The Sword of the Lady

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

NORRHEIM, LAND OF THE KALKINGS APPROACHING KALKSTHORPE

(FORMERLYWASHINGTON COUNTY, MAINE) JANUARY 6, CHANGE YEAR 24/2023 AD

'You attack this time,' Ritva Havel said to Asgerd Karlsdottir. 'On the count-one-'

The Ranger had her parka off, and wore only the down-quilted vest, wool undershirt, wool tunic, padded gambeson and mail-lined leather jerkin. That was miserably chilly but exercise would help, though there was a hint of moisture in the air today that made the cold sink right into bone and joint. For some reason the same quilted padding that turned a mail shirt hellish in summertime did nothing for you in weather like this. At least the cold muted the harsh rank smell of old sweat and rancid oil inseparable from armor, leaving the clean scent of spruce and pine the strongest odor around them. 'Two…'

The edge of her shield snapped down the visor of the sallet she was wearing, and the steely gray light of the winter's day shrank to a line of tarnished brightness across her eyes through the vision slit. Her shield came up under her chin, and her feet felt for the balance-the mealy snow moved beneath her boots, as bad as sand for leeching away speed. Sword up, point up… 'Three!' 'Ho La, Odhinn!' Asgerd hawk-screamed.

She moved like a swift slender metal statue in her mail byrnie and nose-guarded conical helm and cut with the cry. The hilt-forward position of her sword turned into a sweeping circle that came down towards Ritva's head as her feet moved her forward like a stooping hawk. The Norrheimer-style round shield was held by a single grip beneath the boss, and she kept it always between them, ready to strike with it as the sword hammered down. Ritva brought her own shield up in a flash of motion-and around, so that it didn't block her vision, and arrived slanted at an angle.

Crack.

The hard birchwood lath of the practice blade bounced away from the curved surface of the shield. Ritva grunted as the blow rocked the convex circle of plywood and bullhide and painted sheet metal against her shoulder and shocked through her arm where it ran between the elbow-loop and the rim-grip.

Strong! she thought approvingly.

The same impact helped her swing aside and out of the path of the Bjorning's rush. Her left foot moved forward and her right followed it in a skipping crabwise step, blurring-fast. The blunt point of her wooden sword drove home and Asgerd gave a cry that was half frustration and half stifled pain as it took her on the back of the knee below the edge of the byrnie.

That sent her off-balance as the leg buckled; Ritva struck with her weight behind it in the same instant, shield punching into shield. The younger woman went over on her back with a hard thud only slightly muffled by the deep snow under a leafless maple, and an ooof! as the impact knocked the wind out of her lungs. The Ranger skipped forward to tap her lath-sword at the base of the Bjorning's throat. 'Ah, I think I see your problem,' Ritva said, sliding the smooth curve of the visor up the forehead of the sallet.

Asgerd slowly levered herself out of the snow, blowing and shaking her head, snatching off her helm by the nasal bar to strike at the snow that had packed up under it and into her hair. 'You're better with the sword than me!' she snarled, her breath puffing white in winter air.'And you're more experienced. That's my problem! You've killed me four times and I've only wounded you once.' 'Yes, but that's not your problem,' Ritva went on.'You've been well taught, but your problem is that you're fighting like a man.' 'Well, if I'm to fight, it probably won't be against women!' 'No. But…'

She turned to Mary.'Let's show her the Parable of the Door. You do the sounds.'

Mary grinned, a remarkably piratical expression with the eye patch; they'd played this game as instructors at Mithrilwood ever since they graduated to ohtar rank, and had missed it on the trip. Aunt Astrid and her anamchara Lady Eilir had come up with it, back when they first brought the Dunedain together.

Running off the unsuitable and training the teachable, she thought. Both good fun.

A lot of discontented teenage girls had turned up at Stardell Hall over the years, drawn by the lure of the Dunedain name and the glitter of the Histories… and weary of the endless routine of churn and hoe and loom. Or the damp hands of pimply-faced local swains, as opposed to dreams of some Elven Prince. Or in the case of Mary and Ritva Havel, tired and bored with being spare heirs.

Which is about as useful as being a wagon's fifth wheel.

Ritva turned back to the Bjorning, who was dusting more snow off her byrnie and the seat of her breeks. If you let it melt into your clothing, the dampness could linger for days on the trail. There wasn't much chance to get people warm and dry, much less their clothing. 'Fighting is like opening a door. Now, imagine there's a door here,' the Ranger said.

She stuck the practice longsword in the snow and sketched a portal with her finger, and pointed out the features: 'Nice solid door. Here's the hinges. Here's the handle and the latch. Now, imagine a man trying to open the door. Here's how he'd probably do it.' 'Belch,' Mary put in, with an alarmingly realistic accompaniment. 'Urrgghhh!' Ritva said.

Her hands went up and gripped the sides of the imaginary door. Then she whipped her head forward. 'Bong!' Mary shouted.

Again. 'Bong!'

Again and then she stopped, scrunched one eye closed while rubbing her head and scratching her backside, then reversing the process. 'Belch,' Mary put in.'Fart.' 'Me smash! Arrrggghh! Me smash! Me smash!' Ritva bellowed, mock-guttural.

She mimed head-butting the door over and over, her features contorted into a mask of cross-eyed rage and lips slack as if she was drooling; then the eyes rolled up in her head and she fell backward into the snow. 'Now! she said, bouncing back up again and clapping her hands together.'Here's how a woman does it.'

