The Best Science Fiction and Fantasy of the Year: Volume Eight (Best SF & Fantasy of the Year)

by Jonathan Strahan

  For so long, it had been one bone after another, like a bridge he could walk on from one day to the next. Now that there were no more bones, there was only the front, coming to find him.

  His throat closed and he touched the plastic bin, breathing in the memory. After so long handling bones the vision was distant and muted, but the memory was there: Alvarez and a team of strangers, sweating under the hot sun and the hot blue sky, digging side by side with some army men in a dry gully rimmed with trees. Far from assuaging his loneliness it seemed to underscore how large the country was, how far these bones had come, how far the rebels were marching to find them and kill them, how far Alvarez had been sent away. He pulled back his hand.

  Night was coming round toward morning, but he didn't want to sleep, for all his fatigue. "Conte!" he called. He was in the mood to accept one of the man's concoctions of coffee and cheap alcohol. Perhaps to talk about when the rebels would arrive. "Conte, are you still awake?"

  No answer. Benine leaned back and stretched his arms behind his head. Under his shirt, the unfamiliar weight of the tags shifted on his chest.

  His hand went to them.

  He hesitated a moment, eyes on the indistinct darkness on the other side of the lantern. He wanted to stay there, suspended in the moment between impulse and action. Neither thinking of them, nor not. Then he pulled the tags free of his shirt and turned them to the light.

  The tags Alvarez had given him were such small things, the shine of their metal not yet dulled. His name was stamped there, in one sense indelibly: because here it was, if anyone chose that moment to look for them. Stamped in his sight, in his memories, his bones, the raised letters catching shadows, surrendering his name to the eyes.

  KORMAK THE LUCKY

  Eleanor Arnason

  Eleanor Arnason (eleanorarnason.blogspot.com) published her first story in 1973. Since then she has published six novels, two chapbooks and more than thirty short stories. Her novel A Woman of the Iron People won the James Tiptree, Jr. Award and the Mythopoeic Society Award. Novel Ring of Swords won a Minnesota Book Award. Her short story "Dapple" won the Spectrum Award. Other short stories have been finalists for the Hugo, Nebula, Sturgeon, Sidewise and World Fantasy Awards. Eleanor would really like to win one of these. Eleanor's most recent book is collection Big Mama Stories. Her favorite spoon is a sterling silver spoon given to her mother on her mother's first Christmas and dated December 25, 1909.

  There was a man named Kormak. He was a native of Ireland, but when he was ten or twelve, Norwegians came to his part of the country and captured him, along with many other people. They were packed into a ship and carried north, along with all the silver the Norwegians could find, most of it from churches: reliquaries and crosses, which they broke into bits so it could be traded or spent.

  The Norwegians planned to take their cargo to one of the great market towns, Kaupang in Norway or Hedeby in Denmark. There the Irish folk would be sold as slaves.

  The ship left Ireland late and got caught in an autumn storm that blew it off course. Instead of reaching Norway, it made land in Iceland, sailing into the harbor at Reykjavik in bad condition. The Norwegians decided it would be too dangerous to continue the journey through the stormy weather. Instead, they found Icelanders who were willing to host them for the winter. The Irish were sold. They brought less than they would have in Kaupang or Hedeby, but the Norwegians did not have to house and feed them through the winter.

  In this manner, Kormak came to Iceland and became a slave. He was a sturdy boy, sharp-witted and clever with his hands. But he was also lazy and curious and easily distracted. This did not make him a good worker. As a result, he was sold and traded from one farmstead to another, going first east, then north and west, finally back south to Borgarfjord. It took eight years for Kormak to make this journey around Iceland. In this time, he became a tall young man with broad shoulders and rust-red hair. His eyes were green. He had a beard, though it was thin and patchy, and he kept it short when possible. A long scar ran down the side of his face, the result of a beating. It pulled at the corner of his mouth, so it appeared that he always had a one-sided, mocking smile.

