by Garon Whited
“I hate to tell you this,” I said, “but I’m not here as part of anybody’s obligation. I’m here to cross into the viksagi lands.”
“Impossible.”
“Um. Why?”
“The bridge is destroyed. Nothing can cross.”
“Yes, well, that’s my mission. I’ll have to try.”
“And I tell you that you can’t,” he insisted.
“Could you at least show me the bridge?” I suggested. He shrugged and gestured me toward the main gate. We walked together.
“Why do you need to go there?” he asked.
“Got to find out how many of them there are, if they’re planning to invade, what they’re doing in general, that sort of thing. Find out whatever I can, really.”
“They’ll kill you and eat you, you know.”
“I’ve heard that,” I lied. He gestured me to help and we muscled the gate open enough for us to pass through.
The bridge was partially there. The far side was intact; the near side was intact. The middle section was missing. Altogether, it looked like an empty span of fifty or sixty feet. With a good run-up and may a little gravity-bending, I was certain Bronze could clear it.
A number of ropes hung from the near portion of the bridge. A half-armored soldier hauled up a funnel of interlaced branches, a sort of fish trap. We walked out and he nodded to Leareth. Leareth nodded back and we looked over the edge of the bridge. It wasn’t that far to the water, but it was farther than I’d care to dive even in the days when I could swim. It was much too deep for me to walk across in daylight.
“See? There’s no way across, unless you brought a boat.”
“I left it in my other pants. Do the viksagi ever attack here?”
“No. We just try to keep a watch, really. We can only man the first few stations along this bank, but it’s worth it to spot raiders coming south.”
“Get a lot of that, do you?”
“No. They’ve learned not to cross around here.” He shrugged. “At least we’re useful.”
I doubt that very much, I thought. Still, it would have been impolite to say so.
“Well, here’s hoping that they’re not planning a major invasion,” I said.
“Indeed. Now that you’ve seen the bridge, do you want to stay to breakfast, or do you need to go back immediately?”
“I could stand breakfast, but I still plan to cross.”
“Oh? How?”
“I’m a wizard.”
“Oh.” He looked at me speculatively, eyeballing my armor and sword. “You don’t look like a wizard.”
I gestured and produced a glowing ball of light in my hand. He shrugged.
“Okay, you’re a wizard. If you say you can get across, I’ll want to see it.”
“Certainly.”
“Come along. The Captain will want to see you.”
So we went back and inside the keep proper. The Captain was sitting at breakfast when I was shown in.
The Captain was a spare man, made almost entirely of bone and gristle with some skin to hold it all together. If a smile ever crossed his face, it consulted a map and realized it had a long walk ahead of it. I wondered what he’d done to get stuck here.
Still, he was courteous. He stood up while I was shown in and introduced, traded bows with me, invited me to sit at the small table. I sat down, carefully, not wholly trusting the chair, but it was a durable old thing and only creaked under my weight.
After a few minutes of food, he opened the conversation.
“Leareth mentioned that you intend to go inspect the viksagi.”
“I do,” I replied around a mouthful of scrambled eggs. Duck eggs, I think, with goat cheese. Pretty good, actually.
“It’s been quite a while since they bothered to attack in force. What makes you think they might be planning such a thing now?”
I thought for a moment, both on how to be tactful and, at the same time, what lies to tell. I certainly wasn’t going to tell the man tasked with keeping the viksagi on their side of the river that I was planning to give them a whole new bridge to play with.
“Are you familiar with the city of Byrne?” I asked.
“Vaguely,” he admitted. “Some second-rate city in the northeast, isn’t it?”
Yeah, they were a little out of touch up here. I explained about Byrne’s expansion.
“The thing is,” I continued, “from a practical standpoint, they’ve got to take either Bildar or Formia to cross the Quaen. Considering that Byrne is a rather bloody-minded bunch, they might be planning to divert attention by encouraging the viksagi to invade. We’re west of the Quaen, after all, and if everyone sent their troops north to fight an invasion, Byrne would have an easy time of it.”
“If everyone sent a proper tithe of troops to garrison the watchtowers, an invasion would be stopped almost as quickly as it was mounted.”
“I agree, but as things stand, if ten thousand screaming viksagi row across the Averill, climb out, and start southward—could they do that downstream, where your men wouldn’t see it? Could they just go around you and into the southlands without opposition?”
The Captain frowned. It looked as though he was done with breakfast; I may have spoiled his appetite.
“Yes, they could.” He folded his hands on the table and looked at me. “People say we’re useless,” he said, softly. “Without the bridge, what’s the point of a garrison? This isn’t a place that defends a kingdom anymore. It’s a place to send fools and incompetents that lords can’t—for whatever reason—justify kicking out of their service. Family ties, money, personal reasons… most of those sent here never arrive; they just disappear—desert—along the way.
“Nobody seems to understand what we do, and that we can’t do it without help. Now, with this news… if Byrne organizes the viksagi, they can bypass us. Raiders sometimes sneak by, anyway; we can’t man enough watchtowers to cover the whole river. If a few thousand screaming barbarians make it across, they could do untold damage.”
