Half a King

“He did,” murmured his minister.

“Then … this crippled pup is truly Yarvi, son of Uthrik and Laithlin, the rightful king of Gettland?”

“So it would appear.”

“It’s true?” croaked Rulf.

“It’s true,” breathed Sumael.

Gorm was busy laughing. “Then this has been my best hunting trip in many long years! Send a bird, Mother Scaer, and find out what King Odem will pay us for the return of his wayward nephew.” The King of Vansterland began to turn away.

Yarvi stopped him with a snort. “The great and terrible Grom-gil-Gorm! In Gettland they call you a madman, drunk on blood. In Throvenland they call you a savage king of a savage land. In Skekenhouse, in the elf-built halls of the High King … why, there you hardly warrant mention.”

Yarvi heard Rulf give a worried grunt, the captain growling with suppressed fury, but Gorm only stroked thoughtfully at his beard. “If you aim to flatter me you miss the mark. Your point?”

“Would you prove them right, and make so small a profit from the golden chance the gods have sent you?”

The King of Vansterland raised a brow at his minister. “My ears are open to greater gains.”

Sell them what they want, Yarvi’s mother always said, not what you have. “Every spring you gather your warriors and raid across the border into Gettland.”

“It has been known.”

“And this spring?”

Gorm pursed his lips. “A small jaunt perhaps. Mother War demands vengeance for your uncle’s outrages at Amwend.”

Yarvi thought it best not to point out that he had been king at the start of those outrages if not their end. “All I ask is that you push a little further this year. All the way to the walls of Thorlby itself.”

Mother Scaer hissed her disgust. “Only that?”

But Gorm’s curiosity was tickled. “What would I gain for granting such a favor?”

Proud men like Yarvi’s dead father, and his murdered brother, and his drowned Uncle Uthil, would no doubt have spat their last breath in Grom-gil-Gorm’s face rather than sought his help. But Yarvi had no pride. It had been shamed out of him by his father. Tricked out of him by Odem. Beaten out of him on the South Wind. Frozen out of him in the wasteland.

He had been kneeling all his life, to kneel a little longer was no hardship.

“Help me take back my throne, Grom-gil-Gorm, and I shall kneel in Odem’s blood before you as King of Gettland, your vassal and subject.”

Nothing leaned close, hissing angrily through clenched teeth, “Too high a price!”

Yarvi ignored him. “Uthil, Uthrik and Odem. The brothers that have been your great enemies shall all three be gone through the Last Door and around the Shattered Sea you shall stand second in power only to the High King himself. Perhaps … in time … higher yet.”

The more powerful a man is, Mother Gundring always used to say, the more he craves power.

Gorm’s voice was slightly hoarse. “That would be a fine thing.”

“A fine thing indeed,” agreed Mother Scaer, her eyes narrower than ever as she glared at Yarvi. “If it could be managed.”

“Only give me and my companions passage to Thorlby and I will make the attempt.”

“They are strange retainers you have gathered,” said Mother Scaer, eyeing them without enthusiasm.

“Strange circumstances demand them.”

“Who is this crooked creature?” asked Gorm. The others were wisely looking to the ground, but Nothing stared back unbowed, bright eyes burning.

“I am a proud Gettlander.”

“Ah, one of those.” Gorm smiled. “Up here we prefer our Gettlanders shamed and bloody.”

“Pay him no mind, my king. He is Nothing.” And Yarvi brought Gorm’s eyes back to his with the honeyed tone his mother used to use, for men of violence thrive on rage but know not what to do with reason and good sense. “If I fail, you’ll still have the plunder taken on your march south.”

Nothing growled his disgust, and small wonder. The towns of Gettland burning, the land ravaged, the people driven off or made slaves. Yarvi’s land and Yarvi’s people, but he was too deep in the mire now to return. The only way out was through, and to drown in the attempt or rise filthy but breathing on the other side. To take back the Black Chair he needed an army, and Mother War now placed their swords in his withered hand. Or their boots on his scarred neck, at least.

“You have all to gain,” he coaxed, softly, softly, “nothing to lose.”

“There is the High King’s favor,” said Mother Scaer. “He has commanded that there be no war until his temple is finished-”

“There was a time Grandmother Wexen’s eagles brought requests.” Gorm’s sing-song voice held a note of anger now. “Then they brought demands. Now she sends commands. Where does it end, Mother Scaer?”

His minister spoke softly. “The High King has the Lowlanders and most of the Inglings praying to his One God now, ready to fight and die at his order-”

“And does the High King rule Vansterland too?” scoffed Yarvi. “Or does Grom-gil-Gorm?”

Mother Scaer’s lip wrinkled. “Don’t play too close to the fire, boy. We all answer to someone.”