Ian had decided that he wasn’t going to try anything quite yet, but his muscles and nerves had another idea: he disengaged, cut over, and extended for a touch on Burs Erikson’s torso, then reengaged the blades as he retreated.
Burs Erikson managed to thrust weakly toward Ian’s outer arm, but Ian simply parried and continued his lunge, again scoring with a torso touch.
Ian stepped back and saluted, holding it until Burs Erikson was shamed into mimicking the move. “Very nice, sir; you almost made the touch on the arm.”
Burs Erikson repeated his complicated salute, then dropped back into a guard position. “Again.”
Ian moved forward, then went into a quick false attack, which, as intended, wouldn’t have quite reached Burs Erikson’s chest even if he hadn’t defended properly—he was just a little too far away. But it drew the expected riposte, and Ian was sure enough that it was real that he went for a full circular parry that half-threatened to turn into a disarm. He beat, lunged, touched, and recovered.
Ian shook his head. He really had wanted to go for the disarm—according to the parallel tradition born here and home, the opponent wasn’t really disarmed until his sword actually touched the floor—and slap the kid a few times with his blade before Burs’ sword clanged on the ground, but years of training had made him conservative.
Well, and good. Now, finally, he let a smile come to his face. He nodded at Burs Erikson. “I think we’ve had enough, eh?”
He deliberately glanced down toward his blade. Next time, asshole, he tried to shout with his mind, I will disarm you, and if you think being beaten this badly is embarrassing, just wait until your sword’s tumbling through the air and landing at the feet of your father’s pretty young wife, eh?
But that was part of what Thorian Thorsen had tried to teach him: It was best simply to beat an opponent, and not humiliate him. Victory carried with it enough benefits that it needed no supplemental ones; humiliation could be repaid later.
He tossed the sword and caught it by the hilt, upside down, then handed it over to the vestri servant before walking toward Burs Erikson. Ian briefly clapped his hands together, like a blackjack dealer showing that he was leaving the table without any palmed chips, then extended his right hand.
“Good bout,” he said, smiling. Being a good winner was something that anybody who wanted to earn some money tutoring fencing had to have down pat.
“Thank you.” Burs Erikson’s grip was probably firmer than it ought to have been, and his smile seemed less than completely genuine. He was probably working out that he’d been had, but probably would never figure out why, not completely.
The technical term was “decadence.” Foil fencing had evolved at a time when duels were fought to the death, and a wound inside the triangle from shoulders to groin was the way somebody could be sure of delivering that kind of damage.
Epée had arisen when duels were fought to the first blood, to any wound at all, and it was unsurprising that a Vandestish swordsman would have been trained to go for the blood, the same way that duelists from the Houses did.
Ian might have given a good account of himself in a real duel, or he might not. It had taken him years to get any good with a foil, and while he had spent some time studying what he thought of as informal epée with Ivar del Hival and Thorian Thorsen, he wouldn’t be a match for a really good duelist for a long time. Some of his skills would carry over, but not all of them.
But playing by Ian’s rules, Burs had had virtually no chance against Ian, much less than the chance Ian would have had, had he been playing Burs’ game. Ian nodded to Ivar del Hival. The big man was useful to have around, at that, and not just for carrying a stretcher.
He had won. So why did he feel like he had been playing poker with marked cards?
“Well,” the margrave said, “you’ve proven yourself quite a swordsman, and that’s been fascinating, but you’ve hardly given me cause to send you to the Seat and the Table with any demand.”
Then what was all this for, Margrave? Ian thought, but didn’t ask. That was at least an implicit promise of the bout, that if—
“Let’s discuss it at table tonight,” the margravine said, slipping her arm under the margrave’s. “I’d like to hear more from this… very interesting young man.”
Ian was surprised when the margrave nodded. “Very well, Marta,” he said, quietly. “Ian Silverstein, you and Ivar del Hival shall join us at table, and of course you will all stay the night,” he said, looking pointedly at Burs Erikson. He gestured toward Arnie. “If you want to have your servant with you, I’ll have him fed in your rooms.”
