The Sky Woman
Page 1
J.D. MOYER
The Sky Woman
FLAME TREE PRESS
London & New York
For Kia
Part One
The Gast
Chapter One
Trond struck the thin steel rod with his hammer. Each precise blow sent up a fine spray of sparks. Slowly he flattened and shaped the rod into a narrow leaf: an arrowhead. He pretended not to see Elke, his mother, watching him from across the anvil.
A piece of charcoal ricocheted off his forehead. Trond lowered his hammer and sighed.
“Respect your elders, you ungrateful fool!” bellowed Jense. The older smith readied another piece of coal. Trond raised his hands in surrender and gave his attention to his mother.
“I’m making leaf-points for the Burning. Whatever it is you need, can it wait?”
Elke shook her head. Her pale blue eyes rarely blinked. “We need bodkins. Can you make me five by midday?” The bodkins, long needles for piercing and sewing leather, could be made from the same narrow rods Trond was already using. This was not lost on Elke; as usual, she had timed her request well.
“I have twenty more leaves to make before dusk,” Trond grumbled. “Urd will need time to make them into arrows.”
“Make the bodkins first,” Elke said. “Time enough to finish your work.” She reached across the anvil and pinched his bearded cheek. “The Red Brother guides your hand. And Jense will help you. Right, Jense?” She turned her gaze to the older smith. Jense did not look up from his work, but grunted in assent. Elke strode to the door and left the smithy as if all were settled.
Trond shook his head. “The day of Bjorn’s Burning, and my mother is worried about bodkins.”
“Your mother worries for all of us,” Jense said. The older smith always defended Elke in her absence, though in her presence he was standoffish. Trond did not understand their relationship, so he simply accepted it. Easier to let some mysteries go unsolved.
Elke had gotten it into her mind that each man and woman in Happdal should be equipped with boiled leather armor, a spear, and a dirk. The steel bodkins were needed for sewing the tough cowhides into armor. Elke was convinced Haakon and his raiders would descend upon Happdal any day. Trond had given up arguing with his mother. It was easier to just work day and night at the forge, growing the village armory to immense proportions.
Trond finished the arrowhead – not his best – and quenched it in a bucket of ice-melt, unleashing a plume of steam. Though the winter snow had mostly thawed, there were still icicles to be gathered in the shadier sections of the riverbank. He listened for the high ping of cracking steel, but heard nothing. This was more of a danger with larger pieces – spearheads and swords – but every silent quench was a good one.
Haakon was a real threat, and his mother was right to insist they fortify their defenses. But the real problem was a shortage of fighting men. He wished Bjorn was not Afflicted, and could help in the defense of Happdal. His uncle had been a formidable warrior before falling ill.
A young woman’s voice rang out over the clanging of Jense’s hammer. His sister, Katja. “Brother! I hear you are tasked to make bodkins this fine morning.” He could barely see her through the steam of the quench. Trond ignored his sister’s taunt and grabbed a thin heated rod from the furnace. Katja did not relent. “Maidens will sing of your greatness at the forge, the huge beast of a man who made the sharpest sewing needles in all the Five Valleys!”
Holding the cold end of the rod, Trond placed the glowing tip on the anvil and prepared to strike it. “And will bards write epic poems about Katja Elkesdóttir, the smith’s little sister, and her laziness?” He struck the rod with his hammer, hoping the racket would silence her. Trond Ariksson had two siblings. Katja was the youngest – not quite a woman. While everyone in the village was expected to contribute to the þrif of the village, Katja worked less than most. She got by with charm and beauty. And she was the jarl’s daughter. Only Elke dared scold her.
Katja stuck her tongue out at Trond and sidled up to Jense, who lowered his hammer. “Jense, how is my blade coming along? Will it be ready for tonight?” She slipped past his anvil and gave the huge man a tight bear hug. Jense blushed deeply and lowered his eyes.
“Not for a week.”
