She had hoped for anger, some sign he might be taunted into rashness, but all the King of Vansterland gave her was a sad little smile. “Ah, the confidence of the young. It was foreseen no man could kill me.” And he stood, his great shadow stretching toward her across the stubbled grass, a giant stepped out from the songs. “Not that you could.”
“MOTHER WAR, LET HER LIVE,” mouthed Brand, both fists clenched aching tight. “Mother War, let her live …”
An eerie silence fell across the valley as the fighters took their places. Only the stirring of the wind in the grass, a bird calling high and harsh in the iron sky, the faint jingle of war-gear as one man or another shifted nervously. Mother Isriun stepped out into the lonely space between the two champions.
“Are you ready to kill? Are you ready to die?” She held up her hand, a curl of white goose-down in her fingers. “Are you ready to face the One God’s judgment?”
Gorm stood straight and tall, huge as a mountain, his broad shield held before him, his long sword out behind. “Mother War will be my judge,” he growled.
Thorn crouched low, teeth bared in a vicious grin, tense as a full-bent bow. “Whichever.” She turned her head and spat. “I’m ready.”
“Then begin!” called Mother Isriun, and let the feather fall, and hurried back, out of the short grass and into the rank of warriors opposite.
Down that feather drifted, slow, slow, every eye on both sides fixed upon it. It was caught by an eddy, whirled and spun. Down it drifted, and down, every breath on both sides held.
“Mother War, let her live, Mother War, let her live …”
THE INSTANT THAT SCRAP of down touched the close-cropped grass Thorn sprang. She had not forgotten Skifr’s lessons. They were in her flesh. Always attack. Strike first. Strike last.
One stride and the wind rushed at her. Gorm stayed rigid, watching. Two strides and she crushed the feather into the dirt beneath her heel. Still he was frozen. Three strides and she was on him, screaming, swinging high with Skifr’s ax, low with the sword forged from her father’s bones. Now he moved, moved to meet her, and her blade crashed on his, and the ax chopped splinters from his shield.
In that instant she knew she had never fought anyone so strong. She was used to a shield giving when she hit it, used to staggering a man with the weight of her blows. But striking Gorm’s shield was like striking a deep-rooted oak. Striking his sword jarred her from her palm to the tip of her nose and left her bared teeth rattling.
Thorn had never been one to get discouraged at the first reverse, though.
Gorm had thrust his heavy left boot recklessly forward and she dropped low, trying to hook it with her ax and bring him down. He stepped back nimbly for all his mountainous bulk and she heard him grunt, felt the great sword coming, whipping at her like a scorpion’s tail. She only just lurched under as it ripped past at a vicious angle, a blow to split shields, to split helms, to split heads, the wind of it cold on her face.
She twisted, watching for the opening a swing like that must leave, but there was none. Gorm handled that monstrous blade as neatly as Thorn’s mother might a needle, no rage or madness in it, all control. His eyes stayed calm. His door of a shield never drifted.
That first exchange she judged a draw, and she danced back into room to wait for another chance. To seek out a better opening.
Slowly, carefully, the Breaker of Swords took one step toward the center of the square, twisting his great left boot into the sod.
“YES!” HISSED RULF AS Thorn darted in, letting go a flurry of blows. “Yes!” Blades clattered as they scarred Gorm’s shield, Brand clenching his fists so tight the nails bit at his palms.
He gasped as Thorn rolled under the shining arc of Gorm’s sword, came up snarling to hack at his shield, pushed a great thrust scornfully away and danced back out of range, using the full width of the square. She went in a drunken swagger, weapons drifting, the way that Skifr used to, and Gorm studied her over the rim of his shield, trying to find some pattern in the chaos.
“He is cautious,” hissed Queen Laithlin.
“Stripped of the armor of his prophecy,” muttered Father Yarvi. “He fears her.”
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.