by Angus Watson
Finnbogi was so angry it was an effort to stop himself bursting into tears. That would not look good. “She doesn’t love you,” he shouted.
“She does, Boggy, in so many ways.”
Finnbogi roared and ran at Garth. A fist came from nowhere and he was reeling back, head swinging around like a toy bird on a string. He spat blood.
Garth stood, hands on hips, mail-clad chest proud and broad, early morning light glinting from his helm. He looked, as he so often had, like a hero from a saga. “You know what I really hate about you, Boggy?” he said.
“That I’m cleverer than you?”
“No! By Tor’s hammer, no. It’s because you think you are. You think you’re cleverer than everybody. You strut around looking superior, but you have nothing to be superior about. You can’t do anything. You can’t fight, you can’t make clothes, you can’t cook, you can’t even carry food without losing it. And you’re not clever. What fresh or witty insights have you made to delight and amuse the rest of us? None. How many gags have you cracked recently that have left the whole group helpless with mirth? Not one. How many ideas have you contributed to accelerating our flight, avoiding the Owsla or constructing better camps? None, none and none.
“But still you think you’re better than everyone else. You’re not. You’re dead weight. You’re hampering our escape and, for the sake of the others, I’m going to end that now.”
Garth raised his hands, big as bears’ paws.
Finnbogi tried to slap his attack away, but he might as well have been trying to fight off a dagger-tooth cat. Garth grabbed the shoulder of his jerkin in one hand, the waistband of his leather trousers in the other, and swung him up, above his head, exactly as he’d done to the armless Scrayling. Finnbogi bucked and kicked and beat at irritatingly well-muscled arms, but Garth held him high.
Finnbogi couldn’t do anything. He considered pissing. It was the only defence he had left. He squeezed. Nope, nothing. He couldn’t even piss. Garth was right. He was useless.
Garth turned, the world spun, and Finnbogi was looking out over the vast Water Mother valley. Yes, he found himself thinking, those boaters crossing the river are definitely pulling themselves along on ropes.
Garth took one step towards the top of the cliff, then another.
Sitsi Kestrel listened as Sofi Tornado explained where her powers came from. Sitsi had always thought that their powers were due to the years of punishing exercises, beatings and poisonings that had been their long and unpleasant Calnian Owsla induction. She’d been right about that, but she’d never guessed that they also had power animals that they had to eat every day. So this was the secret Morningstar hadn’t told her.
She heard that her eyesight and resulting ability with the bow came from a western lizard called a chuckwalla. She’d been hoping for something less fat and slithery. A kestrel would have been good.
Her extensive education had taught her all the world’s known animals and she’d seen many of them in Calnia’s menageries, so she knew all about her chuckwalla and the other power animals. The only one that could be found in the wild anywhere near their current location—and the only power animal that was less glamorous than her own—was Chogolisa’s dung beetle. Yoki Choppa had a stock of all the other animals back in Calnia. But they were a long way from Calnia.
“We should go back now,” said Morningstar. “We can run to the Water Mother, take a boat and supplies. We’ll be safe on the river and back in days.”
“No,” said Sofi. “We are still the best trained warriors in the world without the power animals, and our powers will persist—in a lesser form, but they will still give us an edge; much more than an edge. We’re only a couple of miles behind Keef and the other two men, and we can be almost certain that they have arranged to meet the others to cross the Water Mother. We will carry on, we will catch them and we will kill them. We will travel at a fast walk instead of a run, we will fight as a team rather than solo exhibitionists, and we will complete our mission with ease.”
“I’m not disagreeing with your rule, Sofi, and I will do what you order,” complained Morningstar, “but surely our value is such to the empress and the empire that we should protect ourselves? We should go back and get the power animal flesh and this time split it into two or even three bundles like any sensible person would do with something so vital,” she shot a look at Yoki Choppa that might have drilled a hole in a tree, “then come back.”
“I have considered that,” said Sofi, “but Ayanna thinks the Mushroom Men are going to destroy the world. Going to Calnia and back will take at least ten days. By then the Mushroom Men will have disappeared into Badlander territory and we will have lost them. If Ayanna is right, that will mean the end of the world.”