“Yeah, that would be bad,” I agreed. And I meant it. It hadn’t occurred to me until that moment that Byrne might actually be planning something like that. It might not be worth it, really; it depended on factors I didn’t understand. How much of a horrified reaction would the news garner from the southern cities? Would they immediately launch a counterattack? Or would they let the cities north of them act as buffer states and only worry about it when the viksagi came knocking on their own doors?
“That’s one of the reasons I’m going there,” I told him. Now, at least, it was. “I have to find out if there’s anything of that sort going on, and gauge the viksagi strength.”
“Very well. You have my leave to cross, if you can. I don’t know how you intend to manage it. We have no boats, and the bridge has crumbled.”
“Thank you. I’ll manage.”
“When do you plan to make your attempt?”
“After a visit to the privy. That tea seems to have gone right through me.”
“It does that,” he agreed.
A few minutes later, the same stableboy lead Bronze to the north gate. I stroked her nose and she blew warm air into my hand.
Leareth and the Captain—Captain Dinuad—were with me, watching as I cast spells in their courtyard.
“Is… is that horse made of metal?” Leareth asked, sounding odd.
“Yes,” I agreed. “She’s made of a type of bronze.”
I noticed the glance exchanged between the two men. A crowd of people started to gather atop the wall. People wanted to watch; I didn’t mind.
“What did you say your name was?” Captain Dinuad asked.
“Halar. I was once known in these parts as the Wall of Blades.” It still sounds stupid whenever I say it. At least, it sounded stupid to me; they seemed to be taken a bit aback.
“Are… are you…?”
“Yes,” I agreed again. “That’s me. Now, could you please order someone to open the gate?”
The Captain d
id so. The gate started to open.
“Before you go,” he added, “just one thing.”
“Yes?” I asked, waiting for the inevitable.
“When you’ve finished, will you come back? Please? We could use the help.”
I blinked at him and didn’t know what to say. That was so far from what I expected that I needed a different map to find it. When I did, I had to give him kudos for asking. It took guts to admit he needed help, and more guts to ask me for it.
Then again, the last time I was here, I did do nice things for the place.
“What sort of help?” I asked.
“Anything,” he said, mouth twisting.
“I’ll give it serious thought. I’ve got a lot on my plate just now, but if I think of something I can do, I will.”
“That’s closer to a promise of help than we’ve had in the last year,” he admitted. “Good luck.”
“Thank you. Hold the fort.”
Bronze turned toward the gate and started her run-up. She had the whole width of the courtyard and about a third of a bridge; she might not have made it to top speed, but it was close. She leaped, springing upward and allowing momentum to carry us forward. We must have hit a new record for altitude on that leap; I really put some effort into my gravity-bending.
Of course, that meant it was a long way down, too.
We hit the far side of the bridge with a ringing, cracking sound, but Bronze landed running and powered for the bank like a rally-racer, hooves scraping and grinding with a terrible metal-on-stone sound. I glanced behind us, under one arm, and saw a sizable chunk of stone toppling away from the edge of the bridge, broken free by the impact. The rest of the bridge seemed stable enough, though.
We ground to a halt on the far bank and half-turned. I waved at the men on the far side while they cheered. Then we turned north, over the grassy hills, and soon vanished from their view.
My sand table satellite view already gave me a rough idea where to look for a viksagi settlement. I bore right, eastward, until the hills settled down a bit and forest started to appear. Then I kept between the river and the treeline. The gap narrowed slowly as we trotted along, and the land started to show signs of cultivation. I passed a number of people and sod-covered buildings, probably homes, and attracted no small amount of attention.
We came to a village. I guess it was a village. Maybe it’s more accurate to say we reached the center of the community.
The place had one building of heavy timber construction. There were a number of outbuildings, all constructed out of multiple materials and roofed with grassy earth. The place didn’t look like it held much of a population, but, judging from the farmsteads we passed on the way to it, most of the population lived in the suburbs. The dozen or so people in the village center looked at me with guarded expressions.
We walked right up to one of them. I looked at him; he looked at me. I tried to think of what to say in viksagi. I ate a lot of them; I should at least understand what they said. But, try as I might, I couldn’t bring anything in that language to mind.
“Good afternoon,” I said, settling on Rethven. He just looked at me, as though waiting for something. I tried again in the language of ancient Zirafel, then again in one of the orku dialects. Still nothing. Either he didn’t understand me, or he didn’t care to answer.
I don’t think he understands you, Boss.
You think?
Don’t you have translation spells, or something?
Yes, but it’s rude to reach into someone’s head like that.
I thought it was just surface stuff?
It is, but it’s still rude. Especially since I want something from these people. You don’t just go around casually making psychic connections with strangers.
Seriously, Boss?
Okay, I don’t.
On the other hand, this wasn’t casual. I did try to talk to him. With no common language, and with no prompting from him to spark my memory, I was pretty much out of options.
