Forging the Runes

by Josepha Sherman

  There were some insulted grumbles at that, but no real challenges. Thorkell waited a moment, then nodded. "Repairing the Sea Raven comes before even the smallest of raids. Is that understood? No raids till the ship is repaired! Well?" he added sharply. "This is your last chance. Anyone want to argue? Anyone?"

  No. The Lochlannach stirred uneasily, but not a one of them said a word. Thorkell strode up and down the beach like a stallion challenging colts, staring at them, making sure, Ardagh thought, that he had them properly cowed, then ended up at the prince's side.

  "All right, then," the jarl said, satisfied. "Besides," he added more cheerfully, "there's no need to be in such a rush. We have an ally none other can claim." His dramatic gesture swept over Ardagh. "We have none other than the Power of the Ljos Alfar behind us!"

  Ragged cheers.

  "So now," Thorkell concluded curtly, "get to work."

  With a sly little inward smile, Ardagh thought that the delay involved in repairing the Sea Raven should give him just enough time to do some serious talking with Einar the self-styled scald.

  Which, as it turned out, was almost ridiculously easy to arrange. The youngster was, by unspoken consent, relieved from ship repairs so that he could keep the magical guest entertained.

  And keep said magical guest from even thinking about trying to leave.

  Einar, predictably, would much rather have sung his poems to this new and exotic audience than discuss anything as old-fashioned as runic magics. Fortunately, the prince thought as the day wore on, the youngster, despite his lack of any innate magic, really did have a sizeable fund of runic information—as well as, equally fortunately, a passably good voice and quite a clever talent for rhyme and meter.

  Even if most of the time I haven't the vaguest idea of what he's saying or rather, what he means. These folk delight in plays on words . . . what do they call it? Kenning? "The sweat of the sword" for blood and such. Not, he admitted, that Sidhe poetry was so free from intricate double and even triple meanings.

  Cadwal was listening to all this as well, or at least pretending to listen. Ardagh and he had secretly agreed that this extra audience made any discussion of rune-spells look more like casual interest and less like anything suspicious. The prince could feel Cadwal's boredom so strongly that it was almost a tangible presence, but the mercenary sat listening with a rigidly polite smile to what to him, with his knowledge of the Saxon tongue but not that of the Lochlannach, must have been barely understandable.

  Of course he's polite. Cadwal's part of Aedh's court. He's used to being politic no matter what!

  Ardagh wasn't feeling much happier. He had cast his Language Spell yet again on himself, this time as a magical means of accelerating learning. The spell wasn't totally adaptable to such a use, which meant that he was struggling with a low-level but persistent headache.

  "And so," he said, ignoring the nagging little pain, "the runes, if they're to be used magically, must be cut on willow staves?"

  "Oh no," Einar corrected earnestly. "They can be of bone, like these, or wood, or—or almost anything so long as they're carved by the runecaster himself."

  I see." The prince waited patiently till Einar had finished a particularly obscure tale of a Lochlannach rune-caster, then added, "And this rune, what is this?"

  "That's Algiz. It's a sort of protection rune. You use it to invoke the deities' aid, north, south, east, west—you know."

  "Like a Warding."

  "Uh, yes, I suppose so. It's the sort of thing that a runecaster would use in self-defense, according to the stories. And it's supposed to be really useful against . . . I don't know what the proper term is . . . against magic recoiling on the caster."

  "A magical backlash, you mean."

  "Yes. It protects against that."

  "Does it?" Ardagh said with a smile. "How very interesting. Algiz." Welcome to my memory, Algiz. I think I'll find you most useful. "Go on, Einar. This is quite fascinating. What else can you tell me?"

  The slow hours passed, day into night, and Ardagh continued to take what information he could from the delighted, flattered youngster. It was complicated enough, with no guarantee of accuracy save for his own instinctive little shock of magical recognition with each new rune. But each rune had its literal meaning, its symbolic meaning, its magical meaning—complicated, indeed. He couldn't even be totally sure, not without a chance to test this new learning, that Einar was telling him enough to make it of any practical use.