Jense adored Katja, and Trond’s sister was taking advantage. She had convinced the elder smith to forge her a godsteel blade. Usually Trond and Jense worked with mudsteel, raw ore quickly melted in the big charcoal oven. Mudsteel was soft and easy to work; after hours of pounding most of the impurities could be driven out with brute force, each spray of sparks purifying the metal. Mudsteel worked well for plows, hammerheads, hinges, kitchen knives, dirks, arrowheads, spearheads, and most every other item produced by the two smiths. But for longer blades, swords and greatswords, mudsteel was not ideal. Even if the ingot was pounded and folded for hours to drive out the impurities, mudsteel was brittle and stiff.
“Make haste!” taunted Katja. “Haakon is coming.” His sister did not take their mother seriously.
“Out!” Trond bellowed. “Leave, or make yourself useful.”
Katja wrapped one of her long braids around Jense’s face, lending him a blond mustache. The older smith grumbled and gently batted Katja away. She stumbled back, collided with a heavy wooden beam, and exhaled sharply, clutching her midsection.
“Sorry…I’m sorry!” Jense rushed to Katja and patted her back gingerly. Trond’s sister coughed until she regained her breath and color, then grabbed Jense’s beard and pulled herself upright.
“Will you never learn your own strength? You nearly broke my back!”
“Forgive me.”
Katja released Jense’s beard and slapped him on the arm. “No apologies. Just finish my blade. And you, brother – finish those bodkins!” She staggered to the door, coughing. Trond bit his lip until she was gone.
“Forgive me,” he teased, wiggling his fingers in the air. Jense scowled and went back to his hammering. It was obvious that the older smith and his sister were fond of each other, but Jense refused to admit it. Trond shrugged and went back to work.
In many ways Trond and Jense were a matching pair. Jense was nearly twice his age (Trond was one and twenty), but both men had dark blond hair, thick red beards, and limbs as massive as oak branches. Trond had been strong for as long as he could recall. When he was little, his father Arik had given him full sacks of grain to carry, or buckets of ice water, while his younger and smaller brother, Esper, carried only a stick, or a hatchet, or nothing at all. “You are built for it, Trond,” his father had said. “It’s your destiny to heave and ho, like the Red Brother and his hammer. Might as well get used to it.”
Trond was used to it, after a seven-year apprenticeship with Jense. Now he was a full smith, his back as broad and powerful as his mentor’s. His beard was shorter, but his shoulders and forearms were thick and dense with muscle. No man was stronger than Trond. Not Jense, not his father, not even bloodthirsty Haakon.
Using a small hammer, Trond pounded the end of the heated rod until it was as thin as a reed. He clipped it, shaped a sharp point, and used a thin spike to make a tiny hole for the thread on the flat end. Working quickly, he repeated the process four times.
“Deliver those yourself!” yelled Jense from across the forge. “You sweat like a pig – spare me your stench for a few moments. I’ll send the leaves to Urd for fletching.”
Trond grinned and picked up the still-warm bodkins. He was a full smith and free to do as he pleased, but Jense would never break the habit of giving him orders. “I’ll leave you to your own sweet smell, old man!” he yelled back, slamming the massive oaken door on his way out.
The other four boys played a fighting game: Haakon’s raiders against the brave defenders of Happdal. A pair of dairymaids passed by, yoked side by side, sharing the burden of three brimming milk buckets. One waved to Trond with her free hand. Trond waved back. Her name was Lissa, or was it Kirsten? She blew Trond a kiss and the other maid laughed. He quickly turned away to hide his blush.
Trond grabbed the shoulder of one of the warring boys, buckling the lad’s knees. “Take these bodkins to Elke, and I’ll let you swing a real sword tonight.” The boy looked up with wide eyes. “Quick!” The bellows boy dropped his stick and ran off, leaving only one defender of Happdal. Trond picked up the branch and brandished it at the remaining children. “I am Haakon,” he bellowed, “and I will flay you alive!” The boys screamed gleefully and sprinted away, spraying flecks of mud back into Trond’s face. The blond boy, Grundar, still pumping the bellows handles, scowled at him.
