Stars and a Wind- The Complete Trilogy

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  “I’m planning on a little more than stamping,” said Thoddun patiently. “I admit I wouldn’t choose to do this in front of you, but I’ll not object. Nor should you, since your own future rests on the outcome.” He paused, the smile reassembling. “And you know enough about us now,” he continued, “not to be, - shall we say, - repelled.”

  Skarga lowered her eyes. “Of course not. And I won’t be frightened either.”

  Thoddun squeezed her hand. “I hope not, little cub,” he said gently. “Recite all the sagas from your childhood if you have to, but try and control your thoughts. Already the she-bitch read your mind to find your identity and the position of Ogot’s vik. If she was a better mind-reader she’d have seen the futility of it all too, but that was down to her ignorance, not your skill in dissembling. I know your courage, little one. Use it now.”

  “I despise Orm. I’ll think about his death. I’ll think about you winning. I won’t let anything else into my mind.”

  Thoddun said, “Most Seconds will aim for power eventually. A man capable of leading doesn’t like being subservient. I’ll give him a fair amount of respect on the field. But he won’t surrender, and I’ll have to kill him.”

  “Respect? As a traitor?”

  “As a good fighter, who used to be a friend.” Thoddun stood again and went to the long bench, collecting weapons. “But he won’t fight fair,” Thoddun continued, his back to her as he rummaged. “And you’re right of course. He’ll cheat.”

  “He’ll Shift? Oh, shit,” said Skarga.

  “Silly little sprat,” Thoddun smiled, turning to her, speaking softly again. “Shouldn’t you show a little more confidence in your protector? Giving me courage?”

  “I know you don’t lack that,” said Skarga. “But I saw how terrible the serpent is. Of course humans always cheat too, but they can’t turn into dragons.”

  “We studiously avoid fighting fair when we can,” Thoddun laughed. “That’s why we wrap ourselves around with rules. But fair or ugly, I’ll win, my love. Just don’t put yourself in the way, and meantime, stay clear of the she-bitch.”

  “I’ve tried to do that for a long time.” She hugged her knees and sniffed, staring up at him. “At least now she’s locked up. But I’m not as confident as you. You’re so bloody imperious. You’re very good at making other people feel really small.” She thought a moment before saying, “Me too, most of the time.”

  He sat beside her briefly and took her face between his hands, looking into her eyes. “Bear bluster,” he smiled. “Transanima tactics. Growl and charge. Maximum noise and then stop at the last finger’s breadth. It’s simple expediency and clears away the smaller threats without having to draw blood. Don’t be intimidated, little cub, when I seem angry. Impatience is only a form of mock charge. When I mean it and intend to kill, then I’m quiet. It’s the way of the wild.”

  “So when you’re totally unfair and insufferably rude,” she said, “and keep getting cross like you did on the journey here, it’s just tactics? Intentional? And you made me so damned miserable for nothing?”

  He chuckled. “My apologies, Simply a bear’s nature, especially out in the snows with a small irritation at my side. A warning, I suppose, to keep people in their place.”

  “My place?” she objected. “And what was that supposed to be”

  “At the moment,” he said, “it’s at my side. Now, time for the future, not the past, and time we left.”

  “Orm’s challenge? Already?”

  He seemed to hear something, some distant call, and he nodded. “I won’t keep them waiting. And I want it over. We’ve a war to fight.”

  “I wish,” Skarga stuttered, half pulled to her feet, “that I could read minds like you do. Then I’d warning about some things. Instead of it always being, sudden, startling, things happening just when I thought life was calm –”

  “If you were expecting calm, little one, then your expectations need a shake,” and he put his hands around her and swept Skarga into his arms. Then he strode from the chamber with her, along the winding corridors with his boots echoing quick and heavy. Skarga said nothing, burying her face into the old, stained familiarity of Thoddun’s tunic. Then around one sharp corner, and the cold slapped against her like an ocean’s wave.

  They stood with the stars wheeling high above in the black, and below a huge unroofed courtyard stretched, paved in ice. The castle walls surrounded them but the yawning space was farm sized; a massive openness of flattened snow, swept clear. A hugely excited crowd ringed its perimeters.