Ritva reached out, lifted the invisible latch-Mary supplied the click — turned the knob, stepped through, and closed the door behind her, with a final clunk from her sister. 'You see''

Asgerd looked at them both. Her face had been grim almost all the time since they left Eriksgarth; now it lightened a little. The smile had to struggle up like a fish broaching from the depths, but she managed it. Then-Ritva's eyebrows went up-she started to giggle. After a moment she spoke: 'I think I see a little of what you mean. We have a saying, that when your only tool is a hammer all your problems start to look like nails.' 'We have the same proverb,' Ritva said.

Though if it's John Hordle or even Rudi, they just walk through the door without noticing it's there. But that would undermine the lesson, so…

She went on:'The Gods have made men and women differently. They have hammers. We have needles. If you want to fight well, you have to fight like a first-rate woman, not like a bad imitation of a man.'

She took up the lath practice sword again.'Rudi can break a shield's frame with a straight flourish cut like the one you used, if he hits full-on; and break the arm underneath it, sometimes.'

Asgerd blinked.'With a one-handed blow from a sword'' she said incredulously.'With a battle-ax or war hammer, perhaps…' 'I've seen him do it. Or slash right through ringmail.' 'So can Ingolf,' Mary said. A little reluctantly:'Rudi's faster, though.'

Ritva nodded.'For you or me, trying to do that's just a waste of effort and leaves you open to the counterstrike. Or… you're about my height. Or Odard's or Edain's. But getting into a shield-to-shield shoving match with either of them is a bad idea-they've a third again our weight. More muscle, heavier bones. Let's try something a little different-'

Edain came up on skis, then slid to a halt to watch for a while. Garbh sat beside him, her tail curled around her feet and black nose going back and forth, tongue dangling behind white puffs of breath. 'Not bad,' the young clansman said, after a flurry of blows.'But it's time for lunch, and then to get moving again.'

He grinned at Asgerd.'They beat me all the soddin' time too,' he added.'Sure, and it's like trying to hit a ghost.'

She snorted, too winded to speak for a moment. Edain politely didn't look at her too closely, or in too nonprofessional a way, as she shrugged into her loose parka with its mottled cover of white and off-white and brown, and buckled on her sword belt and the baldric for her bow and quiver that she'd hung on a branch. The shield rattled as she slung it over her back as well; a cover of bleached canvas hid the colorful black-and-red painting of a fylfot. Garbh came over and butted a friendly nose beneath a hand and the Bjorning paused to ruffle the big beast's fur, which seemed to soften her mood a little. 'Do they beat you at shooting'' she said, tossing down her skis from where she'd leaned them against a birch and stepping into the toe-loops. 'No. They're better than fair shots, but not nearly as good as me,' he said straightforwardly. 'But better than me'' Asgerd asked, with just a touch of belligerence in her tone. 'For now, yes. Rangers train hard and long. They're not farmers; they fight and hunt for a living. You could be as good, but it'll take a year at least, or more depending on how much time you put into it.'

Asgerd nodded, her face calm but approval in her eyes.

She'd have scented flattery, Ritva thought, and hid her grin. 'Now, they're both a total failure at milking a cow, mind,' Edain said.'More of a moo and a kick they'd get if they tried than aught in the pail.'

The two Rangers snorted, and Asgerd chuckled. They all slid south and east-and slightly downhill-towards the valley where the main caravan lay with its sleds. Or bounded easily in a series of puffs of snow, in Garbh's case.

Edain's not quite the bluff simple Mackenzie crofter he puts on. That was quite clever.

Asgerd seemed like a nice girl, if grim-which was understandable, given what had happened to her betrothed-and far less likely to meet a bad end than that Mormon woman back in Idaho. Ritva wished him all success, as she might a younger brother.

As I might a considerably younger brother, though we're with a year of the same age. Still… he's always felt younger than us. Men grow up more slowly.

And there wouldn't be as many religious problems if things went well, which wouldn't be soon anyway. Those faiths of the Book with their exclusive claims to truth were a complete nuisance; look at the bother it had caused for Rudi and Mathilda. 'You live by the sword too'' the Bjorning girl asked Edain.'Or the bow,' she added. 'Not all the time, no, not until this trip. Mostly I help me da on the farm, and in the bowyer's workshop we have; that's what Mackenzies do, work the land and follow crafts. My mother's a weaver of some note, and well known for that and her cheeses-people come from as far away as Corvallis to buy'em both. To be sure, Da was First Armsman of the Mackenzies for years and years-war leader of the Clan, under the Chief. But everyone who can fights when it's needful, among Mackenzies. Only a few are warriors all the time.' 'As with us,' Asgerd nodded.'Only the hirdmen of a godhi… the guards of a chief… make a trade of war. We haven't had a big war for a long time; not since the years after the land-taking, when they say whole bands of reivers were abroad, desperate and hungry. Just scuffles and skirmishes since then, and-'

Her voice broke for a second; then she cleared her throat and went on doggedly: '-and those who go in viking to the dead cities must fight often against the troll-men.'

They talked, stumbling over terms occasionally; Ritva and her sister helped when they were at a loss for words, or used them differently. Rangers traveled widely and had to be good at picking up how meanings had drifted in the last generation, and she could speak Spanish and some French as well as English and Sindarin. It was harder with Asgerd, because her speech was speckled with words from old languages Ritva knew only as names, or with French. Not the ancient tongue that Portland's nobility liked to affect now and then, either, but a quacking nasal local dialect like nothing she'd ever heard before.

