Prince of the North

by Turtledove, Harry

  They spied Gerin’s men at about the same moment as Raffo saw them. A bulky male, evidently the leader of the band, swept out his arm to point at the warriors. He shouted something; through the rain, Gerin could not tell whether it was real words or just an animal cry. Whatever it was, the rest of the creatures got the idea. With hoarse roars, they charged the Fox’s men.

  In such dreadful weather, bows were useless. Gerin stooped to pick up a stone the size of a goose egg. He flung it at the oncoming monsters, then yelled, “Out sword and at them!” A moment later, his own blade slid from its scabbard.

  A stone flew past his head. One of the creatures, at any rate, had wit enough to think of it as a weapon. Then the fight was at close quarters, the savagery and strength of the monsters well matched against the armor and bronze weapons Gerin’s warriors carried.

  With his long, heavy spear, better made for use afoot than from a chariot, Van had an advantage over his monstrous foes: he could thrust at them long before they closed with him. But when he sank the leaf-shaped point deep into the belly of one screaming creature, another seized the spearshaft and wrenched it out of his hands. He shouted in shock and dismay; long used to being stronger than any man he faced, having an opponent who could match him in might came as a jolt.

  The monster dropped the spear; it preferred its natural weapons to those made by art. But when it sprang at Van, he stove in its head with an overhand blow from his mace. He needed no second stroke; the fight with the creature the day before had warned him to put all his power into the first one.

  Gerin got only tiny glimpses of his friend’s fight—he had troubles of his own. The monster that faced him was female, but no less unlovely and fierce on account of that. He felt as if he were fighting a wolf bitch or female longtooth, and knew none of the hesitation he might have felt against a woman warrior.

  He slashed at the monster. It skipped back. It knew the sword was dangerous to it, then. The Fox went after it, slashed once more. This time the monster ducked under the blade and rushed him. He got his shield up just in time to keep it from tearing out his throat. It was very strong; when it tried to pull the shield off his arm, he wondered if his right shoulder would come out of its socket. The shield strap held, but barely.

  Even in the pouring rain, the monster stank with a reek halfway between the musky smell of a wild beast and a human body that had never been bathed. Something else was there, too, a musty smell, perhaps the residue of long years—of countless generations—of life underground.

  The Fox slashed again, and scored a bleeding line across the creature’s rib cage. It squalled in fury and stopped trying to tear away his shield. But it did not turn and flee, as a wounded animal likely would have done. Instead, it went back to the attack, this time rushing at Gerin and knocking him off his feet, then springing on him as he lay in the mud.

  Again his shield saved him, fending the monster away from his face and neck. He hissed in pain as its claws raked down his arm. But, though he was untaloned himself, his sandals had bronze hobnails to help him grip the ground. He kicked at the monster, and hurt it again.

  He dropped his sword; it was too unwieldy for this work. Had he not been able to get at his dagger, or had he dropped it while yanking it from its sheath on his belt, he would have died. As it was, he stabbed the monster again and again.

  It shrieked, first shrilly, then with a bubbling undertone as bloody froth burst from its mouth and nose. For once, Gerin wished he were not lefthanded; his blows to the right side of the creature’s body had pierced a lung, but not its heart. Now, though, it wanted escape. He stuck out a leg in a wrestler’s trick and tripped it when it tried to flee. It went down with a splash.

  He half leaped, half rolled onto its back, stabbing again and again in an ecstasy of loathing, fury, and fear. The monster was as tenacious of life as any wild beast, that was certain. He’d put enough holes in it to make a sieve before it finally stopped trying to break free.

  He didn’t know whether it was dead. He didn’t care—it was out of the fight for a good long while. He snatched up his sword again, scrambled to his feet, and hurried to give aid to his comrades.

  Several of them were down, as were most of the monsters. Raffo and Parol Chickpea together battled the big male that had led the pack. It sprang on Parol. He screamed hoarsely. Gerin used the sword like a spear, stabbing the monster from behind. It wailed and tried to turn on him. Raffo’s blade met its thick neck with a meaty chunnk. Blood spurted. Head half severed, the monster pitched forward onto its face and lay still.

