The Sword of the Lady c-3

by S. M. Stirling

  Ingolf swung into the saddle and drew in beside Rudi.?Think we should have tried to finish them off?? he said.

  Rudi shook his head, looking out through the thickening snow.?Too risky. There were still more of them, if they rallied. Now their spirits will be… dampened, I think.?

  Major Graber looked down at the body of the High Seeker. The shaven-skulled face was blue with cold, and a slow trickle of water oozed out of its mouth, glittering in the torchlight that drove back the night a little. Snow hissed into the burning wood. Somewhere a man sobbed and then shrieked as their surviving field medic went to work. ?We could try resuscitation,? his lieutenant said. ?After more than an hour in this water? No, the Ascended Masters have welcomed his lifestream-?

  High Seeker Dalan opened his eyes with a jerk, as if they were pulled up by fishhooks. Then turned his head to vomit out a stream of water. His breath rasped in, then out, and then he coughed-a curiously mechanical sound, like a forbidden engine was working in some mill of the unbelievers. ?I-see-you,? he said, and smiled.

  TheSwordoftheLady

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  NORRHEIM, LAND OF THE BJORNINGS NEAR ERIKSGARTH (FORMERLY

  AROOSTOOK COUNTY, MAINE) DECEMBER 22, CHANGE YEAR 24/2022 AD

  ?Stop the sled,? the old woman said, peering out from under her wolfskin hood.

  The bricks under her booted feet were cold again now and so was she, even beneath her winter gear and the thick bearskin traveling rug. The wind was rising, hard as the teeth of Hella, full of a hard mealy scent. It flicked kernels of dry sharp snow through the laden branches of the pines, and the bare fingers of the sugar maples and birch writhed. At least it was at her back and the arched cover of the sled broke most of it. ?Are you sure, Heidhveig?? Thorlind said, speaking a little loudly to be heard over the storm. ?Of course not!?

  She regretted the snap even as the words left her lips; but she felt the cold in her bones, more every year, an ache that never quite went away. The sun and warmth of her girlhood suddenly came before her, for the first time in years.

  The Berkeley hills would be green now, after the first rains. The wind chilly but just enough to make a coat welcome, and the Bay blue, with gulls over Alcatraz, and the smell of eucalyptus…

  For a moment her eyes teared with longing for a world as legendary now as any hero tale; then she blinked and with the discipline of long practice shut those memories away. ?Sorry,? she said.?Just… a feeling.? ?You don?t just have feelings,? Thorlind said.?Not you, and not just.?

  The girl?s no fool, she thought. Then: Girl! I am getting old! She?s a grandmother this year!

  Thorlind pulled on the reins with a whoa! The two shaggy horses slowed and stopped as she threw the drag lever and the claw dug into the hard-packed snow, and the outriders drew rein and swung down from their mounts.

  Heidhveig let them help her down; Thorlind handed her the staff, and one of the guards brought the lantern from its hook at the rear over the baggage compartment. It shone for a moment on the silver cat?s heads on the front corners of the sled, the jet glitter of the raven?s heads behind, and the intricate carving that laced the wooden panels of its sides with intertwined figures of elongated gripping beasts, wolves and dragons and birds. In a sudden moment of doubled vision she saw the Oseberg wagon in one of the books she had pored over so diligently when she was young-probably one of H.R. Ellis Davidson?s. And now she was the seeress in the wagon…

  It was the kind of dizzying juxtaposition she used to experience often when they were building Norrheim, after the Change.

  Why should it happen now? I thought I?d become more like the youngsters, living the legends and not thinking about them.

  The winter?s afternoon was already growing dark, and the gathering snowstorm gusted, sometimes clearing for an instant and then cutting visibility to barely beyond arm?s length. The woods ended here-the solid forest, at least-giving way to rolling fields and scattered shaws, hidden now in the storm but letting the wind run free. She could just see the high white bulk of the barrow. Before it was an upright slab of granite, roughly shaped, a carved tangle of gripping beasts bordering the runes. The light was too dim to read them, but she didn?t need to. She murmured them aloud: ?Bjarni Eriksson raised this stone to the memory of his father Erik Waltersson, called Erik the Strong, he who led his people north through the great dying and got this land for them through his luck and craft and drighten might. Here he lies, to watch over the land he won for his blood and folk. Thor hallow these runes.? ?Hello again, Erik, my old friend,? she added softly.?You built well. Watch over us all indeed.?

