The Sky Woman

by JD Moyer

  A line opened in his m’eye. He stopped in his tracks, giving the indicator his full attention. He hadn’t been expecting this.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, Adrian.”

  Her voice sounded different. Certainly colder – she didn’t sound like she was calling to patch things up. But something else was different. Her accent, maybe.

  “I know you don’t approve of me helping the villagers,” said Car-En. “I know you’re completely against it, as is the Council. But something very strange has happened, and I need your help. Someone, or something, is already Intervening in their lives, and I think we should help them. Or at least find out what’s going on.”

  It was surreal hearing her voice, as if she had risen from the dead. How quickly his mind had moved on.

  “Adrian, can you hear me? Will you help us?”

  Footnote 2. As distinct from Homo sapiens populensis, the taxonomical designation assigned to the bulk of human beings who had ever existed, products of the out-of-control population explosion of the mid-nineteenth to late twenty-first century. By contrast, Homo sapiens melior was the branch of (ringstation-dwelling) humanity that had subjected itself to the Standard Edits.

  Chapter Twenty

  For sport, and to show that he could, Haakon fought two men at once. Olof, wielding an axe, circled, trying to flank him. Haakon, amused, kept most of his attention on Olaf – Olof’s brother – who faced him, holding a blunted spear.

  “What are you waiting for, Olaf? Two against one, and still you hesitate?”

  Olaf took the bait and lunged. Haakon parried easily, deflecting the spear shaft with the flat of his blunted sword. A beat later, Olof attacked from the rear, swinging his axe in a wide arc. Haakon stepped forward, out of range, and in the same motion grabbed the shaft of Olaf’s spear with his free hand. Pulling Olaf toward him, he sunk the point of his sparring sword into the padded armor of Olaf’s armpit. The big man yowled in pain.

  “Out!” yelled Haakon. “With sharpened steel that blow would have pierced your heart.”

  Olaf slunk away, chastised by the jeers of the onlookers. Haakon wheeled to face Olof. The villagers of Kaldbrek loved a good fight, even if it was only sport. Daily sparring was mandatory for all men of fighting age, resulting in frequent bruises, sprains, cuts, and the occasional broken bone. Egil had suggested Haakon’s fighting force would be stronger if he gave them more rest. Haakon had laughed at that. It was important to know pain, to feel it often and to become numb to it. When the real fight came, his men would not faint at the sight of their own blood.

  Olof fought with dulled axe and shield, while Haakon held only his sword. His left hand, clad in mail, sometimes gripped the hilt of his long-hafted sword, at other times stretched open like a claw. The strength of Haakon’s grip was unmatched in the Five Valleys. He could bend a steel rod into a perfect circle. Those who had wrestled the jarl said his grasp was like the bite of a bear.

  Olof raised his axe and swung it down at Haakon’s helmeted head. Haakon slashed at the long haft of Olof’s axe, deflecting the blow and sending a chip of wood flying.

  “A strong blow, Olof. I will give you this opportunity to yield.”

  “Yield?” bellowed Olof. “Do you mistake me for some Happdal cur? I will not yield.”

  Haakon grinned and feinted. Olof ignored the bluff. He was the brighter of the two brothers, and could not be tricked so easily. Olof swung his axe at Haakon’s ankles, forcing the jarl to spring back. Haakon countered with a lunging thrust, which Olof blocked with his shield. The crowd jeered. There was a real bloodlust in Kaldbrek, a thirst for more than play-fighting. And there was hunger as well as thirst. Real hunger – the rye crop had failed, and belts were tight.

  “Haakon! I need to speak with you.” It was Egil. Haakon did not take his eyes off Olof, but the poet’s voice was as distinctive as it was harsh.

  “Begone, bard! I will hear you after I dispatch this oaf.”

  “You should hear me now.”

  Haakon stole a glance at Egil. The poet was tall and spindly, with long, black hair that looked greasy even when clean, and a black beard streaked with gray. Egil’s countenance was serious.