  The next-to-last man who owned him was a farmer named Helgi, who did not like his work habits better than any of Kormak's previous owners. "It's past my ability to get a good day's work out of you," Helgi said, "so I am selling you to the Marsh Men at Borg, and I can tell you for certain you'll be sorry."

  "Why?" asked Kormak.

  "The master of the house at Borg is named Egil. He's an old man now, but he used to be a famous Viking. He's larger than most human people, ugly as a troll, and still strong, though his sight is mostly gone. The people at Borg are all afraid of him and so are the neighbors, including me."

  "Why?" asked Kormak a second time.

  "Egil is bad-tempered, avaricious, self-willed, and knows at least some magic, though mostly he has used brute force to get his way. He's also the finest poet in Iceland."

  This didn't sound good to Kormak. "You said he's old and mostly blind. How can he rule the household?"

  "His son Thorstein does most of the managing. He's an even-tempered man and a good neighbor. He will cross his father if it's a serious matter, but most of the time he leaves the old man alone. If you make Egil angry, he will kill you, in spite of his blindness and age."

  Several days later, Thorstein Egilsson came down the fjord to claim Kormak. He was middle-aged, fair-haired, and handsome with keen blue eyes. He rode a dun horse with black mane and tail and carried a silvermounted riding whip. A second horse, a worn-out mare, followed the first. My mount, Kormak thought.

  Thorstein paid for Kormak, then told him to mount the mare, which had a bridle but no saddle. Kormak obeyed.

  They rode north. The season was spring, and the fields around them were green.

  Wild swans nested among the grazing sheep.

  After a while, Thorstein said, "Helgi says you are strong, which looks true to me, and intelligent, but also lazy. You have been a slave for many years. You should have learned better habits. I warn you that I expect work from you."

  "Yes," replied Kormak.

  "I know you can't help your smile," Thorstein added, "but I want no sarcasm from you. There are enough difficult people at my homestead already."

  They continued riding up the valley. After a while, Thorstein said, "I have one more thing to tell you: stay away from my father."

  "Why?" asked Kormak, though he was almost certain he knew the answer to this question.

  "He used to be a great Viking. Now he's old and blind, and it makes him angry. I plan to use you in the outbuildings away from the hall. It isn't likely you'll meet him. If you do and he asks you to do anything, obey and then get away from him as quickly as you can."

  "Very well," said Kormak.

  They came over a rise, and he saw the farm at Borg. There was a large long hall, numerous outbuildings, and a home field fenced with stone and wood. Horses and cattle grazed there. Farther out were open fields that spread across the valley's floor, dotted with sheep. A river edged with marshy ground ran past the farm buildings. Everything looked prosperous and well made. It was a better place than any farm he'd known before.

  They rode down together, and Thorstein led the way to an outbuilding. A large man stood in front of it. He was middle-aged with ragged black hair and a thick black beard.

  "This is Svart," Thorstein said. "You'll work for him, and he will make sure you do your work."

  Svart grunted.

  That must be agreement, Kormak thought.

  Thorstein and Kormak dismounted, and Svart took the reins of Thorstein's horse. "Come," he said to Kormak.

  They unsaddled Thorstein's mount and rubbed the two animals down, then led them to the marshy river to drink. Kormak's feet sank deep into the mucky ground.

  Svart said, "Thorstein is a good farmer and a good householder, but he's firm. Do exactly as he tells you. No back talk and no hiding from work."

  "Ye
s," said Kormak, thinking this might be a difficult place.

  They let the horses free in the home field to graze, and Svart began to tell Kormak about the labor he would do.

  So began Kormak's stay among the Marsh Men. The family got its nickname from their land, which was marshy in many places. Channels had been cut in the turf to draw water out and carry it to the river. This helped the fields. Nothing could make the riverbanks anything but mucky.