  In the first years after the Change they had expected Ragnarok every winter, and looked to see the gods themselves come riding down the sky, for surely trolls and etins walked among men. But the heroes they had were men like Erik, the godhi of an Asatru kindred who had tried to get closer to the old Gods by studying the old ways. He had the skills they needed for survival and the will to inspire or bully others into using them. Folk had followed him, growing like a snowball rolling downhill around that first core until Norrheim stretched mighty across leagues of field and forest, an island of life in a sea of wilderness and death.

  Skis hissed in the dimness, and three bulky figures appeared on the edge of the light cast through the lantern?s bull?s-eye lens. They were muffled in fur and quilted wool until nothing of them showed save their eyes, but they moved with easy unconcern in the gathering storm. All of them kicked the toes of their boots out of the ski loops as they stopped and jumped to their feet, agile as cats. One had a long bow in his hand, one a great bearded war-ax with a straight four-foot helve, and one a spear; all had double-edged swords and seaxes at their belts, and round shields slung over their backs. ?Who comes to the steading of Godhi Bjarni Eriksson on the sacred eve?? one said importantly, hardly even waiting to halt before he spoke; his voice was a young man?s.?All who come in peace and fellowship are welcome to share the Gods? feast, but reivers and evildoers and troll-men stay wide of our land, if they?re wise. If not, they get a warm welcome and an everlasting bed to lie in.?

  The guards bristled and fingered the shafts of their broad-bladed spears. Heidhveig braced herself upright on her staff and Thorlind let the light shine on her, so the Eriksgarth men could see clearly even with the storm in their faces. ? One comes who saw you all in your cradles, and crawling and squalling butt-naked beneath the benches,? Heidhveig said tartly. ?You, Roderic Karlsson, and you, Thorolf Pierresson, and you too, Olaf Davesson!? ?Ah… sorry,? Roderic said, and sounded as if he was, or at least embarrassed.?Ah… welcome, welcome, holy seidhkona. The Chief will be pleased and honored; we didn?t think you?d be here this Yule!? ?If I?ve made it every Yule Eve for twenty-four years, I can do it once more,? she said.?This is the godwoman Thorlind Williamsdottir. And these are men of Kalk the Shipwright?s garth, Sven Jacobsson and Ingmar Marcellesson, who swore to see me safe here for the festival.? ?Come, come, lady Heidhveig,? Roderic said.?And all of you. Let?s get you inside, and a guest cup inside you, and your beasts fed and stabled!?

  She started to nod-right now a cup of hot cider or mead sounded very attractive-when she felt a sudden sense of pressure, no, of Presence. They stopped, staring, as she flung out her hand to silence them. The wind blew louder, the low throbbing rising to a screech, and for an instant it tugged at her cloak until the ends flew forward like wings. The cold cut like a knife, a white pain that seemed to light the land around her. She could see every flake of snow and dead leaf and pine needle, hear the very thoughts of the martins and mink and the bears curled sleeping in their dens.

  No, not sleeping-they too were stirring, waking to awareness of a power greater than the storm. Snow muffled all sound but the wind?s scream now, yet she could hear hoofbeats, or perhaps it was the thudding of her heart. ?Can?t you hear them?? she heard herself say.?Can?t you feel them??

  She twitched as energy surged through her, the old familiar thrill of ecstasy that had won her allegiance long before the Change made all the old stori
es real. ?What?? Roderic said; Thorlind stepped forward silently and took her arm, lending her strength.

  Her eyes sought to pierce the swirling darkness.?The Hunt rides tonight,? she whispered, feeling her voice alter cadence as if she were already in trance.? He rides the wind, and the dead thunder behind Him over the rainbow bridge. The foam that flies from their horses? bits will bless the land. I feel His eye upon us, I hear the crying of His hounds.?

  Old Man, she continued silently. What are you up to now? What hero will you invite this night to join that ride?

  Roderic took a step back. One of his companions clutched at his chest, probably at an amulet; the other drew the Hammer. Heidhveig took a deep breath, feeling the intensity of that awareness fade, and her mouth quirked. Her folk gave the Allfather His due… and most of them were just as pleased not to attract His particular attention; Thor was a lot more popular.