  And there was a limit to what could be absorbed, even with the aid of magic. That night, while the Lochlannach talked and joked about what they'd accomplished, the prince slept and heard not a word.

  But the runes were there in his mind when he woke, midway through the next day, and with them, a rudimentary understanding of their use. No easy achievement to comprehend even this much, the prince thought with a touch of pride; to truly understand a magical system, one needed to understand the culture that had discovered it, and he could hardly claim to be an expert on the minds and ways of thinking of either Saxons or Lochlannach, let alone to be on speaking terms with the multitude of the latter people's deities.

  But I don't need a thorough understanding of either people or their names for the Powers-That-Be to make use of the basic techniques of defense. And attack.

  What it was, Ardagh realized, was that as far as he—a Sidhe, a member of an innately magical race—was concerned, the runes, the whole . . . what was the word? . . . the whole futhark served to crystallize certain aspects of Existence. This might not be true for humans as well, but the runes were, for him at least, a means to focus his Power in new ways. Being of the Sidhe, of course, also meant that he could absorb meanings and methods and sort them out in his mind with far greater speed than could any human.

  It will be interesting to see if these methods still function in my—in the Sidhe Realm.

  No. This path of thought was too depressing. Better to concentrate on the here-and-now and see what else could be gleaned from Einar's mind. Better to see if he could, at last, learn enough to combat Osmod. If he couldn't return to his true home, Ardagh told himself, he could at least try to insure the safety of his human sanctuary.

  And, he thought with a little shiver of longing, of his love.

  Ae, Sorcha, Sorcha, human lives are so short, human emotions run their course so swiftly. Do you still love me, my love? Do you even still remember me?

  Human emotions, Osmod mused, were so quick to rouse. So easy to shape. He listened to Ealdorman Cuthred as though truly interested in the plain-faced, plainly dressed man's piteous tale of dishonest servants.

  Honest, indeed, our Cuthred, totally, utterly. And totally, utterly dull.

  Yet Osmod listened, and every now and then delicately inserted a word, a touch of will, an implication that wasn't quite there that this dishonesty was linked. This dishonesty was part of a plan.

  "What plan?" Cuthred said suspiciously.

  "Oh, nothing overt, of course. But," Osmod let his voice drop ever so slightly, "I've noted certain signs myself. How better to demoralize a land than to start with its nobility? Nothing overt, as I saw, just small things. Suspicious things. Like that servant of yours— what's his name?"

  "The one who stole some coins? Edric. But a few coins—"

  "Exactly. Just a few coins. Just a few bolts of inferior cloth or a few ears of spoiled wheat."

  A little more will, now, a touch more Power.

  "B-but who would be behind such a plot?" Cuthred asked.

  Ah, I have you now. "Why, who do you think?" Osmod murmured, and smiled to himself to hear the whispered:

  "Mercia."

  "Good day, ealdorman," Osmod said, and moved on. One swayed; dozens more to go.

  "Ah, there you are, ealdorman."

  Osmod, whose thoughts had been elsewhere—he'd only been able to speak with a few of the Witan, not nearly enough and yet he was already weary—just barely kept from starting, bowing and smiling charmingly instead. "King
Egbert. What would you, my liege?"

  "Come, Osmod. Walk with me a bit."

  Do you really think I'd argue? "Of course."

  They strolled about the royal enclosure for a time, the king, and therefore Osmod, silent, as casual as though neither had a thing on their minds other than the nice, warm summer day. And then Egbert said suddenly, "Why are you so sure we must attack Mercia?"

  Osmod raised a startled brow. "Are you not?" he asked, pretending great daring.

  "Oh, eventually," the king began, then cut himself off abruptly, as though he'd already said more than he'd planned.

  And so you have, Osmod thought, pleased, and that means my hold over you is returning nicely. "Why, then—"

  "But why now, Osmod? Why so soon?"

  "The assassin—"

  "May or may not have come from Mercia, may or may not have come from Eriu—may or may not have come from far Cathay for all we know."