Asgerd nodded when she was satisfied.'You're a bondar, a yeoman's child, like me, then,' she said to Edain.'Neither rich nor poor, eh''

It seemed to make her easier in her mind if she could place someone by station and kindred. Edain shrugged. 'Right. We've got a good farm and we're well thought of in Dun Fairfax…' ' Dun means village, more or less. Thorpe, you might say,' Ritva put in.

Edain nodded.'In our village. But not great chiefs, no.'

Asgerd sighed.'It seems a rich land though, this Montival. Gardens yielding into November! Stock grazing outside all winter' We have to feed ours hay and turnips and grain five months of the year! And I've never tasted those fruits you talked about, grapes and peaches and cherries and apricots and hazelnuts, they're only old words here.' 'The Willamette's fine country, and that's a fact,' Edain said. 'Better than aught I've seen on this trip-Iowa was very rich indeed in grain and swine and cattle, sure and it was, but cold in the winter too from the looks of it, and no vineyards to speak of, and not nearly the fruit orchards we have. And flat! And short of timber, the which we are not. The Lord and Lady have blessed us.'

She bristled a little, and he added:'It's not bad soil here. Those were fine spuds at Eriksgarth, and the stock was good.'

Then he looked around; they were traveling down a small river valley now, narrow between low steep densely forested hills, mostly pine and spruce with an occasional stand of taller white pine, and broadleaf trees along the water. Naked rock showed here and there, through snow and the thin soil beneath. 'Or at least that bit about Eriksgarth wasn't bad. This here would break a farmer's heart, it would! And any plow he tried to use on it. Fine timber trees, I grant, but ours stand taller.' 'They say the folk of the old world cut so many here in Norrheim.. they called it Maine then… that few grow as tall as they might,' Asgerd said.'Or as tall as they will grow by my grandchildren's time. That's hard to imagine, but…'

The three westerners nodded at her shrug; they'd all grown up on tales of a world of marvels vanished before they were born. You never knew exactly which were true, and which mere fable, either. Not even the old people agreed on that! 'It would be a good place for a Ranger steading,' Ritva said.'We don't farm. We keep to the woods and wilderness, mostly, and live by the hunt and what the forest yields. And what we're given to protect farmers from bandits and beasts,' she added virtuously.'That buys us grain and wine, and cloth and weapons… whatever we can't make or grow for ourselves.'

Edain snorted.'That, or what merchants pay you for protection of their caravans,' he pointed out. 'They don't have to hire us,' Mary said. 'No. You just loudly announce that so-and-so isn't under your protection. The which is to pin a great sodding sign on their backs: Rob This One, eh''

Mary sniffed as her skis hissed rhythmically.'If we didn't announce it, that would be like cheating the honest ones who pay. Overcharging them, you know' And there's what we get from the other realms by treaty for bandit hunting and patrolling.'

Edain grinned, enjoying the teasing game:'And what you get by exploring for the good of all, the which so often leads to stores of gold and silver and jewels and other treasure from the old times falling into your hands, somehow, and isn't that a curious thing, the wonder and the joyous surprise of it!'

Ritva frowned.'It's traditional,' she said, in a slightly huffy tone.'Dunedain have always done those things. Except for that bit just before the Change when the world got so weird and crowded.'

Edain snickered when her nose went up, and she didn't go into detail.

Mostly because I don't think I could go into detail, she thought.

When you were the child and niece of rulers, you grew up knowing how much effort and planning had to go into provisions and equipment, and what a disaster it could be if you didn't have something essential when and where it was needed. The Histories painted Gondor as normal enough, if a bit seedy and run-down, but they were irritatingly vague on how the original Dunedain had made their livings after the fall of the North Kingdom, much less on how they outfitted their warriors. Supposedly the Rangers of old hadn't even told people how their labors in the wilderness kept settled folk safe, much less demanded dead-or-alive rewards and head prices for outlaws and a yearly stipend as they did now.

How did they get the price of a meal and a night's sleep at the Prancing Pony in the Third Age' Barliman Butterbur didn't strike me as the sort who'd let you run up a big tab.

Where had the Dunedain children and old people lived' Armor was expensive and needed skilled specialists to make and keep up, as well-did they have weapons smiths of their own' For that matter, how had they gotten pipeweed from the Shire' It wasn't as if the hobbits would give it to you.

They couldn't all have sponged off Elrond in Imladris, like hairy smelly short-lived poor cousins, she thought. Or hocked ancestral treasures to the dwarves whenever they ran short. Aunt Astrid has enough trouble making the people who owe us money pay up even with a contract! It's a puzzlement.

Edain's hiss brought her up; she angled the points of her skis together, snowplowing to a halt and focusing outward. Garbh was standing at point, her body lowered and muzzle locked forward like a compass needle; the cold muffled scent to a human nose, but hers was almost infinitely keener. They all kicked their toes out of the loops and stooped low, motionless, listening. 'Gruck! Gruck!'

That was a raven; a deeper cry than a crow. A black shape flogged itself into the air a little ahead, where a lone spruce leaned over a boulder, then drifted stiff-winged back to its perch, cocking an inquisitive and hopeful eye downward.

Something dead, she thought, as she reached over her shoulder for an arrow. Someone, rather. Garbh wouldn't act that way for ordinary carrion.

