by Scott Moon
He watched Fey, but listened to Helen. The older woman — maybe ten years Fey’s senior — stopped whistling. The weight of her gaze demanded he look up, but he refused.
“The other stranger was much more handsome. We should have kept him,” Helen said.
Fey snorted resentfully. “Borghild couldn’t sing. Don’t know why he took her.”
“Because she’s got big tits, stupid girl,” Helen said.
Aefel grimaced as the cart bumped along and Helen chided Fey for pretty much everything she said. The words faded into the background and even the pain receded as he performed two essential tasks: reviewing the mission and trying to predict what the loss of the Core Internal was going to do to him.
Seccon had a reputation as a musician, a Renaissance warrior with artistic talent. Had the man fled to this forgotten world and made a life singing for his supper? Duty caused him to focus on these details first, although he desperately wanted to tear the bandage from his hip and see if Fey had taken the entire device or just a component.
Questions, memories, and pain jumbled in his head. Without warning, Helen pressed her weight against the cart to help Fey. Sveinn, the two girls, and the other midwife ran ahead, shouting warnings to people Aefel couldn’t see.
“Hurry up, Fey. Push harder,” Helen said.
“I am pushing!” Fey leaned forward and drove her legs into the job.
“Gods!” Aefel cried out, using a phrase that the mission briefing suggested a local might use, when inside his head, he was screaming against the promise of the charnel house and death and bloody bones. That was the way a FALD Reaver talked, not this blathering about Gods and magic and Vildfremmed faux language.
“He exclaims the oddest things,” Fey said.
Helen looked down, concern written across her strong face. “We may have to leave him.”
“Don’t you dare, Helen. They’ll slaughter him or make him their thrall.” Fey pushed the cart faster.
“What would they want with a brudt-ting? They’ll cut his throat,” Helen said.
Aefel closed his eyes against the pain as the wheels danced over rocks and ruts.
He awoke to find three men staring down at him with silent and stern expressions.
“We have no time.” The man who spoke was neither the oldest nor the youngest, but seemed to be in charge.
They disappeared from view until Aefel pulled himself upright and stared through the doorway of a long building made of aged timber and thatch. Three men and a group of sturdy boys jogged toward an earthen wall — just a mound of dirt with stakes at the top — and arrayed themselves for battle.
Old men and boys can never hold the enemy long, Aefel thought. The words were not his, but from a lecture long ago. When old men and boys defend the empire, it has already fallen.
Women reinforced the palisade, which was, contrary to Aefel’s understanding of the defensive fortification, more of a hill with sharpened sticks decorating the summit like a porcupine than a wall. Helen was among them, larger and meaner than the other women, but delicate compared to the men. They stood tall and broad shouldered, hair streaming down their backs. A few had chainmail or leather hauberks. Most were protected by painted runes, shields, and little else. Axes, pitchforks, and old swords banged out a threatening rhythm.
“The Hawk Clan and Arrow Clan will take the village this time. They will not spare man or boy.”
Aefel turned his head, slowly because his muscles ached as though rigor mortis had set in. His reward was a worried and sad version of Fey.
“I can help,” he said. “Although give me one good reason I should do anything without my Core Internal. You understand that not much works without it?”
She jumped in surprise, then stared at him until words came. “You can’t even walk.” She held her breath, tried not to look, then peeked at him with one eye as she made a sign against evil. “I thought you died twice already.”
“I can help. I know all about war.”
“Do you know how many warriors it takes to defend this village?”
He looked at the defensive fortifications and the small number of men and women, regretting that he had named the device she had stolen from his body. “I’d say one more than you have.”
Fey snorted a laugh. “You know they’ll kill you,” she said, then leaned toward him with a knife in her hand. “Unless you’re one of them.”
Aefel met her gaze but said nothing. During the mission briefing, Paul had argued that Seccon would raise an army to protect himself from ESC capture attempts. As the Chief Strongarm of the Emperor, he was not only a general, but a master of espionage. The head of operations insisted that Seccon would not raise an army, and when Paul refused to be pacified and continued to demand more and more heavy weapons, he was removed from the mission. Everyone was removed from the mission except Aefel.
