The Sky Woman

by JD Moyer

  She went to them first. The brown woman lay still, though earlier Ilsa had seen her thrash about, yelling incoherently. Esper sat next to the bed on a wooden stool, holding the woman’s hand. He had not left her side since their return earlier that day. The brown woman had looked limp and lifeless in Trond’s arms, but there was still some fight in her. “Hold her head up,” instructed Ilsa, and Esper did so gently. The woman’s eyes fluttered. “Hold her mouth open,” said Ilsa.

  Esper complied. “Her name is Car-En,” he said.

  She poured a little of the mixture into Car-En’s mouth, but the woman spat it out. She stared at Ilsa, disoriented but angry, the brown fluid running down her chin and dripping onto her silvery, skin-like garment. “She is not herself,” said Esper.

  “I know,” said Ilsa. Elke’s boy wanted more than healing. He wanted acceptance: for the sky woman, and for his own choice in bringing her to Happdal. “We will help her,” she said. “Hold her mouth open again.” With some persistence, they got some of the sweet tonic inside of the strange woman.

  In the other room, Katja lay in a single bed, with Jense sitting on the floor beside her. In the corner, the lost boy – now fully grown, but sick – sat in a chair, staring mutely at the wall. Trond had wanted to stay with them, but Ilsa had sent him off; the room was too small to house both giant smiths. The lost boy seemed placid, not dangerous, and if there was any protecting to do, Jense could do it.

  She recognized the lost boy, faintly. Per Anders. He had disappeared years ago, a long walk that had lasted seven summers. He had returned fully grown, but not quite a man. Poisoned by the mushrooms, Per Anders was a shadow of his former self. He seemed to understand very little, and stared dumbly at whatever was before him, unless he hungered. His appetite had not left him; he preferred raw meat, and consumed it readily (despite a few missing teeth). Ilsa had washed him, and put ointment on his many scratches, but his mind was damaged. She did not know if she could help him.

  Ilsa poured half of the remaining tonic into a ceramic mug and handed it to Per Anders. He gazed at it but did not move to take it. “Drink!” she commanded. He took the cup. “Drink it,” she said more softly. Still, he just stared. She moved his hand, and the mug with it, to his lips, and as soon as the sweet mixture touched his tongue, he remembered how to drink from a vessel, and drained it.

  “We will see if that helps him,” said Ilsa. “I do not think it will.”

  “What about Katja?” Jense asked.

  Ilsa stood over the bed and looked at Elke’s daughter. Even so thin and pale, the girl was beautiful, not so different than Elke in her youth. Thin, black lines formed a spiderweb beneath her translucent skin. Jense said that Katja had been possessed by a spirit – the gast – but that he had driven it from her body.

  Ilsa placed her hand on the girl’s chest. Her heartbeat was slow, but steady. Though her face had no color, she was breathing well enough. Ilsa had no idea how to cure her, but perhaps she could keep her alive. “Where is Elke?” asked Ilsa. Jense shrugged. Katja’s mother had visited earlier. She had stared down at her daughter impassively, not touching her, saying nothing.

  “Elke is cold-hearted,” said Jense. “She cares only for herself.” Ilsa knew neither statement was true, but she let the words stand. Jense’s heart and mind would always be clouded when it came to Elke. That was his own fault – no one had made him bed the jarl’s wife. But at least one good thing had come out of that mess. Trond was a fine man, and who could hold a grudge against Jense and Elke for producing such a fine human being? Even cuckolded Arik had eventually forgiven them, and accepted Trond as a full son. Someday someone would have to tell the boy himself, for while he was not stupid, to this one fact he seemed blind.

  Ilsa handed Jense the jug that held the remainder of the tonic. She dipped a clean cloth into the fluid, gently opened Katja’s mouth, and squeezed a few drops of the fragrant mixture onto her tongue. “Very slowly,” she instructed. “Too fast and she might choke. Keep her head up – two pillows.” Jense nodded. She trusted the smith, both his hands and his heart. No one loved Katja more. Whether that love was wise – that was another question. But for now, Jense’s dedication would keep the girl alive. She handed him the wet cloth.