  When their leader fell, the couple of creatures still on their feet gave up the fight and fled. Gerin’s warriors did not pursue them; they had enough to do finishing the monsters on the ground and seeing to their own wounded. One man was dead, Parol’s driver, a likable young fellow called Delamp Narrag’s son. Several others had bites and slashes of greater or less severity. Binding them up in the rain wasn’t easy.

  “You’re bleeding, Fox,” Van remarked.

  Gerin looked down at his clawed arm. “So I am. I hope we come to a village before long, so I can pour beer into those cuts and cover them over with lard. If they’re anything like cat scratches, they’re liable to fester.”

  “You’re right about that.” Van looked over the little battlefield. “Well, we beat ’em back. They’re not as tough as armored warriors. That’s something, anyhow.”

  “Something, aye.” Now that he wasn’t fighting for his life, the Fox noticed how much that arm hurt. “But I’d not want to be a peasant, even one with a mattock or scythe, and have one of those things spring at me from out of the woods. If I were lucky and hit it a good lick, it might run off. But if I missed that first stroke, I’d never get a chance to make a second one.”

  “You’re right about that, too,” Van said. After a moment’s reflective pause, he added, “One of the ones that got away fled north.”

  “I saw it go. I was trying not to think about it,” Gerin said wearily. “That’s one past us, certain sure. I wonder how many more there are that we’ve never seen. Even the one is too many.”

  “And you’re right about that,” Van said. “If you’re so bloody right all the time, why are we in this mess?” Gerin had no good answer for him.

  VII

  Rihwin walked mournfully through the courtyard, a bandage plastered over his left ear and tied round his head to hold it in place. “Can’t you take that off yet?” Gerin asked him. “We’ve been back here ten days now, so you can’t still be bleeding, and the wound didn’t fester, or you’d have taken sick long since.”

  “Oh, I could, if that were all there was to it,” Rihwin answered. “The sad truth is, though, that I’m uglier without the bandage than with it.”

  Gerin clapped a hand to his forehead. “You’re vainer than a peacock, is what you are. If you hadn’t worn that gold hoop in your ear, the monster down in Bevon’s holding never would have had the chance to hook a claw on it and tear it out And a torn ear’s not the worst thing in the world, anyhow. I’ve seen plenty of men with worse, and that’s a fact.”

  Rihwin’s mobile features twisted into a dolorous frown. “But my earlobe has shriveled up and withered. In the southlands, surgeons had ways of repairing such wounds, for those who could bear the pain. Many did, as a ruined ear does one’s appearance no good Henceforward, I’m liable to be styled Rihwin One-Ear, not Rihwin the Fox. But who in this benighted country is familiar with such techniques? Not a soul, unless I’m much mistaken.”

  “I fear you’re right,” Gerin said. “Your southern surgeons may have had practice at such work, but we don’t wear earrings here.” He paused a moment, his curiosity awakening. “How do the southern surgeons go about their work with ears, anyhow?”

  “First they ply the patient well with wine and poppy juice, to dull his senses as much as they can,” Rihwin answered. “They also have his friends hold him, mind you—I’ve done that duty a time or two. Then they cut loose a flap of flesh from behind
the ruined ear, open up what remains of the earlobe so it’s raw and bloody, and sew the two together. After they grow into one—for they will, once they exchange blood—the surgeon cuts off the base of the flap and behold! One has a new ear, perhaps not so fine as the original article but far better than the miserable nub I have left.”

  Gerin eyed him speculatively. “Do you know, my fellow Fox, in my years up here on the frontier, I’ve done my share of rough healer’s work: drawing arrows, stitching wounds, setting bones, what have you. The men I’ve treated haven’t done any worse than anyone else’s patients. If you like, I might try to rebuild your ear for you.”

  Rihwin went into a sudden and hasty retreat, holding his hands out before him as if to fend off Gerin. “I thank you, but no. Not only do you lack some of the essentials (for where will you find wine and poppy juice here in the northlands?), but, meaning no disrespect, you have neither witnessed nor essayed the procedure in question.”

