The Sky Woman

by JD Moyer

  Confirming his suspicions, she leapt at him, swords whirling. The blades moved too fast for his eyes to follow, and he retreated, parrying desperately, relying on instinct to guide Bár. His ankle collided with a sharp rock on a backward step, and he stumbled, crying out in pain.

  He had not seen the blow, but now he bled from his arm, as well as his belly. Still, her ashen face betrayed no feeling. Behind those cold eyes, did the gast laugh delightedly?

  He yelled and thrust his sword, holding nothing back. Jense’s arms were powerful and also long, and the length of Bár nearly matched his own height. The gast tried to dodge the blow, stepping back and to the side, but the tip caught Katja’s body in the bicep, and drew blood.

  He studied the gast’s face, searching for any glimmer of Katja’s soul. There was nothing. He noticed, for the first time, a web of thin black lines beneath her pale, translucent skin. The observation sickened him. Was she beyond saving? Would it be kinder to end her, if he could? He screamed in anguish and charged, swinging his sword in wild arcs. She retreated, blocking his blows with strong, precise motions, as if biding her time. He paused and stood before her, breathing hard. She watched him. Was there a glint of curiosity in those eyes? He could not tell. But the gast let him rest for a moment, whatever the reason.

  “Why did you choose my friend?” he asked between gasps. “She is no great warrior, like Henning. She is merely a girl. When you took Henning, he had a wife and children. He had already lived a full life. But Katja had none of that. She had not even known a man, one of life’s simple pleasures.” Of the last point he was not quite sure (and, truthfully, did not really care). It was possible that Katja had done more than kiss the village boys (if she had, none would dare boast). But still it seemed a good point, if the gast could be convinced.

  The gast said nothing, and gave no indication that his words had been understood. For the moment, it held both blades loosely, level with the ground. For the first time, Jense noticed a third weapon, a sheathed dagger, tucked into Katja’s belt. It was an unusual make. What smith had forged it? Perhaps Völund, from Kaldbrek? That smith had been busy, according to Elke’s spies. Kaldbrek’s armory was well-stocked. But no – Völund was a skilled smith, but his designs were stubbornly traditional. Maybe Orvar, who served as both blacksmith and fletcher to Skrova, had made the dagger. Certainly Orvar loved strange designs. But Jense had just been to Skrova, and spoken with Orvar, and the man had sworn he had not seen Katja.

  A single crow landed between them, squawking rudely. Did it want them to hurry, and finish the fight, so it could feast on the eyeballs of the vanquished?

  “Katja, if you can hear me, there is something I need to say. I love you, and have always loved you. First I loved you as one cherishes family. Though we share no blood, still you called me Farbror Jense, and you delighted in playing in my smithy while your brother toiled. Your eldest brother is my son – had you guessed?

  “As you grew into a woman, my love for you changed. But I pushed my desire aside. What was I to do? I did not wish to incur Elke’s wrath, and I had no way of knowing if you felt the same. I could not ask.”

  The crow pecked at a shiny black pebble, then flew off. The gast spun the soulsword Taker in a single, graceful circle.

  “So, I’ve said it. If you can hear me, now you know the truth of my heart. And to you, gast, I say this: drop the blades and come with me willingly to Happdal. Let Ilsa drive you from this body. Heed my words, or I will cut you down.”

  The gast leaned forward and lifted both blades. First a slow step, then a quicker one, steel held high.

  Jense set his foot against the same rock he had stumbled on earlier, and braced himself, pointing his sword at Katja’s heart. She swung Biter to knock his blade away, but he had anticipated this, and let his blade drop. She ran into it, and Bár’s tip pierced her belly, low and deep. She stopped short, gutted.

  He wrenched his blade out and watched the blood seep from the wound. He had not meant to cut so deep. He studied Katja’s face for any hint of her soul, but saw none.

  “I am sorry!” cried Jense. “Forgive me!”

  Katja dropped the swords, bending over and coughing. A stream of dark blood ran from her mouth. She fell to her knees and clutched the earth, pale fingers digging into the dirt.

  “Let me help you,” Jense said, setting Bár down. “Gast or friend, let me help you. What can I do?”