  Her hands now free, she lifted the girl’s shirt and checked the wound. Jense’s sword had bitten deep. The blade had nicked her bladder; Ilsa had seen blood in the girl’s urine. Ilsa feared the blade might have gone deeper, piercing Katja’s womb, but she had no way of knowing.

  At least the cut was not wide. Ilsa had closed it with a short length of thread. She had spread a thick coat of honey over her work, which was now mixed with blood, but there was no pus that Ilsa could see. She put her face close to Katja’s belly and sniffed. Honey, the girl’s own musky scent, and a strange, sharp odor Ilsa could not name. But no rot; the wound was clean.

  “Ilsa! Come!”

  It was Esper’s voice. Ilsa was not so old that she could not run from room to room. A moment later she stood in the other doorway, witness to an odd sight.

  The brown-skinned woman was ripping off the silver suit, or trying to. The material was both flexible and strong, and the woman was no less clothed for her struggles. “Let me help,” said Esper. He pulled on something, and the suit split down the side, as if he were skinning a beast. The woman yielded to Esper’s touch, and soon she stood naked before them. She kicked the silvery skin into the corner.

  Her body was scrawny and undernourished, but aside from her skin color, her appearance was normal: small breasts that had not held milk, a light covering of hair on her pubic mound, a flat belly never stretched by a full womb.

  “Brenna,” she said. Her accent was strange; it took a moment for Ilsa to understand. She was pointing at the silvery garment. Burn it.

  “Can you find her some clothes?” asked Esper. Ilsa nodded and left the room, hiding her smile. She smiled in part because of Esper’s love; the feeling echoed in her own heart. But mostly she was happy that her medicine had somehow helped the girl. At least one of her wards would live.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Trond and Arik led the men – and a few boys as well – up the High Pass toward the ridge. Trondfist, the great warhammer, was slung over Trond’s back, along with the soulsword Taker, and a pack stuffed with provisions. Behind them marched Jansen, and Jansen’s eldest son, who was thick-armed from farm work. Both father and son carried spears and wore hardened leather armor. The next ranks were made up of eager boys hefting makeshift weapons. Jalmar and Gregers, pulled from the mines, had their picks. Grim-faced Grundar wore his usual scowl and carried a sickle. Grundar’s younger brother, just as blond but more cheerful than his sibling, proudly gripped a small knife. Behind them walked Lars, who was always eager to swing his sword, and Karina, Hinrik’s middle daughter and sister to Karl, who had insisted on coming. Farrel and Gustav (the latter armed with a rusty mudsteel blade) brought up the rear. Trond had offered to forge the cobbler a new weapon, but Gustav had politely refused, insisting that the sword (gifted to him by his farfar) could cut as well as any.

  “Karl is dead, or captured,” Elke had told them. She had confessed her plot to her husband and sons after the homecoming feast. It angered Trond to hear that his mother had sent a boy to his almost certain death, but as usual Arik forgave his wife.

  “She only wishes to protect us,” his father had later said. “And besides, it was Karl’s right to avenge his father’s death. At least to try.”

  “Perhaps,” Trond had answered, “but he should not have gone alone. We all have business with Haakon.”

  “And so we march, tomorrow. Time to end this feud.” Arik had not said ‘one way or another,’ but Trond heard the words in his mind nonetheless, and wondered if he could best Haakon in a fight. He thought that he probably could, but in truth the incident with the giants (being hunted and captured and nearly eaten) had shaken him. Perhaps he was no
t so strong and mighty as others thought.

  They were a small group – no war party – for Arik hoped it would not come to war. What if Karl had succeeded and Kaldbrek had a new leader? Why not make peace? Trond could see no sense in his father’s thinking. Why would they be warmly greeted if a Happdal boy had slain the Kaldbrek jarl? Still, he obeyed his father, and stuffed his pack with peace offerings: wheels of cheese from Harald, tiny boxes of herbal ointments from Ilsa, jars of pickles from Elke. Others carried sacks of grain, whole honeycombs, dried fishes, and fermented fish paste.

