Harald-ARC

by David Friedman

  "She's in better shape than you are. Nothing broken, nothing that won't heal."

  He closed his eyes, breathed slowly, let the world fade back.

  Hoofbeats in front, behind. He felt his body swaying. A horse litter. Gods grant neither beast bolted.

  "No you can't. 'Leanor, stop the beast."

  "You stop her."

  The hoofbeats stopped, the litter stopped swaying. Something cold and wet against his shoulder. He reached up, stroked the mare's muzzle.

  He was lying in a bed. Too hot. Dull aches, none of which seemed to matter. Someone was trying to talk to him.

  "Old Gudmund and Anna will take care of you. We have to go. They'll send word when they can. You're their nephew Karl. A falling tree hurt you."

  It was a struggle to open his eyes, to force his mind to think, his mouth to speak.

  "Can you get a message to your hold, up the top of Mainvale?"

  There was a long silence, voices whispering together.

  "Yes. It will take time."

  "No hurry. When someone goes. Lady Aliana. Nobody else. Niall. His father. Home next spring."

  "We are to tell the Lady Aliana in Valholt at the top of Mainvale that Niall's father will be home next spring?"

  Harald nodded, closed his eyes, was again asleep.

  He slept for a long time, brief intervals for water, a little soup. The legions advanced, a wall of shields, unbreakable. He signaled; the trumpet sounded. The boulders rolled down. He saw the faces, horror, courage, surprise. Crushed bodies. Men moaning. The wind blew, the field faded like mist. Leonora pulling off corpses with a cold face, looking, finding. He forced his eyes to open. His leg hurt.

  A wrinkled face leaned over him. Behind her a lifted curtain, beyond a small room, a fireplace. She was saying something. He strained to understand. His mouth was dry; he nodded. She held the cup to his lips.

  After the fever broke the dreams changed for the better. Sometimes he was awake for hours, strong enough to lift a cup, spoon soup. Sliding away into sleep, he saw the Imperial left come down on the Order—heavy cavalry, Belkhani, twenty cacades, a forest of lances. The Ladies stood their ground, pouring arrows into the charging ranks. Watching from the hilltop, waiting for the center and right to move against him, he stopped breathing. At the last moment, impossibly late, the front ranks almost on them, up and away, fleeing for their lives. The Order's lights gradually drew away from the slower heavies; the charge ground to a halt. Two hundred yards beyond the milling lines the Ladies were again dismounted, too far for his eyes but he knew arrows were flying down the wind, Belkhani falling. A second time, a third, impossibly precise, perilously close, the line of Ladies shooting as the cavalry bore down on them, up and away before the lances closed.

  He had seen the drill over and over. This was real. The fourth charge ground to a halt, the Belkhani ranks thinned, tired horses, tired men. Their lances swung up. At the left end of the Order's line a figure raised her hand. The line of riders, mail silver in the morning sun, wheeled, shifted weapons in an instant, lances down, heartbreaking grace, the silver wave swept down on the astonished cavalry, over it, on. Three legions in front of him still untouched, four thousand light infantry on their right, but she had won him his battle. Darkness. Light. Darkness again.

  Again light. He rode the wind, the floor of the world in all directions to the sky. The stolen horses ahead. Hoofbeats behind would never catch them. He heard Conor yell.

  The bay had stumbled over something, gone head over heels, her rider flying, rolling. Harl spun the black, charged their pursuers, faces over shields, both spears leveled at him. At the last moment he leaned down the side of his horse, ducking the points, back up, spear crosswise, leaning into it, knees locked to the horse's side.

  It almost drove him from the saddle, but braced for the shock he rode it through, heard his spear snap, felt his horse driven back on its haunches. He spun the horse again, joy bubbling in his throat. Both ravens were out of the saddle, one running after his horse, the other doubled up—the spear butt must have knocked the breath out of him. Harl brought the black into a canter after the riderless horse, heading it to the left. Conor ran alongside, caught the mane, up. The herd still ahead, still moving, six horses. As he drew even, Conor turned, waved, finger sign for seven. They rode on, both laughing.

  Harald opened his eyes. The arm on the blanket was skeletal, muscles withered, skin wrinkled. A moment before he had been young, the wind in his hair, his oathbrother laughing beside him. He clenched his hand. The claw fingers moved.

  His hand. His arm. The end of the bed. He tried to move his foot; the blanket stirred. A wood wall, mud chinked. Carefully, feeling down the years, Harald put the world back together. Conor was dead of the fever ten years ago, more. Harald had fostered one of his sons.

  It was a week before he could walk, steadied by a stick. Once he could go more than a few steps he asked after the mare, stumbled out to the little stable. Gudmund showed him where his gear was hidden. A child's bow would have been more useful, but that would change. A week later, naked in the stream, he scrubbed himself clean for the first time in months. Wounds all healed, even the twisted dimple in his left calf. Thinner than he could remember, weak as a child, moving like an old man. Alive. An old man's face looked back at him out of the water, gaunt, hair and beard white. He shivered; the wind was cold. A dead leaf floated by. He looked west. Through trees, over the plain, through rock. Snow falling, snow banks head high in the pass. He dried himself off, pulled on a patched tunic, walked back to the cottage.

