The Scourge of God

LARSDALEN, BEARKILLER HQ, HALL OF REMEMBRANCE OCTOBER 31, CY

The great rectangular room fell silent as the food was cleared away from the long tables and the ceremonial drinking-horns set out, rimmed and tipped with gold and carved with running interlaced animal patterns. The central hearth beneath its copper smoke-hood flickered and boomed, for the night outside was cold and hissing with winter's rain. Light from that shone on the oak wainscoting between the tall windows, wrought in similar sinuous forms and hung with weapons and shields-round concave ones marked with the Bear, backswords and lances and recurve bows, and captured trophies and banners.

The fire scented the air, and the wax of candles from the wrought-iron chandeliers overhead, and the memory of the feast's fresh hot bread and the roast pigs and a dozen other dishes. Now military apprentices went their rounds with jugs of the wine from the Larsdalen vineyards and from elsewhere in the Outfit's territories, that the dead might be hailed in the drink grown on the land their blood had defended.

There had been a memorial mass in the Larsdalen church, and a blot in the Hoff that Signe had built years ago, and private rites in each family, but this was a ceremony they all had in common; both faiths accepted the arval, the grave-ale.

The feast hadn't been too somber despite the mourning; the Bearkillers remembered how their founder Mike Havel had joked with his comrades and his wife as he lay dying on the Field of the Cloth of Gold, scorning death. Most of those present believed that the spirit outlived the body, in Heaven or the halls of the High One or Hella's domain or by rebirth; and they and the minority of unbelievers all shared a faith that a man lived not one day longer than he lived, and that what mattered was how he met his end… or hers.

Strong bearded faces waited, and women no less fierce, many of them also with the brand of the A-list between their brows. Youngsters newly blooded were there, and the solid landholders of the A-list steadings, and representatives from the others of the Outfit; merchants of Rickreal, Larsdalen's craftsmen and engineers, and the commons from the Strategic Hamlets. The A-list's pride was that they were the first to fight, but they kept Mike Havel's law, that every member of the Outfit would defend the others at need, and to the death. The toasts ran up the tables; it was the custom for close kin to make them. Finally they reached the head table, the one that stood crossways to the others and centered about an empty chair.

No human sat in it tonight, but a sheathed backsword rested across the arms. The high back was draped with a bearskin cloak clasped with a gold broach, and above it was a helmet-the simple bowl with nasal-bar and mail aventail the Outfit had used in its earliest days, but with a snarling bear's head mounted on it so that the snout projected like a visor, and a fall of hide behind.

On either side were the seats for the war-leader Eric Larsson, and his sister Signe Havel who held the Bear Lord's power until his children were grown. They both stood, ending the toasts to the fallen with a collective tribute.

"I drink to our glorious dead!" Eric Larsson said, taking up his horn from its stand, and signing it with the Cross. "In the name of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost; may the blessed Virgin intercede for them, and my patron, St. Michael, and all warrior saints welcome them to everlasting glory, they who fell fearlessly for home and kindred; in Jesus' holy name, amen!"

There was a long murmur of amen from those who followed his faith. Signe took up her horn in turn and used her right fist to sign it with the Hammer; it was one of the set her grandfather had commissioned in a fit of youthful ethnic self-rediscovery eighty years ago, much copied since the Change by the Outfit's makers. With innocent eclecticism the craftsmen of the 1930s had included Northwest Indian symbols along with the Norse, but that was appropriate-she had a little of that blood too, after all.

Her voice rang out:

"I drink to our glorious dead. May they feast with the High One this night. May His daughters bear them the mead of heroes, and greet the new-come einherjar thus at the gates of Vallhol:

"Hail to thee Day, hail, ye Day's sons;

Hail Night and daughter of Night,

With blithe eyes look on all of us,

And grant to those sitting here victory!

Hail, Aesir, hail Asynjur!

Hail Earth, that gives to all!

Goodly spells and speech bespeak we from you,

And healing hands in this life!"

Then together the siblings raised the horns high and shouted: " To our glorious dead! And to all the Brothers and Sisters of the A-list, always first to fight! Drink hail! "

A hundred and fifty voices roared reply:

"Wassail!"

Signe looked at her twin brother with critical appraisal as they sat again; the stump of his left wrist was neatly bandaged, and he looked gaunt and pale but strong in black boots and pants and high-collared jacket; the doctors said it had been healing well, and he'd certainly been bugging the craftsmen for a whole range of hooks, blades, gripping devices and even a steel fist for when it was ready to hold a prosthetic.

The military apprentices moved along the tables, refilling for those who'd drunk deep. She was pacing herself, and had taken only a long sip, but it glowed in her stomach after the feast. Just enough to give the great room a glow as well. Her mouth quirked as she thought what the ancestress who'd had it built as a ballroom back in Edwardian days with a splendor of white silk hangings and chandeliers would have thought of it now.

Probably great-great-grandfather Sven would like it better, the old pirate!

That had been the man who came from a bitter little farm in Smaland to the Pacific Northwest in the days when men like wolves snarling around an elk tore fortunes from the land with fangs of steel and steam. He'd started in a lumber camp and married the half-Tlingit woman who cooked for his bunkhouse; worked his way up to pay clerk, quit, made a minor silver strike in the Idaho mountains, parlayed that into a fortune, bought this country estate to complement his town mansion in Portland…

And his children went respectable in a major way, she thought.

His son married the daughter of a Lutheran pastor, his son the daughter of a Swedish-American engineering magnate, his son a Danish-German Milwaukee brewing fortune, and Signe's own father a Boston Brahmin of Mayflower pedigree so distinguished her teeth were permanently locked on her vowels.

