The Sword and the Chain

by Joel Rosenberg

  Understandable. Life in Melawei was lazy and easy; it would always be tempting to put work off to tomorrow.

  Karl had another swig of the coconut juice. It was dry and crisp, like a light Italian wine. But how did they get it so cold?

  He shrugged. Well, if Romans could make ice in the desert, maybe the Mel could chill a bottle of wine.

  He looked over at Aeia, who was sprawled out on her grass mat, sated after the heavy meal, half asleep. "Good to be home, little one?"

  She frowned. "I'm not home yet."

  Wohtansen smiled reassuringly. "We're not too far from Clan Erik, little cousin. No more than two days by sea." He closed his eyes tightly for a full minute. "If your horses can take just a bit of water, you should be able to ride straight there. And in less time. We can start out in the morning." He shrugged. "I've got to go that way myself. I'll need to arrange for Ganness' copra to be picked up, and I'll have to visit the cave."

  Estalli reacted to the last two words as though she had been slapped. "Seigar—"

  "Shh. Remember Arta Myrdhyn's words. 'He will be a stranger from a far land.' I'll have to take Karl Cullinane there. And if he's not the one, the sword can protect itself. It has before."

  That was the second time Wohtansen had brought up this sword. Karl spent a half-second debating with himself whether asking might offend the Mel. Then: "What sword is this?"

  Wohtansen shrugged. "The sword. I wish Svenna—he was the Clan Speaker—hadn't been taken by the slavers; he could tell you the story, word by word." He raised his head. "Though Clan Erik still has its Speaker. Do you want to wait until you can hear it properly?"

  "To be honest, I'm itching with curiosity."

  Not particularly about this sword, though. What were a group of Mel men doing with Scandinavian names and Scandinavian accents?

  And more.

  The figureheads on the dugouts looked like the dragons on Viking longboats; they were stylized, almost rectangular, not saurian, like Ellegon. The huts were bamboo-and-cane versions of Viking lodges.

  That didn't make sense. A climate and environment similar to Polynesia could have given rise to a culture similar to the Polynesian culture, complete with loose, wraparound clothing, outrigger canoes, and a loose and easy life-style based on the bounty of the sea. But where had the Scandinavian elements come from?

  It was possible that the dragon-headed canoes or the accent or the similarity of some of the names could have been a coincidence, but not all three.

  Seigar Wohtansen sat up, then drained his mug, beckoning to Estalli for a refill.

  "Very well. My father's father's father's . . ." He knit his brow in concentration as he counted out the generations by tapping his fingers against his leg. " . . . father's father's father's father, Wohtan Redbeard, was called a pirate, although he truly was a just man. He sailed his boat on a sea of salt, as he raided the villages of the wicked landfolk, taking from them their ill-gotten grain and gold."

  As Wohtansen spoke, the children sat down on the mats, listening intently, as if to a favorite, often-repeated bedtime story.

  " . . . he and his men would appear from over the horizon, beach their boat, then . . ."

  One of the little boys leaned over toward an older sister. "How could they sail on salt?" he asked, in a quiet whisper.

  She sneered down at him, holding herself with the air of superiority possessed by older sisters everywhere. "There was salt in the water."

  "That doesn't make sense. Why would they waste salt by putting it in the water?" he pressed. "Father says salt is hard enough to find as it is."

  "They didn't. It was already there."

  "How?"

  "Shh, Father's talking."

  " . . . but this night was dark, and a storm raged on the sea, sending his ship leaping into the air, then crashing down into the troughs between the waves. . . ."

  "Why didn't they just land?" The boy nudged his sister again.

  She sighed. "Because they were too far out at sea."

  "Didn't they know that they weren't supposed to go out of sight of land?"

  "I guess they forgot."

  " . . . and just as he thought that his ship would founder and sink, the sky cracked open around him, and the ship found itself on the quiet waters of the Cirric. . . ."

  "But how did it get here?"

  "Weren't you listening?" She gave him a clout on the head. "The sky cracked open."

  He rubbed at the spot where she had struck him. "I've never seen that."

  "You will if you don't be quiet."