Mary held up two fingers and then tapped them to the left. Edain nodded and ghosted off to the right, with Garbh swinging wide to cover his flank. Asgerd followed man and dog with blade in hand, creditably quiet, the gray steel of the Norrheimer broadsword at one with the brown and white and green of the winter woods. The two Rangers traced a course like drifting mist by drilled habit, from bush to boulder to tree, until they looked through a tangle of reddish wild blueberry canes. Ritva relaxed and let her breathing slow, let her gaze drift a little out of focus for an instant-that was how you could see patterns best, if nothing was moving.

Her eyes met Mary's single one, and they nodded slightly. The man curled in the shadow of the rock was unmoving, and snow had collected on his thin sparse beard. Edain came in from the other direction, and waved them forward. 'Garbh found his back track,' he said.'Only one, and hours old. Blood spoor, too.' He looked down at the corpse and pointed a toe. 'Arrow,' he said succinctly.

The fletching had broken off, and a stub of it stood from the body's ribs, two hands down from the left armpit and a third of the way in towards his spine.

Ritva nodded.'Someone got him while he ran. And he kept going longer than I'd have expected, with that in him.'

People did, sometimes, when great need or a very strong will drove them. She and Mary dragged the man into the light. The body was slight, less than their own weight; a very young man, just old enough to raise a brown peach fuzz of beard, and long in the legs. Even beneath the winter gear his gawky coltishness was obvious. The open eyes were hazel. Ritva paused to close them, before she continued her examination.

Poor lad, she thought, with the slightly abstract pity you felt towards an unlucky stranger. You didn't get many years, did you' But Earth must be fed, soon or late. Dread Lord, be kind; Lady Mother-of-All, comfort him. Return him from the Halls of Mandos to a better fate. 'He's been here a while, but he only died a little while ago,' she said.'See, he's not very stiff yet. Blood on his face and under this leather armor-'

Ritva rubbed some between thumb and finger, before she scrubbed with snow and put her glove back on: 'Some has dried, but some of it's still tacky. The arrow nicked a lung, I'd say.'

Asgerd spoke, alarmed:'That's a war sark of the kind they make at Kalksthorpe! He's a Norrheimer, but not a Bjorning. He must be one of Kalk's folk. But I've never seen an arrow like that. It's some sort of cane, not ash or cedar.' 'The unfortunate fellow was headed out of Kalksthorpe, and kept going as long as he could though he must have known he was dying, the sorrow and black pity of it,' Edain said thoughtfully.

Asgerd pointed north and west.'There's a steading that way. About ten miles. We didn't go near it but anyone coming inland without supplies would head there first. Or if he bore a word of war for others to spread.' 'Rudi needs to know about this,' Ritva said with conviction. 'Now.' 'Yes, yes, I'm ready,' Heidhveig said.'But-'

Rudi looked at her with concern; the journey had been hard on her, despite taking it by easy stages and the well-made sled, and her getting the indoor bed when they stopped at some lonely farmstead. Her wrinkled face was a little gray, though she'd made no complaints.

Sure, and I've gotten well used to traveling only with those young and very strong, he thought. Even armies would have trouble matching the pace we've often set. And I need her to talk to this Kalk. 'But it's odd… someone should have met us by now,' she went on.'There are always hunters out, and winter is the best time for traveling.'

His glance turned keen, but she shrugged beneath the bearskin rug. 'No, no, nothing definite. Just a feeling.'

Thorlind paused:'She doesn't just have feelings!' 'My thoughts exactly, good lady,' Rudi said.

She's a fussbudget, is Thorlind, he thought silently, while most of his mind mulled distances and numbers. But a fussbudget of considerable wit. And no mean worker of her craft, either.

Thorlind pulled a precious pre-Change thermos out of a box beneath the driver's seat of the sled and poured steaming hot rosehip tea into a cup. Heidhveig took it meekly, which made him a little more worried about the old Norrheimer seeress, but there was a prickle down his spine that hinted at more immediate problems.

I haven't seen my unfriend Graber of late, nor the red-robe. Too much to hope for that they both drowned when the ice broke. I don't see how they could know where I was heading, much less get there first

… but then, they've done things I don't understand before.

Rudi's head went up and down the trail of sleds. The little portable stove on one was smoking beneath a cauldron. The Bjornings made endless pots of stew in early winter, boiling it thick and then freezing it in blocks to store in their cold pantries. The travelers had brought a good many of those bricks along from Ericksgarth; it meant a great saving in time and effort since you need only throw in some snow for extra water and put the pot over the fire until it was hot enough to be served.

Virginia oversaw the distribution of the results today. Rudi accepted a bowl, a spoon and a slab of rye bread, stale but with some sharp hard yellow cheese melted onto it. The stew was ground moosemeat again, with potatoes and peas and onions and carrots and turnip in it too, plain food but good fuel for the furnace. He'd put far worse things past his lips at need. 'I'll be glad to get out of these trees,' the woman from Wyoming said, and looked around with a slight shiver.'Gol-durn, but it's bleak country here!'

Rudi nodded gravely, though he had a flash of what it had been like in the Valley of the Sun amidst the Tetons last winter. It would be worse out on the High Plains, in the Powder River country where the Skywater Ranch of the Kane family had been before the armies of the Prophet overran them. There a wind could travel a thousand miles without a wood to break the hard teeth of it; they called that a lazy wind, too idle to go around a man-so it went right through like a spear instead. Riding after herds in a blizzard there… the very thought was enough to make a man's stones ache and his nose feel frostbite. Not to mention that the commonest fuel in those parts was dried cowpats.

It's all where you're raised, I suppose, he thought. I don't think it's the cold that oppresses you, Virginia, but the strangeness.