“But the prophecy is a nonsense,” said Paloma.
Sitsi gasped. The others all turned to stare at her. Even Yoki Choppa looked up from his alchemical bowl.
“Well, it is. Do you really think half a dozen people and a couple of children are going to destroy the world? They’d need the most amazing magic and if they had that they’d have used it against us, or at least to escape. Maybe the prophecy isn’t total nonsense, maybe Mushroom Men are going to destroy the world, but do you know where this lot came from? They came across the Great Salt Sea from a land that’s teeming with Mushroom Men. If any Mushroom Men are going to destroy the world it’s the millions they left behind, not the gaggle of losers that we’re pointlessly chasing.”
Sitsi expected Sofi to fly at Paloma, or at least upbraid her severely, but instead the Owsla captain said: “The accuracy of the prophecy is irrelevant. Our orders are to kill them. If there was a serious risk I might consider breaking those orders, but there’s hardly any more risk than there was before. You may feel weakened, but you are all still far more powerful than anyone else. You are also better trained, and more then equipped to deal with a tiny group of people famed for their laziness. Innowak willing, we will catch up with the Mushroom Men before they cross the Water Mother. We will kill them swiftly and mercilessly. Then we’ll return to Calnia and put this whole crappy business behind us.”
Gunnhild had come to and was bandaging a poultice on Wulf’s cut shoulder. Sassa squatted to help her.
“Hugin, Munin!” came Freydis’s high voice from the woods as she and Ottar searched for the racoons.
“Where’s Finnbogi?” asked Wulf.
“He’s gone to chase down the surviving Scraylings with Garth, said Sassa.”
He nodded. “Go after them, will you?”
“But I’m needed here and they’ll be fine, Garth is more than capable of—”
She was stopped by Wulf’s level gaze. “I’ll go,” she said.
The path was worse than Erik the Angry had imagined it could be. If you could call a vertical climb a path. It started innocuously enough—a foot-wide track cut into the rock face—but then that path had ended and Galenar said: “You see the handholds here?”
“Do you mean those finger divots?”
“Yes. They’re not made for giants, sorry. They’re also footholds.” The young Scrayling looked at Erik’s feet. “Or at least they’re meant to be. I’d take those shoes off if I were you, then follow me.”
Galenar scurried up the rock wall like a squirrel. He reached a ledge some thirty feet above, looked down and said, “Come on!”
Erik removed his shoes, slung Turkey Friend over his shoulder, jammed three fingers into the first hold and heaved.
It wasn’t too difficult to begin with, even though he could get only three fingers and two toes in most of the holds. However, by halfway up his arms felt as if they were made of soggy reeds. He pulled his face into the rock and breathed heavily. He was high enough up now that a fall would be life-ending, or at least life-altering.
“Arms tired?” shouted Massbak from a mile—or ten paces—below.
“They seem to have turned to fat.”
“Happens to everyone, first few times. Rest for a minute, you’
ll be fine.”
Erik wasn’t sure they had a minute. It had been a good while now since they’d seen the Scrayling fly from the cliff, and he wasn’t sure his useless arms could hold on that long. But finally some strength flowed back and he climbed to the top.
It wasn’t the top, of course, that would have been too easy. It was barely a third of the way up. At least the next section was path again; not really path so much as a ledge about as wide as his hand span, but still preferable to climbing.
“Is it like this to the top?” he asked.
“No,” said Galenar, pulling a plant-fibre rope away from the rock wall and shaking it. Erik looked up. The thing snaked and jiggled all the way to a point maybe thirty paces above them. “How are you climbing a rope?”
Sassa ran through the butterfly-busy, flower-scented woods, skimming over the leaf-strewn path, bow in one hand.
She stopped, heard voices ahead, and ran on.
There were three dead Scraylings in the clearing, two large fish woven skilfully from reeds, and Garth, holding Finnbogi above his head and striding towards the cliff edge.
“Stop!” she shouted.
Garth ignored her, walked on and stood at the top of the drop. It gave her a sharp feeling in her groin just to see them so near the edge. She did not like heights.
