The Chart of Tomorrows

by Chris Willrich

  “But I will take everything I can get. You are all clearly bound up in this. I am a Swanling, but I am also a Kantening, and I know the strands of fate when I trip over them. If you will accept my commission . . . then seek a way of defeating Skrymir. In return I can offer royal gratitude. I might provide you homes, wealth, interesting work. Assuming, of course, I have a land when all is done.”

  Gaunt said, “Princess, Bone and I have a mission of our own, to find our son.”

  “We can’t just go questing against every troll-king that comes our way,” Bone said. “Majesty.”

  Nan spoke. “I have only compassion for what you are feeling. I’ve lost sons of my own. But from all we’ve heard, Innocence is likely to be found among the Karvak leaders. And thus near Skrymir.”

  Freidar added, “And indeed, if Skrymir understands Innocence’s power, your son’s not safe from him.”

  “In the meantime,” Corinna said, “how will you seek Innocence when the land is torn by war? You will want a ship.”

  Gaunt glanced at Haytham. The inventor shook his head, looking at Corinna. “I’m sorry, Persimmon. Aside from the balloon Walking Stick stole from the Karvaks, I don’t have anything now that can fly. And I’ve committed my work to the defense of Soderland. In any event, I think you will be less conspicuous at sea.”

  “You won’t come with us?” Bone said.

  “I am sorry.”

  You are smitten indeed, Haytham, Gaunt thought. Then she mused, “We have Deadfall . . .”

  “You do have Deadfall,” came the eerie hum of the magic carpet’s voice, hanging there upon the wall. “And I would have my vengeance on Skrymir, who forced me to occupy the hollowness where his heart once beat.”

  “Heart,” said Malin. “Troll heart. Eventyr Thirty-Six. A troll can escape mortal wounds by hiding his heart in an inaccessible location. If one finds the heart, one can destroy it, and with it the troll.”

  Corinna said, “I am learning to respect your words, Malin Jorgensdatter. But where could the heart be sought?”

  “I have knowledge,” Deadfall said. “When I plunged beside Innocence into the sea, he nearly drowned, but I was swept up by a supernatural vortex, magic calling to magic. I was pulled into it and knew it was too much for me, that I would never escape. I refused to be captive again. With all my strength I sought refuge and sensed another source of magic at the edge of the maelstrom. I found a barren island, in sight of a larger island dominated by a great volcano, and there I flopped down to rest. I never beheld the source of the island’s magic. Before the day was out, a flock of green-eyed ravens landed beside me and snatched my edges in their claws. Too weak to fight, I was flown to what you call the Trollberg. There Skrymir examined me and chose to stuff me into the gap in his chest. He believed he could use me to absorb magical power from the world around him. He was right.”

  “This is fascinating, old friend,” said Katta.

  “I am not your friend. I am your namesake.”

  “I am sad to hear you speak so, but let it go. How does this information help us?”

  Deadfall said, “While I languished in the gap, I sensed certain energies about it, having the same sensations, the same flavor, if you will, of the magic on the barren island.”

  Joy said, “You think the island is where Skrymir’s heart lies?”

  “It may explain why troll-birds came to collect the carpet,” Freidar mused, “for such is what they were.”

  At once Corinna rolled out a map labeled in Roil. It seemed mostly accurate to Gaunt, though the Chained Straits had looked narrower in person, and she doubted anyone could know the disposition of the northern ice. She pointed at a set of islands in the group labeled Oxiland. Her finger landed beside the X. “These would all fit the description Deadfall gives.”

  “Could you fly us there, Deadfall?” Gaunt asked. “Because I am thinking that, with his heart in our possession, we might be able to bargain with Skrymir.”

  “Bargain and not destroy?” Nan said.

  “If he has my son, I may want to bargain. But suppose his heart were a permanent trophy here in this palace?”

  Corinna said, “I like how you think, Mistress Gaunt. Very well, you may decide how best to use it. But I urge you to seek it.”

  Gaunt looked at Bone. He nodded.

  “All right,” Gaunt said, feeling the world wheel around her. “Deadfall, can you take us to that place?”

  “Yes,” said the carpet, “but I will not journey by air. I fear the troll-jarl’s power over the atmosphere, and he caught me once before. I will take ship, guiding you.”