  He touched her arm, just above the bite his sword had taken. Her flesh had gone from gray to grayish-blue, and was cold to the touch. “Get out, gast, get out! Leave her!” Jense could not see through his tears. He wiped his eyes and blinked.

  She coughed and retched, convulsing. Blood streamed from her mouth and dripped from her abdomen. He had killed her.

  Then something emerged from her mouth – a shiny, black lump. It lay in the dirt and seemed to move a little before settling. A nearby weed turned white, as if frostbitten. Katja collapsed onto her back. Her body convulsed in one final, slow twist, and she was still.

  Jense recognized the color of her skin and the stiffness of her flesh. He had seen the same, one cold autumn morning, when he and Arik had searched the woods for Mette, Elke’s mother. After much searching, they had found the old woman, frozen stiff, and dead as could be.

  Jense knelt over her, clutching her cold corpse, wishing that their places were reversed. What good was his life now? His tears had dried. All that remained was a tightness in his throat and dread in his heart.

  He noticed, out of the corner of his eye, that the dark lump was egg-shaped, and coated in a shiny carapace of frozen blood. All the ground nearby had frosted over, as if in the dead of winter.

  Jense stood, and with all his strength drove the heel of his boot down on the black egg, smashing it into the frozen earth.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “Bring me real food!” yelled Haakon, hurling the tray aside. The bread had a moldy taste to it, the cheese was green and foul-smelling, and the roasted fish was small and bony. The wasted food scattered across the longhouse floor.

  The serving girl cowered. “The bakery has nothing today. Emma says she can make no bread without flour.”

  Einar the Lame limped forward and slapped the girl. “Watch your tongue, wench,” he shouted. “Do you forget who you speak to?” The girl screamed, clutching her head defensively.

  “Leave her be!” Egil snapped. The bard slouched in a low chair to Haakon’s right. “No fault of hers, that we have no flour.” Egil looked at Haakon accusingly.

  “Go,” muttered Haakon. The girl scurried off, leaving the spilled food. “Clean that up,” he said to Einar. The cripple scowled, but obeyed, eating the soiled food from the ground.

  Haakon turned his gaze to Egil. “What exactly do you propose?” he asked the bard. He would no longer let such comments slide. His advisor should advise him, not needle him to death. From now on, he would make the poet earn his keep.

  “I have told you. Renew Summer Trade. Send messengers to Skrova, Silfrdal, Vaggabœr, and Happdal today, with peace offerings. They will gladly trade with us – they need our ore. We have wool, too. And of food, our neighbors have surpluses.”

  “And I have told you that is not an option. Do you have only one idea, bard?”

  Egil did not back down. “Our valley is small and narrow. Our farmers cannot scrape a living from it. Mining is our strength, and we have always relied on trade.” The bard punctuated this statement by rapping his oaken staff against his chair.

  “Not always,” said Haakon. He was thinking of his own ancestor, Tyr the Lusty, who had raped a Happdal girl who had been visiting her cousin in Kaldbrek. The girl turned out to be important – the jarl’s niece – and Summer Trade had been canceled for four years while the young towns feuded. The matter had finally been settled when Happdal’s smith, Stian, had hacked off Tyr’s head. The legend said that Stian boiled Tyr’s
head until the skull was clean, removed the jawbone, charred it over an open fire, then used a burned fragment of the smith’s jaw to forge a soulsword.

  “Are you thinking of the Rib Years?” Egil asked, interrupting Haakon’s dark reverie. “We did not fare well during those times, according to my grandfather.”

  Haakon gripped the arm of his chair. The throne was made of solid oak, but he felt the wood give a little under his crushing grip. He relaxed his hand – he liked his chair and did not wish to wreck it on account of Egil’s insolence. Perhaps he would crush Egil instead.

  A commotion from outside saved the bard. Two of Haakon’s guards entered the longhouse, holding a man between them. As they walked him forward, Haakon saw that the prisoner was merely a boy. The lad was tall and spindly, his face unlined and beardless. But he held Haakon’s gaze, refusing to cower.