  The one-eyed Wanderer, the God of wolf and raven, the Terrible One who sent the madness of battle and the mead of poetry to men… had his own purposes. She believed those purposes served the ultimate good of the world and of humankind, but she knew that to achieve them He would spare neither Himself nor His chosen ones.

  After that she saw little of the garth and its buildings except a blur of lighted windows and folk greeting her. The shock of warmth as they left their outer clothing in the vestibule brought her fully back to herself, and to her aches and pains as that warmth gradually eased them.

  The chieftain?s hall of Eriksgarth was L-shaped, the shorter end a large frame house built long before the Change as the core of a farm; the longer wing was the hall proper, added afterwards as time and resources permitted. Bjarni and his wife Harberga Janetsdottir greeted her, friendly as always-she?d been an unofficial grandmother to them both from their childhoods-but with a trace of tension that told her Roderic had repeated her words. ?You shouldn?t travel in weather like this!? Harberga scolded. ?What if you?d been caught in a real storm, coming up from the coast??

  She was tall and fair, her braided hair up beneath a kerchief, and a six-month belly stretching out the blue wool of her hanging skirt and the embroidered linen panel of her apron, held by silver brooches at her shoulders. ?You?ll catch your death!? she went on. ?When you?re past eighty that?s not something that can be avoided,? she said.

  But she let them fuss her into a deep chair beside one of the two stone hearths on either side of the hall; the area before it was the honor seat, where the chief and his lady and important guests were placed. Some purists had wanted to use a firepit down the center, and she remembered Erik roaring out what he thought of that with an epic vocabulary that he hadn?t gotten from the Eddas.

  More like the 82nd Airborne, she thought reminiscently as she sank into the cushions with a sigh. It had started with you shit-for-brains dickweeds, do you think the Gods want morons for followers and finished with freeze your own balls off, you don?t have any use for them!

  Fire boomed amid a sweet scent of burning pine in the fireplace of rough granite, on andirons whose ends rose into wrought dragons; the slanted iron plate at the rear helped cast the heat into the long room. Tapestries fluttered on the walls; the bare logs between were carved in sinuous patterns, hung with round painted shields and racked spears, bow and sword and ax, and mail byrnies that glittered darkly in the wavering light. More carvings ran on the railed gallery that ran around it at second-story height. Two rows of pillars made from the trunks of whole white pines and wrought into figures of gods and heroes ran the length of the stone-flagged floor, reaching up into the dimness of the rafters; some carried rings of lanterns at twice head-height on iron wheels.

  Bjarni poured her cider with his own hands, into a big ceramic mug with New Sweden Midsomar Festival 1997 printed on it. He was only a little taller than his wife, but broad-shouldered and barrel-chested, his cropped beard and shoulder-length hair as brick red as his father?s had been, his eyes blue and steady. The drink hissed and steamed as he plunged a glowing poker into it. ?Ahhh, that?s good!? she said, cradling the mug in knotted hands and breathing in fragrant steam like a memory of blossom time. As the heat eased aching joints she lifted it, murmuring softly: ?Hail the hall and the master of this hall,

  Hail the mistress and the household she rules,

  Hail the wight that wards the holy hearth,

  And the spirits that bring life to the land.?

  By the time she had finished the blessing, the cider was cool enough for drinking. She let the hot sweet liquid run down her throat and get to work on the last of the chill.

  The hall was thronged with scores of people, burly bearded men in tunic and breeks, women in long gowns-or sometimes practical traveling trousers themselves; the cloth a mixture of carefully preserved pre-Change brightness brought out for the festival and the more subtle colors of modern vegetable dyes. Either sex might wear an arm ring of gold or silver or steel. Her host had two pushed up on his thick biceps over the cloth of his tunic, the one that bore witness to his deeds and the oath ring he wore when leading rituals. Long weapons were left in the cloakroom or hung on the wall, but nearly every belt bore a fighting knife of the kind called a seax.

  Most of the faces were folk she knew, or at least recognized and could place, like the two Micmac envoys in their embroidered tick coats and leggings. Voices sounded like surf, in the Norse-salted English of the Bjornings, or now and then in the nasal French dialect that was the second-most common tongue in Norrheim.

  Which is appropriate; plenty of Norman and Frank there too.