  “I’m sure we can find a ship,” Corinna said. “Your friend Katta will go too, I hope?”

  Katta said, “Even as echo follows voice. Though he insists I am not his friend.”

  “None is,” said the carpet, “for who can trust what is caught between good and evil?”

  “Eventyr One Hundred ,” said Malin.

  “What did you say?” said Deadfall.

  “Eventyr One Hundred. ‘The Companion.’ A bad dead man rises to help the hero who paid to give him a decent burial. Good and evil, side by side, working together.”

  “I will never have a burial,” said Deadfall.

  “Malin Jorgensdatter,” Princess Corinna said, “I think the kindest thing for you may be to return you to our ally Ostoland, that isle of small villages and whispering forests. But if you wish it, you may stay in the Fortress beside your friend Inga while she heals.”

  “I will take ship,” said Malin. “To find the heart. I will miss Inga, but my home will suffer if trolls and Karvaks aren’t stopped.”

  “I request,” Freidar said, “the ship be captained by Erik Glint. And crewed by those of his choice.”

  “I concur,” Nan said.

  “You drive a tough bargain,” Corinna said, and there was silence. “Very well, let the Lardermen aid in this too, if they can. Nan and Freidar, you are among the last Runewalkers in our realm. I can’t command you to help these people, but I would be grateful.”

  The two looked at each other. “We will help as we can,” Nan said. “Starting with training you, Runethane, on this journey.”

  Joy shook her head. “I’m not going.”

  “What?” Gaunt and Corinna said, at nearly the same time.

  “I was chosen,” Joy said. “I’ve dreamed of this land and its people. I know what you’re up against. I agree seeking Skrymir’s heart is important, but I don’t think that’s what I’m here for. I think I’m here to fight.”

  “That’s madness,” Corinna said.

  “Is it?” Joy said, and Gaunt wondered that the girl could hold her own, meet the eyes of this mature, royal-born woman. “You said I needed to train. To learn. I’ll do that better here than on some ship. I was raised to do my duty. The sages say, ‘To see what’s right, and not act on the knowledge, that is a lack.’”

  “Well,” Snow Pine said. “For once I can’t fault Walking Stick’s teaching. I’ll stay with you, Joy.”

  “And I as well,” Flint said.

  Gaunt hugged Joy, saying, “You’re your mother’s daughter, though I’m not sure either of you realize how much! Haytham, you have to watch over her too.”

  “You have my word,” Haytham said.

  Nan and Freidar shared a look. “And mine!” said Nan. “Freidar . . . will you travel with the questers?”

  “Aye,” he said slowly. “I don’t like it, wife, but it seems necessary. And it’s the privilege and curse of a married couple that they can divide their forces.”

  Nan squeezed his hand. “One Runewalker with the seekers of the heart. One with the Runethane.”

  “So be it,” Corinna said. “I’m glad we’ll have you, Nan. And I look forward to getting to know you better, Joy.”

  But as with the sidelong glances of Jokull Loftsson, Gaunt thought there was more to the princess’s scrutiny than met the eye.

  For that reason she said nothing about the Chart, even as she to
ok Bone’s hand and said, “We’ll go as soon as possible,” for she thought that it, too, might provide a road to Innocence. And she did not trust kings and queens, princes and princesses.

  CHAPTER 26

  WAR

  After hard marching, the allied Kantenings reached Garmsmaw Pass on the fifth day of the new year. Prince Ragnar brandished the banner Landwaster as the army halted. Under its rippling colors his father and grandfather had united the southern realms—shattering idols, accepting fealty, giving gold rings and bright blades. He passed it to his herald with instructions it be kept high. His army encamped on rugged ground just before the pass’s most narrow pinch, and Ragnar kept moving from band to band, making sure the difficult tenting was done, but also ensuring he was seen by all, and that his devotion was understood.

  Such a diverse force needed to know someone held the reins. His strongest unit was five hundred horsemen, most of them in mail-shirt byrnies, though some poorer warriors wore leather armor, and some richer ones wore the plate armor that was becoming so popular in countries south and east. For these, Corinna had even created an order, the Knights of Saint Fiametta, in imitation of the fashion in Swanisle.