  “He says he is from Happdal,” said one of the guards. “He came unarmed.”

  “Let him go,” commanded Haakon. “He can speak for himself.” This could be interesting. At least it would be a break from Egil’s sour advice. “Well?” he said to the boy.

  “I am Karl Hinriksson,” the boy said in a deep, strong voice. He straightened himself as the guards stepped away, and stared at Haakon boldly. The young man was tall and slender, with a well-formed face, but his skin had a greenish pallor, and he swayed slightly when the guards released him. “I bring you a gift from Happdal.”

  “Karl, son of Hinrik. Should I know that name?”

  “You killed my father and raped my sisters. One of them died from her injuries.”

  A long silence fell in the longhouse, until Haakon laughed. “If that is true, then I cannot wait to see the gift you have brought for me. This day has been truly dull. But now you have arrived, with your gift and your sad tale, and my interest is piqued. What is your gift, young Karl Hinriksson?”

  “You also killed my friend Jesper,” said Karl, ignoring Haakon’s question. When the boy spoke, Haakon saw that his teeth were stained brown. Did they not know how to clean their teeth in Happdal?

  “All this killing,” Haakon said. “I cannot keep it straight. Do you know who he speaks of, Egil?”

  “Perhaps he speaks of the lookout,” said the bard.

  “The chubby one,” Einar chimed in. “The one who spat on your boot. You crushed his head like a pumpkin.”

  “Oh, him,” said Haakon. “Elke’s spy. Is this Arik’s official response? He sends a boy with a gift? Arik loves his peace. I raid Happdal, and he ignores me. I rape and kill, and he ignores me. I kill again, and he sends the son of a victim, with a gift.

  “For I remember your father and your sisters now, boy. Your sisters were sweet. Though in truth I had only two of them. The one who died, well, we may blame that on Einar. He may be crippled and ugly, but in one area the Red Brother has seen fit to gift him. Within his trousers lies a great snake. And he is too stupid to use it gently.”

  “I remember!” Einar squealed. “I remember her!”

  The boy turned deathly pale at Haakon’s speech, but stood his ground. Haakon noticed Svein had slipped into the longhouse, and stood in the shadows, near Egil, observing. This riled Haakon for some reason; whenever Svein was in his sight he found himself wanting to impress the boy. Haakon sat up straighter in his chair and spoke loudly. “What is your gift? I tire of waiting.”

  “Elke said I should deliver the gift in the dead of night, but I choose to give it to you in the light of day, so I can see your face as you appreciate its meaning.”

  “What meaning? You madden me, Karl Hinriksson. My patience has a limit, you know. Shall we just have you flayed and be done with it? That would be a gift as well…a fine sight. Entertainment for all of Kaldbrek.”

  The boy slowly reached into his sleeve and drew out a tiny packet. He unwrapped the soft leather covering, revealing a small, rusted knife.

  “A knife? You bring me a tiny, dirty knife? What kind of gift is that?” asked Haakon. Einar stepped forward and peered at the small blade. Even Egil sat up and looked, cautiously.

  “It is a special knife,” Karl said. “It is coated with venom from a long-nosed viper.” It was eerie, hearing a man’s deep voice come from a boy’s face.

  Haakon heard the soft sound of metal against leather. The guards had drawn their swords. He held up his hand, holding them at bay.

  “And how do you propose to give me this gift, Karl Hinriksson?” he asked.

  “I will stab you with it, and take pleasure in your death throes,” said Karl. The guards looked to Haakon, eager to cut the boy down, but the jarl shook his head. He would do his own killing.

  “Well said, boy. How many times have you practiced that line in your head? Perhaps you consider yourself a poet? You have a strong voice, you know, and something of a way with words. I do have a bard, right here, but he brings me no joy. Instead of poems and songs he offers me only bland advice. Perhaps, if I let you live, you can take his place.” Of course he would not let the boy live. He could not, after such a threat. But it was refreshing to think of replacing Egil, who was as amusing as a sack of wet grain.

  “Do you not fear for your own life, boy?” Egil asked. The bard had stood, and regarded Karl curiously, as if he were some strange animal as yet unseen in the Five Valleys.