  " . . . standing at the prow was an old man. White-bearded, he was, dressed in gray wizard's robes. Clutched tightly in fingers of light, a sword floated in the air over his head.

  " 'I, Arta Myrdhyn, have saved your lives and brought you here,' he said, in a tongue they had never before heard, but somehow understood, 'to take this to a place I will show you.' His voice was the squeak of a boy whose manhood was almost upon him, yet his face was lined with age. 'You and your children will watch over it, and keep it for one whom I will send.'

  "A man named Bjørn laughed. 'My thanks for the sword,' he said. 'But I will take it for myself.'

  "As he sprang across the deck at the wizard, lightning leaped from the wizard's fingers, slaying Bjørn instantly."

  The boy looked up at his sister. "Bjørn? What kind of name is Bjørn?"

  "An unlucky one. And a stupid one. Now, shh."

  " . . . brought them to the cave, and left the sword there, amid the writings that only two of them could see, and none of them could read. 'Watch for strangers,' Arta Myrdhyn said. 'One day, a stranger will come for the sword.'

  " 'But how will I know him?' my many-times-greatgrandfather asked.

  "The wizard shook his head. 'You will not, and neither will your children, or their children. It is not yours to know, but to watch, and wait. The sword will know.'

  "How can a sword know anything?"

  "It's a magical sword, stupid."

  "Hmph."

  " . . . accepted them gladly, and offered their daughters as wives." Wohtansen raised his head. "And so, they settled down to an easier life, raised their children, and grandchildren, down the nine generations." He thumped his hand against his mat. "And here we are." He tapped the jug. "More juice?"

  Ahira caught Karl's eye. "What we've had has already gotten to my bladder." He elbowed Karl in the side.

  "Oof. Me, too. If you'll excuse us for a moment?"

  * * *

  "Did you catch all that, Karl?" Seating himself on a waist-high rock, the dwarf drummed his heels against the stone.

  Karl's head swam. It made sense, but it didn't. All at once. "I don't understand it. Part of it makes sense, but . . ." What Wohtansen had said boiled down to the sort of story a group of conquering Vikings might tell to their children and grandchildren. "But eight, nine generations? When were the Vikings? About eleventh century, no?"

  Ahira nodded. "Something like that. And with the faster time rate on This Side, if a bunch of eleventh-century Vikings crossed over, they should have been here for far more than two centuries. Especially since time passes so much more quickly here."

  Karl nodded. That was what Deighton had said, and what they had observed. Their trip from Lundeyll to the Gate Between Worlds had taken a couple of months on This Side, but when they had used the Gate to return home, only a few hours had passed. Once, he had sat down with Lou Riccetti to figure it out: For every hour that passed at home, about four or five hundred flew by here.

  "It can't be something as simple as Deighton lying," Karl said.

  "No." The dwarf scowled. "Deighton has lied to us more than once, but not this time. We know he was telling the truth. This time. The time rate is faster here, relatively."

  "Maybe not." Karl shrugged. "Maybe the time differential fluctuates. That'd explain some things."

  "Like what?"

  "Think it through." Karl stamped his foot. "Wish I'd had the sense to, before." He gestured a
round them. "If this side really was four hundred times as old as Earth, that'd make it about sixteen hundred billion years old, no? It'd be that much more worn; most of the atmosphere would have escaped, probably; all the mountains would have worn themselves down."

  "Huh?" Ahira's forehead furrowed. "You're telling me that mountains wear out? Too much dry-cleaning?"

  "Give me a break. Mountains tend to wear down, just like anything else. The Appalachians are older than the Rockies, which is why they don't rise as high, not anymore. In another couple of billion years, they'll be the Appalachian plains, if tectonic forces don't raise a whole new set of mountains. Entropy."

  The dwarf pounded his fist against the rock. "Deighton lied again."

  "Maybe; maybe not." Karl shook his head. "So, the time differential fluctuates. But maybe Deighton didn't know that. After all, the time rate could have worked just the way he said it did during his whole life. He could have been telling the truth."

  "I doubt it." The dwarf shook his head. "I didn't think you caught it. Remember the wizard's name: Arta Myrdhyn. Sound familiar?"