  Trond’s heavy load – the two great weapons and several large wheels of cheese – was a welcome relief. The pain in his legs served to distract him from his own thoughts. There was much to dwell on. Jense, soon after returning to Happdal with Katja in his arms, had insisted on meeting Trond in the smithy. There, with the heavy oaken door closed, cloth pulled over the windows, and the furnace filled with cold ash, Jense had confessed to Trond that there was a fifth secret of godsteel, and that he, Jense, had been wrong to keep it from Trond for so long. Jense told him the story of the twin soulswords, Biter and Taker, and how to trap the soul of a man in a blade, using a bit of burned bone. He showed Trond the actual blades, which had been in Katja’s possession, and also a strange knife, the makings of which were a mystery to Jense. Trond thought he might know the story of the knife, but he said nothing, for his mind was already racing, and he found the act of speech to be difficult under such circumstances.

  The godsteel secret was a revelation (though Trond doubted he would use the technique – it sounded dangerous), but mostly Trond dwelled on his sister, who seemed in poor shape. At least the sky woman was well again; Ilsa had cured her quickly. As for Per Anders…. Well, he was home, and in good hands, and no longer wandering lost in the woods.

  As they crested the ridge, they saw a tall man stumbling toward them. His face was smeared with blood, both eyes were bruised, and his black hair was hacked short (by a dull blade from the looks of it). He limped, relying heavily on a long staff, and did not notice their group until Arik hailed him.

  “Greetings, wanderer!” called Arik. The man lifted his gaze from the ground and examined their party dubiously, as if trying to decide if they were real or illusory. “We come from Happdal, on our way to Kaldbrek,” said Arik. “Who are you, and what is your destination?”

  “Do not go to Kaldbrek,” the man said. “You will be slaughtered.”

  Trond’s impulse was to contradict this statement, but he held his tongue. Perhaps he could be killed. He remembered the large hands of the giantess, spreading rancid grease over his body, preparing him for the roast. What if Esper and the sky woman had not rescued him? If that were the case, he would now exist only as giant spoor. Certainly no man was stronger than Trond, but strength did not grant one immunity against death.

  “I know you,” said Arik. “Egil the Bard, advisor to Haakon. What has happened to you?”

  Egil shrugged. “Haakon is dead. Your boy killed him. The new master has no love for me – I am exiled.” The bard’s voice was harsh and gravelly, impossible to ignore.

  “Does the boy Karl live?” Trond asked.

  Egil snorted and spat; a yellow glob streaked with red landed in the dirt. “No,” said Egil. “The new jarl killed him, though truthfully I think he would have died from the poison. He coated his own teeth with the stuff, and bit Haakon.”

  Arik raised his eyebrows. “Indeed.”

  “Clever,” said Egil, “and ruthless. The boy thirsted for vengeance.”

  Karina pushed through to the front. “I am glad Haakon is dead,” said Hinrik’s daughter. “I hope his death was painful, and filled with shame.”

  “It was,” Egil admitted. “And many share your sentiment. Truthfully, I count myself in that group, for Haakon was cruel and unwise. But the death of a cruel man does not necessarily lead to good things. The new master is worse.”

  “Who?” asked Arik.

  “Svein, son of Haakon.”

  “We come to Kaldbrek in peace,” said Arik. “Will this Svein Haakonsson not accept our gifts and begin anew?”

  “Look at my face,” Egil said. “Does this look like the work of a reasonable man? Svein is crazy with rage and drunk with power. Karl killed his father, whom he hated, but his father’s death brings him no peace – only fury and discontentment. The boy’s heart is closed to forgiveness, his mind unmoored from reason.”

  “A fine leader, then,” said Arik. Egil smiled darkly.

  “What will you do?” Trond asked.

  “Wander the mountain trails until I starve? I do not know. I had thought to come to your village and surrender myself to you, Arik. Will you grant me food and shelter? In return I can tell you sour tales, and sing you sad songs.”

  Arik thought on this for a long moment, and Trond wondered if he was considering how Elke might react. But Arik turned to Karina. “Was this man among those who killed your father and your sister, who attacked you and Kristin?”

  Karina shook her head. “No.”

  “I am many things,” said Egil, “but I am no raper, nor a murderer of innocents.”

  “Very well,” said Arik. “Go to Elke,” he said to Egil, “and tell her I said not to flay you. That is the most I can offer.”