  Svart was a slave, but he was good with animals and knew ironsmithing. This made him valuable. He was left alone to do his work, which was caring for the farm's horses. Kormak's job was to help him and obey his commands. If he was slow, Svart hit him, either with his hand or a riding whip. Nonetheless, at day's end they would rest together. Svart would talk about the family at Borg, as well as his travels with Thorstein to other farmsteads and to the great assembly, the Althing, at Thingvellir. The Marsh Men were a strong and respected family. When Thorstein traveled, he wore an embroidered shirt and a cloak fastened with a gold brooch. His horse was always handsome. Retainers traveled with him, and Svart came along to care for the animals.

  "Everything in his life is well regulated, except for his father," Svart said.

  Kormak said nothing, but he thought that the old man could hardly cause much harm. Eighty years old and blind!

  He had no reason to visit the long hall, but he'd seen the members of the family at a distance. For the most part, they were handsome people who wore fine clothing even when they were home. The old man was unlike the rest: tall and gaunt and ugly, his head bald and his beard streaked white and gray. Thick eyebrows hid his sightless eyes. He felt his way around the farmstead with a staff or guided by one of his daughters.

  Svart went on talking. He had spent most of his life at Borg and remembered Egil's father Skallagrim, another big, dark, ugly man with an uncertain temper. Strange as it appeared to Kormak, Svart was proud of the family and interested in what they did. The servants who worked in the long hall told him stories about Thorstein and the rest of the Marsh Men. He repeated these to Kormak.

  "Thorstein rarely crosses his father, but he did so recently. The old man has two chests of silver, which he got from the English king Athelstein. Athelstein gave him the silver as compensation for Egil's brother, who died fighting for the king. The money should have gone to Skallagrim, who was still alive then. It was Skallagrim who'd lost a good son, who could have defended him from enemies and supported him in old age. 'Bare is the back with no brother behind him,' and even worse is a back unprotected by sons. But Egil kept the chests, because he is avaricious.

  "Now that he's old and enjoys little, Egil decided to play a game with the silver. He planned to take it to the Althing, to the Law Rock, which is the most sacred place in Iceland. When he got there, he planned to open the chests and scatter the silver as widely as he could. Of course men would struggle to get it. Egil hoped they would draw weapons and break the Thing Peace; and he hoped that he would be able to hear them fight.

  "The old man has always settled problems through violence or magic. But Thorstein is a different person, and he said the old man couldn't break the Thing Peace. 'The land is built on law,' as the saying goes. 'Without law it becomes a wilderness.' Thorstein would not let anyone in his household make a wilderness of Iceland. So now the old man is sulking, because he couldn't do the harm he wanted to."

  Let him sulk, thought Kormak. What kind of man would plan this kind of harm? Though it was pleasant to think about the prosperous farmers of Iceland fighting over bits of silver.

  Svart told this story one day in summer, when the sun rarely left the sky. Then came fall, when the days shortened and the sheep were gathered in, then winter, dark and long. Kormak tended the horses in their barn. In all this time, nothing important happened, either good or bad, though he did become a better worker. He learned that he liked horses and the skills that Svart taught him. He even learned some smithing during the dark winter days.

  Spring came again. The sky filled with light, which spilled down over everything, and the wild birds returned to nest. Falcons stole the nestlings, swooping down from the brilliant sky. The farmworkers watched for eagles, which could take a lamb.

  One day Egil came to their building, feeling his way with his staff. Close up, he was uglier than at a distance. His nose was wide and flat; his eyes, barely visible under bristling eyebrows, were covered with gray film; his teeth were yellow and broken. A monster, Kormak thought.

  "Svart?" he called in a harsh voice. "Saddle three horses. I want to ride into the mountains with you and the Irish slave."

  Svart looked surprised, then said, "Yes."

  They had both been told to obey Egil's commands, but Kormak felt uneasy. Thorstein was away visiting neighbors. They could not go to him. The people left on the farm would not oppose Egil.

  What could they do, except what they did?

  They saddled the horses with the old man standing near, leaning on his staff and listening. The one picked for Egil was an even-tempered gelding, entirely black except for his mane, which had red hairs mixed with the black. It reminded Kormak of rusty iron. Svart picked another gelding for himself, brown with a light mane and tail. Kormak got a mare that was spotted white and blue-gray. They were all good horses, but Egil's was the best.