Then he looked around at dark pines, pale snow, leafless maple and birch, low clouds the color of frosted lead. And remembered blossoming orchards below Mt. Hood, with drifts of cherry pink and apple-blossom white flying free amid a scent to make a man drunk; or lying in a clover mead near Dun Juniper with the bees humming beneath a sky of cloudless blue so deep a man could lose his soul in it and the High Cascades hovering on the horizon like banners of green topped with silver; or riding across the Horse Heaven Hills with the sun on his back and mustang herds running with the wind in their manes…

No doubt this place had its own loveliness; even now there was a stern majesty to it. He'd never seen it in the short bright nights of its summertime, or the quick flowering spring, or the gold and scarlet beauty of its fall plumage. Still and all'I'm tired of this,' Mathilda said quietly from beside him.'I want to go home. I want to be home. I want to be at a garden masque in Castle Todenangst and bored out of my mind.'

Rudi's mouth quirked.'And it's precisely my thought you've just given voice,' he said.'Though I might call it sitting in judgment at Dun Juniper, listening to a pair of stubborn crofters quarreling over a cow until I yearned to smack their thick skulls together. Yet then again, a chuisle mo chroi, darling treasure of my heart, where you are, home is. For there my heart dwells.'

A brilliant smile rewarded him, the smile that turned her strong face beautiful for an instant.

Heidhveig gave a slight snort, and Rudi pulled out a map Bjarni Eriksson had given him and spread it before her, a new one on fine white calfskin parchment, but based on an ancient guide for wayfarers called Rand Mc-Nally. He thought the blue and scarlet and golden border of writhing dragons and curl-tusked trolls was probably modern work, along with the bearded faces puffing wind from the corners. The trail they were following came down from a lake-frozen now-and debouched onto the shore where Kalksthorpe stood, its little harbor sheltered by a nook of land. 'Robbinston,' he murmured, reading the other name in brackets below Kalksthorpe.

Heidhveig nodded, revived by the drink and hot food.'That was the name before Kalk's folk came… myself among them. Right after the Change; we knew we had to leave Houlton. All my family and friends I'd talked into coming east, and Kalk's followers, and a bunch of others who thought we knew what we were doing. There was this barge full of canned goods-'

It's natural for the old to dwell on the past, Rudi thought.

Her finger traced their path. The low hills gave way to flat land along the water's edge; it was where the St. Croix-what the Norrheim folk called the Greyflood-gave out onto the ocean; sheltered still, but easy of access, and with islands and a rugged coast of fiords to the southward. 'The land is mostly cleared back a mile from the palisade,' the seeress said.'There are mills outside, here and here, and timber yards. Not much farmed land, just enough for summer pasture and truck gardens. The thorpe's food mostly comes from the sea, and in trade down the river and from inland.'

Rudi was about to reply when one of the sentries sounded an alarm. They all looked up as the twins came gliding in on their skis, with Asgerd and Edain behind. His teeth showed a little at the sight of a man's body slung over the younger Mackenzie's back. 'We found him in the woods. Not long dead, and from his back trail, he came up from the place we're going,' Edain said, laying the man down.'Arrow in the lung; he kept going until he couldn't, then lay down and died.' 'He was trying to make Erling Jimsson's steading, I think,' Asgerd put in.'It's the closest.'

Thorlind made a sound. 'Olaf!'

She went to her knees beside the young man as she came up and saw his face. She took the stiffening body in her arms, holding the boy's head against her shoulder, rocking him. Her voice was naked: 'Oh, Olaf, Olaf!'

Heidhveig pushed herself erect, leaning on her staff. 'I know him,' she said quietly to Rudi, underneath the muted sounds of her pupil's grief.'He's her nephew Olaf Knutsson, her younger sister's son and Kalk's oldest great-grandson, just fourteen. Something terrible must be happening at Kalksthorpe. He is… was.. a very swift runner, for a boy. They sent him for help, but someone shot him on the way.'

Rudi nodded.'I'm sorry if we've brought ill luck upon your folk,' he said.

Thorlind looked up.'You haven't. Whoever's attacked us has. If you owe me anything-' 'That I do, lady, and freely I acknowledge it.' 'Then give me blood for my blood! I will raise a nithing — staff and curse whoever did this, but I need a sword to do the work.' 'I will that,' Rudi said gently.'By the Morrigu I swear, and by Macha and Badb Catha, and by the greater One that the Three make.'

Then his voice went hard and brisk.'We need a scouting mission. I'll lead it.'

Ingolf cocked a brow.'That's grunt's work,' he said bluntly. 'Your more-balls-than-brains Majesty,' he added, with a dry tinge to his voice.'Grunts can be idiots. They mostly just get themselves killed. Bossmen… Kings… can't afford to be stupid. Your life isn't your own to throw away anymore.'

Rudi looked at him. It was on the tip of his tongue to say if I'm the King, I give the orders. But…

But nobody is less able to indulge a whim than a ruler, if he wants to be a good one. Ingolf has the right of it.

He sighed.'You've talked me into letting someone else do the work, you silver-tongued bastard of a man. I can deny you nothin'.'

Then he looked about.'Mary, Ritva, you're going. And Edain. Are any of you Bjornings familiar with the land here' Fighters only,' he added.

The Norrheimers looked at each other. A few raised hands uncertainly. Asgerd cleared her throat. 'I've come here six times… no, seven, but I was a little girl the first time. My father brings hides and wool and butter after the first hard snow to trade for cloth and tools and stockfish. We stay a week or two, and I know the neighborhood a little.'