  The noise was at first a buzz and then as they crossed the ice towards them, it thrummed and squealed and battered against her ears like a battlefield of war-cries. The transanima crowded together, pushing and pulling at each other.

  Thoddun carried Skarga forwards and the people moved quickly aside, making a path for him. Above the heads of the massed transanima, Skarga saw Kjeld’s bobbing geniality. Beside him, perched on a slight raise built up of ice bricks and piled stone, the chair of the Althing elder had been set, its thick legs wedged into snow. Thoddun bent and deposited Skarga there with a nod and a smile. She could, if she peered, see over the heads of those who stood in front of her, but it was certainly set far enough from the action to keep her not only safe, but uninvolved.

  She longed to cling to him, but disciplined her thoughts and let him go. “Trust me, my love,” he said very quietly as he spread his bearskin over her knees, “and try not to be afraid.”

  Then he was gone, and she sat and stared and pulled the bearskin tight and wondered whether she had heard him correctly, and if he had called her his love to impress the crowd or because, incredibly, he meant it.

  Then it was Kjeld who was speaking. It was sometime since she had seen him and she listened politely. Thoddun was talking to Flokki and Lodver near the open centre. Nothing else was happening. “The master, he told me afore as he wouldn’t be letting you here, not with the fighting,” Kjeld said. “You wasn’t to watch, he says. For the challenge, the human lady’s to stay away. He done changed his mind, then? But he don’t do that. Not changing his mind, he don’t. Mighty rare.”

  “He said we don’t have a choice,” admitted Skarga with a consolatory smile. “Maybe the court insisted.”

  “Hmph. That won’t never trouble him none,” said Kjeld. “Makes up his own mind, he do. And don’t done change it.”

  Skarga felt she was sitting on ice. Kjeld stood solid behind her, one huge hand on the chair back. All around and below them the crowd gathered. Except for the middens, she had not been outside since her arrival when there had been a blizzard. Now it was sparkling clear and the wind had dropped. The sky remained in its endless winter’s night with a fresh spattering of stars casting pale lights, silvery milk spilt weeping, each with its pearlised aura. Less stunned by cold, the werepeople milled, excited. Skarga’s view was clear but the crowd was far too thick and she could not see Erik or Egil, nor recognise more than a few faces nearby. She heard conversations in scraps, more discussion than argument, then Kjeld roaring about manners, and not to stand in front of the lady. Few took any notice. The Althing had heard Thoddun claim her, the rest of the community had not.

  “It’s a shame. Orm was a good man.”

  “Was? Not dead yet, I reckon.”

  “Yes he is. Dead as my grandmother, evil old dragon.”

  “Close enough. Orm’s more dragon than snake.”

  “You think he’ll Shift then?”

  “Won’t win if he doesn’t, will he?”

  “Won’t win anyway. Not a hope. And it’s a shame. Was a good man, like I said. But not as good as Thoddun, and I’d take no other leader, that’s a fact.”

  “None of us would. It’s Thoddun or no one. Half the community’d wander off – leave for good – if Thoddun was brought down. Orm must know that.”

  “Under the she-wolf’s spell he is. Worked it out together, didn’t they. She’s on heat and the smell of her arse is all he can taste. He w
ants to fuck the bitch, that’s all.”

  “Who’s stopping him?”

  “She is. She’ll fuck top dog, and no one else. It’s power she’s after.”

  “Don’t believe it. It’s vengeance. Thoddun threw her out. She wants back or ruin him, some way or any way.”

  “Then she’s even more of a fool than I thought. He’s only panting after the human.”

  “And your old grandma wasn’t no dragon. She were a dolphin. Like me.”

  “You’re two fins behind the wave, you are, Dortil. Of course she was a dolphin. And my granddad was human. They never did get on too well.”

  More muttering. “Humans. A strange lot at the best of times. What does Thoddun want one for anyway?”

  “Anyone can have a human. Just run back south for a couple of days and there they all are, easy got as seal pups in spring. What’s more, they’re on heat all year round.”

  “They are? All pissing year round? What, even after birthing?”

  “Don’t like the idea, myself. Who’d take crinkly dry white skin when you could have dolphin’s sleek silk, and all that gorgeous pounding sea spray?”