“Garth Anvilchin!”
He turned. “Hello, Sassa.”
“Will you tell him to put me down?” Finnbogi asked.
“Take a few steps this way, Garth, and put him down.”
“I will not.”
“Please?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m going to throw him over the edge.” He bent his arms.
Sassa pulled an arrow from her hip quiver, strung it, drew and aimed at Garth.
“Why?”
“He’s useless and he’s annoying. We’re better off without him. The world’s better off without him.”
“He’s different, Garth, not useless. He may not have found his role in life yet, but he will. He’s a good guy, let’s keep him.”
“I know what his role in life is. It’s to be thrown off the cliff by me.”
“I don’t want to shoot you, Garth.”
“Don’t then. If you do, we’ll both go over. It doesn’t matter about Boggy, but you don’t want to lose me. All of you would be dead if I hadn’t rescued you just now. I stopped that Scrayling from killing you back in Hardwork, too. I’ve saved your life twice, Sassa Lipchewer. Don’t you dare fucking shoot me.”
It was true. She would be dead twice over if it wasn’t for Garth Anvilchin. Finnbogi’s greatest achievement in relation to Sassa was shagging and upsetting her friend. She lowered her bow.
Objectively, there was nothing in it. The sole design of her life was for her and Wulf to live and have children. It had to be. Who was going to be more help to that end? Who was going to be more useful on the long trek through dangerous territory? Was it the trained-for-a-lifetime, iron-clad warrior who could dispatch two enemy warriors with one double-axe move, who’d already saved them all, or the introverted teen who’d upset her friend and been beaten by every Scrayling he’d ever fought, including an elderly woman?
Garth turned, squatted and bent his arms. He wasn’t just going to drop Finnbogi off the cliff, he was going to hurl him.
“Shoot him, Sassa! Shoot him now!” shrieked Finnbogi.
Garth straightened. Finnbogi screamed.
Erik watched Galenar hold the rope, place the flats of his feet against the cliff and pretty much run up.
He copied the Scrayling, albeit more slowly. His hand-over-hand work was confident and he placed his feet firmly. It wasn’t too bad to begin with.
It was like walking, only all his weight was held by the rope. The rope …
One day the rope will snap. That’s a certainty, not just because everything decays but because ropes are chewed by chipmunks and other gnawing creatures. Now this particular rope, being on a secret route, is probably neglected, almost certainly never checked for signs of animal nibbling. And the rope would have been selected to bear the weight of the heaviest Scrayling. In other words someone about half his weight. If it ever does break, and it is going to, it will be when someone particularly heavy is climbing it. Someone like him. And if it breaks, when it breaks, that person will fall backwards for an age, past the pissy little path and on, to thump to the ground at the very bottom, where his back will snap and he’ll lie in agony, unable to move, waiting to die.
Erik pulled himself into the cliff face and gripped onto it as tightly as if a giant eagle had squawked its intention to swoop in, rip him off, carry him up to the clouds and drop him on a rock.
“Get on with it!” yelled Keef from below.
Erik gripped his handholds all the harder. He wasn’t going to get on with anything.
“Move your fat arse!” encouraged Keef.
Erik could feel snot running over his lip, but to wipe it he’d have to move.
So you’re going to stay here for ever? asked an internal voice, this one sounding like Astrid, not the bear but the human who’d betrayed him then died giving birth to Finnbogi.
Piss off, he told it.
A girlish shriek cut through his musing, this one real, not in his head, coming from the top of the cliff.
It was Finnbogi! His son! In trouble! He thrust himself away from the cliff and shinnied up the rope spider-style. At the top he bounced onto his feet, pushed past Galenar and sprinted southwards.
“Wait for the others!” called Galenar.
Finnbogi’s fall was interrupted by the ground sooner and less life-endingly that he’d expected. He opened his eyes.
He’d fallen away from the edge, and thumped down onto the body of a Scrayling. He sat up. Garth was at his feet, eyes crossed, looking downwards at the dully glinting, bloodied iron tip of the arrow that protruded from his mouth like a metal-tipped, fly-catching frog’s tongue.
