You Die When You Die

by Angus Watson

  “Yes, and everyone knows that. Just like they know about food supplies and the dangers—Ogmund and Frossa outlined those pretty well earlier. So the only reason to give a little talk would be for me to say ‘Look at me, I’m in charge,’ and everyone’s had too hard a day for that sort of buffalo shit.”

  They walked on, meeting Sassa Lipchewer heading the other way, bow in hand.

  “I think we have enough meat?” said Wulf.

  “I’m going to practise. I missed a bear today, twice.”

  Back at camp, most people were sitting around a large fire. Some of them were cooking game on sticks. Gunnhild was stirring a pot of roots and wild rice. Perched apart from everyone else on a hummock, deep in conversation, were Thyri Treelegs, Garth Anvilchin and Gurd Girlchaser. That was a bit of an upset, but, Finnbogi reminded himself, neither Garth nor Gurd would be sharing a sleeping sack with Thyri in a couple of hours.

  “Right, Finn. Shall I get Garth to teach you how to use your sword now?” Wulf asked.

  “Um, well, the thing is …”

  Wulf smiled, punched him gently on the arm, and turned to where Garth, Gurd and Thyri were sitting. “Hey, Thyri!”

  “Yup!”

  “Will you teach Finnbogi how to use his new sword?”

  “Sure.”

  “Where’s our dried fish, Boggy?” sneered Garth. “You’ll never be a fighter. Why don’t you go and practise carrying fish instead of wasting Thyri’s time?”

  Gurd and Garth laughed.

  Finnbogi reddened. The backpack he’d left behind in the woods when he’d heard Frossa’s screams had been raided. Freydis had analysed the tracks and, as they’d walked on, given him a little lecture about each of the surprisingly wide variety of animals that had stolen the fish. It hadn’t helped a great deal.

  “Leave him, Garth,” said Thyri, “we’ve got plenty of food and we can get more. Come on, Finn, let’s go and find some space.”

  He followed Thyri Treelegs to a wide, grassy clearing that sloped gently to the stony stream bank. Sassa was at the far end of it, shooting arrow after arrow into a dead tree.

  Thyri cut two sticks, handed one to Finnbogi and whacked him on the ear with the other.

  “Ah!” he said. He pressed his fingers to his ear then looked at them. No blood, which was a surprise, because it felt like she’d split the fucking thing in half. “Wha?” he asked.

  “First lesson, most important lesson. Strike first and strike hard. Lesson—” A flash of arm and she whacked him again, on the other ear.

  “Loakie’s cock! What the …?” he touched his stinging ear. This time there was a little blood.

  “Lesson two. Strike when they least expect it.”

  “That’s underhand.”

  “Underhand beats dead.”

  “You die when you die.”

  “You could fall onto your new sword right now and prove that wrong.”

  “Or prove it right.”

  Whack!

  “Fucking … Loakie’s bellend! What was that for?”

  “For sassing your teacher.” She smiled and it was like the sun blasting storm clouds away. Suddenly, the pain in Finnbogi’s ears felt good.

  “I can’t sass you, I’m older.”

  “Age is just a number.”

  “No, age is how long you’ve been alive, numbers are what we use to describe it. Saying age is just a number is like saying the sun is just a word.”

  She whacked him on the arm. “One.” It stung like a bastard. She hit him again and again and again: “Two! Three! Four! Are those just numbers? Five!”

  “Ow! Ow! Ow! Stop! You’re proving my point! The number of times you hit me matters!”

  “Six!”

  “Stop!”

  “I’ll stop when you admit I’m right. Seven! Eight!”

  “You’re right! You’re right about everything! You’re amazing and I’ll do anything for you!”

  “Good. Now are you going to sass your younger teacher again?”

  “No!”

  “Am I your better in every way?”

  “You are.”

  Whack! On his arm again. At least she was leaving his ears alone now.

  “What was that for?”

  “A reminder of what will happen if you sass me again. I did it to help you. Say thank you.”