  An axehead swung inches from Haakon’s nose. Olof had seized on his momentary lapse of attention. Haakon growled and took a two-handed swing. Olof raised his shield and blocked, but Haakon pressed forward, swinging again and again, relentless. Chips of wood flew off the sparring shield as Olof retreated toward the edge of the crowd. Two men pushed him back toward the jarl. Haakon grabbed the edge of Olof’s shield, wrenched it away, and thrust the blunted tip of his sword into Olof’s ribs.

  “Oof!” Olof clutched his side. “I yield.” Haakon laughed and slapped Olof’s thigh with the flat of his sword. “Enough!” Olof shouted.

  Haakon spat into the dirt. At some point during the fight he had bitten his own cheek, and now the salty, ferric taste of blood filled his mouth.

  “What is it, Egil? Why must you interrupt my morning sport?”

  Egil twirled the tips of his long beard, a habit that had neatly forked it in two, like the mane of a winter lynx. “The longhouse.”

  A private matter. Well, it had better be good.

  Haakon drove everyone out of the longhouse except for Egil, his serving boy Svein, and Einar the Lame. Einar was triple cursed: stupid, crippled, and ugly. On top of that he was cruel and spiteful, but Haakon kept him around because of his unquestioning loyalty. Whatever Haakon asked, Einar would do without complaint. Haakon marveled at this faithfulness. Once, Haakon had passed a little girl clutching a small puppy, and as a lark (and also because he was hungry for tender meat) ordered Einar to take the pet, roast it, and serve it to Haakon for lunch. Einar had performed the task with great enthusiasm.

  Once settled in the quiet longhouse, Egil shared his news. “Happdal spies on us, from the ridge. I saw smoke, and discovered their lookout. A boy watches down on our valley, through some Builder device.”

  “Builder magic!” squealed Einar excitedly.

  “Shut up, fool,” said Haakon, not bothering to raise his voice. “Did the boy see you?” he asked Egil.

  “No, I stayed hidden.”

  “And did the watch change?”

  “Not that I saw, but I crept away before an hour had passed.”

  Haakon nodded. It was wise of Happdal to post a watch, for Haakon did intend to march against them. Happdal had once been their sister hamlet, a good trading partner. Egil had advised against ending Summer Trade, but what choice had Haakon had, faced with Arik’s arrogance and disrespect? Kaldbrek’s villagers missed the bounty of the trade festival. Happdal made good cheese, and they had always had surplus grain to trade for Kaldbrek’s iron ore and fresh mutton. Now the grain and cheese were eaten, and the flocks were thin. Haakon’s window for marching against Arik was shrinking. If he waited too long, his men would be too thin and weak to fight.

  “Bring me mead, boy. And quick.” Svein scurried off at Haakon’s command. The boy was fast and obedient. He could fight, too: still with a wooden sword, but his form was good. The boy’s mother claimed that Svein was Haakon’s son, and he could not rule out the possibility. He vaguely remembered having his way with the wench after a fit of drunken revelry.

  “What will you do, master?” asked Einar. “If you capture the lookout, may I have him as a pet?”

  Egil grimaced at this request, but Haakon laughed. “Perhaps you may, Einar.”

  “We have the advantage,” said Egil, “for now. There are many ways we can use this knowledge.”

  “Are you counseling restraint?”

  “There are reasons to wait, yes. Let them feel secure in their knowledge of our movements until the moment before we march. We will kill the lookout at the last minute and put our spears to their necks.”

  Egil’s logic was sound. The poet was as wise as Einar was
foolish. But something in Haakon’s gut rebelled.