  "Myrdhyn. Well, that kind of sounds like Merlin." Karl shrugged. "I guess it's possible that Arta Myrdhyn inspired the legends about Merlin."

  That wouldn't be surprising; he had already seen evidence that happenings on this side had leaked over the boundary between worlds: elves, dwarves, wizards throwing bolts of lightning, the silkies of the northern Cirric, the notion of fire-breathing dragons, the cave beneath Bremon that was echoed in the writings of Isaiah—

  "No. Or maybe," the dwarf corrected himself. "But that's not the point. Remember how Wohtansen described the wizard? 'White-bearded . . . his voice was the squeak of a boy whose manhood was almost upon him, yet his face was lined with age.' Doesn't that sound like someone we know?"

  Ohgod. "And the name; Arta—Arthur. Arthur Simpson Deighton. But he said—"

  "That he had only seen this side, but never had been able to bring himself across. That's what he said, Karl. Doesn't make it true."

  Karl shook his head. "I don't see what this all adds up to."

  "Me neither." The dwarf shrugged. "And I've got a hunch we're not going to for quite a while. If ever. Unless you want to try to slip past The Dragon, again, then go quiz Deighton."

  "I'll pass, thanks."

  "Thought so."

  "I don't see you volunteering."

  "I'm not." Ahira flexed his arm, his biceps bulging like a huge knot. "I like it here. No, I think we just keep thinking about it. Maybe Walter or Andrea or Lou Riccetti will have some idea; maybe Ellegon knows more than he's telling. We'll just have to wait until we get back to the valley."

  "Well, what do we do in the meantime?"

  Ahira smiled. "That's easy. We live. Eat. Breathe. Kill slavers. All the usual stuff."

  Karl snorted. "Well, let's get back inside, then. Got a lot to think about."

  Ahira raised a finger. "There is one more thing we'd better do."

  "Yes?"

  "I think we'd better have a look at this sword of Wohtansen's."

  "Right."

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Scourge

  Her beams bemocked the sultry main, Like April hoarfrost spread; But where the ship's huge shadow lay, The charmed water burnt away A still and awful red.

  —Samuel Taylor Coleridge

  "I still say we should have taken them while they were at sea," Lensius muttered to Hynryd, his voice pitched so that Ahrmin could hear him, but only barely. Lensius shook his head, his long, greasy ringlets of hair waggling in counterpoint. "And we would have, were I in charge."

  Hynryd nodded. "That's what Jheral thought, too."

  "I know. He—"

  "Enough." Ahrmin's fingers tightened on the hilt of his sword. Lensius and Hynryd fell silent.

  Ahrmin sighed. The fiasco at the dock hadn't done anything to improve his standing with his thirty-seven remaining men. What had once been only a silent resentment had become open doubt, sometimes verging on mutiny.

  But that didn't matter. Only one thing mattered.

  So I failed, Karl Cullinane. This first time. That's not so important; even Father couldn't beat you the first time. But it isn't the first time that counts, Karl Cullinane. It's the last time.

  He looked around the Scourge's cramped forward hold. Of the thirty-odd faces, the only one that didn't bear a frown was Thyren's; the wizard held himself above both the sailors and slavers. In contrast to the grubbiness of the rest, the wizard's gray robes were clean and unwrinkled, his drawn face freshly shaved, his thin lips holding a disdainful smile.

  "Ahrmin?" Raykh scratched at his head. "I think we should consider letting this Karl Cullinane go. There's enough gold to be had picking up a few dozen Mel." He rapped on the bulkhead behind him. "Enough space in the hold for one hundred and fifty, two hundred, if we pack tightly enough."

  Ahrmin's irritation rose. He'd had enough of the tight-pack fanatic. Of all tight-pack fanatics.

  It had been proved, over and over again, that there was more money to be made by delivering a smaller number of healthy slaves than by tight-packing them, chaining them all closely together in the hold, leaving them to stew in their own wastes during a sea voyage, having to throw away those who didn't survive, then treat the others with expensive healing draughts before a sale.

  Tight-packing was a particularly stupid way to handle Mel. Mel didn't take easily to their chains; many would refuse to eat. Tight-packed, they could lose more than half of the slaves. Even loose-packed, the trip from Melawei to Pandathaway would kill ten, maybe twenty percent of the cargo, and leave the rest sick as dogs.