  Harald lay in bed, eyes closed. Ana and Gudmund were by the fire on the other side of the room. He was a little deaf, so her side of the conversation could for the most part be understood.

  "I left sign for the sisters, but it could be weeks. Here tomorrow, next day at best."

  "They'll search the stable. The horse. You heard what happened to Katrine. We have to get him away. Maybe the woods?"

  "...cold ..."

  "I know. But if they find him. Not just him."

  "We could sit tight. Nephew. Neighbors won't tell. ... But ..."

  The conversation went on, voices rising and falling; from time to time he could catch one or two of Gudmund's words.

  When he was sure they were asleep he rolled out of bed, lowering himself quietly to the floor, feeling under the bed for clothing. It was his own, plain enough to suit. He dressed hastily, the warmest he could find. Not warm enough. One blanket from the bed went around him, a belt to hold it. He untied the purse, reached into it. The loose stone by the fireplace. He dropped a handful of gold coins on top of whatever it held, put the stone back. Two more blankets, the rest of his clothes. Boots. Cloak. A sausage from dinner, a hard roll. The clay fire box, coals.

  The two oxen dreamed of green fields; the mare heard him, stamped, moved to her stall's door.

  "Not long now, lady love. Cold for you, me too, but at least moving."

  He lifted a square of floor, pulled out the saddle blanket, draped it over her. Saddle. Saddlebags. Handfuls of apples from the bin at the back of the stable. He leaned against the mare's side, breathing hard. She butted her head against his shoulder.

  From the little farm in the eastern fringe of North Province where foothills ran up to the mountains his nearest friend was three days travel north and west. The sky was clear, the wind at his back. At first he walked, but the mare was in better shape than he was. From time to time he woke enough to be sure they were still going in the right direction. A little before dawn he found a windfall and a heap of leaves, mostly dry, near a clearing of brown grass. He left the mare to graze, curled up in the leaves, blankets wrapped around him.

  The next day it started to snow. He went on for several hours, using wind and the lie of the land, felt himself slipping, caught himself, opened his eyes. The ground was covered with a thin white layer. He found shelter for both of them under an overhanging bank.

  By morning the snow was deeper. He scraped clear as
much grass as he could, fed the mare apples, himself from what was left of his traveling food. One more day's rest, then ...

  The next morning cold but clear. They set out, using the sun and the shape of the land. Downhill was mostly west. Downhill was good. By noon he was stumbling, holding on to the saddle, afraid to risk riding and falling. Shelter this time was a tall pine, branches weighed down by snow, space under almost clear. Dead branches made a fire; he melted snow, warm for the mare, hot for him, ate the last of his food.

  They were in flat land now; he mounted. It began to snow. As it grew darker he searched for shelter. Nothing. He pulled the blanket tighter around him under his cloak.

  The mare had stopped, was sniffing something. With an effort he dismounted. Hoofprints. Recent; the snow was still falling. Someone was going somewhere.

  The mare stopped again, Harald holding on by one hand. He leaned against her for a moment, shivering, put out his hand. Stone. Wood. A gate. Looking up, he saw walls, a tower, faint against falling snow.

  "Hullo."

  Silence.

  Cold fingers found the mace where he had tucked it under the saddle flap. He pounded the butt against the wood with what strength he had left. Again.

  Above him a voice.

  "Who's there?"

  "A traveler, lost. Followed hoofprints."

  "Just a minute."

  A small shutter opened in the door; he thought he saw something pale behind it. More noises. The gate swung open. He followed the mare into a small courtyard.

  After that everything seemed to be happening at once. A boy spoke to the mare, stroked her head, led her off telling her what a brave horse she was. Someone closed the gate. A man with one arm around Harald's shoulders helped him up the stone stairway, a small hall, a chair by the fire. Someone was yelling at several other people, but he wasn't sure what about. The clay mug in his hand was warm, the wine hot and sweet.

  Hospitality

  Alone on a long road,

  I lost my way:

  Rich when I found another;

  Man rejoices in man.

  He woke in a bed, a small room, fire in the fireplace at one end. A lump by his feet, a rock wrapped in cloth by the feel; someone had said something about hot rocks, sometime, but he couldn't remember who or when. A face. A boy, the boy who had taken the mare, was looking curiously into the room.

  "Hullo. You're awake. I'm Henry; everyone calls me Hen. Father's in the hall. He says if you're awake you can join him for noon meal, if you want. I didn't wake you?"

  "No. And yes. I'll be a few minutes."

  Someone had brought up his saddle bags, the heavy bundle that held his warcoat, the lighter bundle of bedding wrapped around cased bow, quiver. Nothing had been opened; courteous folk. The floor was cold against his feet; he had to catch hold of the headboard to keep from falling. After a moment the world steadied. His body was still slow to do his bidding. He limped over to the saddle bags, opened them, pulled out clean clothes.

