The Crimson Sky

by Joel Rosenberg

  There were two large—ovens? No, that wasn’t correct. Ro-something … rotunda, that was it—there were two large metal rotundas, and what appeared to be a thigh-roast from some huge beast rotated on a metal spit on each, cooking and browning as it turned slowly past the red-hot metal coils, and every few moments one of the white-clad, swarthy men who looked like Southerners would take a long-bladed knife and a long-handled fork, cut off a few slices, conveying each with a practiced flip to a platter.

  It was a popular restaurant, which meant, by Thorian del Thorian’s standards, that it was too crowded. He enjoyed meeting strangers—a too-rare luxury at home that he had long since acquired as a taste in Hardwood—but only one or two at a time, not in rooms filled with raucous people seeking their privacy in noisy anonymity.

  A too-skinny, horsy-faced young serving-woman with hair that was, preposterously, dyed a funny purple color, walked up to him with menus clutched against her chest, as though they were precious items she feared he might take.

  “How many?” she asked.

  It took him a moment to understand that. “I am … meeting friends.”

  She was pretty when she smiled. “Oh, I bet you’re with that foursome. They said they were waiting for another, and they only ordered some saganaki.”

  She led him past the two rotundas and down to a room off the side.

  The outer room had been busy, but the back room, equally large, was filled with tables but empty of people except for the four seated at the far table. Thorian took the remaining chair, up against the wall.

  All four of them were grim and glum, even young Thorian. He knew that all of them, except perhaps Billy Olson, had seen death before, and now they had seen it again.

  “The last of the television crews is gone,” he said. “It was the one from Wicko.”

  He had never quite gotten the hang of that, why they would choose for themselves such names as Kubus or Nu-buk or Abuk; Wicko or Kimstup.

  “Double-u cee cee oh,” young Thorian said to a puzzled Maggie. He was good at spelling and at reading, and always had been. Perhaps he was a little too accomplished at matters of arithmetic and money, but that was the only effeminate thing about him.

  Unlike some people. Billy Olson extended his little finger as he brought his cup of hot chocolate up to take an overly cautious sip.

  Jeff Bjerke was trying hard not to glare at him, and looked uncomfortable.

  Well, Thorian Thorsen understood that. But Billy Olson had conducted himself with honor and competence, according to Maggie—and Maggie was Thorian’s svertbror, let no man make any mistake about that!—so it was the least that Thorian Thorsen could do to ignore his disability.

  “Torrie’s been—” Billy Olson cut himself off as the waitress, a fiftyish Southern woman with a bristly moustache that would have looked better on the young city proctor, arrived with a crackling hot pan on a tray balanced on one hand, a small steel cup and cheap plastic lighter in the other.

  Billy set his mug down—his little finger hadn’t been extended, not this time—and watched.

  She poured clear liquid into the hot pan, and with a tired “Opa!” lit the flat yellow pancake in the pan, extinguished it with a squeeze of fresh lemon, and set it down on the table, along with a plate of soft flat bread wedges.

  After all the drama, the pancake turned out to be cheese baked in some sort of thin dough. Tasty enough, he thought, and the tangy bite of the fresh lemon juice went well with the hot cheese. Thorian del Thorian had eaten worse things in his life; this was quite pleasant, actually.

  Thorian del Thorian would have to—no. He would not have to remember to try it again next time.

  “They have lamb, Dad,” young Thorian said. “I ordered you some lamb chops, extra garlic, very rare.”

  “I like lamb.” He nodded. “But what is that animal cooking on the rotundas in the front?”

  “You can’t—”

  “Rotundas?” Maggie arched an eyebrow.

  “Rotisseries, Dad. And the meat is a mixture of things—it’s compressed-together beef, mainly, with some lamb and spices. Called ‘gee-ros’ or ‘hee-ros,’ but it’s spelled like ‘gyro’—most people call the big blocks ‘gyrobeast.’ ”

  Thorian del Thorian sighed. He shouldn’t have asked. Once again, the truth was less interesting than his imagination would have had it, as was true for so much in this world. “Lamb will be fine.”

