were gathered one last time with Master Hunnan, who’d taught them, and tested them, and hammered them into shape like Brand used to hammer iron at Gaden’s forge. They were gathered on the beach where they’d trained so often, but the blades weren’t wooden now.
They were gathered in their new war-gear, bright-eyed and breathless at the thought of sailing on their first raid. Of leaving Father Peace at their backs and giving themselves guts and sinew to his red-mouthed wife, Mother War. Of winning fame and glory, a place at the king’s table and in the warriors’ songs.
Oh, and coming back rich.
Some were buckled up prettily as heroes already, blessed with family who’d bought them fine mail, and good swords, and new gear all aglitter. Though he counted her more blessing than he deserved, Brand had only Rin, so he’d loaned his mail from Gaden in return for a tenth share of aught he took – dead man’s mail, tarnished with use, hastily resized and still loose under the arms. But his axe was good and true and polished sharp as a razor, and his shield that he’d saved a year for was fresh painted by Rin with a dragon’s head and looked well as anyone’s.
‘Why a dragon?’ Rauk asked him, one mocking eyebrow high.
Brand laughed it off. ‘Why not a dragon?’ It’d take more than that fool’s scorn to spoil the day of his first raid.
And it wasn’t just any raid. It was the biggest in living memory. Bigger even than the one King Uthrik led to Sagenmark. Brand went up on tiptoe again to see the gathered men stretched far off down the shore, metal twinkling in the sun and the smoke from their fires smudging the sky. Five thousand, Hunnan had said, and Brand stared at his fingers, trying to reckon each a thousand men. It made him dizzy as looking down a long drop.
Five thousand. Gods, how big the world must be.
There were men well-funded by tradesmen or merchants and ragged brotherhoods spilled down from the mountains. There were proud-faced men with silvered sword-hilts and dirty-faced men with spears of flint. There were men with a lifetime of scars and men who’d never shed blood in their lives.
It was a sight you didn’t see often, and half of Thorlby was gathered on the slopes outside the city walls to watch. Mothers and fathers, wives and children, there to see off their boys and husbands and pray for their safe and enriched return. Brand’s family would be there too, no doubt. Which meant Rin, on her own. He bunched his fists, staring up into the wind.
He’d make her proud. He swore he would.
The feeling was more of wedding-feast than war, the air thick with smoke and excitement, the clamour of songs, and jests, and arguments. Prayer-Weavers wove their own paths through the throng speaking blessings for a payment, and merchants too, spinning lies about how all great warriors carried an extra belt to war. It wasn’t just warriors hoping to turn a coin from King Uthil’s raid.
‘For a copper I’ll bring you weaponluck,’ said a beggar-woman, selling lucky kisses, ‘for another I’ll bring you weatherluck too. For a third—’
‘Shut up,’ snapped Master Hunnan, shooing her off. ‘The king speaks.’
There was a clattering of gear as every man turned westwards. Towards the barrows of long-dead rulers above the beach, dwindling away to the north into wind-flattened humps.
King Uthil stood tall before them on the dunes, the long grass twitching at his boots, cradling gently as a sick child his sword of plain grey steel. He needed no ornaments but the scars of countless battles on his face. Needed no jewels but the wild brightness in his eye. Here was a man who knew neither fear nor mercy. Here was a king that any warrior would be proud to follow to the very threshold of the Last Door and beyond.
Queen Laithlin stood beside him, hands on her swollen belly, golden key upon her chest, golden hair taken by the breeze and torn like a banner, showing no more fear or mercy than her husband. They said it was her gold that bought half these men and most of these ships, and she wasn’t a woman to take her eye off an investment.
The king took two slow, swaggering steps forward, letting the breathless silence stretch out, excitement building until Brand could hear his own blood surging in his ears.
‘Do I see some men of Gettland?’ he roared.
Brand and his little knot of new-minted warriors were lucky to be close enough to hear him. Further off the captains of each ship passed on the king’s words to their crews, wind-blown echoes rippling down the long sweep of the shore.
A great clamour burst from the gathered warriors, weapons thrust up towards Mother Sun in a glittering forest. All united, all belonging. All ready to die for the man at their shoulder. Perhaps Brand had only one sister, but he felt then he had five thousand brothers with him on the sand, a sweet mixture of rage and love that wetted his eyes and warmed his heart and seemed in that moment a feeling worth dying for.
King Uthil raised his hand for silence. ‘How it gladdens me to see so many brothers! Wise old warriors often tested on the battlefield, and bold young warriors lately tested in the square. All gathered with good cause in the sight of the gods, in the sight of my forefathers.’ He spread his arms towards the ancient barrows. ‘And can they ever have looked on so mighty a host?’
‘No!’ someone screamed, and there was laughter, and others joined him, shouting wildly, ‘No!’ until the king raised his hand for silence again.
‘The Islanders have sent ships against us. They have stolen from us, and made our children slaves, and spilled our blood on our good soil.’ A muttering of anger began. ‘It is they who turned their backs on Father Peace, they who opened the door to Mother War, they who made her our guest.’ The muttering grew, and swelled, an animal growling that found its way to Brand’s own throat. ‘But the High King says we of Gettland must not be good hosts to the Mother of Crows! The High King says our swords must stay sheathed. The High King says we must suffer these insults in silence! Tell me, men of Gettland, what should be our answer?’
The word came from five thousand mouths as one deafening roar, Brand’s voice cracking with it. ‘Steel!’
‘Yes.’ Uthil cradled his sword close, pressing the plain hilt to his deep-lined cheek as if it was a lover’s face. ‘Steel must be the answer! Let us bring the Islanders a red day, brothers. A day they will weep at the memory of!’
With that he stalked towards Mother Sea, his closest captains and the warriors of his household behind him, storied men with famous names, men Brand dreamed of one day joining. Folk whose names had yet to trouble the bards crowded about the king’s path for a glimpse of him, for a touch of his cloak, a glance of his grey eye. Shouts came of, ‘The Iron King!’ and ‘Uthil!’ until it became a chant, ‘Uthil! Uthil!’, each beat marked with the steely clash of weapons.
‘Time to choose your futures, boys.’
Master Hunnan shook a canvas bag so the markers clattered within. The lads crowded him, shoving and honking like hogs at feeding time, and Hunnan reached inside with his gnarled fingers and one by one pressed a marker into every eager palm. Discs of wood, each with a sign carved into it that matched the prow-beasts on the many ships, telling each boy – or each man – which captain he’d swear his oath to, which crew he’d sail with, row with, fight with.
Those given their signs held them high and whooped in triumph, and some argued over who’d got the better ship or the better captain, and some laughed and hugged each other, finding the favour