  “I think not, bard. We pay the scout a visit tonight, at the coldest hour. You will show us the way, myself and loyal Einar here.” Einar grinned at the compliment, scooting a little closer to Haakon. The boy Svein returned, clutching a brimming mug of mead, which he reverently handed to his master. “You will come as well.” Haakon took a long draught and slapped the boy’s cheek affectionately. It would be an opportunity to see what blood ran in his veins. If he was truly Haakon’s, the boy would not flinch at the sight of blood or bone.

  * * *

  They climbed the ridge without torches or lanterns. The gibbous moon provided ample light. Egil led, followed by Einar and Svein, with Haakon bringing up the rear. The sound of a cracking branch brought them to a halt. Egil peered into the brush while the others listened.

  “What is it?” asked Haakon.

  “A lynx, I think. I saw a tail.” The bard pointed with his oaken staff. Egil could see as well at night as by day.

  “Three more cats and I will have enough for a cloak,” Haakon said.

  “That will be very handsome, master,” said Einar. “My own cloak is made of rat.”

  “You have mentioned it many times,” said Egil.

  “I was not speaking to you,” Einar hissed. “But I am sorry, Egil, that my simple stories bring no joy to your exalted ears.”

  “Shut up,” growled Haakon. “How much farther?”

  “We are close,” Egil said. After they walked for a few minutes more, the tall poet stopped them again, and pointed. “See that flat rock ahead? That is the lookout.”

  Haakon grabbed young Svein by his collar. “Are you feeling brave, boy? I want you to go ahead. You are light of foot, yes? Scout ahead.”

  “I could go,” said Egil. “My eyes are suited to the night.”

  “We know about your special eyes,” Einar said. “I could go as well. I, too, am light of foot – not even a rat can hear me approach. The proof is in my cloak.”

  “The boy will go,” said Haakon, settling the matter. He drew his long dirk and thrust the hilt at Svein. “Take this, but do not use it unless you must. Take a look and return here.” The boy nodded and took the weapon. They watched him go.

  “He is brave,” Einar said. “Surely your son, as his mother says.”

  “Perhaps,” said Haakon. “What do you think, Egil?”

  “On this point I agree with Einar, though I do not know the boy well. He speaks very little.”

  “He is obedient,” Einar said, “as he should be, toward his father and master.”

  Perhaps too obedient, thought Haakon, for he had noticed the same, and wondered if the boy was hiding a rebellious spirit, or simply had none.

  A few minutes passed. “Look, he returns,” Egil said.

  “So soon,” said Einar. “Has he lost his nerve? Or is he merely fleet?”

  Svein stood before them, breathing quickly. He offered the hilt of the dirk to Haakon, who took it. The blade was clean. “What did you see?” asked Haakon.

  “One boy,” answered Svein, “asleep next to dying embers. He carried no weapon that I could see.”

  “Go back,” Haakon said, “and overpower him, but do not kill him. When you have succeeded, call out to us.”

  Svein’s eyes shot to the dirk, but Haakon did not give it. The boy paled, but he turned and crept back toward the outcropping.

  “You test the boy,” said Egil. “A dangerous game. What if he fails? The lookout will flee to Happdal and our advantage will be lost.”

  “If he is my son, he will not fail.”

  The three men waited in silence. After some time they heard a distant cry. “Haakon!”

  Svein had the Happdal boy in a chokehold. The lookout had put up a fight. A long scratch on Svein’s cheek oozed fresh blood, and a patch of his brown hair had a grayish cast to it, as if his head had been ground into the dusty earth. But Svein had won the fight.

  The lookout was blond and pudgy. Haakon would not have judged the Happdal boy a fighter. He gestured to Svein to release him. “What is your name, boy?”

  The pudgy lookout coughed, then spat, moistening Haakon’s boot. Egil laughed. Einar stepped forward and slapped the boy, hard, sending him to the dirt.

  “Enough!” shouted Haakon. “Give him a chance to consider his situation. If he comes to his senses, he might escape with his skin still attached to his body.”

  At the mention of flaying, the boy blanched. “Stoke the fire,” Haakon said to Svein, who was brushing the dirt from his clothes.