“Why are they attacking?” he asked.
Fey stared at him for a long time, then looked toward the defenses. “They’re here for pie, and a bit of rape, I am guessing.”
5
EVENING
SKY CLAN VILLAGE
GRENDEL 0473829: SURFACE, HIGHLAND VALLEY 83A2T
MISSION CLOCK: 31:00:00
Aefel leaned on the handmade crutch more than he wanted to admit and walked toward the fortified hill that surrounded the village. He yawned and shook sleep from his face, feeling lousy. Some of his Internal modifications were still working; he could tell by the taste in his mouth. Concentrated medications had been released from storage reservoirs in his bones. His mouth tasted like he had been chewing antibiotics and vitamins in his sleep. It was good to be human and then some, great to live in an age with technology seamlessly integrated down to a cellular level. Fey refused to admit that she had taken a piece of his not-so-Internal cybernetic enhancements. Sooner or later, he would find the damaged piece, not that he could reinstall it.
He stopped and looked around the village. No one celebrated. The attackers from the previous day had been turned back, but the price had been high. Remembering why he had forced himself off the bedroll in his tiny hut, he examined the defensive fortifications.
Fey and the others had strengthened the defenses after the battle that had lasted most of the previous day. Leaning on the crude crutch, he took a deep breath and continued. There was a chill in the air that caused his bones to ache, especially his hip. He didn’t like feeling less than one hundred percent in a world where every man, and many of the women, didn't flinch from hacking apart a person’s face.
He concentrated on the work of the villagers. Helen’s youngest son, Algot, followed him while her oldest son stared resentfully from his guard post on the highest earthen rampart. Ignoring the seven-year-old Algot, he walked several agonizing paces and called to Gunnarr, son of Gunnarr and Helen.
The reply, dry and emotionless, fell toward Aefel like a halfhearted artillery barrage.
“I see nothing, Vildfremmed.”
Aefel was still trying to decipher the exact meaning of the word — stranger; probably, asshole; maybe. Gunnarr made it sound offensive. And why not? His mother was dead. His father, uncles, and older brothers had probably died in previous battles, but there was no doubt they were gone.
“I am grateful for your diligence, Gunnarr,” he said. He wanted to say more. Yesterday, Helen had been alive. She had punched him unconscious, treated his injuries, then helped move him from the landing site to the village. The last he had seen of the stocky woman was her profile as she defended the palisade.
“I will go to the battlefield soon. Thank me then,” Gunnar said.
“And fight with who?”
“The enemy,” Gunnarr said.
Aefel paused, checked his grasp of the shifting dialect, and started again. “Which warlord will you serve? Who would be your allies?”
Gunnarr clenched his teeth and faced away from the village. He stared at the wet hills and gray clouds as though an assault was imminent.
Perhaps it wa
s.
Setting aside the crutch, Aefel climbed the earthworks with special attention to where he placed his feet and how he held his balance. He avoided eye contact with Gunnarr, although he felt the over-tall, wire-limbed boy glaring.
From the crest of the defensive mound, he studied the meadow that was still painted the color of slaughter despite hours spent recovering bodies for the funeral pyres. Blood had darkened the grass. Boots and knees and desperate crawling hands had churned the soil when the shield wall disintegrated into a wild melee and wounded warriors knocked down.
Aefel had watched silently, unable to speak. He’d seen far greater numbers of soldiers die, but not in this slow, face-to-face grudge match executed with primitive weapons as the families of the warriors looked on. It was strange not to get casualty updates by radio or via his Internals. Given the gruesome nature of the spectacle, he didn't miss having the cold, numerical details to analyze.