  "My liege, please." Osmod stopped, turning to face the king with his most winning of smiles. "We both know that the assassin's origin or hiring—"

  "Or even if he was, indeed, an assassin."

  "Well yes, of course, that, too. But we both know that's not truly the issue."

  Egbert snorted and started forward again. "No more than Lord Paris's stealing of Queen Helen was the true issue behind the Trojan War—yes, yes, I learned that tale at Charlemagne's court. But those antique kings were secure upon their thrones, rulers of many years. I am neither. Why risk all now?"

  Why? Because I wasted sixteen years of Beortric's dull reign? Because I grow impatient for power and Power both? But he could say nothing of that to the king. Instead Osmod smiled and sighed and lowered his head. "Perhaps I have been too hasty, my liege." Perhaps my hold over you isn't as strong yet as it needs to be. "Perhaps I . . ."

  "What."

  "No, my liege, I—I . . . dare not."

  "Don't play games, ealdorman. Say what you would or say nothing."

  "Ah. It's just . . . King Offa was a mighty ruler—"

  "Granted. King Offa is also dead."

  "Yes, but the by-now Emperor Charlemagne is not. And we both know that he and the late king were allies."

  "Which he is not with Offa's successor."

  "Not yet."

  "King Cenwulf is hardly the mighty Offa."

  "No, of course not. But that's not stopping him from eyeing Essex and Kent hungrily."

  "Let him. Even if Mercia engulfs them both, I still have enough might to engulf Mercia in turn. But only if I am left alone long enough to win Wessex to me!"

  Osmod said nothing. And after a time, Egbert stopped once more. "Look you, do you think I learned nothing in my years at Charlemagne's court? I had more than sufficient time to study how an empire should be forged, how it can be worked together out of all those small and independent units into a successful whole."

  "That was done in Frankish lands," Osmod murmured.

  Egbert glared. "And can be done here as well."

  But then the king caught himself again. "The future is the future," he said flatly. "And no man can claim to read it well."

  Not even me, Osmod agreed. But you admit ambition, Egbert, you admit it secretly to me alone. You trust me as far as a king can trust, and suspect nothing. And with that, my liege, I am, just now, content.

  Just now. There was the Witan to continue to rouse, man by man; the more murmured hatred against Mercia—rather than some quick to burn, quick to fade flame of outrage—the more likely genuine action would be taken. Mercia meant Kent and Essex, indeed most of Britain in a neat little fall of kingdoms. And then . . . oh, no limit to that "and then."

  As Osmod bowed and watched his king walk away, he smiled a thin little smile.

  I should never have wasted myself on petty sacrifices. Whores. Children. Bah, no wonder I squandered so much time. Killing someone as strong as Octa was the wisest move I ever could have made. And if I'm careful, his strength should stay with me as long as I need it.

  Of course, there was still Prince Ardagh to consider. But Prince Ardagh, if the runic readings continued to be as they were, was far from here, not a threat.

  Yet.

  But I know the limits of his Power. He cannot harm me; I've already seen proof of that.

  "And threats," Osmod murmured, amused at his own melodramatics, "can always be . . . removed."

  Storm Warnings

  Chapter 32

  Ardagh stretched wearily. By the end of this, the third day after the Lochlannach shipwreck, the work on the steering oar was nearly complete, the weather had stayed dry, the Lochlannach had hunted and fished without seeing a sign of humanity or a clue as to their exact location, and the prince had gathered more runes to his memory than he would ever have imagined possible.

  The accompanying, almost never-ending headache he considered a reasonable exchange.

  "Time for us to return to Wessex," he murmured to Cadwal.

  The mercenary snorted. "Wonderful choice: Stay with these barbarians or return to the Saesneg." But then he added quite seriously, "Are you ready for this?"

  "To take on Osmod, you mean? I don't know. In fact, the only way I will know is if I succeed."

  "No disrespect meant, but—Iesu, you don't give a man much assurance."

  "What do you want of me, Cadwal? I cannot lie. And I never have understood the human yearning for false hope."

  "I'm not yearning for false hope," the mercenary countered. "Just a little bit of the real thing. We're on an island; can't get off unless it's in company with the Lochlannach."

