Snowbrother

by S. M. Stirling

  The Adept found a corner that should be sheltered from any wind, dug a clear space, spread a pelt, and watched with calm approval as Narritanni oversaw the band. No fire was kindled where it could be seen from any distance, and careful watch was posted; he was glad to see that his folk were not placing undue reliance on his skills. That would be a dangerous crutch. Narritanni slid up to Leafturn's resting place, kicked his boots out of the ski loops, and braced the skis upright on the poles. One of the volunteers brought them both wooden bowls of oatmeal laced with maple sugar, dried fruit, and nuts. They pulled horn spoons from their belt pouches and ate with the silent intensity of those who had worked long and hard in bitter cold. The Minztan commander threw back the hood of his winter jacket and turned his face to the sky.

  "My thanks," he said, with the flakes catching on his cropped yellow beard. "I was surprised you suggested this place; I thought the Old Ones' makings were the death of magic. All the iron."

  The Adept scrubbed out his bowl with snow, filled it again, and leaned it near their fire to melt. "The snow's taking care of itself," he said easily. "It just needed a little push. Plenty of wet in the air, wind from the east… snow weather for the next week, I should think."

  Narritanni drew his sword and considered the edge. It was a double-bladed weapon, as long as his leg from mid-thigh to foot; the guard was a steel strip with a ring welded on. After a moment he decided against honing. It would never do to oversharpen; you could thread the edge or wear past the strip of hard steel welded onto the core. He took out two small flasks and began to coat the blade with a dull-colored liquid from one.

  The Adept continued, "As for the iron…" He spread his hands and closed his eyes for a moment. "Less trouble than you might think; most of this place was plain brick or wood, not steel-rod-in-stone. It would be a problem if I had to do anything active, but a passive watching is all I need. The Eater, now, he'll be handicapped; anything he does will go against the grain. I doubt he could touch us here."

  Narritanni smiled; that was good to know. Also that the Wise Man was intelligent as well. The two talents did not necessarily go together.

  Leafturn sensed his thought. "Some of my… colleagues make too much of the Mysteries," he said. "We're no more immune to self-importance than most humans." He chuckled. The war leader noticed again how the ageless face seemed younger when it laughed. Odd, because that showed the fine network of lines that grooved it, through the roughened woodsrunner texture of the skin.

  "For that matter," the Adept went on, "the worldheart is made of iron."

  He smiled at the other's surprise. "Not a useful piece of knowledge, but we can… feel the influence. It shields the earth from the things-beyond, the dwellers in the Dark Between, and it's not strong enough to hamper the Wreaking." He glanced around. "And here, it's the Pattern that hinders."

  "I thought Wreaking moved with the Harmony," Narritanni answered. He himself knew little of such matters, less even than the average uninitiate, since he had spent so much time among outlanders. It was rare for an Adept to say so much, and he did not intend to lose the opportunity for knowledge.

  "Yes, but…" The Adept paused, musing. "It's a matter of dispute, whether the world was different then, or the folk." His hands moved in circles. "We perceive the world, and our seeing shapes it. The Old Way was against all magic—they wouldn't have built buildings that were cages of cold iron if it wasn't!— and the… world-seeing sank into everything they made. I can feel it here, faint, still locked into the patterns of their makings. Crumble the stone, reshape the iron, and the Pattern becomes ours; wind and weather and rain will do it, more slowly. Which shows how alien the Old Ones were to the Harmony of all that lives…"

  A companionable silence followed, until Narritanni. less comfortable without words, spoke.

  "So, what can we await from the Eater, once we're closer?"

  "Not much," Leafturn said. "Nor the Kommanza from me, with him there. He's likely to be more skilled in war-wreaking and such vileness, but the Otherworld here will work for me, so—" The Adept's words cut off like a knife.

  Alarmed, Narritanni watched his pupils flare, then shrink to pinpoints. In a single smooth movement Leafturn came erect, wheeled to face the west, and stood tree-still. At last he shook himself, strode to the nearest cookfire, and fetched back another bowl of porridge and a mug of sweetened herb tea.