  When they were done, Svart helped the old man into the saddle, and the two of them mounted.

  "To the long hall first," the old man said.

  They obeyed and stopped by a side wall. Two bags lay on the ground. "Get them," Egil said.

  Kormak dismounted and put a hand on the first. It was so heavy he needed both hands to lift it. Inside the leather was something with edges, a box or chest.

  It might have been magic, or maybe the old man had some sight left. He appeared to know what Kormak was doing and said, "Give one bag to Svart and take the other yourself."

  Kormak obeyed, heaving one bag up to Svart and then heaving the other onto his mare, which moved a little and nickered softly. He knew what she was saying. Don't do this.

  What choice did he have? He mounted and settled the bag in front of him. Egil carried nothing except his long staff and the sword at his side.

  "Go up along the river," the old man said.

  They rode, Svart first, leading Egil's horse. Kormak came last. How had the old man been able to move the bags by himself? Had someone helped him, or was he that strong?

  A trail ran along the river. They followed it, going up over rising land. Around them the spring fields were full of sheep and lambs. Svart kept talking, telling Egil what they were passing. At last, the old man told them to turn off the trail. Their horses climbed over stones, among bushes and a few trees, small and bent by the wind. The land had been forested when the settlers came, or so Kormak had been told. But the trees had been cut for firewood, and sheep had eaten the saplings that tried to rise. Now the country was grass and bare rock and – in the mountains – snow and ice.

  They came finally to the edge of a narrow, deep ravine. A waterfall rushed down into it, and a stream tumbled along the bottom, foaming white in the shadow.

  "Dismount and help me to dismount," Egil said, his harsh voice angry. This was a man who had needed little help in his life. He had served one king and quarrelled with another, driving Eirik Bloodaxe out of Norway through magic. He'd fought berserkers and saved his own life by composing a praise poem for Eirik, when Norway's former king held him captive in York. Now a slave had to give him assistance when he climbed down off a horse.

  Kormak knew all this from Svart. He dismounted, lifted the bag to the ground, and watched as Svart helped Egil down.

  "There are chests inside the bags," Egil said. "Take them out and empty them into the waterfall."

  Svart moved first, pulling a chest from his bag and opening it. "It's full of silver," he said to Egil.

  "I know that, fool!" Egil said. "This is the money Thorstein would not let me spend at the Althing. He's not going to inherit it when I d
ie. Toss it into the ravine!"

  Svart took the chest to the ravine's edge and turned it over. Bright silver spilled out, shining briefly in the sunlight before it fell into the ravine's shadow.

  "Now you," Egil said and turned his head toward Kormak. The eyes under his heavy brows were as white as two moons.

  Kormak pulled the chest from his bag and carried it to the ravine's edge. Pulling the top up, he spilled the silver – coins and bracelets and broken pieces – into the river below him. As he did so, he heard a cry and glanced around. Svart was down. Egil stood above him with a sword. Blood dripped from the blade. Kormak tossed his chest into the river and turned to face the old man, who came at him, swinging his bloody sword. How could he see?

  The blade, swinging wildly from side to side, almost touched Kormak. He twisted away, losing his balance, and fell into the ravine, shouting with surprise.

  He fell a short distance only, landing on a narrow ledge and scrambling onto his knees. His back hurt, as well as a shoulder and an elbow. But he didn't pay attention to the pain. Instead he looked up. The old man was directly above him, looking down with his blind eyes. "I heard you cry out, Kormak. Did you fall in the river? Or are you hiding? If so, I will find you, either with my staff or magic. I want no one to tell Thorstein what I did with the silver."

  Kormak said nothing. After a moment, the old man vanished. Shortly after, Svart's body tumbled off the ravine edge, falling past Kormak. An out-flung hand hit Kormak as the body passed. He almost cried out a second time, but did not. Instead, he crouched against the cliff wall, pressing his lips together. Below him, Svart vanished into the river's foam. Cold spray from the waterfall came down on Kormak like fine rain, making the ledge slippery.