  “You cannot hurt me,” said Karl. “None of you can hurt me.”

  At this, Einar shrieked with laughter. So long and hard did stupid Einar laugh that Haakon’s guards began to chuckle, until Haakon scowled and lifted his hand, silencing them all.

  “Very well,” said Haakon. “Give me your gift.”

  Haakon remained seated as the boy approached. Karl’s gaze was steady, but his hand trembled, and his face had no blood in it.

  “Come, Karl Hinriksson, give me the gift.”

  The boy lashed out, quicker than Haakon had expected. But not quick enough. Haakon caught the boy’s wrist in a viselike grip. He squeezed a little, until the bones cracked. The boy did not cry out, but his hand opened, and the knife fell to the ground. It was over.

  “There, you have done your best,” Haakon said gently. “Your father would be proud, for you tried to avenge him, and your sisters. I admit you are courageous, and you bear pain well. How do you wish to die? Right here, in the longhouse, by my hand? Or shall we find a tree and hang you? The choice is yours, brave child.”

  In response the boy growled and pulled his wrist away with such force that Haakon stood, and found his arm extended out. Hinrik’s son had strength in those twig arms! A second surprise: the boy was biting his arm. Haakon yelled in pain and rage, and released his grip. Still, the boy clung to his arm like a crazed marten, digging his stained teeth into Haakon’s muscular forearm.

  “Get him off!” he yelled to his guards. His men leapt forward and grabbed Karl, yanking him back. Still, the boy would not unclench his jaw, and ground his teeth into Haakon’s wound.

  Einar jumped about excitedly. “He bites! He bites! The Happdal boy is a rabid dog!”

  Egil joined the fray, swinging his heavy oaken staff. Whatever his intent, he only managed to hit Einar, smacking him in the head. The result was a wet cracking sound, not unlike the splitting of a pumpkin, and Einar collapsed to the floor.

  Finally the guards wrenched Karl away, holding him fast. Haakon examined the damage to his arm. Blood poured from the wound and dripped into his palm.

  “I retract my earlier statement. I shall choose your death. You will die by rista orn.”

  The longhouse fell silent. Haakon watched his blood pool on the ground, slowly seeping into the packed earth. His arm hurt fiercely, and a great heat was growing in the wound.

  Egil clutched his staff and stared at fallen Einar with wide eyes. “Was that an accidental blow, or did you mean to fell the cripple?” asked Haakon. Egil did not answer, but instead shifted his gaze to Haakon’s arm, then to the boy.


  “What trick have you played?” the bard asked. The boy smiled.

  Haakon sat back down in his chair, feeling woozy. Somehow, he missed, and tumbled to the ground. The pain in his arm had faded a little, but the limb was swelling up, and his neck felt stiff. What have you done to me? He meant to say it, but his throat produced only a feeble croak.

  Young Svein leapt forward and hit Karl in the gut, over and over again, while the guards held the Happdal spy. Each blow stained the cloth of the boy’s shirt with a dark spot; each spot bloomed into a splotch, until his entire front was drenched. Svein held the fallen knife, and was stabbing Karl. Strangely, it was not enough to wipe the grin from the boy’s face, even as he slumped in the grip of the guards.

  Haakon spasmed, then discovered that he could no longer move his head, or even breathe. Einar’s ugly face filled his field of vision, which was narrowing, darkening at the edges. Einar looked quite dead.

  “Enough, Svein. Karl Hinriksson is slain.” It was Egil who spoke. There was a long pause, then the bard’s rich, rough voice rang out once more. It seemed Haakon would hear one final poem before he departed Midgard. For Haakon had finally realized the truth, that the clever boy had poisoned him.

  Blood gushes from the jarl’s wound

  His smiling killer wears a shirt of red

  The killer is a good son, who avenged his father’s death

  He became a man today, before he died

  The same is true for Svein, the chieftain’s son

  Who also avenges his father

  Who also becomes a man today

  Young Svein Haakonsson

  Will you take your father’s chair?

  Will you rule with a cruel grip, and lead us to ruin?

  Or will you find a better way?

  Chapter Twenty-Seven