  He ate quickly. "I'll not be staying here in camp this night," he said.

  "What—what happened?" Narritanni asked. It would be very bad for morale if the Adept began acting strangely… and even on short acquaintance he was sure that this Adept did not start at shadows.

  "I don't know," the Adept answered.

  Already, the friendly fellow traveler was changing into something remote, ungraspable. Narritanni felt the Adept's withdrawal from matters physical, like an adult who leaves the games of children when serious business calls.

  "Something… stirred. Something monstrous, and I was so clever I put myself in the one spot for a month's travel where I could not See clearly. I'll be walking the woods tonight; the body needs fuel, when you push beyond the natural limits. Nothing for nothing. And he was gone.

  His second joined Narritanni by the fire. "What's bothering him?" she asked as she settled in by the flickering light. "I saw him going by as if the Bent One was on his trail, then he… faded."

  He shrugged. "Something about a threat. Circle give thanks I'm a practical man and no more Harmonious than most; it makes for fewer worries. No trouble; we're well outside the line of the Kommanz scout screen, and I doubt he'd be in much danger even if we weren't."

  "No change in plan?"

  "No. We need more information on their route and strength before we do detailed contingency calculations."

  She was silent for a moment. "Thought you might be interested in this," she said.

  He took the object she offered: it was a beautifully-made spearhead of glass, pressure-flaked and notched at the base for binding into a spearshaft. The glass itself was unfamiliar, green and very clear. Fragments of binding showed around the notches, a peculiar cord like nothing he had ever seen before, not woven at all. Some Minztans used stone points; they were cheaper than iron and required less care. More of their cousins among the wandering hunting tribes of the north did so. Neither could have made this; they ground and polished stone tools rather than flaking them, and the style was wrong.

  "It was in the heart of a dead tree some of the volunteers broke up for firewood," she said. "Stone-maple—an old stump, growing out of the ruins."

  "Not of the Old Times," he said; they would have used metal, long since rusted away—or reforged, even if it were of the peculiar steel that did not rust.

  "No, but I think that's Ancient glass," she said.

  Narritanni shivered slightly, turning it over in his hands. Plastic, the bindings must be. Perhaps the spearhead was made by some of the first ancestors of the Minztan folk… How long? he wondered. Time enough for the Ancients to vanish out of the memories of peoples less past-bound than his; time enough to redevelop the art of flaking stone in a world where metal was scarce, but where Ancient glass and plastic could still be salvaged. Then to be discarded, for a great tree to grow around it, and die, and wait uncounted years to be found. He shivered again, more deeply. How many peoples had washed over this borderland? He turned the blade again, firelight catching glints off it. Three tens of centuries…

  He yawned deliberately and slipped into his bag. "Wake me at third watch."

  8

  It was after sunset when the Kommanza gathered in the largest kinhall. Most heat and light came from the cunning Minztan stoves and lanterns, but a log-fed blaze crackled and boomed under a center-set smokehood. That fire cast unrestful shadows on the ranked figures around the walls, gleaming off polished silver and fine fabric; tonight they came dressed in the best they had brought along, and the pick of the loot. Even the poorest had a gilt armlet or string of colored beads; the wealthi
er were gaudy with plaited headbands, embroidered blouse-tunics, belts and boots of tooled and studded leather, massive necklaces of silver and turquoise. Every Kommanza was there to garner a share of the luck and holiness; only the posted sentries and unfledged youngsters brought along to do squire service were absent.

  More silent than was their wont, the Stonefort war-band waited. They were unarmed, not even carrying the belt knives that were as much tool as weapon; to bring iron would displease the Mighty Ones. This was a stark people, who saw their gods in their own image: quick to anger, implacable in revenge, jealous of privilege. Gods greedy for sacrifice, demanding fear and awe rather than love.

  Around the circle of their ranks the shaman danced. He was naked, save for headdress, loincloth, and the rattles strapped to wrists and ankles. Bright paint daubed patterns over his body; the drum tapped patterns under the sound of a bullroarer that he whirled around his head. At the last, he took a bowl from the hands of his unwilling and temporary acolyte and passed it to each of the warriors; the herbs were the jealously guarded secret of his guild, prepared in solitude, tasting harsh and burned. The dregs were thrown on the fire, and a hush of expectation settled over the throng.