Rudi flicked his eyes quickly to Edain and his half sisters. They all nodded, quick slight jerks of the chin. 'Good, you're the fourth,' he said aloud.'You're also the youngest and least, and don't forget it. Get me what I need to know, Edain, then get back, and quickly. The rest of us will move forward, but slow and cautious. We'll sprint the last bit, I expect.' 'I wish we had our destriers,' Odard said.

Rudi grinned.'I doubt there's room for a charge of knights here, my lord Gervais. Now, Asgerd, show me on the map how we can approach. I'm thinking the main trail is a bad idea the now, until we know exactly who it is has come calling at Kalksthorpe.' 'Be patient with them, Jawara,' Abdou said.

He hunched his shoulders against the cold wind off the sea, and even more against the itching feeling of being immobilized here ashore while his ships swung at anchor. The sea was his element; this continent was alien and hostile. He liked feeling that way. It kept you alive. 'Supposedly they're some sort of Muslims,' he went on.

Abdou al-Naari was a tall lean man in his thirties, with skin the color of old saddle leather, part-owner and captain for his kin-corporation of the corsair schooner Bou el-Mogdad, named after a fabulous ship of the ancient world. His subordinate Jawara was shorter, a little younger than his thirty-six, thicker-built and ebony black, with three scars like chevrons on each cheek; he had named her sister ship Gisandu — Shark.

Jawara looked over at the men they were now allied with, the core of disciplined ones in the reddish-brown armor with the rayed sun sign on their chests and the rabble of savages around them. When he spat, it was for the benefit of both groups; and perhaps also for the man in the green robe and turban who was standing and talking with them. In the old days that dress would have meant he was a hadji, one who'd made the pilgrimage to Mecca. A few men bold enough or mad enough or lucky enough or all three had made the journey across the length of the Sahel and the Red Sea since the Change and found nothing human left in the Holy City except dry gnawed bones. Now the green cloth merely meant a pilgrimage to Touba, where Cheik Bamba of the Mouride Brotherhood had dwelt.

Jawara's voice held a sneer as eloquent as the gobbet of spittle: 'If they're Muslims, I'm the Emir-and I'm not freezing my balls off here. I'm sitting in my palace at Dakar, sipping coffee and smoking good khif this very moment under a screen grown with jasmine, while pretty girls bring me plates of cheb-ou-jen with yete.'

Abdou spat himself, and shivered as it froze on the ground with a slight audible crackle. The thought of good hot coffee and some decent food was enough to make him want to howl. They were both bundled in furs and wool over their armor, and the wind off the estuary was still enough to make a man feel as if he was walking about while three days dead. Gray sky, gray water, dun-colored patches of rock, dark green pine, pale snow; it was all calculated to convince you that you'd become a ghost without noticing it.

The memory of mangroves alive with brightly colored birds beneath cerulean skies, of blue, blue breakers turning to white foam as they went crashing on silver sands beneath rustling palms seemed infinitely distant. He was hungry for it, the sights and the warmth and the very smell of smoked fish and onions and tomatoes cooking in peanut oil. 'The Marabout says they are believers,' Abdou said.'And he's supposed to be a very holy man.' 'If he's a holy man, I'm not the Emir. I'm his third wife,' Jawara said.

Abdou grinned.'I thought you were his catamite with a bottom sweet as a ripe mango'' he said innocently.

Jawara made an obscene gesture at him, and they both laughed. Abdou did have his own doubts about the Marabout. Supposedly he was in favor with the new Grand Khalif of the Mourides, and the captain had welcomed him along on this venture when he turned up asking for a place-it reassured the men and made them feel God's blessing to have a cleric around.

He himself wasn't so sure. His own family were of the older Tidjiane brotherhood anyway, not the Mouride. And he was an educated man, literate in Wolof and in his native Hassaniya dialect and in the classical Arabic of the Holy Book, and even a little in Francaise, the dead kufr language of the sciences; also he spoke enough English for trade and war. He'd spent time at the Emir's court, as well, and he inclined to orthodoxy. The brotherhood founded by Cheik Bamba had been powerful in his land for a very long time and more so since the Change, but the reverence the Mourides paid to their hereditary religious leaders struck him as little short of sherk, idolatry.

What need of intermediaries' There is the word of God, and God; that is enough for a believer. But you had better not say that where one of the Mourides can hear you, especially if it's a Baye Fall madman.

There were two of them always with the Marabout, wild-looking men with their hair in plaits and great brass-bound ebony clubs in their hands. Both loomed like giants, and Abdou was not a small man.

And… how did he know where to find these so-called Muslims' It was as if they were waiting for him here on this begotten-of-Shaitan wilderness shore. 'Well, at least the plunder should be good,' Jawara said, working his hands in his gloves; one dropped caressingly to the pearl-encrusted hilt of his scimitar.'This nest of pagans has been scouring the God-smitten cities on these coasts longer than we have. And they make some very clever things themselves.' 'And they're a nuisance when they clash with our people,' Abdou said.'Yes, we'll probably get a richer cargo than we could scavenging the ruins ourselves. But I hate losing good men getting it. This will cost us more than fighting a few ignorant cannibal savages in the dead lands. These Norrheimers may be pagans, but they know too cursed much how to make good armor and war engines and fight in ranks, for instance. Bad as fighting the Ashanti.'

Jawara brightened.'There'll be women, at least, when we take the place. That warms a man up!'