  Billy Olson set his mug of hot chocolate down. This time, he hadn’t been holding it in that strange and effeminate way. This time, Jeff Bjerke hadn’t been looking at him.

  Thorian del Thorian wondered what that was all about, but there was no polite way to ask. But it would have been nice to know.

  “I was saying,” Billy Olson said, “that I’ve been hearing some things that I wouldn’t quite have believed if Jeff had ever had a reputation for telling tall tales.”

  How much of the private matters had they told this outcast? Thorian del Thorian started to say something, but he stopped himself. Family matters would henceforth be the problem of young Thorian, and he had always chosen his friends and companions well, better than his father tended to give him credit for. Ian Silver Stone and Maggie del Albert were special.

  So he just nodded.

  “Yes, there have been strange things happening, of late.”

  “I mean, I knew you came from far away, but I’d figured you were, like, an illegal German immigrant, maybe, or a Dane or something, not…,” he looked around, “… from Oz or whatever you call it.”

  “We call it Tir Na Nog,” Thorian del Thorian said, “for that is its name.” He shrugged. “Although I always thought of myself as from the House of Steel, if I thought of myself as from anything.”

  “Eh?”

  Thorian del Thorian could have shrugged it off, but there was no reason to. “When somebody asks you where you’re from, do you tell them that you’re an Earthling?”

  “Well, no.” Billy raised the mug and drank, his nod and frown a gesture of concession that would have been precisely the same in the Cities.

  Thorian del Thorian had missed the Cities, more than he had known.

  But he would not have traded a thousand years of life in Falias for a day with Karin. Min alskling, he thought, I hope it is not too long before another man warms your bed.

  “Okay,” young Thorian said, “so what’s our next move? We have to do—”

  “No. There is no ‘we.’ ” Thorian del Thorian shook his head. ”We do not have a next move. The next move is mine, and the one after that is his, and if after that I have another move left, why, that will be the last one for this game.“

  Jeff Bjerke shook his head. “I don’t like the way this is going.”

  “You don’t?” Thorian del Thorian helped himself to another piece of the lemony cheese. “I’m none too fond of it myself. But didn’t you understand the message we were sent last night?” He put two fingers on the table and walked them away from his plate. “You and I set a second trap, offering you as a lure, to draw him out, hoping that I, the real target, would be able to protect you, my supposed protector, when he made his thrust at you.

  “But no. He ignored that. He struck instead at an innocent, at one nearby so we would make no mistake that it was him, so that Thorian and Maggie would rush out to find that he can strike wherever he pleases.

  “As he can.”

  What did this Son look like? Most were hirsute enough to look strange in human form, but in winter, with everybody wrapped up so, it would take little more than a wool cap and a scarf to hide the facial hair. And while it might make him a silly-looking wolf when he transformed, he could shave, if he wanted to, after all—and if he didn’t bare his teeth or show you the stubble on the palms of his hands, how would you know?

  “And who shall it be next? Maggie, your roommate is due back tomorrow—perhaps it shall be her? Billy Olson has exposed himself as being one of us; shall we wait until he’s the victim? As I said to Jeff, we can
’t afford to toy with this one, for we have weaknesses aplenty that he can strike at, to lure me out.

  “Because, for whatever reason, it’s me that he wants.”

  And why? Thorian del Thorian doubted that it had anything to do with the Duelmaster, or the House of Steel, even though he was, technically, a traitor; that matter had been decided by champion, and Thorian del Orvald could easily let it lie.

  Young Thorian’s face was grim, but he nodded, slowly. “So you think he’s making a threat—”

  “No, not a threat. Think of it as an offer. He’s being as gentle as his kind is capable of. His actions make it clear what he offers: if I face him, if I come out and fight him, one on one, he’ll leave the rest of you alone, which is what he really wants to do.” He shrugged. “It could have been worse, much worse. He could have taken you, Thorian, and made me the same offer for the life of your mother, perhaps. Or he could have taken Maggie …”

  She clutched his hand tightly, her strength surprising. But she had always been strong, and strength, even physical strength, didn’t always show itself in bulging muscles.