  Finnbogi looked over to Sassa Lipchewer. She was pulling arrows from the tree, paying them no attention and out of earshot anyway. There was nobody else around.

  “Thank you,” he said, adding, in his mind, “and I love you.”

  She didn’t hit him again that evening. Instead she nearly killed him. She made him sprint, jump, squat and all sorts of other horrors including crawling along with his back legs straight like a bear, lying down and standing up again and again—which was surprisingly gruelling—and many other humiliating routines. After five minutes he was exhausted. After ten he felt sick and angry. Every exercise he did, she did, too. While he heaved and sweated like a fat man shagging in a heatwave she remained dry-browed and unruffled.

  “How is all this …” he panted at one point “… related to putting the pointy end of my sword into a Scrayling?”

  “You’ve got to be faster and stronger than the Scrayling you’re fighting, and they tend to be pretty fit. We do this every day for a few months and you might be nearly as fit as them.”

  “Every day? Isn’t walking all day enough?”

  “We’ll train twice a day if there’s time.”

  “Loakie’s tits.”

  “Unless you don’t want to?”

  “No, no. No. I do want to.”

  “Then shut up and get on with it.”

  After training, they sat well away from Garth and Gurd and ate delicious deer and fish. Even though his ears throbbed and his limbs felt like they’d been beaten with hammers, Finnbogi was so happy it was hard not to giggle. As he munched, Thyri explained rudiments of fighting. With a spark in her eye, she told him about old world techniques that had been drummed into the Hird every day, moves and theories that she’d learnt from the Scraylings, and various ideas she’d worked out herself.

  Her lips were red and plump, her skin was golden in the firelight and her broad face shone with the glee of explaining her favourite subject to a willing audience. He could have listened to her for ever.

  Then it was time to climb into their sleeping sack. He almost didn’t want it to happen so he could savour the anticipation for longer. He couldn’t believe it would actually come to pass. Somebody or something would get in the way. Thyri would decide to sleep in the open, or maybe she’d share with someone else, or the children would demand that Finnbogi stay with them and Gunnhild would make him, or they’d be attacked by an army of dagger-tooth cats …

  But, no, the time came and she said: “Find a good spot for us by the fire, Finn, I’ll be back shortly.”

  She disappeared into the trees, in the direction of the stream.

  Finnbogi cleared away twigs and stones, dragged Ottar and Freydis out of the way—the children were already asleep in their sack so wouldn’t mind—and smoothed out his and Thyri’s bag in the best place relative to the fire. His and Thyri’s bag!

  He couldn’t decide whether to get in it, or go for a piss himself, which he was going to have to do at some point. He elected to sit and stare broodily into the fire so he’d look hunky and wise when Thyri got back.

  After about a thousand years, Thyri returned. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You look really upset about something.”

  He’d have to rework his hunky and wise expression. “No, really, I’m fine. Fine as a—”

  “Okay, your turn at the stream.” She hadn’t changed her mind. She started to undress and Finn headed for the stream. He couldn’t pee. He went upstream to the drinking area, rinsed his mouth, then rushed back.

  Thyri was already in the bag, facing away from the fire.

  “You were quick,”
she said.

  “That’s why they call me Quick Shit Boggy!” He winced. Why had he said that?

  “Got it.”

  “I didn’t really shit.”

  “… Okay”

  “Are you all right, Finn?” said Wulf, passing by.

  “Yes, I’m fine. Sorry.” What was he sorry for?

  “Great, but see if you can keep it down. We don’t want to wake the kids.”

  “Sure, right,” he whispered. It was a mercy to be told to shut up.

  He undressed. Should he take all his clothes off? Had she? Probably not. She’d probably put more on.

  He shifted his weight from foot to foot. A few people were in their sacks already, others were getting ready to go down. He pulled off his clothes, electing to leave on his cotton undershorts, then got down on all fours and clambered backwards into the sack, doing his best to brush against Thyri only by accident.

