Northstar Rising

by James Axler

  After some hesitation, they all sat around the table and tucked into the meal. Within twenty minutes almost everything was gone.

  No one touched the ale.

  JORUND THORALDSON, with a half a dozen of the senior men of the ville, appeared shortly after the companions had finished eating.

  "You are relishing the food that… ?" He noticed the empty dishes. "I see that you have. Yet our best ale is not to your liking?"

  Ryan stood and faced the baron. "We come from a ville where alcohol is forbidden by our religion. But the milk was good and the food was marvelous. Thanks for it."

  "Now we should talk of the future, Ryan Cawdor. Of you and your friends. And the women."

  "Talk away, Baron."

  "The women can leave."

  "How's that?" Krysty asked. Her temper often flared close to the surface. She stood and turned to stare at the huge figure of the Viking leader, her green eyes flashing with anger.

  "Now, now. Markland has its rules, its laws that go back to the beginning of history. You are all here, and outlanders must pay our price of living here. We have agreed to let the black live, have we not?"

  Ryan rubbed his chin and sighed. "One way of looking at it, Baron. Course, another way would be to say that our man beat your man. Left him chilled, facedown in the water. That's a different way of looking at it."

  One of the other Norsemen whispered something to his karl, and Jorund nodded. "Sooth. We should not fall to bickering over this. The women must leave this hut to live with the other unmarried women in their longhouse at the center of Markland. There they can help the other women at their duties."

  "Like sewing and cooking? That kind of stuff, Baron?" Krysty asked with a venomous sweetness.

  "If you don't guard your tongue, you flame-haired slut, then you'll find yourself at the stone, paying the blood price for—"

  "Jorund!" one of his men said with an urgent, alarmed snap to his voice. "Take care of what you say to them."

  The huge Viking turned his head slowly, like some great wounded beast, seeking the speaker. Jorund's pale eyes were veiled with his own anger, and Ryan noticed specks of white froth at the corners of his lips.

  The eruption of blinding anger was an impressive and frightening sight.

  "Egil?" The word was drawn out and splintered, like corn between two massive stones.

  "Yes, Karl?"

  "The words I heard through a berserker's mist came from you."

  "Yes. You were…"

  Thoraldson nodded. "I know, friend. My ears heard the words I was uttering, but my mouth could do naught to check them."

  Ryan was, as ever, at Krysty's elbow. He leaned toward her, lips scarcely moving, his breath not stirring a tendril of her long scarlet hair. "Better do it."

  She nodded. "How long?"

  "Day. Two at most. There's some double-bad things in this ville."

  The baron of Markland caught their whispered conversation, and he turned to Ryan. "My anger took me from myself for a moment. I fear that I came near to… What do you say?"

  "Krysty and Mildred will do what you say. They'll go and live in the house with the other women of your ville. But they are not, and never will be, your women. Or anyone else's women. They are our companions, free and equal in every way."

  "Right on, boss," Mildred said, grinning at Krysty. Jorund Thoraldson stroked his long blond mustache and looked down for a moment at his feet while he considered Ryan's words. "You will not leave Markland until we say you may. Nor the women. But it shall be as you say. Now, they can go with the thrall. She can show them where they will live. You stay here."

  "The tests?" suggested one of the Vikings, a walleyed man with a jagged scar across his face.

  "Tests?" J.B. said.

  Jorund smiled what looked to be a genuine, happy smile. "Aye. We have seen how your oldest man can butcher one of our best swords. We wait eagerly to see how you three fare as warriors."

  "What are these tests?" Ryan asked.

  "Halfway between nothing and a small thing, outlander," Jorund replied. "Since you are to be with us, we must know your mettle." He waved a dismissive hand. "Do not worry."

  "I don't. But it would help some to know what kind of things you're going to throw at us."

  "Trials for a warrior."

  That was all he'd say. The Norsemen left the hut. Almost immediately the girl with the iron slave collar came and led Krysty and Mildred away, leaving the men behind to wonder what the next dawning would bring.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  "ARISE, GENTLEMEN." Doc stood silhouetted in the doorway of the hut. "There is a gray mist upon the sea's face, and there is a gray mist breaking."