  "Oh? What about the villages the scouts sighted?"

  "You can't be meaning to walk right into the market square and say, "Here I am, fresh off a raiders' ship'?"

  "Hardly. But if the two of us can't steal away from these folk and past those others . . ."

  "There's something very wrong." Cadwal grinned. "Tonight, eh?"

  "Tonight," Ardagh agreed. "It's time for the 'Ljos Alfar' to up and disappear."

  No way to try his newly won knowledge, not until he could carve the runes. But the night was conveniently dark, lit only by the faint, distant glow of starlight, and Ardagh moved silently out of the Lochlannach camp as easily as ever he'd slipped unseen through the royal fortress of Fremainn, even with the burden of one of the Lochlannach's leather water sacks slung over his back, closely followed by Cadwal, guided by the prince's hand on his arm. Cadwal, too, had a sack slung over his back, this one containing some dried meat and fish. It was not, they'd both wryly agreed, true theft; the Lochlannach could find more than enough fresh supplies to replace what they took.

  They're going to think this a magical disappearance, Ardagh thought with a grin, just as I threatened to Thorkell. Put the fear of the Ljos Alfar into them. Keep them, I trust, from trying to find me again. Ever.

  "That way," Ardagh said in the mercenary's ear. "Follow the coastline."

  It wasn't a difficult walk for the most part, not even for Cadwal, for whom the night must have been exceedingly dark, the only real handicap being the need for silence, first to avoid the Lochlannach, then to avoid the villagers. Ardagh paused, considering. Low stone huts, roofs shingled with tile, and a definite smell of new and old fish over all. Good. A fishing village was certain to have the boat they needed.

  Yes. There it was, drawn up the beach: one-masted and small enough to be managed easily by two men. Ah, and whatever human owned it was trusting enough to leave the oars aboard.

  Cadwal grunted. "I might have known there'd be another boat involved. We're never going to get that launched silently."

  "No, we're not."

  "And if they have dogs, they're going to be barking their heads off any moment now."

  "So they are."

  Silence.

  "Any idea," the mercenary asked, "how we're going to do this?"

  "Yes . . ." Ardagh said slowly. "Ha, yes." He glanced at Cadwal. "Do you think that you can launch that boat by yourself?"

  Cadwal shr
ugged. "Never tried it before, but yes, I'd guess so, if given enough of a diversion for cover."

  "That," Ardagh said with a grin, "is my job."

  The prince laughed soundlessly in the darkness. It was turning out to be remarkably easy to make an amazing amount of noise without being caught—easy if one had flawless night-vision and could move quickly and quietly enough.

  "Here!" he shouted roughly. "You and you, come in this way!" Darting off to a new location, Ardagh yelled in a deeper voice, "No, idiot! No fire arrows, not yet!" And at still another spot, "Attack! Attack!"

  One of the oldest tricks in the tales—but by all the Powers, it's working!

  Ah yes, here they came, a whole swarm of alarmed, determined humans, spears and knives gripped in their hands, grim anger in their eyes. Ardagh roused the entire village before he was done, sending them off in every direction save the beach.

  No time to waste in this hoax. They'd be realizing the trick soon enough, particularly since yes, they did have dogs who would be picking up his intriguing Sidhe scent soon enough. With a last shout of "They've seen us!" Ardagh raced silently back to the beach.

  Cadwal, swearing under his breath, was struggling with the boat. Ardagh joined him, and together they shoved it into the waves and scrambled aboard. At the prince's hastily gestured commands, Cadwal grabbed the oars, clumsily rowing them further out while Ardagh struggled with the lines to unfurl the sail, fighting to remember long-ago days in the Sidhe Realm when he'd actually tried his hand at sailing, and done a fairly good job of it, too—

  Ha, yes, here toe go!

  The unfurled sail caught a sudden gust of wind. Ardagh gestured hastily to Cadwal to ship the oars, wincing as the mercenary splashed them both, then grinned as the boat obediently dashed over the waves, light as a bird.