by Cyn Bagley
Chapter 2
The plane ride from England to New York was more turbulent that usual. It was as if Thor in connection with the air sprites were trying to force Farbiorn Neilsen to crash-land into the Atlantic Ocean. He knew better. Ragnorak had had already happened. It had been more intense than the Christian's Armageddon. When Christianity had taken over the continent and the outer islands, the Norse Gods had fallen under the iron fist of the Christian fathers.
It was only at the intervention of Christ (avatar of this new religion) that had saved Odin and few other head gods. Buddha was probably incarnated as a grasshopper. He laughed at this thought.
So Odin's line was given to him as avatars. Unfortunately for him, he had not been able to jump into a new body since Ragnorak. This body, Farbiorn, couldn't die, but was becoming so old that it was hard to hold it together. Even to his own nose, he smelled of baby powder and corruption.
"Are you OK?" asked an anxious flight attendant. She had been checking on him during the entire flight. Probably thought he would drop dead. There was surely tons of red tape for dead bodies. He smiled grimly at the thought. The flight attendant involuntarily stepped back.
He growled. "I'm fine." She tried to pull the blanket up above his shoulders. "I'm fine." He tried to shout. She gave him doe eyes and finally walked back to her station.
Every one of his supposed avatars died when he tried to jump into him. Farbiorn wasn't sure if it was because they were mixed. He had always done better with family that had not intermarried.
Or maybe it was because he had lost much of his power when his people forsook him. Really, since there had been a resurgence of Norse paganism, he had finally been able to do more than sleep. Ironically the resurgence was in North America. In his heyday it was a little backwater place that his warriors used to refuel and have fun fighting the natives.
It would be nice to have a young body again. Immortality and eternal youth did not go hand in hand. He could prove it with this withered body.
It was eighteen hours of sheer hell. The flight attendant kept telling him that if he did not move around that a blood clot would kill him. This modern life with all its scientific knowledge was confusing. He really liked the old days of faith.
Finally he was out of the airplane and hobbling into the terminal. There were huge lines with people and bags in front of agents who checked passports and luggage.
Farbiorn's luggage consisted of one bag. He was too feeble to carry much more. His passport was tucked inside his jacket. He pulled it out. His ticket was tucked carefully in the passport.
It had been many years since he had any warriors. At least one servant would be nice. But, today he tried to make himself look normal. As normal as an old old old man could look.
He shuffled in line. He could hear the people around him shuffle and sway. Sometimes people would talk to the person next to him. Mostly people would hug their bags and purses next to their bodies. They looked carefully around them as if someone would steal their belongings.
When they reached the immigration agents, the flyers would open their luggage and pull out their papers. The agent would ask a few questions then let the person go. It was slow and laborious. Farbiorn hoped that he would be through the line soon. His next flight was only an hour away. This new world of freedom was slow and rude.
Not soon enough, it was his turn. He placed his bag on the table and then handed his papers to the agent.
"Is this all your bags, sir?" the agent asked.
Farbiorn nodded his head. One man looked through his bag and the agent looked at his passport. The agent carefully looked Farbiorn. "Take off your sunglasses, please."
Farbiorn took off his sunglasses. He gazed into the agent's eyes. The agent nodded his head and handed him the passport.
"Enjoy America." And then the agent reached for the next person's passport.
The other agent handed Farbiorn's bag. "Which way to the Utah flight?"
The agent pointed him towards the exit sign. "Ask someone out there," he said.
The whole process seemed mechanical. If he looked at the agents, he could see the nuts and bolts. The floor seemed slick and transparent. It was time to leave.
He shuffled to the exit door. Once outside the terminal he looked for one of those cute attendants wearing a blue skirt. The young lady took his arm and found him some transportation. "You don't want to walk all that way," she told him gently.
He smiled at her. In the good old days he would steal her away. It was nice to be cared for again. Soon he was sitting on one of those plastic chairs, waiting for a boarding call. Not long, he was on the next flight. He closed his eyes and went to sleep.