  Ryan stretched like a big cat, his muscles almost cracking as he extended his arms and legs. The mattress beneath him, which was filled with sweet-smelling summer grass, rustled softly. The air was cool and he breathed in deeply, aware of how much he'd missed having Krysty to warm his back. He'd slept fully dressed, only kicking off the steel-toed combat boots. His rifle rested at his side and his SIG-Sauer was beneath his pillow.

  "Slave girl's coming," Doc said, "staggering under a great platter of food and a flagon of milk."

  J.B. yawned and sat up, rubbing at his eyes. His first move, as always, was to reach for his glasses and slip them on. The second move, as always, was to check that his blasters were at hand.

  "Feel hungry. Wouldn't mind another of those rabbits from last night."

  "Hares, my dear friend."

  "How's that, Doc?"

  "They were hares, not rabbits."

  Jak threw off his heavy woolen blanket and was on his feet in a single, fluid movement. He ran his fingers through his dazzling mane of hair, hair that was so white that it seemed to burn with its own incandescent flame.

  The thrall, Margaret, appeared in the doorway. Doc stepped aside, and she walked into the hut, laying the food on the table.

  "Oatmeal and buttermilk," she announced, "with dried fish and some more of the mutton. Apples, bread and honey. Will it be enough?"

  "Enough for these condemned men to make a hearty breakfast," Doc replied. "Thanks."

  "Are Krysty and Mildred all right?" Ryan asked. "Nobody tried to harm them?"

  The girl shook her head. "Nay, masters. It would mean a swift death if anyone went against the word of Karl Thoraldson." She dropped her voice. "Besides, they say the redhead is a Valkyrie warrior and the jet-woman is a witch demon from the dark world of fire and shadow."

  "These tests we gotta do," J.B. said, smearing clear honey on a torn crust of warm, fresh-baked bread.

  "Aye?"

  "What are they?"

  "Something and nothing. All young men of the steading must be tried by the older men, to show them worthy as warriors of Markland."

  "Yeah. But what—"

  J.B. was interrupted by a loud shout from somewhere beyond the center of the ville. Margaret's eyes opened wide and she hefted her skirts, scampering out of their hut.

  "Something and nothing." Doc smirked. "I trust that none of you will drag our honor low in the eyes of these people, after I have played my part with such skill."

  He picked up his ebony swordstick and waved it in the air with a triumphant flourish.

  "Why don't you go piss up a rope, Doc?" Ryan said. "I know the baron said you didn't have to do these tests, seeing as how your skill with the sword was undoubted. But we still got to do them. So let us eat our breakfast in peace, will you?"

  TO RYAN'S DISAPPOINTMENT the women of Markland had all been sent away, forbidden by ancient law to watch the ordeals of the warriors.

  Jorund Thoraldson was waiting for the outlanders near the perpetually burning fire on the shingled strand below the ville. He was dressed in a long cloak of rich purple, trimmed with silver. Many of the other Norsemen were dressed in what were clearly their finest cloaks.

  "Greetings, outlanders!" the baron boomed. "Once the fog has burned away we shall have a fine day of it."

  "
Hi, Baron," Ryan called. "Will all this take very long?"

  "No, though the tests and ordeals for our young men often take several days. Weeks, even. For there are the tests of hunting alone where they must range the hills for many miles, armed only with a spear, a bow and single arrow."

  "Apaches had the same kind of thing," Doc said quietly. "The old macho routine. We send out the boy and he returns a man. Horsefeathers!"

  "And there is usually the test for their ability to handle a boat."

  "Swimming?" J.B. asked.

  "No."

  "No?"

  "If it is Odin's will that the waters return you safe to shore, then so be it," Egil Skallagson said solemnly.

  "And if you tumble into the waters, then to be able to swim will only make your suffering the longer," Sigurd Harefoot added.

  When Ryan had been involved with the whalers on the bleak New England coast, he'd sometimes heard them express similar sentiments.

  "So what must we do?"

  "Skill with arms and skill at grappling," Jorund replied.