  “But you described the procedure so clearly,” Gerin said, half to alarm Rihwin, half in real disappointment. “I feel as if I could give you something better than the stub you have now. If I were to sketch in ink the shape of a proper earlobe here on the side of your neck—”

  Rihwin retreated further. “No thank you,” he repeated. “Now, I grant that I cannot wear a bandage forever, but if I were to let my hair grow long, in half a year it would conceal the mutilation, thus obviating the need for surgery.”

  “I suppose you could do that,” Gerin admitted. “Why didn’t you think of it a while ago, instead of whining about how your looks were ruined forever?”

  “I didn’t have such incentive to devise an alternative until this moment,” Rihwin answered with a sheepish grin. “Compared to the prospect of being carved upon by an inept and inexperienced butcher—again, meaning no disrespect—going through life with but one earlobe suddenly seems much less unattractive.” Rihwin was self-absorbed, but not stupid. He fixed Gerin with a suspicious stare. “And you, sirrah, manipulated me into coming up with that alternative.”

  “I did?” Gerin was the picture of innocence. “All I wanted was to try my hand at surgery.”

  “I know,” Rihwin said darkly. “I am certain the procedure would have been quite interesting—for you. And for me—how much I should have enjoyed it—is another matter altogether.”

  “If you hadn’t wanted something done about it, you shouldn’t have described how to do something about it in such loving detail,” Gerin said.

  “Believe me, my fellow Fox, I shall not be guilty of repeating the error,” Rihwin said. “I suppose you should have been as eager to follow through had I suggested you repair the ear by thaumaturgic means.”

  “Now, there’s an idea!” Gerin exclaimed. “You know, that really ought to be within my power, such as it is. It wouldn’t involve much, just a straightforward application of the law of similarity. And you still have your right ear intact to serve as an exemplar. What could be more similar to a man’s left ear than his own right? Let’s go over to that little shack of mine and—”

  Rihwin fled.

  Selatre read, “In this year, the fifth of his reign, the Emperor Forenz, the second of that name” —she paused to sound out a word she didn’t run across as often as the usual opening formula of a chronicle’s annual entry; she read that with confidence— “increased the tribute on the Sithonian cities. And the men of Kortys gathered together and thought how best they might revel—”

  Gerin blinked and leaned over to check the scroll in front of her. “That’s ‘rebel,’” he murmured.

  She looked at the passage again. “Oh. So it is.” She let out a small, embarrassed laugh. “It does change the meaning, doesn’t it?”

  “Just a bit.” Gerin started to reach and to touch her hand in added praise, but thought better of it. Selatre made little fuss over accidental contact these days, but she remained unhappy about anything that wasn’t an accident. He went on, “Even with the slip, you’re doing marvelously well. You’ve picked up your letters as fast as anyone I’ve ever taught.”

  “Letters are simple,” she said. “Seeing how they fit together and make words is harder.” She looked around the room that served Castle Fox as a library. “And so many words there are to read! I’d never imagined.”

  Now Gerin laughed, bitterly. “When I look at them, I see how few there are. It’s a good collection for the northlands—for all I know, it may be the only collection in the northlands—but it’s a chip of wood drifting on the sea of ignorance. I studied down at the City of Elabon; I know whereof I speak.”

  “As may be,” Selatre said. “When Biton abandoned me, I thought I would be empty of knowledge, of the feeling of knowledge passing through me, forevermore. This is a different sort from what the god gave directly, but it’s worthy in its own way. For that I thank you.”

  She hesitated for a moment, then set her hand on top of his, very lightly, before she jerked it back. Gerin stared at her. Then a snarl of rage, a noise like ripping canvas, jerked his gaze to the doorway. Fand had chosen that moment to walk by. The fury on her face was frightening. Gerin waited for her to scream at him, but she stalked away instead. That worried him more than her usual firestorm would have.

  “I’m sony,” Selatre said. “Your leman does not favor me, and I’ve gone and made matters worse.”