The event marked the annihilation of every warrior of the Sky Clan, all the men of fighting age — except Gunnarr, who, at fourteen, was old enough to be stabbed, hacked, and beaten to death but had been required to remain inside the defenses — and many of the woman of that age were gone. Aefel arrived on Grendel 0473829 at the end of the raiding season. When spring came to the highland valley, the Sky Clan would be assimilated into the Hawk Clan, the Arrow Clan, or whoever was strong enough to take the well-positioned village and hold it from other warlords.
The problem was that the women of the Sky Clan had taken a hotjidelig-ed, the general meaning, so far as Aefel could figure, was that they would rather die than submit to a new Jarl. Gunnarr, a half-starved fourteen-year-old, was the man of the village now. Aefel didn’t count. No one trusted him, or ever would.
“You are stuck with me, boy,” Aefel said. “Next time we see the Hawk and Arrow, you and I will be in the shield wall with your sisters, cousins, and aunts.”
“You do not know the way,” Gunnarr said.
Aefel looked at him.
“I don’t care how big or fast or strong you are,” Gunnarr said. “You still need practice. Which is better? To stab a man’s face above his shield or his feet below it?”
Aefel waited, not because he need time to consider his answer, but because a quick response would seem un-considered, and that would offend the boy. “Depends which I can reach.”
Gunnarr snorted. “That is a good answer. But you still need to practice and learn the Sky Clan way.”
Aefel shrugged as he resumed his examination of the primitive forest beyond the meadow. “I can’t argue with that.”
Contrary to what other branches of the Commonwealth military believed, driving an armored infantry suit took incredible strength and endurance. The projected fuel and battery expenditure was never adequate. Tabletop commanders calculated the distances infantrymen could march, or even force march, but neglected to face the reality of how much energy fighting — especially hand-to-hand fighting —— consumed. Soldiers who survived did so by throwing their own strength behind the gears.
Strength, endurance, agility, and fighting skill were qualities Aefel had in abundance. He was as strong as any of his peers, except Paul, but his friend was a heavy-weapons guy, basically a freak of nature.
“I know you don’t like me,” Aefel said.
Gunnarr stared into the grim landscape.
Aefel stood near, emulating his alert but quiet stance. Time passed.
“I must ask you a very important question,” Aefel said.
“Then ask.”
“Is there a place where the Hawk and Arrow Clans can be held by a small force?”
Gunnarr looked at him. “How small? You and me?”
“Just me.”
Silence.
“I don’t trust you,” Gunnarr said.
Aefel held his gaze. “It is important that you and your family survive. My life means nothing; I’m never going home. It is even more important that Sveinn survives.”
Not for the first time, Aefel wondered if his every move was being recorded. Could his commanders monitor his actions with a major piece of his Internal hardware removed? Was he being judged right now? Who were the judges? Would they be glad he had figured out that Sveinn was either the previous Emperor, an infant believed murdered by Emperor Uburt-Wesson to secure his reign, or some kind of clone? Did they want him to finish the job or rescue the lost ruler?
If Sveinn, born Toman Sorven-Hollun 72333, resurfaced, there would be celebration only surpassed by the political upheaval that would surely follow. So his duty was to kill the man who supposedly had Sveinn killed, then kill Sveinn? Aefel felt the political necessity to end the intrigue forever. The cold logic of human survival called to him like a siren song of perfect justification.
But he was a Reaver — FALD do or die — and loyalty was never so complicated.
“He is younger than me,” Gunnarr said.
“Yes, but you and I will surely die by summer.”
Gunnarr laughed, then gave Aefel a rare smile. “Probably sooner than that.” He thumped Aefel on the shoulder. “There is a place. We must draw them to it with a shield wall. Present a battle that they must accept or lose honor. Then we can pull them through the Eye of the Needle.”
Aefel nodded.
“Then one of us will be a hero,” Gunnarr said, almost laughing.
Aefel shrugged, hoping to express that he wasn’t going to argue the point. If Gunnarr went into the Eye of the Needle first, Aefel would hold it after the man-boy died — same result, probably less fuss later on anyway. He wasn’t leaving this planet, not legally, and the young leader of the Sky Clan could not tolerate a rival like Aefel indefinitely.