  "Grappling? You mean like wrestling?" J.B. asked. "Who against?"

  "Some of the best of our warriors. But it is not to the death. It is only a testing with ax, spear and blaster."

  The biggest surprise for Ryan and the others was the poor standard of performance from the men of the ville. While he watched their efforts to shine against the strangers, Ryan kept reminding himself of what Mildred had said about rad sickness. There was no doubt at all that there was something rotten in the steading of Markland.

  "We begin with the throwing of the spear," Jorund announced.

  The baron had selected eight of his own warriors to stand up for the honor of their people. Most were in their early to mid-twenties, but three of them looked less than well, with scabs around their lips and, in a couple of cases, open sores amid their thinning hair. One had an eye covered by a creeping leprous growth, and another had the nails missing from the weeping tips of his fingers.

  But some were still tall and strong and filled with their own pomp.

  The spears were about seven feet long and made from ash. The points were iron, embedded in the tip of the wood. The target was a man-size sheaf of bound grass, which had been set about thirty paces down the beach from a line that the baron drew with his own sword.

  The spear was too heavy for Jak, and despite his agility and fighter's eye, he managed only to heave it the distance, where it flattened out and slid into the shingle. Every one of the Vikings succeeded in hitting the target. J.B. hit it two throws out of five.

  Ryan shook his head when it was his turn. "No. Too simple. Thought this was supposed to be a real test."

  "Bold words, outlander," sneered one of the young men, his lips peeling back off jaggedly broken teeth in a savage grin.

  "Well said, Erik Stonebiter," one of the watchers called.

  "Stonebiter?" Ryan questioned.

  "When I was a skraeling—a child—I saw our karl throw his knife into the air and catch it between his teeth. I had no blade, so I tried the trick with a large stone. And I caught it. Sadly it snapped off most of my fine teeth."

  The tale, clearly often told, brought bellows of laughter from all the listeners. Jak was one of them, still smarting at his own failure with the ash-spear. "Catch knife teeth! Who?"

  "My father, Jak Snowhead. It was something he did when heavy in drink. Once he missed and it pierced his cheek. After that he ceased doing it."

  "I'll do it," Jak said.

  "No," Ryan called, knowing something of the albino teenager's stubborn pride. Knowing, too, that it would on occasion push him way beyond the bounds of good sense.

  "Easy," Jak insisted, filling his hand with one of the throwing-knives with the leaf-shaped blades that he kept concealed among his clothing. The point and edges were honed to a whispering sharpness.

  "Show us," Erik Stonebiter said. "Show us, young outlander."

  "Jak, you'll…" But Ryan closed his mouth when the boy stared at him with his blazing ruby eyes.

  "Watch," the lad hissed.

  The sun couldn't break through the roiling banks of fog that hung over the lake, but there was still light enough to dance off the glittering blade as Jak sent it spinning high into the air.

  The young Viking had time to begin speaking. "No. Not so high. Only a turn or two and…"

  Then it was falling from its frozen zenith, revolving more slowly.

  Jak's eyes were fixed on it, like a rabbit before a cobra. His lean body was tense and poised, his mouth slightly open.

  "Merciful heavens!" Doc whispered just behind Ryan.

  As the blade landed, Jak lowered his head in a sharp dipping movement, going down to his knees in the sand. Everyone saw it—the knife, held by its bone hilt, visible between Jak's teeth.

  "Dark night," J.B. said with an almost reverential awe. "That is about the damnedest thing that I ever saw."

  There was a moment of silence, then the morning was riven by the cheers and whoops of the Norsemen. Jorund Thoraldson himself clapped the white-headed boy across his scrawny shoulders. "By the sockets of Baldur! That was something for the harpers to sing of during the winter nights."

  "Snow-head, steel-dart, high-flung, bird-threatened, bone-caught," one of the watchers chanted, using the old Viking poetic form of a kenning.

  "Lip-cut," Ryan finished, pointing to a small pearl of blood that perched in the corner of the boy's mouth.

  When the hubbub had ceased, the baron turned once more to Ryan. "Now, Outlander One-Eye. There is some business not completed. The throwing of a spear, I think."