  He lay, facing away from her. The sleeping sack was made for two men, and neither he nor Thyri was full man-sized, so there was plenty of room. Nevertheless, he decided it was acceptable to press his bottom against hers. By Tor. It was like pressing against a pair of wooden bowls.

  “It’ll be more comfortable if you turn the other way,” Thyri breathed.

  “What, so I’m facing your back?”

  “No, so your head’s in the bottom of the sack.”

  “What, really?”

  “No, dumbo, so you’re facing my back.”

  He turned. He went for it. Right there and then, straightaway before he could think about it and reject his insane recklessness, he put an arm round her.

  “Is that okay?” he whispered.

  “It’s good.” She took his arm in her hand and clasped it to her chest and said, “Mmmmm.” He didn’t feel cotton. He felt smooth skin. She was topless. She smelled of flowers and maple sugar. She was holding his clenched fist to her naked breast. Surely, he suggested to himself, it’s unnatural to sleep with one’s fist clenched? Of course it is, nobody could disagree with that. Again, before he could convince himself not to do it, he opened his fingers.

  She didn’t move!

  He lay for a while, cupping her breast, hips pivoted away from her buttocks, hardly breathing, then whispered, “Thyri.” No response. “Thyri?”

  She snorted.

  Oh great. She was asleep.

  All around, nocturnal animals squawked, squeaked, screamed and scampered, but Finnbogi didn’t notice them as he lay awake for what seemed like hours.

  Chapter 4

  Crossing Etiquette

  Erik the Angry and Astrid the bear came to a swift flowing but wadeable looking river. Erik didn’t fancy wading, though. Wet leather was not great for walking. Undressing wouldn’t have been a problem, but getting dry enough to dress on the other side would be a bore.

  When he’d reached this spot the previous summer there’d been a canoe on either side, as a mobile bridge—and, yes, there they were, two canoes. Both on the other side. He shook his head.

  The idea at a crossing like this was that you always left one canoe on each side. That meant you crossed three times; once with one canoe, then back towing the other, then across again leaving one behind. It was a simple thing, didn’t take any significant amount of time, but some tit had decided that they were too important to bother. Erik quivered with indignation. He pictured catching up with the transgressor and knocking some river-crossing decency into them with his war club. The club was called Turkey Friend because it gave turkeys a quick death. He’d go more slowly on whoever had broken the boat etiquette.

  “Arrrrghhh!” said Astrid.

  “I know,” said Erik.

  He was glad Astrid had come with him from Lakchan lands. There was something reassuring about having an unnaturally large bear as a travelling companion. He’d expected Red Foxes One and Four to come as well, but they’d sniffed him then scurried off, leaving him with the understanding that the Lakchan lands were their territory and leaving them for the hardship of a slog across the world did not appeal. Their fear of mild discomfort outweighed their affection for him. That was foxes for you—neither brave nor loyal, but at least they were honest.

  “You won’t fit in the canoe, so you’d get wet whatever happens,” said Erik to Astrid, “so how about you swim across and fetch a canoe for me?”

  Astrid looked at him blankly, as if she didn’t understand. Erik knew she didn’t want to spend any longer than necessary in the cold, fast water.

  He sighed, stripped, laid his clothes on a rock and waded in.

  By Spider Mother’s eight legs, it was cold as a snowman’s bollocks.

  “Woooo!” he shouted when the water lapped his own balls. A few more skin-zinging steps and it was at his nipples. Arms aloft, it was hard going. The current was more powerful than it had looked from the bank.

  He was just thinking how lucky he was that the riverbed was stable when something gave way underfoot and he slipped and went under. He surfaced a way downstream, spluttering. He swam for the bank, carried further downstream all the way.

  As he scrambled out, slipping on mud, he felt rather than heard a voice saying: “Go back, go back.” It was similar to the voice that had implored him to head west, possibly the same one. He wished it could make up its mind.

  “You want me to go east now, do you? What about going west to The Meadows?”

  “Turn around. Go back,” said the voice.

  Erik walked upstream to the two canoes, shivering. He pushed the nearer one out, stepped into it and paddled across the river.