Ian would have protested immediately, but Arnie’s eyes were twinkling in amusement at the margrave’s assumption that he was a servant, and before Ian could figure out what he wanted to say about it, Arnie was on his way out of the room in the company of a couple of vestri servants, and Ivar del Hival was talking.
“That is very kind of you, of course, Margrave,” Ivar del Hival said. “We are honored.” He drew himself up stiffly, arms at his side, and gave a precisely measured bow, then turned to glare at Ian until Ian did the same.
“We are honored,” Ian echoed. He had his mouth open to say something else, although he wasn’t sure what, when he was cut off by the screams outside.
It had been a little boy, they said, although it was impossible to tell now. It was a scorched hunk of foul-smelling meat, too-white shards of bone poking through.
He had been just a little boy, and he had touched the spear and then burned up in a hot white light, too bright to look at.
Nobody had seen it, although there had been some looking.
One of them, a little girl of maybe four or five, kept crying as she rubbed at her eyes, every once in a while holding her fingers out in front of her face, as though to reassure herself that she could still see. Another, a soldier whose face was wet with tears, was already seeing well enough to walk over to Aglovain Tyrson and murmur in his ear.
Ian rubbed his fingers against the blister on his arm. “How…”
Ivar del Hival’s thick hand was hard on his shoulder. “Not a word,” he murmured. “Not a word, I tell you.” He looked over at the margrave. “Aglovain Tyrson will tell you that Ian Silverstein warned him that nobody was to touch it,” he said. “We meant no harm.”
The margrave nodded slowly, his face stony and impassive as he looked from the charred mass to Ian, and then to Ivar del Hival. “Yes, yes, he’s said so.”
“Who…” Ian started, then caught himself. “Who was supposed to be guarding it?”
Aglovain Tyrson’s hand was on the hilt of his sword. “That, Ian Silver Stone, is none of your concern.”
“Leave it be,” Ivar del Hival said. “Just leave it.”
“Easy, Ian,” Arnie Selmo murmured from behind him. “We’re in Indian territory, and the natives aren’t necessarily all that goddamn friendly.”
But it was just a kid. If some adult was asshole enough to ignore the warnings, that was one thing, but you couldn’t expect a kid to see the danger.
“Yeah, yeah,” Arnie said, anticipating Ian’s objection. “But you let the locals hand out local justice, and if it isn’t exactly what you’d call justice at home, that’s just kind of too bad.”
“The spear,” Ivar del Hival said. He swallowed heavily.
“It’s called Gungnir,” the margrave said, nodding. “I know of it. It can be carried with impunity only by Aesir.”
“Something like that,” Ian said. “Only those of the Elder Races or a few of us with… a special dispensation.”
“Ah.” The margrave jerked his head toward it. “Pull it out of the ground.”
Ian nodded as he slipped his hands into the gloves. “As you please,” he said.
As before, it was hard to get the first hand to close around the shaft; it was a strange feeling, as though he was a marionette under his own control, pulling the strings that controlled his own movements, as he leaned over and controlled the
marionette that was himself.
But first he closed one hand around the shaft of the spear, and then another, and then, in an instant, the universe shifted, and he was himself, just ordinary Ian Silverstein, standing over the burned remains of what had been a little boy, a god’s spear in his hands, tears running freely down his cheeks.
Chapter Eleven
Rumors
Torrie had been hearing the rhythmic chopping sound for an hour—he had checked his pocket watch—before they topped a hill and found Harbard’s Landing spread out before them.
The weather was getting ugly, with the promise of getting downright mean before long. A storm was moving in from the west, a slate-gray mass driving fluffy puffs of cumulus ahead of it, like a massive pack of wolves scattering and then pursuing a few idle sheep.
The distant whack came to his ears over the dry, almost metallic rustle of the leaves in the trees. There were a few seconds of silence, and then another whack.