  “Well, I’m no sea creature, but I reckon soft fur on your face is a whole lot sweeter than bald human wrinkles.”

  “Hey, Safn, come and solve our argument for us. You’ve had humans. A fair few, I heard. Is there anything better in them, than keeping to the channelling? I’d as soon have bear to bear. Is it ravens you like better, or humans?”

  “Fool. She’s right behind you. Just because they can’t hear your thoughts, doesn’t mean they’re completely deaf you know.”

  Down from the stark white clarity of the mountains, a small fog was drifting. Hanging low, as if forming in the hidden valleys, it crept down the hillsides beyond the castle, drifting over the walls and into the courtyard. Another serpent; insidious freeze. Above the sky was still sharp black, spitting stars. The fog brought a different, dank cold.

  And Skarga thought, so that’s where he goes, out on the snow tundra, when he leaves the castle. Eagle to eagle. Bear to bear.

  But there was no time to think, the boundaries were marked by a hundred great flaring torches and Thoddun was stripping off his tunic and shirt. Skarga leaned forwards, watching. She saw Orm stride through the crowd below. His arms were chained before him and his smile was wide enough to see from a distance. Behind him Mandegga trailed, held by two guards, her wrists bound behind her. Her silks were sodden, soaked into thin dark cat’s tails around her little wet shoes. She was thrust back to stand ringside, while Orm marched into the open towards Thoddun. Thoddun raised a hand and someone stepped forwards and unlocked Orm’s chains. He lifted his arms at once, shrugging off his tunic and shirt, facing Thoddun, bare chested.

  Someone near Skarga sniggered, nudging his neighbour. “Wears his britches on shoulder straps, like the old men do,” he said.

  “With a gut like his,” said the other, “he has to. Try wearing wrapped waist ties like the rest of us and his fucking britches’d fall down every time the bugger coughs.”

  Orm folded his arms across his shining naked chest, elbows resting on the rise of his belly. Thoddun grinned too, and nodded. Orm’s skin was very pale below the roughened hide of his neck where years of sea salt and wind had leathered him. His breast widened into rolling white swathes, stretching down to narrow hips. His boots were salt stained and heavy on huge feet. Thoddun was a little taller and his shoulders wider, but he did not have the great weight or bulk. His golden hair swung forwards, reddened by the fire of the torches. Skarga, squeezing her eyes for focus, saw the silver streaks of old scars down Thoddun’s back. She had seen scars like that before, regular crossed stripes, like the tack lines beneath a ship’s sail.

  Flokki stepped forward briefly. “The usual rules then,” roared the Althing leader. “No Shifting at any time. No chanting in the crowd. Choice of weapons, two each. Victor’s the one still standing after death or surrender. No striking after surrender. If the loser lives, fate decided by the winner. No time limits. No help from other sources, not of any kind, nor from man nor channel. Lose a weapon, and it’s forfeit. Not to be reclaimed. Anyone trying to interrupt will be killed. Any cheating results in immediate death.”

  The wild cheering of the whole audience kept Thoddun’s words inaudible, though he and Orm were seen to speak briefly. Both men smiled. Then Orm raised his battle axe, a short sword in his other hand. Skarga slumped back in her chair and closed her eyes.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Torchlight reflected in dancing cinnabar scarlet onto metal. Neither Orm nor Thoddun wore helmet or chain mail, and neither carried a shield. Half naked in the bitter frost, Thoddun had chosen long sword and knife. Orm had taken up his battle axe and short sword.

  Thoddun slanted the knife through his belt, its hilt ready for his right hand. His belt was narrow leather over the bound ties of his britches. The legs of the britches were tucked tight into soft leather boots, hide soled. Easy for sidestepping, easy for manoeuvre, as if to dance beneath the stars. He wore nothing else and his body seemed to gleam, etching muscle into starlight. His nipples were dark as studs on a shield, and the lines of his ribs were shadowed like the runes of a saga.

  Grinning, feet wide, at once Orm swung his axe, first low, then higher, one handed, cutting darkness, up, over his head, around, then down almost to the snow, sounds of wind in the sails, whistle and slap, and the liquid rumble or the moment the tide turns against a rocky shore.