  Shkai'ra could hear the harsh rustle of their breath as she entered the hall, and the sound of the shaman's rattles and low chanting: Ahea-hea-he-he-he… Pausing at the gate, she shrugged out of her robe and stood naked save for her headband. A chant started as she paced by, low-toned, in a dialect so archaic that only one trained could have given the true meaning. Behind her came the three closest to her in rank; they led a horse between them. It was a shaggy little forest pony, not one of their tall rawboned steppe-chargers, and its eyes were already glassy with the drugs that ensured no ill-omened struggle would occur. This was no great sacrifice such as folk made on the prairie at the four Year Turnings. Then, each of the gods got the offering most pleasing: sheep for Jaiwun, hounds for Zailo, horses for Baiwun. Zaik Godlord was last and greatest, Begetter of Victories, and for that one only humans were enough. Here the pony would do for all, and they would join in the rites pleasing to the whole kinfast of the Sundwellers.

  Across her palms Shkai'ra bore a spear. It was made to a pattern that had been sacred since memory faded into legend: a two-meter length of hardwood dark with age, tipped by a narrow steel head graven with symbols of power. The original of that weapon had been a bayonet lashed to a pole; lives without number it had drunk, and through her hands she could feel the numinous awe of the thing, an aura of blood and fear and godhood. Now she was priest and Chief in one, and the Carrying was on her. At the fire's edge she swept the spear through an intricate pattern and thrust it upward. The chant rose to a shout and ceased, as if cut off with a knife, but from somewhere she could feel the straining tension of her followers' fear and adoration and hopelessness.

  Aloud she shouted, "Ztrateke ahkomman!"

  The rolling voices of the warband answered: "Gods of Sky, of Storm, of War!"

  The ceremony continued in a rhythmic pattern of statement and response.

  "Ward the folk! From the Zoweitz of the Dark, Zaik Godlord deliver us!"

  The first of the praise-names answered: '"You of Might! Victorious!"

  Zaik, remote and terrible, god of warriors and chieftains, overlord of the battlefield and winnower of the slain. All would go and face that One to be judged before their next life.

  "Baiwun Thunderer! Seek out the foe!"

  "You of Terror! Avenger!" That came raggedly. Of all things, lightning was the most terrible to these dwellers on the empty plains. The heavenfire sought out oathbreakers, hated of the Avenger of Honor; likewise the clean flame was a barrier to all evil magic and creatures of the dark.

  "Zailo Unseen!" Shkai'ra's body was sweat-slick and gleaming in the firelight, eyes dilated and staring sightless at a vision beyond the rafters. "From sickness, from drought, from feud and kinstrife protect!"

  "You of Earth! Shield! Protector!" Not the god most dear to these wild and reckless youngsters, mostly still single, but worthy of respect still.

  "Jaiwun Allmate! Send cattle, send grain, send children! Give pleasure, keep holy the kinfast bond!"

  "You of Blood! Fruitful!"

  Every Kommanza brought a booted heel crashing down and clapped clenched fists together. Fear struggled with awe on every face, for by their beliefs now the Mighty Ones came. Only freeborn Kommanza of warrior age could witness these rites, and only the god-begotten ofzarz, the Chiefkin, could lead them. All through the Zekz Kommanza, the Six Realms, this ritual held. From distant Kai-Gara under the Westwall range, through Paizrav, Rh'eginz, Maintab, their own Grantor down to southerly Ihway, it was the same, cementing the world of humans with the World Beyond the World.

  All watched anxiously. The slightest misstep could signal the worst of luck, enemy attack, drought, sickness, hostile spirits breaking free. But tonight nothing went amiss. Far otherwise. Shkai'ra threw back her head and sought.

  You Above, she prayed silently. Take what I offer. Blood and slaying, cunning and craft and powerhunger, all these are pleasing to You. Sweet incense rising to the Sun. All these I bring to You, whose blood is mine. Give me then what I desire: protection to these my people, to me victory and undying fame!