Shira: Hero of Corsindor
Prologue
Rain struck the lead-glass window in staccato bursts. It struck with such force that it drowned out all living sound, even the clanking of solders walking the passageways on their daily rounds. Grayness seeped through the stones of the castle along with the cold wet damp. Darkness, brought by the rain, chilled the bones of adults and children alike.
In the midst of this war of elements, a newborn babe, lay in a small rocking cradle. His mother had just died in a last major effort to birth him. A nurse rocked the cradle, crooning.
3You, poor sweet thing.3 she said. She had promised the mother during this hard birth that she would save the baby. The mother insisted over and over that this baby was in danger.
Everyone knew that the woman who had married the king aspired to be a real queen, not a consort. It would be hard for a new woman to realize that she would always be unloved. Married, but unloved. But the mistress was dead. It was time to look after the child.
The nurse looked behind her, and then picked up the baby. Glancing to the right and left, she looked hard into the shadows. You never knew what or who could be listening. She shuddered. This child was the key to power.
Gently she wrapped him tightly in a soft warm blanket, and placed him in a crude wicker basket. She tucked a small quilt over the basket.
Walking slowly through the castle, she prayed that the child wouldn't cry. But, he was silent. She wanted to reassure him, but he needed to stay hidden. No one must know that where he had gone. Her lips moved in a silent prayer as she walked through the hidden world of servants. She prayed that her arm would not give out.
The baby was heavy. The basket pressed against her forearm. No one must know what was in the basket. If she used her hand to steady the basket, some spy would be able to tell that she was not carrying bread. It must look effortless.
The nurse made it to the kitchen. In another moment, she would be gone. The tradesmen were at the door unloading the castle's daily supplies. She slipped through them like a dark shadow, headed through the open gate, and stepped into the city.
She walked through the maze of the city, looking for a certain alley. It was just off the market square. It was long before she found the little shop. Beads and brocade covered the entrance. Incense burned, inviting the shopper to step inside and sample the exotic goods.
She walked in and said, "Kinsman, may I speak with you?" The man behind the counter went to the front door and locked it. He took her into the backroom.
An hour later the nurse was on her way back to the castle. The basket was gone.
***
The messenger found the newly wedded Queen standing by the window, gazing at the city. Her crimson dress draped across her tall slight frame. It emphasized her dark brooding eyes. Dark hair piled on top of her head completed this picture of stark beauty.
"The nurse is dead," he said.
"And the baby?" She waited for his answer.
"The nurse hid him before we found her."
"Find the baby," she ordered. The death of the child was important for her plans.
The messenger’s eyes glowed red for an instant. Then, he faded into the shadows.
Chapter One
Shira Loesdotter sat on a on a large granite rock, overlooking the valley
. Below her was a small city surrounded by patchwork fields. Dark dots walked slowly through the fields. Some were kine, a small cow about the size of a goat, and some were horses.
She sighed. Shira’s long legs hung over the rock. In the distance she could see the tent city of the Ahrah. She was tall and lean in contrast to the Ahrah, the people of the land. Her hair was as light as corn-silk and her eyes were a dark blue. It was obvious from her looks that she was not from the same people; the Ahrah were short and stocky with dark skin, hair, and eyes.
But even though she was not Arah, it did not stop her from participating in the Ahrah’s most coveted sign of adulthood: The Awakening.
No one knew why some children woke, while others never woke at all. After her awakening, Shira could see past the ordinary world into a world of sun and shadow. It was so real, so there, that once you saw it, this ordinary world became a little dim.
Shira had been ten.
Shira had slipped from her bed early. The window had beckoned with the scent of roses drifting from the garden. Behind her the other orphans were still sleeping. Underneath the window, the bushes burst into vibrant shades of red, pink, and yellow.
A sprite danced in the sunshine, praising the sun and flowers with her body. Energy emanated from every living object. It was like seeing a halo around every living object. Even the rocks had a silvery-gray sheen.