  Egil nodded and shuffled along. As he passed, Trond offered the bard his waterskin. Egil drank from it deeply and handed it back without thanks. The bard continued on his way and did not look back.

  “Well, what do you think? On to Kaldbrek?” asked Arik. He spoke to Trond directly, as an equal, and Trond was forced to quench his pride so that he could consider the actual question.

  “That seems unwise,” interjected Farrel, who had come forward from the back. “This new jarl will not welcome us. Kaldbrek is in flux…should we not wait?”

  “Flux is good,” said Trond. “Before the metal has cooled – that is the time to shape it. We should continue on.”

  Arik patted Trond on the shoulder. “Well said, my son. We will do as you advise.” Arik led the way along the ridge trail, and the others followed.

  * * *

  Trond’s spirits rose as they descended into the lush valley. In the distance, they saw a few sheep grazing on the steep, verdant hills. Perhaps Arik was right; maybe Svein could be reasoned with. Maybe Trond had not seen his last Summer Trade.

  They walked into Kaldbrek unchecked. The villagers gave them dark looks but only a mangy dog approached, smelling the food in their packs. Trond shooed it away. The men and women looked thin, tired, and sour; the children walked when they should have been running. Despite the sheep and green hills, there was hunger here.

  Six men wielding spears stopped them as they neared the longhouse. The tallest stepped forward to challenge them, but Arik spoke first. “I am Arik, jarl of Happdal. Take us to Svein Haakonsson!” Trond was impressed by the strength of his father’s voice, which had taken on a commanding, irresistible tone. The Kaldbrek guard stepped back as if slapped.

  “I will see if the jarl will grant you an audience,” he muttered.

  “Do that,” said Arik.

  One of the younger guards scurried off, and soon returned. “Arik may enter the longhouse, and one other,” he said breathlessly.

  “Bring Farrel,” Trond said. “I will stay with the others.”

  “No,” said Arik, “I would rather have you by my side.” Farrel was wise, and no doubt loyal, but Arik disliked him. The old man spent too much time with Arik’s wife, and drank too much of his öl.

  “We will be fine,” Lars said quietly. “These men are too weak from hunger to cause trouble.”

  “Very well,” said Trond, touching the pommel of his dirk. His father was already leading the way, flanked by guards on either side. “Follow us to the longhouse,” Trond said to Lars, “and bring the food.”

  At the entrance to the longhouse,
the guards asked for their weapons.

  “We come to make peace,” said Arik. “So I will give you my sword for safekeeping. My dirk I will keep.”

  “I will hand over Trondfist, if you are strong enough to lift it. The sword is a gift for young Svein. I will also keep my dirk.”

  “I will carry the sword for you,” the tall guard said. Trond gave him the longsword Taker, and put Trondfist on the ground. Two of the Kaldbrek men were able to lift the warhammer together and carry it awkwardly to the side of the longhouse, where they leaned it against the wall. His load lightened, Trond took the provisions from the others: sacks of grain, honeycomb wrapped in paper, jars of preserved fruit, dried beef, and a sack filled with fresh loaves. Arik entered the longhouse. Trond followed, carrying the many gifts.

  The interior was dim and smoky. The young jarl sat in his chair, surrounded by guards and servants. The room smelled foul: too many bodies, acrid smoke, and a hint of rot.

  “What brings you to my village, Arik?” asked Svein. The boy had dark hair, narrow blue eyes, and a weak chin. A long scar ran along his right cheek.

  “Is it your village?” Arik asked. “What happened to Haakon?”

  “My father is dead. I am jarl now. You know as much – you sent his assassin. I should thank you, for you have done Kaldbrek a great service. Haakon was a terrible leader, and much hated.”

  Trond coughed; the bad air irritated his lungs. He counted the spearheads in the room. Seven, that he could see. And no doubt twice as many hidden knives.

  “Yes. It was we who sent Karl to kill Haakon,” said Arik. “Haakon murdered his father Hinrik, and raped his three sisters, killing one. It was his right to exact vengeance.”

  “It was cowardly to send a boy. You should have come yourself, to accuse us,” said Svein. His mouth writhed as he spoke, as if he did not entirely control his own face.