Torrie could visualize it all; the woodsman would set a piece of wood on the chopping stump, choke up on the hammer so he could set the wedge with a few taps, and then he would take one step back, bring the hammer down, back, around, and over, and—
Whack—
Then he’d take another piece of wood, set it up on the chopping stump, and—
Whack.
There it was again. Right on time, too. Whoever it was must have been in pretty good shape; he was keeping up the same pace, and had been for a while.
Or maybe there were two of them, working together, like Torrie and Dad did, one of them putting the wood on the stump and setting the wedge, the other simply swinging the hammer.
Chopping wood with Dad had always been Torrie’s favorite chore. Even when he was a little kid, that was their time together—Dad would set the piece of wood on the ancient oak stump next to the barn, then steady the wedge on it so Torrie could bang on the top with the carpenter’s hammer.
It had been a major rite of passage the day Dad had handed the sledgehammer to Torrie, and told him it was his turn.
Torrie smiled. “Sound familiar?”
“Very. Reminds me of home.” He quickened his pace. “If we hurry, we should be there soon.”
One of the hardest things for Torrie to learn about his father was that not only could he sometimes be wrong, but it wasn’t just about matters of opinion that he could be mistaken, but matters of judgment, too. You grow up thinking that if Dad does make a mistake—and, hell, everybody makes mistakes—it’s something that nobody could have avoided.
And then you find him about to make a tenderfoot kind of mistake like plunging ahead with a storm coming on.
“Dad?” Torrie said. “Let’s take a break for a moment, eh?”
Dad’s jaw twitched. “I think…” He let his voice trail off. “Very well, if you think it wise.”
Torrie smiled.
Maggie—unflappable Maggie, who still managed to look fresh after two days on the road, just like she had through what had seemed like half the hiking trails in Europe—seconded the notion and shrugged out of her pack.
“If we can’t afford a quick five, then we probably better take ten.” She hung the rucksack from an out-thrust piece of bark on an old elm, then gave a quick tug to test it before dropping first to a squat that gave her thigh muscles and hamstrings a good stretch, then a cross-legged sitting position on the ground.
“A few minutes’ rest would probably be good,” Dad said, evenly, although Torrie could tell from his tone of voice that he resented being slowed, much less stopped.
Torrie was more experienced in this, and while it wouldn’t do to lecture Dad, it was nice to be better at something than he, even if the something was only hiking.
Walking quickly to try to get to shelter wasn’t necessarily a bad idea, but there was also something to be said for a bit of caution.
Torrie tried to estimate the distance from the overlook down to Harbard’s Landing, then factor in the speed and distance of the oncoming storm, and couldn’t decide how close it was.
They might be able to make it down to the ferryman’s shack before the storm hit, and they might not. If they were going to have to weather a storm outside, it would be better to do so while the forest offered some protection from the elements, and the materials to construct more.
A hastily constructed leaky lean-to under a canopy of trees was better cover than anything you could find or make on a muddy road, and even a muddy road was better than the field it ran beside.
Torrie would have said as much if the two of them were alone, but he would no more embarrass Dad in front of Maggie than he would have embarrassed her in front of him.
Maggie smiled up at him; she knew what he was up to. “Let’s see if I can guess,” she said, rising, swatting at the tightness of her jeans to clear off the dirt. She was dressed like Torrie and Dad: tight trousers over heavy hiking boots, belted with a silver buckle, and topped with a filigreed cowboy shirt borrowed from Torrie, which, hurriedly decorated with a few odds and ends of jewelry Mom had been shamed into contributing to the cause, was an outfit that by local usage proclaimed her to be a goldstitch.
The compound hunting bow in her hand was, granted, a bit strange by local standards—but anybody who traveled with silver or gold would be expected to carry a weapon, as well. Women Just Didn’t Carry Swords, not in the Middle Dominions, not in Vandescard, but if the knife slung from her back was somewhat longer and lighter than most such were, that wouldn’t be a problem. In a fight, she would try to get hold of the spare sword Torrie had slung over his shoulder, if possible.