  The hall was as small as he remembered. By the wall straw pallets were piled, bedding neatly rolled up. The long trestle table, covered with a litter of plates, mugs, platters, filled two-thirds of the room. A woman was clearing things away. At one end a man was sitting. He rose as Harald came into the room.

  "Welcome to Forest Keep. I'm Yosef, the castellan, hold from North Province. The snow's stopped, but it's no weather for a man your age to be out in alone. Or mine for that matter." He stopped, looking at Harald.

  "Harl, from Northvales some time back. I wasn't alone, that's why I'm alive; mare spotted the tracks. That and your hospitality. I'm your debtor."

  Yosef gestured to the table.

  "My boy, the guards, have left a few crumbs. Sit, eat."

  After the meal, Harald thanked his host, went back up the stairs for a wool overtunic and cloak, into the courtyard to explore the little castle. One corner was the old keep, its ground floor the stable, above that the old guard room, now the preserve of the castle women, top floor occupied by the guard captain and his wife. The next corner, the other side the main gate, was the new keep with the hall, guestroom and lord's chamber above. Ground floor of the new keep was storerooms, the kitchen a wooden structure built on, sharing one wall with the keep, one with the outer wall of the castle.

  He ended in the kitchen, drawn by the smell of baking bread. One of the castle guardsmen, there getting in the way of the cook, was chased out, a roll steaming in his hand. Harald found a convenient corner, enjoyed the warmth of the small room.

  "New face good to see—you last night's arrival?"

  Harald nodded.

  "Young men steal half the bread I bake. Only fair we old men get our share." The cook tossed Harald a roll; Harald caught it, bit into it while looking around the kitchen.

  "Lend you a hand? Meat to be cut up, I've handled a blade."

  The cook looked him up and down, nodded. Harald spent the next hour reducing a deer, brought in by two of the guardsmen the previous day, to pieces suitable for the pot.

  At dinner Harald met Rorik, the guard captain; his wife and two younger women brought food up from the kitchen. Asked about news from outside, Harald confessed that he had spent the past months visiting with friends up in the hills, apologized, and offered a story instead. By the time the fire had burned to ash the little hall held every man, woman, and child in the place, save for the two guardsmen on sentry duty, including a six month old baby asleep in her mother's arms. Harald tied up the last thread of a feud that had occupied the folk of Greenvale for two generations, off and on, and fell silent. Hen was lying at his feet, eyes closed, a smile on his face, looking absurdly young. Yosef bent down, picked up his son, carried him off up the stairs.

  The next morning, after breakfast, Yosef told Harald that, if he had no urgent need to be elsewhere, he was welcome to guest with them until spring brought better weather for traveling.

  Three weeks later Harald was coming into the stable with a sleeve full of apples when an arrow whipped past his nose, thudded into the wall, stuck there quivering. He stepped back, slammed shut the door with his right hand, reached left handed for his dagger.

  "I'm sorry; are you all right?" It was Hen's voice. Harald carefully put the dagger away. He was gathering spilled apples when the door opened. Hen stood there, bow in one hand, arrow in the other, a worried expression on his face.

  "I was just practicing; I didn't hurt you did I?"

  "No. Better luck next time."

  "They took down the butts by the postern when it got cold, and father won't let me go out and shoot at snow banks. If I don't shoot all winter I'll be hopeless by spring. I finished my target last night."

  Walking cautiously back into the stable, Harald saw that what the arrow had stuck in was not the stone wall of the stable but a thick mat of carefully braided straw almost two feet across, hung from a peg jammed between the stones.

  "Perhaps you should shoot at the end that doesn't have a door in it?"

  "I never thought of that."

  Harald took down the target, handed it to Hen, pulled out the peg, walked to the other end of the building, hammered it into a crack with a convenient stone. Hen handed him the target; he hung it on the peg. The two of them dragged a bundle of straw to the end by the door for Hen to use as a ground quiver. Harald watched for a while, then went out, closing the door behind him.

  The next day he went back to the stable with more apples, ended up sitting on a stool watching Hen shoot. The best that could be said for his aim was that all of the arrows ended up somewhere in the target. When finally one failed even to do that, the boy stopped, glared at his bow, muttered something under his breath.

  "Your bow didn't aim that arrow; you did."

  The boy glared at him.

  "Unjust to the bow. Bad for the liver. Makes for bad shooting, too."

  Hen looked as if he couldn't decide whether to laugh, cry, or throw something. He settled for a question:

  "Why do the arrows wobble th
rough the air?"

  "You're plucking the string. Here."

  Harald took the bow in his left hand, drew back the string a few inches with his right, released to a loud twang.

  "See how I plucked sideways as I let go?"

  The boy nodded.

  "Makes the arrow wobble sideways. Bad aim, less range. Don't pluck, just open, let the string go." This time the release was almost soundless. He handed Hen back the bow.

  Over the next few weeks, Harald got in the habit of ending his visits to the mare by sitting for a while watching Hen shoot. The boy politely offered to give Harald a turn with his bow, Harald politely declined, restricting himself to advice when asked. Hen, without asking, explained that the reason he had to learn to shoot was not for hunting, although hunting was all very well, but because he was still too small to use a sword.