Abdou shrugged. The dwellers here were polytheists and so legitimate prey by sharia, the holy law, but experience had shown these northern peoples were useless as slaves. If you took them back to a civilized climate they just sickened and died of the fevers. On balance it was a good thing, because it made it impossible for the English Nazarenes to invade the House of Peace rather than just make punitive raids. Besides, he found the fishbelly skins and skeletal faces of whites repulsive; even after so long at sea, he'd wait until he got home to Fatima. 'Get your mind out from between these hypothetical womens' thighs, Jawara: first we have to break their wall and beat their fighting men,' he said sourly.' And hope no English ships come by before we can. This is far too close to the Gezira-al-Said, the Isle of the Prince; may God sink it.'

The coast of the river estuary ran northwest-southeast here, with a hook of land protecting the site of the town. On the landward side was a wall of tree trunks, squared and sunk deep, bolted together with heavy steel rods and wound each to the next with metal cable. A little in from that was another wall, and the space between was tight-packed with rock and rubble to make a bulwark of solid strength. Blockhouses of large tight-fitted logs laid horizontally studded the wall, with two by each of the gates. The seaward approach was protected by more logs-but those were sunk in the seabed, angled outward, their ends tipped with vicious metal blades like the heads of giant spears. He could see some of them from here, frosted and menacing and bearded with icy tendrils of weed, but some were always underwater even at low tide. Only the dwellers knew the paths through them.

His own ships were anchored safely out of range offshore, their rigging half blocked from here by the rearing complexity of the pagan temple's shingle roofs. Both were two-masters built in the Saloum delta of sapele and iroko, low fast snakelike craft designed for speed at sea and handiness around shallow coasts. The pagan war boats were formidable where they had room to move, but they couldn't thread their way out through their own obstacles, not when they had to come slowly and in the face of catapults throwing globes of stick flame.

He'd come in out of the dawn three days ago and caught them tied up. That blockade duty pinned his ships down as long as he stayed here, though. Which also meant he couldn't dismount more than a pair of light engines for besieging the town, not nearly enough to do significant damage.

The Marabout-Cheik Ibra, he was called-was in conversation with one of the strangers. They were too far away for Abdou to follow the talk, but close enough for him to hear that it was in English. That made his mouth tighten. How had Ibra learned that tongue' In the lands of the Emirate of Dakar only seafarers did, and of them only a few. 'Ahmed,' Abdou said, raising his voice slightly.

His son trotted over, proud in his fifteen years, a slim young man who already bid fair to be taller than his tall father someday. He was prouder still of being on his first foreign voyage. 'My father' I mean, Captain'' 'Fetch the learned Cheik for us.'

The boy walked over to the strangers with self-conscious dignity. He transferred his spear to the left hand that also held the grip of his shield, so that his right could touch brow and lips and breast as he bowed and murmured a polite formula. The perhaps-holy man nodded and walked over to the two corsair captains. 'I have good news, God willing,' he said cheerfully; he didn't even seem to mind the vile weather here. 'God willing indeed,' Abdou said.'What could be good about this place except seeing the last of it, when that is His will'' 'Confounding the pagans and plundering their goods'' the Marabout asked dryly.'And then seeing the last of it''

Jawara nodded.'Yes, but how' Charging those walls would leave nothing but heaped corpses-and if I'm to be a martyr, I want to be a victorious one. And we can't sit here long. Too likely a warship of the accursed English Nazarenes will come by, may God confound them. Their merchants put in here to trade every now and then, too.'

All three men nodded. In theory the Emir of Dakar had agreed to forbid these waters to ships from his realm after the defeat he suffered at the Canaries from the united kufr fleets a decade ago. Abdou and Jawara had both been there, fighting beside their fathers in their first real war, and had been among the lucky minority who escaped alive from the arrows and flamethrowers and the waiting sharks.

In practice the Emir had neither the power nor the wish to control the ships that sailed from the tangled swamps and creeks of the Saloum delta, looking for revenge as well as wealth. Their folk needed the salvage of the ruined cities, not just metals but gears and springs and glass and a hundred other things; and the English charged usurer's rates for such. But the treaty allowed their navy to attack vessels in the exclusion zone on sight, which they did with ghastly efficiency.

The Mouride cleric went on:'These men-who are veritably followers of the Prophet-'

Abdou caught a glimpse of something he didn't like in the man's eyes then; something like mockery. He gritted his teeth and ignored it. There was work to do. '-say they can build a trebuchet. There's plenty of timber in the barns and outbuildings, and their savages to do the rough work. They need some help with tools, and our ship's carpenters and smith, but they have an engineer who has erected one before and knows the proportions.'

The corsair leader rubbed his chin beard, shuddering a little as bits of ice condensed from his breath fell off it. The strangers had already built mantlets, thick sloped wooden shields on wheels that would stop arrows and bolts. The corsairs had brought two light pieces of deck artillery ashore; a rover ship was built for that sort of flexibility. But the six-pounders wouldn't knock that wall down, not if they threw roundshot from now until the Day of Judgment or until the ships' ammunition ballast was all gone.

We might be able to set it on fire. Or the town. But charred ruins yield little plunder. A trebuchet could break down the timbers and spill the rubble core.

A trebuchet was the most powerful of war engines, and the simplest; a giant lever pivoting between uprights, with a box of rock fastened to the short end and a throwing sling to the long one. Given one of those and enough time they could batter their way through walls of well-fitted stone blocks, or even ferroconcrete, much less timber with rubble fill. A big trebuchet could throw a half-ton rock the better part of a mile, but they weren't naval weapons-more a matter of fortress and siege warfare-and none of his carpenters and metalworkers were familiar with them.