Maggie wasn’t by any means the best fencer Torrie had ever met, although she wasn’t bad at all for somebody who had only been doing it for a couple of years, but she was the best damn surprise fencer that he would likely ever see. That had saved her life, as well as Mom’s and Dad’s; and it wasn’t likely that the Vandestish would be anymore open-minded than the Sons of Fenris.
She stood for a while, looking, thinking. “I think we can make it,” she said. “I could be wrong; but I think it will be at least a couple of hours before the storm hits down there. I think.”
“But?”
“But I’m not sure it’s worth a try.” She spread her hands. “Win a little, or lose a lot?”
Torrie nodded. That was about the decision he had come to. If they rushed, and if they were on the right side of the storm front by the time they got to the cottage, and if they were made welcome, it would all be fine.
But that chained too many ifs, and for too little reward. They should be able to put together a decent shelter within an hour or so, and sit out the storm in reasonable warmth and adequate dryness. If there was anything more miserable then being wet, cold, and outside during a storm, Torrie didn’t want to find out about it firsthand. And there was a clearing about a mile back upslope that would do.
“Dad? It really makes more sense to do it this way. I—”
Dad silenced him with an upraised palm, which startled Torrie for a moment. He had put that on his list of things not to do; an upraised hand was a gesture Torrie had learned not to use around Ian—it would always cause him to flinch, and would make him at least force himself not to bring up his foil—if they were working out in the salle d’armes or over at the gym during fencing club sessions. It had been simpler to just decide never to raise his hand that way, although it was a common gesture around the house, and Dad’s usual way of conceding defeat.
“Very well, Thorian,” Dad said. “Let’s do it your way. What can I do to help?” he asked, then listened, smiling, as Torrie gave him the camp saw and his instructions. Dad’s broad face was as familiar to Torrie as his own. Torrie would have claimed that he had seen it in every possible expression—including a lot of smiles.
But Torrie couldn’t recall that particular smile before.
Lightning flashed and thunder roared overhead, and the storm’s wet fingers clawed and scratched at the walls of the lean-to, but the tarps h
eld firm.
High above the trees, a finger of lightning reached down for land, scant seconds later followed by a thunderclap that sounded like God’s Own Applause. There was no point in trying to talk, with the thunder interrupting every sentence, so Torrie just sat and thought.
Dad’s eyelids started to sag, again, and again he shook himself, once, twice, three times. If Torrie didn’t know better, he would have thought that Dad was starting to get, well, old. But that made sense only intellectually, not emotionally. Dad was Dad like Mom was Mom and Uncle Hosea was Uncle Hosea; they were anchors of the universe, not just people.
Maggie’s face was lovely by firelight; there was something about it that brought out the strength and resolve etched into her firm mouth that never grew old.
She leaned her head against his shoulder, and Torrie, far too self-consciously, kissed the top of her head, while Dad studiously looked away.
It would have been nice to have a little privacy, but you made do with what you had. It was possible to make a lean-to solely out of what you could find in the forest, and Torrie had done that in Boy Scouts, years ago, but it made more sense to use what you had available, and Torrie had been taught, by Mom, Dad, and Hosea, to substitute technology for discomfort, when it made sense. So he and Dad had quickly lashed together a pair of frames, and covered them with tarps, then anchored them in place with tent pegs and a pair of support lines that cut across one side of the clearing. Two of the mylar plastic emergency blankets had been pitched to seal off the sides of the shelter, and a third over the top of it, leaving the lean-to closed on three sides and part of the fourth.
The remaining tarp was pitched as a slanted dining fly, giving enough protection to the fire in front of the lean-to that, though it constantly sputtered and crackled and hissed, it didn’t go out.
That was always the nice thing about camping in the rain: you didn’t have to worry about your fire getting out of hand. The problem was feeding it constantly, slowly, giving it enough time to dry out the wood you added.
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