  Of course, they could always sell the surviving slaves as-is. But in Pandathaway—or anywhere else along the coast, for that matter—there was little demand for sickly slaves who had to be either healed or nursed back to health before they would be any use to their new owners. Tight-packing would kill much profit.

  Besides, tight-packing the women would remove one of the great joys of the profession.

  Ahrmin snorted. "And what would you do? It would take several tendays in a good port to refit the Scourge for tight-pack."

  Raykh shrugged. "It seems a bit late to point that out. We could have—"

  Thyren cleared his throat; Raykh fell silent.

  "I believe that was Ahrmin's point," the wizard said. "We're not in Pandathaway. Nor are we in Lundeyll, or Port Salke, or even Ehvenor. To be precise, we're off the coast of Melawei. Even if you wanted to take the time and money to refit the slavehold, I doubt that the locals would be willing to help you."

  Fihka spoke up, his low growl barely carrying over the rush of water. "We could always make them help us."

  The wizard eyed him for a moment, then carefully spat in Fihka's face.

  Fihka reddened, but kept his white-knuckled fists at his sides, not even daring to raise his hands to wipe the spittle from his cheek. The others near him turned their faces away, not wanting to be next.

  "Fool," Thyren said, smiling gently. "Who do you think I am? Grandmaster Lucius? Arta Myrdhyn? I can easily hold off any one of these Mel wizards and his apprentices. I could probably take on two, perhaps as many as three. But if I were stupid enough to allow you to anchor the Scourge offshore for—a tenday, did you say? two?—we would quickly find the ship surrounded by every Mel wizard and apprentice that could run, paddle, swim, or crawl. There is a limit to how many spells I can intercept."

  Thyren rose. "But enough of this nonsense; I have better things to do than listen to more squabbling." He rose and left, all of the men glaring in unison at the door as he closed it behind him.

  You would be able to dispel more if you didn't insist on keeping other spells in your head, wizard. Like your lightning bolt, or flame spell, Ahrmin thought. But then you wouldn't be able to abuse everyone with impunity, would you?

  Then it occurred to him that Thyren had, albeit unknowingly, done him a favor. By acting as a lightning rod for the men's discontent, the wiz
ard had given Ahrmin a chance to ingratiate himself with the others.

  But how?

  He thought for a moment, and an idea that had been in the back of his mind suddenly jelled.

  "Raykh," he said. "You should trust me more."

  Raykh's head snapped around. "What?"

  "You assumed that I had no reason for not taking the Warthog at sea."

  The other sneered. "I know your reason. You want to take Cullinane alive."

  "And you'd rather take a share of a much smaller reward? Never mind. There is another reason. One that will fatten all of our pouches, as well. As much as a tight-pack would if all the slaves survived. And . . ."

  "And?" Raykh leaned forward, interested.

  "And my plan will ensure that we can come upon Karl Cullinane unaware. It will be tricky, granted; and we have to assume that Cullinane has business in Melawei that will take him at least a day's ride away from where they've beached the Warthog. I'll be happy to share my idea, if you're interested." Ahrmin lay back on his bunk, cradling his head on his arms. "But my major concern is Cullinane. If you don't mind forgoing some extra slaves, some extra coin . . ." He closed his eyes.

  "Wait," another voice piped up. "Don't keep it a secret, Master Ahrmin."

  He sat up, making sure that his smile didn't reach his face. "Master Ahrmin," eh? I like the sound of that.

  "Very well." Ahrmin nodded. "The timing will be tricky, but I'm sure we can do it." He pulled the glass ball from his pouch, unwrapped the soft leather sheets that covered it.

  Ahrmin cradled the ball in the palm of his hand. "It all depends on this."

  The finger floated in the center of the sphere, bobbing slowly in the yellow oil. From the finger's hacked-off stump, threads of tendon and shreds of skin waved gently, while the slim fingernail pointed unerringly toward the north.

  "Listen carefully, now. We'll lie offshore, out of sight, until we're sure that Cullinane has gone a fair distance away, then . . ."

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Cave of Writings