But given time is the word to remember here. Risky! Still…

The plunder was tempting, and the chance to show the Norrheimer pagans that interfering with his people wasn't a good idea even for battle-drunken madmen. If he had been a timid man, he wouldn't have become a corsair. Growing peanuts and rice was much safer than being the skipper of a Saloum rover, and trading in cotton and indigo was almost as lucrative.

A big trebuchet can make a ramp out of that wall. By God and His Prophet, though, I know who's going to lead the assault, when it comes-and it isn't going to be my men.

The thoughts took only an instant.'We'll do it. And let us not give the infidels the precious gift of time.' 'So, tell me about your betrothed,' Edain said quietly when the scouting party had stopped for the night.

Ritva gave him a look and slipped away to take the first watch. They'd made a cold camp here; no fire, of course, just rearranging some snow below an overhang and bringing in some spruce boughs for insulation between their bedrolls and the ground-as long as you were out of the wind it was the earth below you that sucked away the body's heat. All that they had to do was unroll the sleeping bags, arrange their weapons close to hand, and huddle close while they gnawed on sausage and cheese and crackerlike rye flatbread. And kept their canteens in with them, to keep the water from freezing.

The air was clear above for a change, with coldly glittering stars shining in glimpses through the needles of the spruce and pine. Air soughed through the branches, sending an occasional mist of snow like powdered silver down towards the ground.

He thought Mary's single eye gave him an ironic look too over the fur-trimmed edge of her bag. They all used the same type, greased leather lined with fur and down-stuffed quilting, with catches that could be loosed with a single movement. The two Dunedain had had their own from the beginning-Rangers went places where it usually got this cold-and he'd gotten his in Readstown. The Bjorning girl had something almost identical.

Sure, and these things are an amazement, Edain thought. With one of them and all your clothes, you can get all the way from frozen to death to just miserable in only an hour or two! Ah, but wouldn't it be nicer with two'

You could join two of them together; Mary and Ritva often laced theirs into one. Asgerd wasn't interested in being that close with him. Yet. Not that you could do anything but huddle in weather like this. Freezing to death was no joke when it got this cold. 'Sigurd was a hero!' she said. Then:'His father was one of Erik the Strong's handfast men. He came north with his bride and won land, but Sigurd was the third son, and-'

Edain made approving noises. Asgerd was hotly devoted to this Sigurd's memory and he had no objection. The man was dead, after all; also it proved she had a loyal heart. When she'd run down and made herself depressed-he winced slightly as the eagerness in her voice turned to the sort of sadness that made you feel core-chilled even on a warm summer's day-she said with obvious effort: 'And what will you do when your chief… your King Artos… has this Sword'' 'Like something out of an old tale, isn't it'' Edain said dreamily. 'Like Anduril, the Flame of the West,' Mary said; there was no irony in her voice this time.'When the sword is ready, the King returns.' 'We'll take it back home, and the worst of luck to anyone who tries to stop us,' Edain said.'And Rudi… Artos… will raise armies, beat the Cutters, and everyone will hail him High King.' 'Everyone'' Asgerd said, her voice a little pawky.'You have no disputes or feuds, out there in the West'' 'Everyone who knows what's good for them will,' Edain said.'And for the rest-'

He had his bow with him in the bag, to keep it that little bit more supple; he stuck the tip of it out and wiggled it a little. Mary gave a grim sound of assent. 'And when he's King, what will you do'' Asgerd asked.

Edain frowned.'Fight for him when he needs me to ward his back,' he said.'Help Da on the farm between times. Take over the holding when he's gone to the Summerlands, and sure, I hope that's many years yet.'

Asgerd laughed, with an edge of iron to it.'From the sagas, that's not what happens to the right-hand men of new-made Kings.'

Mary chuckled too, the sound just as grim.'She's got you there, Edain. We don't know everything of what being High King will mean, exactly. But I give you any odds you're not going to see much plow-and-pitchfork work. Boyo,' she added with malice aforethought. 'Teeth of Anwyn's hounds!' Edain said, dismayed; he liked tending the land.'Da did, and he was First Armsman!' 'Of the Mackenzies. Rudi's going to be High King of Montival, though. Rudi said he wouldn't spare himself, or us, to see the work of the King done right. Did you think he was joking'' 'No. It's not the sort of thing he'd jest on,' Edain said unhappily.'I just thought he meant he'd put us in harm's way in battle if it was needful… how different could High King be from being Chief'' 'Times have changed,' Mary said.'The world's not as simple as it was.'

He could see Asgerd nodding.'Here too,' she said.'There's been talk of choosing a king of Erik's line. There's more people now, for one thing. The realm needs more steering.'

Not just a pretty girl who's middling good with a sword, Edain thought. Then: I was looking forward to going home. Maybe I can't, even when we're home again!

Then Mary's head went up; he felt a prickling himself an instant later… as if he was listening to an absence of sound rather than a noise in itself. Asgerd's head went back and forth between them, puzzled.

Smart, but she hasn't spent as much time as we on the trail with lunatics and boogeymen after her, that she has not, Edain thought grimly, and pulled the toggle that opened his bag.

Ritva made a twittering sound before she came into sight, to avoid hasty arrows. She was wearing a winter version of the war-cloak, white, mostly, with less vegetation and more broad strips of pale cloth that made you look like a lump of snow when you stopped. 'We're a bit closer than we thought. I spent half an hour right under one of their sentries,' she said.'Come look.'