Gunnarr surprised him again. “Whoever saves the clan will have great luck with women for a long time afterward.”
Fey’s voice broke the moment of rare brotherhood. “Once you two fools are gone, we can take care of ourselves. The village will smell better.”
6
MORNING
SKY CLAN VILLAGE
GRENDEL 0473829: SURFACE, HIGHLAND VALLEY 83A2T
MISSION CLOCK: 96:30:09
Gunnarr and Aefel anchored the center of the practice formation, Fey and the other women of the village took their positions and locked shields.
“Move forward,” Gunnarr said.
Things got messy. And why wouldn’t they? Children ran around and through the mock battle. Half of the women were seasoned warriors, the other half over-compensated for lack of experience with excessive force. One woman, a grandmother as it turned out, nearly broke Aefel’s jaw during one clash. Then she got mad and hit him hard.
Gunnarr demanded perfection. He repeated instructions until every person in the formation moved together. Aefel locked one edge of his shield over the shield to his left. Each of the warriors, be they women, or girls, or skinny boys years from growing facial hair, did the same all down the line.
An hour later, the shield wall could advance one stride at a time in unison. They could retreat. With grim concentration and near perfect teamwork, they could shift right or left without tripping over each other.
“Fey, get back in line!”
“I’m tired. We’ve done enough for today.”
Gunnarr lunged toward her. “Get back in line!”
“Stop yelling at me, Gunnarr. I’ve actually fought in a shield wall. Don’t tell me what to do,” Fey said.
Gunnarr struck her with his shield. She dropped hers, lunged with her spear, and sliced the side of his head. A thin stream of red squirted through the winter day and spattered the boot-trampled ground, causing him to hesitate in momentary surprise.
Before Gunnarr could curse or strike back, Aefel stepped forward with his shield, deftly bumping Fey to the ground and then knocking Gunnarr down with slightly greater force. The boy-man glared — legs, shield arm, and sword arm sprawled indignantly, accentuating his gangly physique. Fey rolled to her feet as though she had never fallen.
Practice wasn’t a stran
ge concept to Aefel. As a veteran of the First Armored-infantry Lightning Division, he was expected to learn any weapon in less than a day and master it in less than a month. He realized that many of his crash injuries hadn’t healed well, but they had healed. Fey and the other women seemed amazed that he recovered at all. Even now, they treated him as a brudt-ting, a broken thing, despite the strenuous workouts he completed in addition to training in the shield wall. There were no tractor tires to flip, or progressively heavier Indian Clubs to swing, but the mill was full of gears carved from oak that he could barely lift without help. Rural life in a primitive village offered up an endless collection of physical challenges. The women of Sky Clan thought he was crazy.
Gunnarr acted as though Aefel’s physical prominence was an intentional insult and a challenge to his authority.
“You go too far this time, Vildfremmed,” he said as he adjusted the grip on his sword.
“Or not far enough,” Aefel said.
Gunnarr paused in the middle of climbing to his feet, eyeing Aefel, moving his weapons experimentally as he prepared for a fight — a flick of a wrist, shifting of stance, tightening and relaxing of muscles. “Are you challenging me?”
Aefel considered his options but said nothing. Not for the first time, he wondered if he should leave this doomed village and search for Seccon the old-fashioned way — observation posts and movement tracking, interrogation of informants, hurrying up and waiting.
“Do not deny it, Vildfremmed, Aefel of…where? You want my sisters and aunts and all the other women of Sky Clan. You want the mill and the herd and the good strong steel in our rocks.”
“Iron,” Aefel said.
“That we make into steel. Do not be stupid.”
Denial wouldn’t have convinced any of the women in the village, and might cause him more harm than good. On another planet, in another set of circumstances, he might laugh at the thought of fifty women in need of a man. As things stood with the people of the Sky Clan, he wasn’t sure a romantic relationship would end well. Fey and all the others carried swords, axes, spears, or all three.