skin on fire. She smiled, smiled so wide it seemed her scarred cheeks might split.

  The cut below Gorm’s eye was leaking, streaks of blood down his face, out of his slit nose, into his beard.

  He was tiring, he was hurt, he was growing careless. She had his measure and he knew it. She could see the fear in his eyes. Could see the doubt, ever growing.

  His shield had drifted up even higher to guard his wounded face. His stance had loosened, his heavy sword wilting in his grip. That left leg slipped still farther forward, all exposed, knee wobbling.

  Perhaps it had been a trick, in the beginning, but what trick could stop her now? She breathed fire and spat lightning. She was the storm, always moving. She was Mother War made flesh.

  “Your death comes!” she screamed at him, words even she could hardly hear over the noise.

  She would kill the Breaker of Swords, and avenge her father, and prove herself the greatest warrior about the Shattered Sea. The greatest warrior in the world! The songs they would sing of this!

  She led him in a circle, led him around until her back was to the Vanstermen, until her back was to the east. She saw Gorm narrow his eyes as Mother Sun stabbed at them, twisting away, leaving his leg unguarded. She feinted high, tightening her fingers about the grip, ducked under an ill-timed chop and screamed out as she swept her sword in a great, low circle.

  The blade forged with her father’s bones struck Gorm’s leg above the ankle with all Thorn’s strength, and anger, and training behind it. The moment of her victory. The moment of her vengeance.

  But instead of slicing through flesh and bone the bitter edge clanged on metal, jarred in Thorn’s hand so badly she stumbled forward, off-balanc
e.

  Hidden armor. Steel glinting beneath the slit leather of Gorm’s boot.

  He moved quick as a snake, not near so tired nor so hurt as he had made her think, chopping down, catching her blade with his and tearing it from her numbed fingers.

  She lashed at him with her knife but he caught it on his shield and rammed the boss into her ribs. It was like being kicked by a horse and she tottered back, only just staying on her feet.

  Gorm glared at her over his shield rim, and it was his turn to smile. “You are a worthy opponent,” he said. “As dangerous as any I have fought.” He stepped forward, planting that armored boot on her fallen sword and grinding it into the sod. “But your death comes.”

  “OH, GODS,” CROAKED BRAND, cold right through to his bones.

  Thorn was fighting with two knives now, no reach, and Gorm was herding her around the square with shining sweeps of his great sword, seeming stronger than ever.

  The men of Gettland had fallen suddenly quiet, while the noise from across the valley redoubled.

  Brand prayed Thorn would stay away but knew her only chance was to close with him. Sure enough, she ducked under a high cut and flung herself forward, stabbed with her right, a vicious, flashing overhand, but Gorm heaved his shield up, her blade thudding deep between two boards and lodging tight.

  “Kill him!” hissed Queen Laithlin.

  Thorn slashed at Gorm’s sword-arm with her left as he brought it back, dagger scraping down his mail and catching his hand, blood spattering as the great sword tumbled from his grip.

  Or perhaps he let it fall. As she stabbed at him again he caught her arm, his fingers closing about her wrist with a smack that was like a punch in Brand’s stomach.

  “Oh, gods,” he croaked.

  BREATH

  Thorn snatched for Brand’s dagger but her elbow tangled with Gorm’s loose shield and he stepped close, smothering her. He had her left wrist tight and he wrenched it up, the elf-bangle grinding into her flesh. He let go the handle of his shield and caught her right sleeve.

  “I have you!” he snarled.

  “No!” She twisted back as if she was trying to wriggle free and he dragged her closer. “I have you!”

  She jerked forward, using his strength against him, butted him full in the jaw and snapped his head up. She set her knee against his ribs, screamed as she ripped her right arm free.

  He kept his crushing grip on her left wrist, though. She had one chance. Just one. She tore Brand’s dagger from the small of her back, stabbed at Gorm’s neck as his eyes came back toward her.

  He jerked his shield hand up to ward her off and the blade punched through the meat of it, snake-worked crosspiece smacking against his palm. She snarled as she drove his hand back, his shield flopping loose on the straps, but with a trembling effort he stopped the bright point just short of his throat, held it there, pink spit flecking from his bared teeth.

  Then, even though his hand was stabbed right through, the great fingers closed about her right fist and trapped her tight.

  Thorn strained with every fiber to push the red blade into his neck, but you will not beat a strong man with strength, and there was no man as strong as the Breaker of Swords. He had both her hands pinned and he set his shoulder, let go a growl, and pressed her trembling back, back toward the edge of the square, hot blood leaking from his punctured palm and down the hilt of the dagger, wetting her crushed fist.

  BRAND GAVE A SICK GROAN as Gorm forced Thorn down onto her knees in front of the jeering warriors of Vansterland.

  Her elf-bangle glowed red through the flesh of his clutching sword hand, bones showing black inside, squeezing, squeezing. She gasped through her gritted teeth as the knife toppled from the loose fingers of her left hand, bounced from her shoulder and away into the grass, and Gorm let go her wrist and caught her tight around the throat.

  Brand tried to take a step into the square but Father Yarvi had him by one arm, Rulf by the other, wrestling him back.

  “No,” hissed the helmsman in his ear.

  “Yes!” shrieked Mother Isriun, staring down in delight.

  NO BREATH.

  Thorn’s every hard-trained muscle strained but Gorm was too strong, and back he twisted her, and back. His grip crushed her right hand around the handle of Brand’s dagger, bones groaning. She fumbled in the grass with the other for her knife but couldn’t find it, punched at his knee but there was no strength in it, tried to reach his face but could only tear weakly at his bloody beard.