Just before the morning bell rang, her sight dimmed as chaos shattered the quietness. The sprite drifted away, looking for a more peaceful spot to bask in the morning sunshine. Her wings beat lazily.
As always, confusion reigned in the orphan’s quarter. Children threw pillows and blankets helter-skelter around the room as they scrambled to brush hair and teeth. They must be dressed before the headmaster entered the room.
Shira dressed, trying to recapture the moment of peace, but it was impossible to think through all the noise.
Soon the room quieted. Oor stood at the doorway. He walked towards Shira, holding out his hand. Everyone in the room turned to stare at her.
She saw a faint glow of blue travel from his hand to hers. They looked at each other—the little girl and the old man.
“Come,” he said.
***
It seemed so long ago. The trees swayed, sending the soft smell of fir. After the awakening, it was sometimes hard to focus. She closed her eyes to feel the soft wind as it brushed against her cheeks. Quiet. Peace.
She ducked. A stick swung past her head.
“Now girl,” said Oor. "You shouldn’t get lost in your thoughts.” There was a quiet chuckle in his words. He swung again.
Shira leaped off the rock and onto the ground. She stepped back, and she tripped on a stick. As she fell, she grabbed the stick and stopped Oor's next swing.
Crack. Ouch. Oor’s stick went smacked her on the ribs.
Oor laughed. “Come on,” he said. “Get to work and no cheating.”
She stood with a flair and stood waiting for the next hit.
Shira could cheat. She had a gift of calling the sprites of the woods when she was in danger. To the uninitiated, it seemed like magic when the sticks would jerk from their hands and fly away. Of course, Oor knew better. The sprites were also mischievous. They liked to annoy Oor.
Shira grinned. “It’s my best defense,” she said as she tried to keep away from the Oor's stick. Still unable to fight him on equal terms, she looked for tree to climb. Oor caught her across the back as she jumped for a tree limb. That would hurt in the morning.
After dancing around the rocks and trees, Shira slid and fell. “Ouch” she said on the ground. She watched Oor. He waited for her to get up.
“Don’t give up,” he said.
“Nope,” she laughed. “I think I am done. See my ankle is twisted.”
"That's the old twisted ankle ruse," Oor laughed back. "I have used that one in my time."
"No, really," Shira protested, trying to look small and defenseless. Even though Oor knew better, he leaned down to take a look. Using her supposedly hurt leg and anke, she knocked him on his backside. She enjoyed the picture of Oor on his back, taking deep breaths.
“Now, I’m tired.” Oor never admitted to tiredness. His job was to train her as a warrior. Now she was concerned.
“You need help?” she asked. “You won’t flip me?” Her voice trailed off when she saw his grin.
“That was the plan.”
“Truce?” she asked.
“Truce,” he said.
Shira crawled to Oor. They helped each other up, using the stick, trees, and anything else that they could lean on. Finally, they were both standing.
"Time for school," he said.
She groaned. Math, Reading, Philosophy, History and even Geography. Sometimes they would take time off for magic. She didn't get enough time to hike or be by herself. It was hard work and not much fun. She groaned again.
"If someone were watching," Oors eyes twinkled. "They'd think you had been beat by an old man."
As Shira and Oor limped back to the city, she tried to explain her strategy. Oor just hummed, "as in how to get beat strategy?"
She liked Oor, but he could be annoying when he was amused by her mistakes.
Oor was a quick, lithe man who had been a weapons master in Corsindor before becoming a servant of the Ahrah. He’d traveled many leagues and was fond of telling stories about their southern neighbors. One unlikely story was that there were cannibals down south. Oor insisted that they liked young soft female flesh. At ten, she had been scared silly of those cannibals. Now she just laughed at Oor’s stories.
By the time they reached the stables on the outskirts of the tents, Malkiah was waiting for them. He was tall for an Ahrah-as tall as Shira. But in every meaningful way, he was Ahrah.