  He dragged the canoe onto the bank, gathered his clothes and headed back along the path they had come on. He’d dress when he’d dried.

  He could feel the perplexed stare of the bear boring into his back.

  “Come on then, back this way.”

  “Arrrgh?” said Astrid.

  “We’re going back east. Don’t ask me why.”

  Chapter 5

  Stone Crab Claws

  Malilla Leaper jogged along behind Sofi Tornado. Her fire-tempered wooden kill staff felt alive in her hand. She was itching to crack it into the back of her captain’s head.

  Had it been anyone else but Sofi Tornado she would have brained her as she ran and taken her chances with the rest. She’d persuaded Morningstar and Caliska Coyote over to her side, which left Paloma Pronghorn, Sadzi Wolf, Chogolisa Earthquake, Luby Zephyr and Sitsi Kestrel with Sofi Tornado. There was no point trying to persuade the other five that the leader had to go. They were too loyal. However, once Sofi was dead, they would have no choice but to follow Malilla.

  As for Yoki Choppa, well, it didn’t really matter what the weird little warlock did. They said that he’d been a key part in using alchemy to create their abilities, but she couldn’t see it. He looked so much like an awful, fat child that he simply couldn’t have any magic. A few idiots like Sitsi Kestrel had gushed about how amazing it was that he was keeping up with them, but it was no great feat. Chogolisa Earthquake was keeping up and she weighed more than the rest of them put together.

  It wasn’t that Malilla hated Sofi, although she did; it was simply that Sofi was the wrong person to be leading the Owsla and Malilla was the right one.

  Unlike the rest of the Owsla who’d never known real hardship, Malilla Leaper had had a difficult childhood. Her father was a hunter and tanner in a trading village that linked the mainland to a number of islands on the edge of the Wild Salt Sea. Her mother left when Malilla was little more than a baby and moved in with a young fish-spearer who lived on a nearby island, leaving the girl with her father.

  Her mother still came to town most days with her new love’s catch, but Malilla was forbidden by her father from saying a word to her. One of her earliest memories was of being perplexed that all the other children cuddled their mothers while she never even spoke to hers.

  As soon as they were old enough to be able to, the rest of the children mocked her about her family situation. She tried to stop their attac
ks by breaking the rules and talking to her mother and asking her to come back, but her mother ignored her. So she resorted to countering the other children’s verbal attacks by retaliating physically. It took about four years before she started winning the fights. She hadn’t become bigger or stronger than the others, she’d just become vicious as a coyote in a snare.

  After she half blinded a boy three years her senior by jamming a stick into his eye, then broke his older sister’s arm with a branch when she’d come to remonstrate, the elders ordered her father to take his violent daughter away from the village.

  They moved to a nearby island, which Malilla wasn’t allowed to leave. She spent her days running around, working out her frustration by leaping bushes and developing the beginnings of the skill that would win her Owsla nickname several years later.

  Around the age of ten, she told her father that she intended to kill her mother.

  “Kill the bastard she ran off with, too,” was her father’s counsel.

  So she did. She crept into their hut on stilts one moon-bright night and rammed stone crab claws into their necks while they slept.

  The elders were all for executing her but a travelling merchant was passing through that day. He said that there was a demand for girls like her in the city of Calnia, and offered to buy her.

  She never knew what she was sold for, but her father seemed pleased. As she left the village with the merchant, she turned to wave goodbye. Her father wasn’t looking. He was smiling and chatting to the girl whose arm she’d broken a couple of years before, a hand around her waist.

  “My father made me kill my mother and her lover!” she shouted. “He said I’d have to suck his magic growing snake again if I didn’t!” The villagers all looked at her aghast, then at her father.

  Mallia walked away with the merchant and never looked back.

  From that lowly and troubled start, she’d become one of Calnia’s magic-enhanced elite warriors. Her life had become harder in Calnia, the training endless and painful, but it had been worth it. Physically, she and her fellow Owsla were the most powerful people in Calnia. They were the finest fighters in the world.