Half a King. Джо Аберкромби
up the men and be back at sea within the hour,’ said Odem.
‘We’re leaving?’ asked Keimdal. ‘Already?’
Yarvi found he was angry. Tired, and sick, and angry at his own weakness and his uncle’s ruthlessness and the world that was this way. ‘Is this our vengeance, Odem?’ He waved his good hand towards the burning town. ‘On women and children and old farmers?’
His uncle’s voice was gentle, as it always was. Gentle as spring rain. ‘Vengeance is taken piece by piece. But you need not worry about that now.’
‘Did I not swear an oath?’ growled Yarvi. For the last two days he had been prickling whenever someone used the words my king. Now he found he prickled even more when they did not.
‘You swore. I heard it, and thought it too heavy an oath for you to carry.’ Odem gestured at the kneeling prisoner, grunting into his gag. ‘But he will free you of its weight.’
‘Who is he?’
‘The headman of Amwend. He is the one who killed you.’
Yarvi blinked. ‘What?’
‘I tried to stop him. But the coward had a hidden blade.’ Odem held up his hand and there was a dagger in it. A long dagger with a pommel of black jet. In spite of the heat of the climb Yarvi felt suddenly very cold, from the soles of his feet to the roots of his hair.
‘It shall be my greatest regret that I moved too late to save my much-loved nephew.’ And carelessly as cutting a joint of meat Odem stabbed the headman between his neck and his shoulder and kicked him onto his face, blood welling across the rooftop.
‘What do you mean?’ Yarvi’s words came shrill and broken and he was suddenly aware how many of his uncle’s men were about him, all armed, all armoured.
As Odem stepped calmly, so calmly towards him he stepped back, stepped back on shaky knees to nowhere but the low parapet and the high drop beyond.
‘I remember the night you were born.’ His uncle’s voice was cold and level as ice on a winter lake. ‘Your father raged at the gods over that thing you have for a hand. You’ve always made me, smile, though. You would have been a fine jester.’ Odem raised his brows, and sighed. ‘But is my daughter really to have a one-handed weakling for a husband? Is Gettland really to have half a king? A crippled puppet dangling on his mother’s string? No, nephew, I … think … not.’
Keimdal snatched Yarvi’s arm and dragged him back, metal scraping as he drew his sword. ‘Get behind me, my—’
Blood spattered in Yarvi’s face and half-blinded him. Keimdal fell to his knees, spitting and gurgling, clutching at his throat, black leaking between his fingers. Yarvi stared sideways and saw Hurik frowning back, a drawn knife in his hand, the blade slick with Keimdal’s blood. He let Yarvi’s mail drop jingling to the floor.
‘We must do what is best for Gettland,’ said Odem. ‘Kill him.’
Yarvi tottered away, his jaw dropping wide, and Hurik caught a fistful of his cloak.
With a ping his father’s heavy golden buckle sprang open. Suddenly released, Yarvi reeled back.
The parapet caught him hard in the knees and, breath whooping, he tumbled over it.
Rock and water and sky spun about him, and down plummeted the King of Gettland, and down, and the water struck him as a hammer strikes iron.
And Mother Sea took him in her cold embrace.
Yarvi came to himself in the darkness, smothered by rushing bubbles, and he writhed and thrashed and twisted with the simple need to stay alive.
The gods must yet have had some use for him, for when it seemed his ribs would burst and he must breathe in whether it was sea or sky, his head broke from the water. Spray blinded him, and he coughed and kicked, was sucked under, tossed and tumbled by the current.
A surging wave flung him onto rock, and he clutched at shredding barnacle and green-slick weed, just long enough to find another breath. He fought with the buckle, freed himself of the drowning embrace of his sword-belt, legs burning as he struggled at the merciless sea, kicking free of his leaden boots.
He gathered all his strength and as the swell lifted him he hauled himself up, trembling with effort, onto a narrow ledge of stone washed by the salt spray, speckled with jellies and sharp-shelled limpets.
No doubt he was lucky still to be alive, but Yarvi did not feel lucky.
He was in the inlet on the north side of the holdfast, a narrow space walled in by jagged rocks into which the foaming waves angrily surged, chewing at the stone, slopping and clapping and flinging glittering spray. He scraped the wet hair from his eyes, spat salt, his throat raw, good hand and bad grazed and stinging.
His foolhardy decision to strip off his mail had saved his life, but the padded jacket underneath was bloated with seawater and he pawed at the straps, finally shrugged it free and hunched shivering.
‘D’you see him?’ he heard, the voice coming from so close above that he shrank against the slick rock, biting his tongue.
‘Got to be dead.’ Another voice. ‘Dashed on the rocks. Mother Sea has him for sure.’
‘Odem wants his body.’
‘Odem can fish for it, then.’
A third voice now. ‘Or Hurik can. He let the cripple fall.’
‘And which’ll you be telling first to swim, Odem or Hurik?’
Laughter at that. ‘Gorm’s on his way. We’ve no time to dredge for one-handed corpses.’
‘Back to the ships, and tell King Odem his nephew adorns the deep …’ And the voices faded towards the beach.
King Odem. His own uncle, who he had loved like a father, always there with a soothing word and an understanding smile and a steering hand on Yarvi’s shoulder. His own blood! Yarvi was clinging with his good hand but the bad one he bunched into a trembling fist, his father’s anger stealing up on him so strong he could hardly breathe for it. But his mother had always said, never worry about what has been done, only about what will be.
His mother.
He gave a needy sob at the thought of her. The Golden Queen always knew what should be done. But how to reach her? The ships of Gettland were already leaving. The Vanstermen would soon arrive. All Yarvi could do was wait for dark. Find some way back over the border and south to Thorlby.
There is always a way.
If he had to walk a hundred miles through the forest without boots he would do it. He would be revenged on his bastard uncle, and on that traitor Hurik, and he would take back the Black Chair. He swore it, over and over, as Mother Sun hid her face behind the rocks and the shadows lengthened.
He had not reckoned on that most ruthless of revengers, though, the tide. Soon the icy waves washed the shelf on which he clung. Over his bare feet rose the cold water, over his ankles, over his knees, and before long the sea was surging into that narrow space even more fiercely than before. He would have liked to weigh his choices, but for that you need more than one.
So he climbed. Shivering and weary, aching and cold, weeping and cursing the name of Odem with every slippery foot or handhold. It was an awful risk, but better than throwing himself on the mercy of Mother Sea for, as every sailor knows, she has none.
With a last effort he hauled himself over the brink and lay for a moment in the scrub, catching his breath. He groaned as he rolled over, began to stand.
Something cracked him on the side of the head, tore a cry from him and filled his skull with light. The land reeled and struck him on the side. He crawled up groggy, drooling blood.