“Do not worry, they will come back. Enjoy the work! Grow those twig arms of yours.”
Trond brushed the mud off his beard and headed up the road. Chickens scattered in his path. Trond remembered winters in his childhood when nearly all the animals – even the working ones – had been eaten in the snow months. His father, Arik, had told him stories of horses – proud animals that could be ridden as mounts – but these beasts had all been made into stew long before Trond’s time. This most recent winter had been as cold as any, but the jarl had made sure every larder was well-stocked before first snow. Happdal had plenty to eat, and they would feast tonight at Bjorn’s Burning.
Trond knocked on the door of a small stone building. A bent crone opened the door and waved him in. “Is he awake?” Trond asked.
“Yes. You can go in,” said Ilsa. The old woman, nearly sixty, was the mother of one of Arik’s cousins. Trond’s great-aunt was a healer, and a caretaker for the Afflicted.
Trond nodded and bent to pass through a narrow, short hallway. The sickhouse was cramped and hot, and already Trond longed to be outside. He knocked on another door.
“Farbror, may I visit?” He heard a muffled groan, which he took as assent, and entered. The tiny room smelled of herbs and disease.
Bjorn, pale and thin, smiled at him. “My heart rejoices, son-of-my-brother. My night of glory draws near.”
“Your Burning will be a great one. This morning I made twenty leaf-points to pierce your flesh, and I will make more before sundown.”
“You honor me. But do not let them loose the arrows until you smell me cook!”
Trond laughed. “Rest your mind, Farbror. You are stronger Afflicted than most men in the prime of health. You will not raise a fist until your flesh smells like roasted pig.”
“Perhaps you should cut out my tongue, to make sure.” Trond’s grin faded. Was his uncle serious? Bjorn’s eyes unfocused, and he was silent for some time. Finally he looked at Trond imploringly. “Why are we Afflicted? I hope you are spared.”
Roughly one in three men, and one in five women, sickened in early adulthood. Trond’s father, Arik, was a few years older than Bjorn, and still hale; he would likely be spared. Jense was nearly forty and in the prime of health; he would live to be a graybeard as well. The Afflicted weakened, could not hold down food, and gradually wasted away. The men were Burned to return to the sky, the women Buried to return to the earth.
“I know not, Farbror.”
Bjorn’s eyes widened. His pale flesh became paler still. He reached out and weakly gripped Trond’s hand.
“Nefi, I saw the gast last night.”
“You dreamed, Farbror.”
Bjorn shook his head with surprising vigor. “I did not dream it. I saw the gast. He wore the body of Henning, and that body had not aged a day. Except for his hair, which was white as snow.”
Henning was Elke’s grandfather – her morfar – and Trond’s great-grandfather. According to village lore, Henning had wielded twin godsteel swords, and was fast enough to cut a man in three before his foe could raise a weapon. The legend told that the gast, an evil forest sprite, had razed Henning’s mind and stolen his body. Trond suspected that Henning had merely wandered off with a pretty maiden from one of the Five Valleys, leaving behind a hen-pecking wife and a house full of noisy children.
“A fever dream. The gast is a tale to frighten children.”
“The gast is no tale,” said Bjorn fiercely. “He steals the best from Happdal every three generations. He took Henning, he took Per Anders. He might take you, son-of-my-brother. The gast would look fondly on your brutish frame, and want to wear it as a prize.”
“Why would he, if the flesh of my great-grandfather is still young, as you say?”
Bjorn shook his head. “The gast has always stolen from us, and he will not stop. Have Esper watch your back with his night eyes, and keep your pommel warm.” Bjorn closed his eyes and released Trond’s hand. “I need drink, then rest. I must gather my strength for tonight.”
“Do you want spirits? I have a flask.”
“No. Only water. Fetch Ilsa.”
Trond found Ilsa and passed on Bjorn’s request. She nodded and squeezed Trond’s arm before shuffling down the hall.