  Then suddenly PAIN. The pain lasted forever, and less time than she could grasp.

  COLD.

  There had never been warmth. She was blind in a universe of torment, yet she could perceive as never before, raw data pouring through a nervous system never designed for such overload: highhigh-earth-curves-energyflowsthroughairiseepastfuturebranching-maybemaynotselfspreadearthdeathskydarkness-sunstarscalllngtouchingdown

  intohazywet…

  For a moment she saw herself from an impossible perspective: a long blurred worm of potentials, possibilities, narrowing from the future/past to a single hard definite now that was the fixing gaze of the creature humans had called a god. And she felt with emotions too vast and wild for human nerves; amusement, need, pleasure, they were the faintest and most misleading analogues.

  She felt decision.

  And was herself; boards beneath her feet, smooth wood in her hands, the bent neck of the Sacrifice before her. Impossible memories fled from consciousness more swiftly than the mists of dream.

  In a corner Walks-with-Demons stood, mind unshielded, arms and legs making a tau-cross that barred the place of sacredness from spirit presences. Almost, he screamed aloud at the sudden wrenching torment, worse than any he had known in the shattering ordeals of his training. Only that training kept him erect. He knew what this meant, knew from old legend among his kind what this presence was. Without names such as the common ruck used, for names were human, and this… Was. He willed unbeing on himself, far from that single Eye.

  Across forty kilometers that was no distance at all the Wise Man sprang erect at the tearing of the Veil. The shock ran through world and Otherworld, as a thing alien to both reached downward, vastness narrowing to a point finer than a hair, stretching from a blazing energy that was cold with a coldness that made this winter's night like a crackling fire. Time and possibility twisted, stirred, then settled back as the Presence withdrew. Knowledge faded from his mind, but not wholly. Vaguely, faintly, he could sense the turning of the earthlines, and laughter. A hunger and cruelty vaster than worlds.

  "Steel Spirit, Horse Spirit," Shkai'ra chanted. "Bring our offering to the Mighty Ones."

  Turning, she leveled the spear and thrust hard and swift, with a huff! of expelled air. The helpers turned the sacrifice's neck, and the bright steel went in to withdraw red-black. The shoulders of the blade severed jugular and windpipe as she twisted; the drugged animal gave a single heave before sinking to its knees. Blood spurted into a bowl of soapstone, red and steaming. Ritually she touched the bloody steel to brow, breasts, and loins. Then the horse was butchered: the severed head would be impaled on the spear to preside over the feast to come, the entrails left out for the scavenging beasts that were the Eyes of Zaik, t
he flesh roasted and eaten.

  Handing over the spear, she took the bowl and poured down a long salty-pungent draft. Raising it on high she shouted:

  "See the sacrifice! O you who will in the end devour the world, you have given us victory! So shall we put our boots on the necks of all the peoples!"

  The carved soapstone vessel passed from hand to hand as each dipped a finger to mark his forehead and touched lips to the cooling redness. With that, the formal part of the ceremony was over. Now they would be glad to show their thankfulness to their gods.

  The Stonefort warriors sprawled about as the new slaves came in bearing smoking platters. There was food in plenty, albeit less wheat bread and beef than they would have liked. But there were roast pigs hacked into savory heaps, venison, bear meat, eggs, sausage heavy with garlic and herbs, milk, cheese, blood puddings, onions, broth, great loaves of fresh ryebread, potatoes and turnips and sauerkraut and dried fruit and nuts. And drink-barrels of honey-mead and good Minztan whiskey, a few kegs of southland wine, even some of their own fiery-clear Kommanz lifewater. Joyous, the clamor lifted to the rafters. This was a time to let down the barriers a warrior normally had to maintain, when words could be spoken that otherwise would end in deathfeud. Talk, song, japes were swapped back and forth; here two rose for a friendly wrestle; there half a dozen were playing ban-nak, the knife game, taking turns to see who could stab a blade most rapidly between the spread fingers of one hand. These were youngsters, on their first warfaring in the outlands; they meant to make the most of it.