  Children added their mite, running and playing with the big rough-coated dogs, or sucking on maple candy. There were friendly nods to her in plenty, but the folk left her in peace to talk with the chief. ?Quite a crowd,? she said to Bjarni.

  He and his wife drew up chairs beside her; a three-year-old girl came and crawled up into his lap and went to sleep with a kitten?s limp finality. ?Half the wapentake is here!? the Bjorning chieftain said, settling his daughter against him with a father?s skill.

  The tables and benches were set, running down both sides of the hall and centered on the dais that held the east-wall hearth; good cooking smells drifted in from the house where the feast was in preparation, but some of the guests were already eating slices of dark coarse barley-bread spread with liver paste or smoked salmon or cheese or butter and thick blueberry jam, or munching on apples from the bowls set out. Bjarni?s younger sister Gudrun oversaw a team of household women who were filling cups and carrying trays, proud in her new-budded womanhood and grave with the responsibility of helping her sister-in-law, a maiden?s long loose hair flowing auburn under a silver headband.

  The guests would do justice to the feast as well. They?d come from many miles around, and traveling in this weather needed fuel!

  Bjarni?s strong callused hand caressed his sleeping daughter?s white mane as he went on: ?A lot of the householders wanted to talk things over, and see the divination. Even with a good harvest, there?s been trouble-more quarrels than usual among ourselves, troll-man raids in the northern reaches, and the southmark. Rumors of trouble from the outlands. Folk are nervous and it?s a long time until the Althing meets.?

  His hand touched his beard, and his voice fell.?And what?s this young Roderic tells me about the Hunt??

  Heidhveig sighed again, letting her head fall back and her eyes close.?He heard everything I saw,? she said.?But it always means something when-?

  Then Roderic was there again; he hadn?t bothered to take off his parka, and snow melted on in thick patches on the wolverine fur. His hazel eyes were wide. ?Godhi, lady-travelers!? ?Well, show them in!? Bjarni said, irritated.?You are on watch, boy!? ?No, strangers. Maybe thirty of them! Travelers from the far west, they say, and their leader not like any man I?ve ever seen before!?

  He was a young man; his voice shook with excitement. Heidhveig set down the cup, staring towards the door.

  Old Man, she thought. Have you set me to work seidh for a hero this holy eve?

  The vestib
ule door opened, and the lights fluttered in the draught. Strangers crowded it, in the sort of warm wool tunics and pants the sensible wore beneath their outer gear for winter travel, but different from local style in a dozen subtle ways.

  Her eyes went to their leader, drawn like iron to a magnet.

  I can smell Orlog on him; a fate like tears and flowers and blood. What does Wyrd weave now?

  He was a tall man, two fingers or so above six feet, broad-shouldered and narrow-hipped and long-limbed; young, too, well into manhood but younger than her host?s thirty. He moved with the supple economy of a tiger, as if even his stillness was always complicit of motion, a thing of dynamic balance that held the promise of sudden blinding speed. When he shook his head slightly damp red-gold hair fell to his shoulders, framing a straight-nosed, high-cheeked, cleft-chinned face that might have been called beautiful save for the thin scar along his jaw and up nearly to the left cheek. There were more on his large shapely hands, but she could see from the look of his blue-green eyes that he would be more likely to smile than frown, on an occasion less solemn. ?It?s in peace and goodwill that we come,? he said; his voice was a resonant baritone.

  It was also full of a pleasant lilting accent she hadn?t heard since the old world fell, the soft west – Irish brogue of the Gaeltacht; and she recognized a trained singer?s control and pitch as he went on, filling the hall without strain or shout: ?Merry met to the Mistress of this Hearth and to the Lord of this Hall, and to all beneath their roof. We ask guesting if we are welcome, and only leave to pass on if we are not.?

  The Bjorning chieftain stood, handed little Swanhild to his wife despite a sleepy protest and faced the tall stranger; silence was thick through the hall, and beneath it a humming curiosity. The newcomers were a worn, tough-looking crew, including the women among them-one even had an eye patch-but they had politely racked whatever long arms they carried in the cloakroom. None of the Eriksgarth dwellers were very alarmed, though a few men drifted to stand with arms crossed on their chests behind their leader… just in case, which also put them within grabbing range of the arms hung on the walls.