Back in the cramped foyer, he found his father waiting. Trond was a head taller than the village jarl and half again his weight, but Arik carried himself with calm authority. Most men deferred to him naturally. The rest were cut down by Arik’s quick tongue.
“How is he?” Arik asked.
“Strong and stubborn, as always,” said Trond. “But his mind is half-gone from fever. He spoke of the gast.”
“The forest sprite? I have not heard such talk for many winters.”
“He spoke of Elke’s grandfather. And of Per Anders.”
As boys, Trond and Per Anders had often climbed the High Pass, leaving the valley and exploring the outskirts of the Blood Forest. Sometimes Per Anders had explored alone for days at a time, leaving with a knapsack full of dried meat and returning thin and dirty, full of outlandish tales. But Per Anders had not returned from his last expedition. Seven years had passed – most believed him dead.
“Bjorn rests now,” Trond said. “I have more leaves to make. I will see you at the Burning.” He gripped forearms with his father and left the sickhouse.
Outside, the streets were clear, but the village was no quieter. Most took their midday meal on their porches, shouting at each other throughout. It was good that the mood was cheerful on the day of Bjorn’s Burning, but Trond’s own mood was sour. Bjorn’s feverish rants had clouded his mind.
He walked to the end of the road, passing hand-plowed fields ready for planting oats and rye. Next was the apiary – a patch of rocky ground dotted with spruce boxes. He watched the bees go to and fro, collecting spring pollen from nearby oak, beech, birch, and pussy willows. Spring honey had a more intense flavor than the flowery summer honey. Ilsa preferred the former for her tonics.
The road opened into a large clearing ringed by stately oaks and tall beeches. A few men put the finishing touches on the scaffold. Children stacked firewood beneath the raised pyre. Long tables and benches were already arranged for the feast.
He hoped Bjorn would find strength and courage tonight, and not regret keeping his tongue.
Chapter Two
More than anything, Car-En longed for a hot shower. The bioskin regulated her body temperature – at least according to her m’eye biostats – but she felt chilled, con
stantly. The sensors also told her she was running a caloric deficit (no wonder she felt cold), but she was sick of the dense, dry nutrient bars. Yesterday, with the hood of her mirror cloak pulled all the way up, she had pilfered a warm loaf of bread from a roadside food cart, and eaten half of it in one sitting. Despite scraping a tooth on a piece of baked-in grit, she’d enjoyed the meal immensely. Adrian wouldn’t approve (if he knew), but she’d turned off her advisor’s patch for that little escapade. Besides, minor thievery didn’t constitute Intervention. It wasn’t right, but neither was it altering the course of Happdal history.
Despite the chill, it was all worth it. She felt more alive, doing her first fieldwork on Earth, than she ever had studying or working on the ringstation. Life on the Stanford was good, but this was a different world, fascinating and vast and dangerous. The cold and the hunger she could brush off. The only real downside to her field research was the loneliness. She missed Lydia especially. But she had chosen this, to focus on her work, to keep her patches off. It had taken a few days to adjust, hearing her own thoughts so loudly and her friends’ voices not at all. But she was progressing in her work, and even though it was a silly notion, it felt as if she was doing what she was meant to do.
Car-En crouched behind a thick beech tree and watched the men build the wooden structure. The villagers were preparing for a large gathering or celebration. It would involve fire – obvious from the growing stacks of firewood. There was an archery component as well; earlier a man had shot arrows into a target affixed to the upper part of the structure. So, some kind of fire-arrow ritual, maybe related to the pseudo-Viking identity the people of Happdal seemed to have adopted – despite living more than three hundred kilometers south of where any real Vikings had ever lived.
Nobody knew much about the New Iron Age. Some of Car-En’s colleagues preferred the term Late Remnant Age, as there was no evidence of any current mining operations. The Remnant Age proper, two hundred years of scavenging culture and technological descent, had fizzled out over a century earlier. Only a few archaic hunter-gatherer groups, hidden deep in the world’s densest jungles, had ridden out the rise and fall of civilization entirely (even now continuing on with their old ways, as if nothing had ever happened).