  With them came fifteen hundred footmen with sword, spear, and shield, all trained fighters from the retinues of lords or the town militias. Ragnar also had, as an experiment, fifty longbowmen trained in the Swanisle fashion.

  The rest of Soderland’s force was a group of mutually suspicious noncombatants—Swan priests and Runewalkers, representing new powers and old. But he wanted them both at his back. The rabble-rouser Squire Everart had sent none of his peasant fighters, but that suited Ragnar. They’d win without Everart’s help, tales of valor would fill the land, and the squire’s position would be weakened.

  They had better allies—two hundred Oxiland warriors, including some who still wore the bear-shirts, the sign of men who could enter a ritualistic battle frenzy; a hundred doughty men from rustic Ostoland, good with axes; five hundred well-trained militia from Garmstad Town.

  They’d taken a position beneath Hel’s Tooth, a promontory extending from the otherwise sheer granite wall of the pass’s western side. As sunset gave its intimation of carnage to come, and campfires filled the pass, Ragnar ate beside the warleaders in a sheltered hollow beneath the Tooth.

  With them was a portly but hardy old man attached to Loftsson’s band, Huginn Sharpspear. The man was too garrulous for Ragnar’s liking, but he told good stories—tales of blood-feuds in Oxiland, high-minded quests in Svardmark, encounters with the gods in Spydbanen. Ragnar detected a theme of meeting difficult odds.

  “You must be a skald of old,” Ragnar said, with a lift of his mug.

  “I’m old, to be sure, young man,” Huginn said with a wink, earning laughter.

  “You,” Ragnar said seriously. “I hereby charge you with observing all and making a song of it. I relieve you of all burden to stay and fight. If you feel it necessary, flee, so the song can survive us.”

  Ylur, a white-bearded Oxilander chieftain, spoke. “Our foes seem to command the winter. They’ve left this pass clear of snow, which proves they are coming. Do you have a premonition? Do you foresee death?” The notion lived in Oxiland that those on death’s door gained powers of foresight.

  “No,” Ragnar said, knowing he should quell such thinking. The Oxilanders might enjoy a good doom, but his Soderlanders, at least, wanted encouragement. “Quite the opposite. After seeing this position I anticipate battle eagerly. A clear pass helps us more than the Karvaks. From Hel’s Tooth the archers can spot and shoot anything coming through the pass, and once softened, the invaders can be ravaged by the horsemen. The horsemen can withdraw at need to the narrowest part, where the warriors on foot can hold the line. Here is a place where a few can hold out against a force of any size. No, I merely like the assurance of knowing we’ll have our song.”

  “Even though Oxilanders bow to no prince,” said Huginn, the mischief gone from his voice, “I respect your command of the army. You have some sense. But in this matter I am beyond your edict. I came out of debt to my benefactor, Jokull Loftsson. He had cause before to take my life. It is his.”

  “But Huginn,” said Jokull, “Ragnar speaks true. There is none better than you to make sure this fight is remembered. I don’t mock your service, or your valor. But perhaps you should face battle with the bowmen so you can watch from a height.”

  “I’ll do as you ask, old friend.”

  Another Oxilander cleared his throat, a young chieftain named Gissur. “What of these balloons, Ragnar?”

  “And the rumors of trolls?” said his big, red-bearded colleague Styr. The Oxilanders were garrulous tonight.

  “For balloons we have the Runewalkers,” Ragnar said, “who can change the weather. And for trolls we have priests, for accounts agree they fear the Swan and flee even from the mere sound of church bells.” He smiled. “Thus our mutually antagonistic friends in robes are united in helping us.”

  “Well,” Huginn said. “What now then?”

  “Now we wait.”

  He’d been waiting all his life. Born illegitimate but called to serve, he’d needed patience. Options for honorable combat had dwindled since Grandfather Hakon’s day. Soderland’s neighbors had accepted the White Swan, and his family grew loath to slay Swanlings without severe cause. And the plague that had taken his mother and Corinna’s mother both, and rendered their father a babbling madman, had left the countries nearby too depleted for conflict. Grandfather Hakon, his own mind shattered in a different way by the losses of war, would not reclaim the crown, and their grandmother was in the ground. Corinna had done what she could.