  “Not that much worse,” he answered. “Things have been going, mm, imperfectly well for a while already.”

  She sighed and said, “I must confess, I don’t altogether understand. If things between you and her have not gone well, as you tell me, why do you still seek her bedchamber?”

  He felt his face heat. From anyone else, that question would have got nothing more than a sharp, None of your affair. With Selatre, though, he tried to be as honest as he could Maybe that sprang from lingering awe and respect for the oracular role she’d once had, maybe just because, by her nature and not Biton’s, she called forth such honesty. After a little thought, he said, “Because what goes on in the bedchamber, as you say, is one of the few good things we have left between us. Has been one of the good things, I should say.”

  Selatre caught the distinction. “Has been but is no more, do you mean?”

  “I suppose I do.” The Fox gnawed on the inside of his lower lip. “You’ve seen children balance a board or a branch on a rock and make a game out of going up and down, up and down?”

  “Of course,” she answered. “I’ve played that game myself. Haven’t you?”

  He nodded, then went on, “Van and I have played it with Fand, these past couple of years. But staying in balance, the two of us with one woman, isn’t easy, any more than keeping the board in balance on a stone is. And I seem to be the one who’s falling off.” He laughed, ruefully but without much anger. “I shouldn’t be surprised that’s happening, not when Fand has a temper like boiling oil. I ought to be surprised we’ve kept the balance as long as this.”

  “You would have kept it longer, if not for me,” Selatre said. “She thinks you’re out to have me take her place.”

  “I know she does,” Gerin said. “That isn’t what I intended when I brought you here to Castle Fox.”

  She studied him. For a moment, he thought the fathomless wisdom of Biton still looked out through her eyes. Then he realized the wisdom he saw was her own, which made it no less intimidating. “Do you intend that now?” she asked. Even if he’d intended to evade, she didn’t make it easy; though she hardly had her letters, she used words with a precision the rhetoricians down in the City of Elabon might have envied.

  “By Biton or Dyaus—whichever you’d rather, Selatre—I swear I do not want you to take Fand’s place in my life,” he answered steadily. “If you think I am in the habit of swearing false oaths, you can best judge my likely fate in the world to come.”

  “Only a fool mocks the gods, and whatever else you may be, lord Gerin, you are no fool,” Selatre said. “For that, and for the truth you’ve shown me thus far, I will bel
ieve you.”

  “And for that I thank you,” the Fox said.

  “Shall we return to the chronicle?” Selatre asked. “There, with the words before us on the parchment, we have less room for misunderstanding.”

  “That is probably a good idea.” Gerin listened to her read Every sentence seemed to come with more confidence than the one before it. Now that she’d grasped the principle, she was showing she could apply it. Some men took years to reach the place where she’d come in moonturns. Some men gave up in dismay and never got there at all.

  He was proud of her, and pleased with himself for having guessed so well where she would fit into the life of Fox Keep and the human fabric of the holding as a whole. She and Fand didn’t fit; Van had foreseen that more clearly than he had himself. And Van and Fand still seemed to be getting along as well as Fand ever got on with anyone.

  Under the usual busy stir of his thoughts, Gerin remembered something else as well—Selatre had reached out and taken his hand. He didn’t know how much that meant; he didn’t know if it meant anything. Of one thing he was sure: he wanted to find out.

  Rain plashed down on Castle Fox, filling puddles in the courtyard and turning the ditch around the palisade to the muddy beginning of a moat. Harvest lay far enough ahead for the peasants to look on the storm with relief rather than alarm.

  In any other year, that would have made Gerin do the same. Now a cloud-filled sky and curtains of water kicking up myriad splashes everywhere only raised his hackles; the wet weather reminded him too vividly of the storm that had rolled through the day his band of warriors fought the pack of monsters.

  Planting his feet with care on the slippery steps, he mounted to the palisade and peered south. He could see the peasant village near the castle. The broad thatched roofs of the huts there would keep most of the rain away from the walls of wattle and daub, but he knew serfs would be patching them with fresh mud after the downpour rolled away eastward.