I punched up a brief translation spell and tried again.
“Good afternoon.”
“Is it?” he asked. I realized that I understood him even without the spell, but actually assembling a coherent conversation in his language was going to be difficult, if it was possible for me at all. I’d have to rely on the spell, for now.
“Well, it’s a nice day. I’d like to think it’s a good afternoon.”
He grunted noncommittally. It was, actually. The weather was relatively warm, the breeze cool, and there might be a hint of rain to come hanging in the air.
“Could I trouble you to show me to whoever your leader is?”
He grunted again and walked away. Bronze followed him, since he was headed for the heavy, timber building. It was quite large, easily a hundred feet across, and probably intended to be circular. It actually had thirteen sides; I wondered if the number was significant. One of the sides was mostly door; Bronze went right in without trouble.
The interior was built to be open. A fire burned in a circular hearth in the center; a wide, raised walkway went all around the room. Another one, narrower and about ten or twelve feet higher, formed the “second floor.” A third one, even more narrow, was the top floor. The roof was open in the center to let the smoke out, but had a secondary roof over that hole, like a permanent umbrella, both to slow the escaping heat and to keep the rain out. The pillars in the walls and supporting the walkways were heavily carved, mainly with stylized faces.
On the far side of the fire sat three people. One was clearly a shaman, easily identified by the animal headdress and abundance of tattooed decoration. Another was a woman with light brown hair in an amazingly thick and heavy braid. The third was an older man, thick about the middle, thick wrists, thick beard, thick brows, and all his hair silver salted with iron.
Bronze stopped at the open hearth and we all looked at each other.
“Good afternoon,” I tried. They just looked at me. These people weren’t much for pleasantries. I’ve had warmer welcomes from people who wanted to kill me.
“I’m sorry,” I apologized, “but I don’t know the proper customs for greeting you and politely introducing myself. What should I do to meet and greet without offending?”
The man and the woman looked at each other. I think I succeeded in prompting them to react.
“Tell us who you are,” the man said.
“I’m called Halar.”
“What do you want?”
“I want people who will cross the river and raid the southern kingdom.”
“No,” he said. He shook his shaggy head. “The blood reavers don’t bring back much of value, not like in grandfather’s time. It’s not worth the trouble. They are of better use here.”
“Surely there are some who would go?”
“Oh, yes,” he admitted, gesturing dismissively. “Youths out for glory. You can’t bring back much in the way of animals or slaves on a raft.”
“In exchange for men to attack across the river,” I said, “I will give you a new bridge.”
They looked at me with stony expressions for several seconds.
“The bridge is broken, and the castle still guards it.”
“A new bridge,” I repeated, “without a castle to guard it.”
“Where?”
“East of here, near the mountains.”
“I have not been there.”
“The towns and cities often have mines; they have a lot of metal goods. They also have livestock and good harvests; the mountains shed water into their fields.”
He stroked his beard, running thick fingers through it.
“Why would you do this?”
“That’s a long story.”
He nodded, slowly.
“I am Hargus, master of this hall. This is my wife, Cymbell.” The lady nodded, still expressionless. “And this is Rakhill, the shaman.” The guy nodded, as well, but his expression was readable: hostility. “For three days, you are welcome here, Halar of the s
outh.”
“And after three days?”
“We shall see.”
They may be a bunch of cold, unfriendly strangers, but once you get past that, they really know how to party.
Hargus called in two of his friends, Jorm and Garrick, and we all sat down at a giant table to eat, drink, be merry, and discuss the invasion of the south. As the day progressed, word spread to the farmsteads and people trickled in. By what I thought of as dinnertime, there must have been fifty men, about twice that number of women, and three times as many youngsters.
Footnote: I hate mead. I don’t even much care for beer. But I drink what I have to drink because it’s part of polite protocol. At least my living liver and kidneys work really well. I’ve already established that I’m not a cheap drunk.
There were three main groups of people who would instantly go south, bridge or no, if I promised them loot: young men seeking glory, blood reavers, and men whose farms and herds would only give them a lean winter. The first needed no explanation. The other two…
A blood reaver (surropveetus, “one who cleaves flesh and frees the blood”) is as close to a socially-acceptable homicidal maniac as I’ve ever seen. At best, they’re people with extremely poor impulse control and violent tendencies. They delight in killing and are, for the most part, kept around because they are usually very good at it. Why were violent killers tolerated so well? That leads us to the third category.
Households usually did pretty well over the summer. The growing season was short, but everything sprang up like it was in a hurry. Under normal circumstances, the viksagi—in their language, “the people of the north”—would do just fine. The problem was the ice giants.
I admitted that I’d never seen a giant. They were happy to tell me everything I could ever want to know.
Ice giants came in two main types. White giants lived farther north and looked very much as if they were carved from ice. They stood as much as four times the height of a man, but seldom came far enough south to encounter temperatures higher than sub-zero. Rarely, one might be seen wandering around in the winter, but they tended to mind their own business and the feeling was mutual.