  In the firelight, the boy looked younger, no older than thirteen by Haakon’s guess. “Will you speak now? Who tasked you with spying on Kaldbrek?”

  “Look, master,” Einar said. The flat rock lay atop a giant boulder, forming a half-open cave. Einar was at the far end, pointing to a long, metal tube. The device was positioned at a gap between the rocks, aimed down into the valley, toward Kaldbrek. “The spying machine!”

  “Do you know who I am?” Haakon asked. The Happdal boy nodded. “So you know to fear me. I will ask once more. Who told you to spy on us?”

  The boy trembled but did not speak. Einar grinned, and came closer to watch. Egil looked away. Svein took a step back.

  Haakon took the boy by the hand, almost gently. With a quick twist of his thumb, he folded the boy’s little finger into a tight square, then cracked it. The boy screamed and clutched his hand. Tears streamed from his eyes, leaving streaks of clean skin where the dust had been washed away. Einar giggled, delighted.

  “I already know the answer,” said Haakon softly. “You will merely confirm it. Should I take your hand again? Or do you have something to say?”

  The boy mumbled something. His voice had not yet dropped. Perhaps he was only eleven or twelve.

  “What was that?” Einar shrieked, batting the boy’s ear. “You need to speak up when Haakon asks you a question.”

  “Do not touch him!” snapped Haakon. “Let him speak.”

  “Elke,” mumbled the boy.

  “Arik’s bitch,” Egil said. The boy’s eyes flashed toward the poet.

  “Look, he is angry!” said Einar. “Is Elke his mother?”

  “Elke’s sons are grown,” said Egil. “Esper and Trond. The latter is a smith, apprentice to Jense.”

  Haakon reached out and grabbed the boy by the top of his head, holding him still. The boy’s eyes widened in alarm at the strength of Haakon’s grip.

  “You feel the vise,” Einar said, “now tell us more. What preparations has Elke made against us?”

  “None,” said the boy, his voice quavering. “We merely watch you. To see if you march against us.”

  “He lies. He lies!” Einar shouted excitedly. “Crush his head like a gourd! No…wait…I want him as a slave.”

  “Why would Elke fear us?” asked Haakon. His voice was soft and languid, his eyes half-closed, but his arm was an iron bar holding the boy in place.

  The boy trembled but said nothing.

  “Does Arik regret insulting me?” Haakon asked, even more softly. “Does Elke fear my retribution?”

  The boy grabbed Haakon’s broad hand with his own, ineffectually.

  Haakon slowly tightened his grip on the boy’s skull. The bard watched him intently.

  “Sing to save your life, boy!” said Egil. The lookout’s eyes were scrunched closed, his mouth agape in pain. A moan escaped his throat.

  “It is too late!” Einar cried. “Master does not see fit to grant me a slave.”

  Svein took a few steps backs. The lookout boy let out a long, animalistic cry.

  “The end is near,” said Einar excitedly. “So close now.”

  There was a dull cracking sound. The lookout boy convulsed and collapsed, his head misshapen and deformed. Blood leaked from his eyes.

 
“The bear’s jaw,” said Einar, somberly.

  Haakon shook his hand out, loosening the joints. “Take the Builder toy,” he said to Svein, pointing at the device. “Leave the boy where he lies,” he told Einar. To Egil he gave a long look. “There is more than one kind of advantage.”

  Haakon led the way down the ridge, Einar at his heels. Egil lingered behind, gazing at the dead boy, twisting the ends of his forked beard.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Trond lagged behind his brother and the sky woman by a dozen paces. His brother’s eyes were fixed on the ground. Esper had briefly lost their sister’s trail, but had found it again. The sky woman watched Esper as they walked.

  Trond felt stronger each day. The pain from his burns had ebbed to a dull ache. Esper had shot a deer, and now they carried venison, smoked and salted to preserve the meat.