  “… he could have taken Maggie,” Thorian del Thorian said, “and then made a thrust at you, letting me know that he was just missing—as he did last night, when he killed that woman.”

  “How?” Young Thorian was angry. “There were three of us, and I had my sword, and—‘’

  “You dashed out into the night, trusting on two others to watch your back, and they had none to watch theirs. It’s an old trick, Thorian—don’t drop the foremost of your enemies, but the rearmost, and then work your way forward.” He smiled. “I once won a bet with a captain in an Ancient Cerulean company, using just such a method.” He smiled again. “So we have few choices. We can let him kill and kill again, until either he runs panting from the killing, or we can give him what he wants now, or we can give him what he wants later.” He raised a cautionary finger. “I’m not as old and feeble as you seem to believe. I’ve a chance, I think—”

  “Dad, if he kills you, I’ll avenge—”

  “You’ll do nothing of the sort!” Thorian del Thorian spread his hands. “Hasn’t it occurred to you that moving you to vengeance might be what he’s truly after?” He shook his head. “We deal with Old Ones in this, Thorian. And they are difficult to read. They are very subtle and very patient.

  “You know the story of Honir’s Run. You and I would not think to plant a small seed of a tree, and then nurture and direct its growth, carefully snipping here and wiring there, and cutting somewhere else to create a bough, just so you might, that you could, should need arise, someday lead a company of pursuing horsemen beneath that bough, that tree, and know that you could climb that tree, your feet going instantly to small lower branches, and carry yourself up into that bough, and with a knife cut free the sword you had planted just beneath the bark—but I know that long-legged Honir did just that, once.”

  He stopped himself. “No, he did that at least once; probably more.

  “The only thing I can be sure of is that the one thing he does not want is for you to simply stay here, to simply proceed as you and Ian had spoken of, to finish your time at your school and then go off seeking the Brisingamen stones in your wanderjahr, because all he would have had to make that happen is, well, nothing.

  “So that, Thorian del Thorian the Younger, is precisely—and I mean precisely—what you are going to do to avenge me. You—” He stopped himself. The waitress had brought a huge tray, heavily laden with things that looked good and smelled wonderful.

  The first plate she set down was in front of him, and on it were a half dozen little chops of the lamb, each seared black on the outside, and to his probing knife, they were red, almost raw and bloody, at the center.

  The lamb tasted of flesh, and garlic, and that surprising note of lemon that he had so enjoyed before, as well as a mixture of other spices that he could enjoy if not identify. He took his time with his first bite. There were things that needed to be said, and there was little time to say them, but there was no reason at all to hurry his final meal.

  This wouldn’t have been his first choice, or his fiftieth, if only because he had never heard of this restaurant before.

  He would have preferred that his last meal be a Thanks-giving dinner, for that had always been his favorite meal at home—no, in Hardwood.

  No; he had been right the first time: at home. It had always been his favorite meal at home.

  He swallowed heavily. “You, young Thorian,” he said, “will do as you had planned, with your eyes and mind open, and remembering who and what you are. You are Thorian del Thorian, son of Thorian del Thorian and Karin Roelke Thorsen, and you will conduct yourself accordingly.”

  Young Thorian bowed his head, just a touch more than a bow-of-reproof: a bow that indicated reluctant concession, but concession nonetheless.

  “And now, my friends,” Thorian del Thorian said, as he turned from Billy Olson to Jeff Bjerke, and finally, affectionately, to his svertbror, his comrade-in-arms, Maggie del Albert, “let us enjoy our meal.”

  The others picked at their food—and in young Thorian’s case, he could easily see why; a simple patty of ground beef, topped with a pale and awful-looking green cheese, would have been enough to make anyone lose his appetite, even if it hadn’t had such an ugly name.