“Lucky he fell this way.” Sassa was walking towards him, bow in hand.
“It was,” he said.
“You’re welcome,” she said.
“I can’t believe you did it.”
“He’s not the first cunt I’ve killed.”
What!? Finnbogi’s mind screamed. For a hot and confusing flash he fancied Sassa Lipchewer about a thousand times more than he’d ever fancied Thyri Treelegs. Who else had she killed? And she’d said cunt!
“Are you all right?” said Erik, running into the clearing.
“Just in time, Dad,” said Finnbogi.
“Looks like you dealt with the Scraylings.”
“Yup.”
“Shame they killed Garth.”
“He fought well.”
His father walked over to the big corpse and poked him with a toe. “That Hardwork arrow through the back of his head must have hampered him a bit, though.” He looked at Sassa.
“He was about to throw me off the cliff,” Finnbogi blustered. “Sassa saved me.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“It’s the truth, I swear.”
“I’ll never believe you. I believe he fell off the cliff saving you from Scraylings.”
“I got here just in time to see it happen, but too late to help,” said Sassa.
Finnbogi held Garth’s head while Erik wiggled and wrenched the arrow out of his skull, then the two of them rolled the corpse of the man that a gorgeous woman had killed to save his life off the cliff. It was bonding activities like this, he thought, that he’d missed, growing up without a dad.
When she arrived with Finnbogi, Erik, Bjarni, Keef and the two Scraylings, Wulf the Fat’s face cracked into the first genuine Wulf smile that Sassa had seen for a good few days. The giant smile gave way to concern when he saw Keef’s bandages.
“A scratch,” said Keef. “Just a flesh wound.”
“A flesh removal more like,” said Bjarni. “The Owsla took an ear and an eye.”
“The lame can ride a
horse, the one-handed can drive cattle; tis better to be blinded than be a corpse,” said Gunnhild.
“Did they take your hair, too?” Wulf asked.
“No, that’s a different story.”
“I look forward to it,” said Wulf, then: “Where’s Garth?”
Sassa went to busy herself with the children and their racoons, so Wulf couldn’t look her in the eye while Erik lied to him.
She wasn’t sure that she’d done the right thing. She’d shot Garth and saved Finnbogi out of instinct. Would she have made the same decision if she’d had more time …? Probably. Letting Garth live and letting him kill Finnbogi would have made more practical sense, and maybe she’d regret her decision when all that stood between her and a dozen murderous Scraylings was a trembling Finnbogi the Boggy, but saving him had seemed the right thing to do. Despite it all, she liked Finnbogi.
“I see,” said Wulf at the end of Erik’s explanation, sounding grim. He knew. She’d tell him what had happened one day, and he’d understand. After all, he’d pretty much sent her off to do it.
“And who are these two?” He gestured at Galenar and Massbak, who were staring with horror at their dead tribe mates.
“They’re from the Water Divided tribe. They’re going to help us cross the Water Mother. Unless this has changed your minds?” Erik nodded at the corpses.
“Well, it’s not great,” admitted Galenar, “but they shouldn’t have attacked you. We’ll still help, won’t we, Massbak?”
“Sure, providing we don’t run the slightest risk of getting caught.”
“Why do you want to help us?” said Wulf. He didn’t sound combative, only interested.
Sassa tensed, expecting someone to rush forward, call Galenar and Massbak Scrayling scum, put a knife to their throats and demand a motive, but Thyri, Keef, Bjarni and the rest of them all waited with open expressions, ready to listen and to consider their answers.
Gunnhild said: “I was journeying and I lost my way, then I met another; Man is the joy of man.”
Sassa realised with a sense of surprise and guilty relief that all the narrow-minded, aggressive men who’d turn a meeting like this into a confrontation—Garth Anvilchin, Gurd Girlchaser, Fisk the Fish and Hrolf the Painter—were dead. She felt bad about it even as she admitted it to herself, particularly as she’d killed two of them, but the idea that she’d never have to deal with those argumentative, mean pricks again made her feel a lot lighter. Chnob the White and Frossa the Deep Minded were gone, too …