Malkiah had never touched her except when they were practicing fighting moves. It was unclaeren to touch female flesh. Shira considered Malkiah silly. After all, they trained together. He could not avoid touching her when they were on the field hitting each other with sticks. Malkiah came from an old Ahrah family who lived by the old rules. His mother still wore a veil, which covered her face and left her dark round eyes uncovered.
Since the Council had taken over governing the Ahrah, many of the old ways for females and males had been abandoned. The elders and elderesses had warned of the danger of disregarding the rules of the gods. But, the new robes were less confining. And the girls liked showing their faces. The younger generation seemed disrespectful to the old ones.
Malkiah slid out of the shadows of the stables and touched Shira’s arm. Shira was shocked. She pinched the back of his hand. Malkiah grimaced.
“Stop,” he said. “Loesdotter, Oor.” He nodded to each of them. “The Counselor requires your presence.”
Malkiah lead them to Counselor’s door. Shira grimaced behind his back.
“Oor, you will wait here.” Malkiah motioned Shira to the door. She tried not to say anything to further anger Malkiah, but it was too much fun.
“How’s your mother?” she asked, then slipped through the door. Now Malkiah only had time to glare at her back. He turned away.
***
The Counselor stood as she saw Shira. Her white robes whirled around her. Shira walked towards her and bowed deeply.
“Child,” said the Counselor. "There is no need for that here.”
“What is do you need?” Shira knelt at the Counselor’s feet and looked up at her. The Counselor looked old and worn. Her skin was papery from an old illness. Eyes bruised. Shira felt her stomach clench. The news must be bad.
“You are still young,” the Counselor sighed. She peered into Shira’s eyes, looking carefully at the iris. She touched Shira’s cheek.
“I need to tell you your story." She paused, "when you awakened, we knew you were one of the great ones. But, we were confused. We lived in peace. We were guarded from our more bloodthirsty neighbors by the great veil.”
She continued. “We decided to teach you all of our secre
ts. We gave you our best warrior to be your mentor and teacher. In a few years, you would have been ready to sit on the Council.”
“But, I am not ready.” The words burst out of her mouth.
The Counselor smiled. The lines around her mouth and eyes eased and she looked younger. “No, you are not,” she said. “I have had a vision, which concerns you.”
“In my dream, I saw you running through the woods with a spear in your hand. You fought the Corsindor’s warriors. Under your feet were the skulls of the Ahrah. You were fierce, but eventually they pulled you down. A hairy man howled and pierced your breast with a sword.”
The Counselor laid her hands on Shira’s corn-silk locks. “Cut your hair. Burn the locks. Your destiny is not here.” A tear rolled down her cheek.
“You are to leave tonight after the banquet. Tell no one.”
***
The main tent held the banquet hall. As the sun came down, the tent went from yellow to gold. As the light darkened, the tent turned white. Inside were all the nomads of the Ahrah. Ahrah from the farthest ends of the country had arrived for the gathering that happened once a decade. It was a chance to sing, dance and tell stories. Many of the younger Ahrah met their mates at this gathering. It was a time of rejoicing.
Inside the tent, were large tables filled with goat and sheep dishes. Vegetables and fruits made the tables groan. They came from around the country plus some from Corsindor. Shira had no idea how the stuffs from Corsindor came into the country.
Shira walked through the tables, greeting friends and not-friends alike. She had not grown old enough to have enemies, Oor was found of saying. She was careful to nod to the more powerful Council members.
As Shira walked by the Council member's table, Cianne, Malkiah's mother, touched her. Shira stopped. It was not polite to ignore any of the older members. Cianne's face was covered with by a white veil. Her breath moved the veil back and forth slightly.
“Sit with me,” she said. Cianne was one of the more powerful faction members of the Ahrah. It was ironic that she wanted the men to have more powerful positions like the old days. But, because of the wars with Corsindor, many of the men had died. The veil had changed all that. Corsindor could not encroach on Ahrah land, and even better none of the Ahrah died more wars. Because of the shortage of men, most of the powerful positions were filled by women. In fifty years, the Ahrah had turned to a matriarchy. Another reason for the changes was the low birthrate of boys. No one knew the reason.