  Thorian del Thorian took another bite of his lamb chop.

  It was wonderful.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Harbard’s Crossing

  The bird had probably spotted them the day before, but it was only when they broke camp in the morning and emerged from the stand of pines and onto the trail that Ian spotted it overhead.

  At first, he mistook it for an eagle—there were a fair number of eagles up in the mountains, making their homes below the cloud level. But, no; the shape of the head was wrong, and the sweep of the wings was wrong, and it was, he quickly decided, either Hugin or Munin.

  He hoped that meant that the two of them were back at Harbard’s Crossing, and not a sign that Harbard, or Odin, or whatever he was calling himself these days, was nearby. Ian had a high opinion of his own abilities, but he and Giantkiller would not be more than a moment’s work for Odin, even without his spear, Gungnir, and with Gungnir Odin could shatter armies, at least.

  But there was no point in worrying about it, any more than there had been a point, as a kid, in worrying about what to do if the Russians—no, the Soviets; they were still the Soviets—launched their missiles.

  Somehow, that thought wasn’t as reassuring as he had wanted it to be.

  “Is there something I can do for you, Ian Silver Stone?” Valin asked from the back of the pony, as though there might be something he could do from the back of the pony. This increasingly groveling servility had quickly, all too quickly, gotten very old, and there wasn’t much that Ian could do about it. If he gave Valin something to do, Valin would leap to it—like that sleeping mat that he had woven incredibly quickly, out of pine needles—and then ask for more. If he said no, Valin assumed that, after another minute or two had passed, perhaps now there was something that Ian Silver Stone required, but that Ian Silver Stone had somehow, for some reason, neglected to mention it.

  It was only just this side of maddening because Ian refused to be maddened.

  High above, the bird circled lower.

  Yes, Hugin, or Munin, it’s me, again, he thought.

  The bird circled twice more, then flew off to the south.

  They reached the cottage late in the afternoon; Ian had gone on ahead on foot, while he had had Valin lead the horses up the slope, taking his time. It was a good enough compromise: the horses needed some rest, and it gave Valin something useful to do, even though Ian’s mare, usually docile, would only allow herself to be led by the vestri under whinnying protest.

  Which was fine with Ian. Let Valin have to deal with the nagging for awhile. Valin and the mare would get along fine, the dwarf constantly asking her if there was something
he could do for her, and her constantly whinnying at him to let go of the reins.

  Maybe they could settle down, get married, and raise funny-looking children.

  Ian picked up the pace.

  The only reason that Ian recognized Arnie Selmo from so far away was that he was expecting to see him.

  There had been changes, but not the changes that Ian had expected. Arnie was still skinny, although in Ian’s mind, he had filled out some. But, sure, that made sense; Arnie was too old to be putting on muscle.

  While Arnie’s bald spot had, if anything, grown, so had the length of his formerly short gray hair, and it hung down now in a tight braid behind his head, flicking from side to side as he walked. Arnie had always tended toward a pasty complexion—that came from years under the hissing fluorescent lights when he’d been running Selmo’s Drugs—but his face and neck were now darkly tanned, and his bearing was straight as he rose from his chair on the cottage’s front porch and stalked down the path.

  There was a bounce in his step that Ian hadn’t seen before, but the easy smile was in place as he broke from a walk into a run.

  “Ian Silverstein,” he called out. “I was told it, but I didn’t believe it.”

  “Told what?”

  “That you were back in Tir Na Nog, and that the first thing you didn’t do was come looking for me.” His face fell. “Everything’s okay, isn’t it?”

  “I’m not sure.” Ian shook his head. “No, I am sure: we’ve got some problems.”

  “Anything we can do to help?”

  We, eh? Ian found himself unaccountably, painfully jealous of that “we.”

  But he shouldn’t have been surprised. Freya was, after all, a fertility goddess, and in her younger days she’d been known to, well, get around. It was even said that she had slept with seven vestri in return for giving her the Brisingamen necklace, back before it was broken, the jewels scattered.