And whose ancestors came from the Danelaw and were probably the descendants of Vikings themselves, she thought.

Luanne Larsson stood next, pride glowing on her dark comely Afro-mestizo face as she looked at her husband and eldest son and raised her horn.

"I drink to my son William Larsson, Brother of the A-List, who saved the life of his cousin Mike Havel Jr. on the field of battle!" she said, the Tejano-Texan accent still softening her voice. "Drink hail!"

"Wassail!"

Signe stood again, silent for a moment as she raised the horn, until all eyes were on her and the loudest sounds were breathing and the crackle of the fire on the central hearth. She inhaled the pleasant pungency of burning fir-wood.

"I drink to my son Mike Havel Jr., Brother of the A-list, who saved the life of my brother Eric Larsson on the field of battle at the risk of his life, shedding enemy blood and taking wounds. Drink hail!"

"Wassail!"

This time it was a roar. Mike Jr. flushed; he was seated at the high table for the first time, with the A-list brand between his brows still new enough to be raw.

He was too young for the standard Initiation, but there was an exception for valor in the field, and nobody had even whispered that he didn't deserve it, for saving Eric's life and for keeping the flag despite his broken ribs. They were still tight-bandaged beneath his jacket, but he grinned shyly and ducked his head. The banner hung on the carved oak wainscoting of the wall behind them, the snarling crimson bear on brown, the blood-stains on it just barely visible in the lantern light.

They cried the Wassail! again and again, until it turned into a chant: first "Hail! Hail! Hail!"

And then: "Lord… Bear… Lord… Bear!" amid fists pounding on oak until the holders that carried the horns shook and the red wine quivered over the gold-bound rims.

Signe felt the chant sing in her veins as it echoed through the great chamber. She leaned forward, suddenly quivering-tense. Would he take it? She'd given him advice on what to say, but the boy had a mind of his own. The formalities would come later, but if her son stretched out his hand now…

He stood, pale and looking older than his fifteen years. The noise died away to a breathing hush, like the tension in a great cat before it leapt.

"Brothers and Sisters of the A-list… free folk of the Outfit

…" he said, and raised his horn.

"I drink to my father, Mike Havel, Corporal in the United States Marine Corps, Force Recon, who never turned his back on an enemy, or on a friend! My father, who stood between the Bear and his folk, who wrestled with Sky and Death itself on the day of the Change, who brought us from the far cold mountains to this good earth! My father, who built our walls and made our laws, who judged justly, who killed the tyrant Arminger with his own hands, whose blood was the sacrifice that renewed the land. Hear us, Founder, lawgiver, land-father! We keep faith with you, Bear Lord! Drink hail! "

"Wassail!" came in a quivering roar that shook the very chandeliers overhead, until shadows swung gigantic on the walls.

Her son lowered the horn from his lips. He waited until silence fell again, then walked to the empty chair and laid his free hand on the hilt of the great blade that rested across its arms. His face was very calm; and it looked so much like the one she remembered there.. .

"I'm proud to have shed my blood for the Outfit," he said, his voice steady and pure if still a little lighter than a grown man's.

He waited out the cheer that followed before he continued:

"And if our free folk hail me as Bear Lord when my time comes, I will take up my father's sword and the Bear Helm, and with it his drighten might and right. Then I will give you my oaths to render good lordship and take your freely plighted hold-oaths, that your might be mine and mine be yours. For the lord and the land and the folk are one."

Utter quiet fell, a tribute more complete than any roar; she could see tears on some faces, and slow nods of agreement from many more.

My son, my son! she thought, through a glitter of her own tears, and a pain that was also joy. Oh, Mike, if only you could be here to see him now!

The youth went on: "But first I must learn to fight like my uncle, Lord Eric, our war-leader-"

"Better than me, boy!" Eric said, grinning hugely. "I shouldn't have made that last charge-it was one too many. Your father always said I had to watch my temper."

"And I must learn to lead as wisely as my mother, Signe, Lady of the Bearkillers, whose forebears' blood won this land long ago. Until then, let them rule-and let me learn from them."

He turned to her: "I drink to Signe Havel, Sister of the A-list, whose wisdom saw the threat of the Prophet and the tyrant Thurston! Drink hail! "

"Wassail!"

Signe didn't drink the toast to herself, but the rush of pride was stronger than the wine could have been.

That's my boy! she thought. He wants it, yes… but he knows when to take it. High Lord, Lady Freya, all kindly alfar, you've gifted him with brains and guts both!

"I drink to our war-leader, Eric Larsson, who got us out of that cluster-fuck in Pendleton unreamed!" he went on. "And who gave his hand to smash down a wolf that ravened at our throats. Drink hail!"

"Wassail!"

Eric stood once more. "And I drink to my nephew, and my son, because without them you'd be drinking toasts to my ashes in a goddamned urn! Drink hail!"

As the shout of Wassail! rang out there was laughter in it, the high tension of the moments before gone.

It increased as the horn tilted back, and it became obvious that Eric was going to drain it or choke. Others did likewise; Mike and Eric's son William linked their arms each through the other's as they drank, laughing with the red wine on their chins. Fists and feet pounded in rhythm with the flutter of Eric's Adam's apple, dissolving in cheers as he pulled the horn away from his mouth, wiped the back of his great gold-furred hand across his bearded mouth and held it upside down to show that hardly a drop remained.

"And now… let's just drink!" he called.