  "Sure. Move that target back another ten paces. No. Fifteen paces. Yeah. Better."

  "You'd never reach that with a spear," a young Norseman told him.

  But Ryan was thinking again of the harpooners of New England and the skill with which they threw the long irons.

  "Show me your best man first," he replied. "I'll match or beat him."

  There was muttering among the warriors, and finally a barrel-chested fellow was pushed forward. His shirt stretched tight over his shoulders and seemed to have been deliberately made two sizes too small for his bulk.

  "Bjarni Earthmover!" Erik Stonebiter shouted. "Throw your best for Markland and for Odin, brother. Shame us not."

  The butt end of Bjarni's spear was studded with iron, and an intricate pattern of woven leather thongs crisscrossed its length. He smiled at Ryan, who nodded and stood politely out of his way.

  With a studied slowness Bjarni measured out his run, eyeing the distant target. He then looked up at the sky, his lips moving as he offered a prayer to one of the Norse gods.

  The spear seemed to whistle in the air. Ryan saw the effort put into the throw and guessed that the distance of about 130 feet was close to his limit. The point thudded home right at the very bottom of the sheaf of straw, to a cheer from the watching men.

  "Not bad," Ryan admitted loudly. "It would have certainly clipped the man's toenails for him."

  The stout warrior looked at Ryan as though he were about to say something, but he hesitated, then gestured to him to take his best shot.

  Ryan hefted his own spear, finding the point of balance, then checked his run-up, making sure there were none of the soft patches that had so nearly brought Doc to disaster. He glanced along the beach, wondering for the first time whether he'd been overconfident about this. The sheaf seemed a very long way off, barely visible in the fog.

  "Want it brought near again, outlander?" Bjarni asked with a sly grin.

  "No."

  Arm back, straight, to give the fullest possible power to the weapon; eye on the target, measuring and estimating; the run, not too far, and then the explosive burst of energy. Ryan felt his muscles strain for the final whip of the wrist that would yield extra yardage on the cast. The butt of the spear grazed the side of his head as he released it.

  "Thor's hammer!" Bjarni gasped, his head cocked back to watch the flight of the metal-tipped staff
.

  For a moment Ryan thought that he might actually have overthrown the target. Then the iron point dipped and the spear thunked home about nine inches from the top of the sheaf, roughly in the center. Had it been a man, the spear would have hit dead center through his chest.

  "Ace on the line, partner," J.B. said approvingly.

  The next event was mock sword-fighting, using blunted weapons. The three outlanders managed to acquit themselves fairly well. Jak was outstanding, with his sinuous agility, strength of hand and quickness of eye. Both J.B. and Ryan took numbing blows from the more skillful and experienced Norsemen, though both men held back a little. If the fights had been for real, they both knew that the results would have been different.

  Jak won the ax-throwing with almost laughable ease. The target was the top of a large beer keg that looked as if it had been around the ville for a hundred years. Rough circles had been painted on the keg, and it was set up twenty paces down the beach.

  Ryan noticed that the fog was showing no signs of clearing. In fact, as the morning wore on, it seemed to be growing thicker, swirling in off the water and encircling the huts like some huge, amorphous beast that was scenting its prey.

  As he looked around, waiting his turn to throw, he saw that Krysty and Mildred had left the other women and moved closer to watch the contest. Krysty, dimly seen in the veiling mist, made the unmistakable hand signal to him that warned of some imminent danger. But Ryan couldn't get close enough to talk to her, and the cloud of fog thickened and took her from his sight.

  He managed to pass on the warning to J.B., Jak and Doc, but it wasn't much use without a little more specific information. All of them were on their guard anyway.

  The Armorer put his three casts with the short-hafted ax within the inner rings. Ryan did the same with two of his, though his third throw slipped in his hand and it barely chipped the top edge of the target.

  "Might have trimmed his hair, outlander." Bjarni Earthmover smirked.

  Ryan only smiled in reply.

  "Blasters," Jorund Thoraldson called. "This, I think, is where the outlanders will be able to reveal a trick or two for us, for their weapons are not like any that we have ever seen in Markland."