The Tower of Living and Dying

They tied it above the sail, sailors scrambling upwards like lizards, treasuring the burden one carried bound to his back with long fine legs flopping like he had grown some fragile leprous wings. Still it shimmered, black and rainbowed in the sun. Thalia tried to turn her head away but the only other place to look was the body of the sacrificed horse on the shore. She thought: do I understand? Any of these things?

Under a banner of dead horses the fleet sailed fast across the bright water, red painted eyes staring hungrily ahead.

Chapter Eight (#ulink_3195dceb-164f-5aef-b4cf-156e27b2c740)

‘The isle of Third is a fine land,

Her corn rising high like maidens dancing,

Her fat flocks, her fat cattle,

Her green meadows and her green forests,

Her rivers sweet and clear.

But still I say nothing is more lovely,

More joyous, more worthy of praise,

Than a great host girded for battle,

Bronze swords bright in the sunlight,

Young men’s faces raised and eager,

Red banners proud in the wind.’

The marsh and the banks of the estuary slipped away behind them. Ahead, the dark sea and the darker smudge of Seneth Isle. The wind blew fair in the sails. Scant hours, before they made land.

‘That’s the biggest load of cock I’ve heard in days,’ said Tobias.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘That bloody song. A load of crap. Third’s a shithole, and an army’s a load of ugly sweaty buggers ready to rip someone’s guts apart.’

‘Watch your mouth,’ said Brand. ‘Third’s his kingdom, and we’re his army, and it’s bloody glorious.’

‘Oh, bloody glorious.’

‘I said watch your mouth, Immishman.’

Fuckhead romantics. Tobias went back to looking at the water. Maerlk, the man who had started it by singing, went back to looking at his sword. He seemed quite astonished to be wearing one. Tobias kept feeling an itching need to tell him which end you held it by.

Back on a bloody ship. Spent years successfully avoiding ships. Never get involved in amphibious warfare. One of Skie’s old maxims. Suddenly made a hell of a lot of sense. Just never, Tobias. One thing this company’ll never bloody do.

Never do a lot of the things he’d somehow done in the last little while.

It was all cloudy in his mind, making him irritable. He’d hated the king, once. Before he realized something. Something. And now the great coming battle, to decide who got the crown and got to say he was better and everyone loved him more. He hadn’t wanted the king to win, once. Had wanted … something else for him. Kind of hard to remember what. Just still a nagging sense of pointlessness, that there was no real reason for any of this. That he should just turn around. Run.

A little house and a girl to clean it and a pint of Immish gold of an evening and a fat soft gut. That had been … been a really good good idea he couldn’t quite shake. He’d done a bad thing, hadn’t he? Something bad. To the king. Hadn’t wanted … something to happen.

He looked across the water and the king was there, standing at the prow of his ship, looking straight ahead. So tiny, a stick of black with a red cloak, maybe a flash of light where his crown was, but you knew him. They all knew him, even without seeing him. The ships moved slightly, changing formation; the figure was gone. Light snow furring the deck, making it slippery. Hands cold and raw on the hilts of their swords. He’s the king. We’ll make him king. His kingdom and his army.

Bloody glorious! Yeah!

Third was still an ugly freezing damp shithole, though. And his army was still a load of ugly sweaty buggers ready to rip someone’s guts apart. Bloody wounds and oozing sores glorious.

Yeah.

Seneth was coming properly into sight, grey rocks and green hills rising up clear ahead of them, blurred in the snow. Huddles of houses down on the shoreline; you could even see the smoke of hearth fires. Didn’t look any different to Third.

Tobias had kind of expected they’d be making land soonish, camp for the night and then march. Instead, the ships turned, moving north following the line of the coast, the king’s ship taking position at the front. Another hour’s sailing, slow in a weak wind. The snow had stopped, thank the gods. But still bloody cold. Rations of bread and meat and beer handed out, they ate crouched on the deck, eyes on the shore. Could feel people on the shore looking back. A couple of fishing boats sailing panicked before them, tacking and darting to get away. An army looks like a dragon to peasant men, Tobias thought watching them. Gods alone know what an army of ships must look like, when you’re out on the dark pitiless sea. They sailed on, then a shout came from one of the ships ahead of them, orders relayed back whipping on the wind, voices calling like the gulls, the sound of the waves slapping against the hull, the men craning to hear.

‘Furl the sails! To oars!’

A movement of men to the mast, a great creak of canvas and rope thrashing like snakes. A space in the sky where the sail had been, the mast standing useless like a dead winter tree, rough splintered wood with the bowsprit across it like wide-spread arms. Like that stupid sodding stake they stuck the stupid sodding dead horse on. Oars striking out into the water. The sound of the ship now the crunch and crack of men’s bones.

‘Strike the drums! To arms!’

So they were moving much more slowly now, crawling along with the land bedside them, a high rugged headland, harsh black rocks. Something looking from the top of the cliff a moment, a flash of white. And then the ships turned and the land fell away, and before them was a great bay with smooth clear water, the towers and roofs of a town rising up behind a thick harbour wall, a crowd of black ships.

The King of the White Isles said, ‘We go straight to Morr Town. Land at harbour.’

Lord Bemann said, ‘They’ll be waiting for us. Closed the harbour. Have ships out. We need to land in the wilds, come to Malth Elelane overland. Somewhere they can’t predict.’

The King of the White Isles said, ‘I am their king. I am Lord of Malth Elelane. I will not creep into my own home. Morr Town will open her gates and her harbour to me gladly.’

Lord Fiolt said, ‘My Lord King … Malth Elelane is indeed yours. But …’

Lord Stansel said, ‘What he means, My Lord King, is that sailing straight into Morr Bay would be … unwise.’

Lord Fiolt said, ‘What I mean, Marith, is that sailing straight into Morr Bay would be suicide.’

The King of the White Isles said, ‘Malth Elelane is mine. Morr Town is mine. She will open her gates and her harbour to me. She will.’

Swords ready. The sound of the waves slapping against the hull. Drumming. Gulls.

Oh fuck, Tobias thought, watching the line of ships grow nearer.

Tiothlyn’s ships were moving towards them, the same black ships with red painted staring eyes. The drums coming up from them also, the same dull beat to keep the oarsmen steady, loud over the water calling the oarsmen to their work. The only sound they could hear in the world. The dark water between the two lines narrowed. Trumpets began to blow in the ships and on the shore. Trying to frighten the other side off. But there was nowhere for either other side to go. The town, and the cliffs, and the sea. In the sea things were beginning to move and surface, drawn by the drums.

‘Archers: draw!’

‘Archers: loose!’

A flurry of arrows from the leading ships. Beautiful, like the shuttle of a loom. But too early: they fell short, floating on the water, bobbing on the waves. Tiothlyn’s men jeered. We meant that to happen, we’re just doing this to taunt them. Aren’t we? The figure of the king standing in the prow of the first ship with the sunlight on his silver crown. He is death. He is ruin. He is Amrath reborn. He will be victorious. The dead body of the luck horse, the sky’s offering, hangs from the mast as a sign. The enemy’s ships are fewer. Weaker. Bloody glorious. Bloody victorious. Kill and kill and kill until the water heaves with bleeding. Kill them all! But the arrows float on the water, bobbing on the waves. Sticks. Long green fingers reached and pulled one under, snapped it. Flaccid fucking sticks. We meant to do that. Miss everyone. Didn’t we?

An enemy arrow clattered onto the deck of Tobias’s ship. Hissing. Burning. Green. Fire. Green tendrils rushing across the planks, scouring channels as they went.