  Ragnar had sought war among the Ursine Guard of distant Amberhorn. He’d fought pirates and nomad raiders and even his own cousins in the Ayl Corps across the Midnight Sea, and in between he’d sipped muscat wine and irony. He begrudged his half-sister nothing; what he hated were the mutterings that as a bastard, he was unworthy of his blood.

  At last he was earning glory in his own land.

  He just had to wait.

  They waited two days, as scouts and travelers brought word of a fantastically vast force of alien horsemen that congealed and dispersed like smoke. None could be sure how many, for the Karvak horde seemed able to march and encamp across a wide area and yet maintain its discipline. But it was said the cookfires that appeared briefly in the gray after sunset were like the scattered stars. The Karvaks appeared true to their agreement with the Five Fjords, and the few Fjordland villages down in that rugged lowland between Gullvik’s domain and Garmstad’s went unharmed.

  At dawn on the second day, Ragnar woke from a nightmare. He had dreamed that a falcon menaced a bear, and though the bear had seemed ferocious and unconquerable, the falcon, too fast for the bear’s claws, slowly and patiently and beginning with the eyes pecked and clawed the beast to death.

  Nothing in the pass justified his cold sweat. The sky overhead was a blue-gray to match the mountain rock, while southward there was blue and sunlight that illuminated the pass’s few trees, making them green beacons against the gray. Ragnar had an urge to paint the scene. He kept it to himself. One had strange thoughts before battle sometimes.

  Then he saw it: a dark circular shape in the gray sky to the northeast. Two, and three. Far off but unmistakable, for he had himself seen the fallen craft of Haytham ibn Zakwan.

  “Awake!” he cried, and the heralds took up the command. But he also ordered that ale be given to those who wanted it, and likewise blessings from the priests.

  Once armed and armored, and ready with reports from the lookouts, he saw his army ready, their murmurs conveying eagerness. The bowmen were up on the Tooth, Huginn among them. He spoke to his key warleaders, Klarvik, Stormhamn, Jokull, and Garm.

  “We are ready,” Ragnar said without preamble. “And we are fortunate, for the lookouts report a force of only three thousand.”

  “Heh,” said Lord Klarvik. “Only.”

  “Neverth
eless, our chances are less dire than rumored. I think our Karvaks are skilled at braggery. And I think our own ability to come together will have surprised them. Let’s be ready to welcome them.”

  Two hours later the strange army arrived. Ragnar had never before seen a force that was entirely cavalry. Were they all nobles, then, and so many? And all bowmen? He marveled at these strange men in their tasseled helmets and their coats blue as a cloudless winter sky. All had swords, and some in the middle of the line wore armor, and in this they were like and yet unlike his own force. (Indeed, some of their horses looked of Kantenjord breed.) The swords were curved, and the armor was unlike either chain or plate, being a cuirass of rectangular metal strips. The saddles were more complex than the Kantenings’ and possessed extensions to anchor the feet.

  The Karvaks advanced with impressive discipline, each man keeping true to signalmen waving colored flags. Ragnar wished he could question one of these warriors as to their methods.

  After he had slain or routed all that one’s fellows, of course.

  The Kantenings took first blood. The hidden longbowmen on Hel’s Tooth loosed their arrows when the Karvaks were within a quarter mile.

  Warriors died. A cheer rose up from the Kantenings.

  Landwaster held high, Ragnar bellowed, “Hold! Do not advance!” The order was repeated, and his own horsemen kept discipline.

  The Karvaks were in confusion for a short time, during which Ragnar wondered if he’d missed an opportunity. Many of them shot arrows in response to Ragnar’s longbowmen. Their smaller bows and lower ground put them at the disadvantage; none of their arrows found the mark.

  The confusion did not last, and the Karvaks pulled back and regrouped with admirable unity. Their loss of some twenty men and horses was more symbolic than meaningful, but first blood mattered. Ragnar smiled.

  Now. What would I do in their place?

  He saw signal flags waving, and answering flags from the distant balloons. The “Orb Dragons” advanced. Of course.

  “Runewalkers!” he called out. “It is time!”