  Thoddun tucked his knife deeper into his belt and raised his sword two handed, straight up before his face. As the axe came close, he deflected the heavier blade with his own, longer and sharper. One shuddering crash of iron striking on steel, the smaller sounds of movement and breathing deadened by the snow and the little drifting ice mist. The fight had begun.

  After the first clash, the muttering shove of the crowd ceased and no one spoke. The utter silence of so huge a squash was a tangible unreality. No one fidgeted or turned away. Riveted to the action, an entertainment more suited to their natures than even Yula or a bard’s romances, gleefully watchful, appreciative of every subtle nuance, judgemental, critical but without expression, the entire community, except for its reluctant and sullen guards kept within walls, watched a fight few had ever expected to see and all expected to remember for the rest of their lives.

  The first blow parried, Thoddun and Orm circled each other slowly, eyes intense. Thoddun called, “You’re too good for the bitch. Didn’t you realise that?”

  Orm said, “But not good enough for leadership?”

  Thoddun grinned back, breathing evenly. Neither man was breath stressed. “True,” he said. “A good leader doesn’t turn traitor. Doesn’t play foolish tricks, or set up games he knows will fail. What is it, a death wish? And to send humans against us, our natural enemies.”

  “You’re fucking one of them,” nodded Orm.

  “You’re sure I am?” laughed Thoddun.

  “What have you got there, man? A flea’s prick? Of course you are.”

  As Orm spoke, distracted, Thoddun’s sword sliced down, right handed. Orm side stepped, laughed, no longer permitting distractions, yet while watching one side did not look to the other, and Thoddun, still laughing, thrust deep angled with his knife, left handed. It punctured the other man’s belly above his belt, slipping in smooth as spring sowing. Orm grunted and pulled back. His britches pooled blood. He didn’t speak anymore.

  Metal on metal, sparks like falling stars, the heaving of feint to blow, breathing concentrated, frost inhaled. The moving feet slid, cutting huge patterns in the ice and snow, circles on circles and tiny holes growing boot sized, like a whale’s blow hole or for a seal seeking escape below. Both men, eyes narrowed, barely blinked, judging the other’s next move. Gulping air between each strike, holding breath, then the clouded steam of furious exhalation. Pacing controlled, quiet steps, then the lunge, the sudden screech of heels, the slip and the halt, turning violently, the parry, the s
wing, and someone falling. Steady, catching breath, and up again.

  Orm was momentarily on his knees, saved the touch of his axe to the ground, and staggered back to his feet with a grunt. He had suffered the first body blow, first blood, and now first fall. He was furious.

  The crowd remained unblinking and avid, massed panting rising in condensing vapour. No one appeared concerned by the cold. Then the jostling. As the fighters strode across the snow crust, so the view altered. Closer, further, always moving. The crowd swayed, left to right. Each watcher searched a better angle, peering between heads.

  A sudden wind gust blew out two of the torches. With the spluttering hiss, echoing, the flames flared, blinked, and went dark. A swathe of the arena was blanketed in shadow and as Thoddun stepped back, he disappeared into darkness. Then another torch holder ran, his own to relight theirs. The fire renewed, dancing upwards, caught the wind again, and raged high with the tired smell of burning soot. The shadows fled and the ice was again flooded in gold. The stars looked down from the silver glazed black above.

  One small man, with a sudden rush, bent his head below the rigid bent elbow of the man directly before him, and found his way forwards. The larger man noticed, and hauled him back by his collar. The little one waited, then dropped to hands and knees and crawled between legs until he reached the front. Others could see over his small head. They left him there, unmolested and happy, able to see at last, peering and intent. It was the snowy arena that held them like a dog to dripping pork fat or a bard’s chanting, forgetting to breathe, unwilling to think beyond the spectacle.

  Yet the silence was not a quietness, for every man heard every other man’s excitement, the agony of suspense and the joyous appreciation of the skill they watched. But neither Orm nor Thoddun saw the crowd. They blocked those thoughts, keeping their own concentration within a hollow ring, as if, apart from each other, they were truly alone.

  The audience trembled as Orm’s axe swung against its previous pattern suddenly high when it had been low, passing within a whisker’s breadth of Thoddun’s head. Thoddun ducked, although no longer laughing. The crowd sighed, a surge of relief that echoed the wind.