  “Kill her!” shouted Mother Isriun.

  Gorm forced Thorn toward the ground, blood dripping from his snarl and pattering on her cheek. Her chest heaved, but all that happened was a dead squelching in her throat.

  No breath. Her face was burning. She could hardly hear the storm of voices for the surging of blood in her head. She plucked at Gorm’s hand with her numb fingertips, tore at it with her nails but it was forged from iron, carved from wood, ruthless as the roots of trees that over years will burst the very rock apart.

  “Kill her!” Even though she could see Mother Isriun’s face, twisted in triumph above her, she could only just hear her shriek. “The High King decrees it! The One God ordains it!”

  Gorm’s eyes flickered sideways to his minister, his cheek twitching. His grip seemed to loosen, but perhaps that was Thorn’s grip on life, slipping, slipping.

  No breath. It was growing dark. She faced the Last Door, no tricks left to play. Death slid the bolt, pushed it wide. She teetered on the threshold.

  But Gorm did not push her over.

  As if through a shadowy veil she saw his forehead crease.

  “Kill her!” screeched Mother Isriun, her voice going higher and higher, wilder and wilder. “Grandmother Wexen demands it! Grandmother Wexen commands it!”

  And Gorm’s bloody face shuddered again, a spasm from his eye down to his jaw. His lips slipped back over his teeth and left his mouth a straight, flat line. His right hand relaxed, and Thorn heaved in a choking breath, the world tipping over as she flopped onto her side.

  BRAND WATCHED IN DISBELIEF as Gorm let Thorn fall and turned slowly to stare at Isriun. The hungry snarls of his warriors began to fade, the crowds above fell silent, the noise all guttering out to leave a shocked quiet.

  “I am the Breaker of Swords.” Gorm put his right hand ever so gently on his chest. “What madness makes you speak to me in such a fashion?”

  Isriun pointed down at Thorn, rolling onto her face, coughing puke into the grass. “Kill her!”

  “No.”

  “Grandmother Wexen commands—”

  “I tire of Grandmother Wexen’s commands!” roared Gorm, eyes near-popping from his bloody face. “I tire of the High King’s arrogance! But most of all, Mother Isriun …” He bared his teeth in a horrible grimace as he twisted Brand’s dagger from his shield hand. “I tire of your voice. Its constant bleating grates upon me.”

  Mother Isriun’s face had turned deathly pale. She tried to shrink back but Scaer’s tattooed arm snaked about her shoulders and held her tight. “You would break your oaths to them?” muttered Isriun, eyes wide.

  “Break my oaths?” Gorm shook the scarred shield from his arm and let it clatter down. “There is less honor in keeping them. I shatter them. I spit on them. I shit on them.” He loomed over Isriun, the knife glinting red in his hand. “The High King decrees, does he? Grandmother Wexen commands, does she? Old goat and old sow, I renounce them! I defy them!”

  Isriun’s thin neck fluttered as she swallowed. “If you kill me there will be war.”

  “Oh, there will be war. The Mother of Crows spreads her wings, girl.” Grom-gil-Gorm slowly raised the knife that Rin had forged, Isriun’s eyes rooted to the bright point. “Her feathers are swords! Hear them rattle?” And a smile spread across his face. “But I do not need to kill you.” He tossed the knife skittering through the grass to end beside Thorn where she hunched on hands and knees, retching. “After all, Mother Scaer, why kill what you can sell?”


  Gorm’s old minister, and now his new one, gave a smile chill as the winter sea. “Take this snake away and put a collar on her.”

  “You’ll pay!” shrieked Isriun, eyes wild. “You’ll pay for this!” But Gorm’s warriors were already dragging her up the eastern slope.

  The Breaker of Swords turned back, blood dripping from the dangling fingers of his wounded hand. “Does your offer of alliance still stand, Laithlin?”

  “What could Vansterland and Gettland not achieve together?” called the Golden Queen.

  “Then I accept.”

  A stunned sigh rippled around the square, as if the held breath of every man was suddenly let out.

  Brand twisted free of Rulf’s limp hands and ran.

  “THORN?”

  The voice seemed to echo from a long way away, down a dark tunnel. Brand’s voice. Gods, she was glad to hear it.

  “You all right?” Strong hands at her shoulder, lifting her.

  “I got proud,” she croaked, throat raw, mouth stinging. Tried to get to her knees, so weak and dizzy she nearly fell again, but he caught her.

  “But you’re alive.”

  “I reckon,” she whispered, more than a little surprised as Brand’s face drifted gradually out of the bright blur. Gods, she was glad to see it.

  “That’s enough.” He stretched her arm over his shoulders and she groaned as he lifted her gently to her feet. She couldn’t have taken a step on her own, but he was strong. He wouldn’t let her fall. “You need me to carry you?”

  “It’s a fine thought.” She winced as she looked toward the warriors of Gettland gathered on the crest ahead of them. “But I’d better walk. Why didn’t he kill me?”

  “Mother Isriun changed his mind.”

  Thorn took one look back as they shuffled up the slope toward the camp. Grom-gil-Gorm stood in the middle of the square, bloodied but unbeaten. Mother Scaer was already working at his wounded shield hand with needle and thread. His sword-hand was gripping Queen Laithlin’s, sealing the alliance between Vansterland and Gettland. Bitter enemies made friends. At least for now.