A Flame in the North, page 27
Weather cleared, the threat of snow retreating slightly as we crept along; the ice falling now was shaken from branches instead of sky. The cold intensified, a deepcrack freeze approaching—so named for its habit of making trees in a forest’s far cold reaches explode as if struck by lightning. It is the weather Lokji rules, that mischievous, contrary, high-horned son of the Allmother. A good sign, since he often worked against her eldest child’s plans.
He does not like mischief not of his own making, nor cruelty to the innocent.
Or perhaps it was a bad omen instead, since he had often aided the Enemy’s party, thinking himself fighting for freedom, during that unfilial divinity’s first rebellion before there was a world or anything living to inhabit it. Or so the sagas say. No god is so great they are without a mistake or two, even the Allmother by whose grace we are made—for what else are suffering and malevolence but errors, even if their eventual end is far greater than we may compass?
Soon I was fully occupied with the deep, circular breathing to stoke my body’s inner furnace. Broad leaves began to fall, each one coated with clear, heavy ice; the night was full of tiny groans, the snapping of foliage from branches, and occasionally a greater wave of sound as the wind pushed another cargo of freezing over the lands of Nithraen.
Efain halted at intervals, his tousled bare head upflung; shieldmaids love the cold, but the two-skinned Northerners did not seem to even feel it. The distant pounding and weird howling from a violated Elder city vanished after a long time of steady movement. Glancing at the sky was disorienting, for the stars here were different than Dun Rithell’s.
The Elder Roads had brought us far indeed, and I could not find a friendly light in the heavens.
We followed the stream’s wandering for some time until its curve bent far to our right, intent upon its own business. Winter had been denied too tight a grasp upon this land, but in the end, the frost always wins. The groaning and creaking around us intensified, and when ice-freighted leaves hit the ground no few shattered with small, forlorn tinkles.
At least I was now certain we were not dead and trapped in one of Hel’s many halls or countries. The comfort was short-lived indeed, though I was still utterly grateful to be out from under so much rock and earth. I had never been uneasy at close spaces like Ilveig our kitchen-queen—who disliked even a cellar with its door carefully propped open, turning pale and accomplishing any task in the depths quickly—but after that night I never bore them comfortably again.
Efain halted once more, and after listening intently, turned to face the rest of us. We huddled at the foot of yet another hill, sheltered from the wind but not for long. I realized dawn was tiptoeing, grey and hushed, between the forest’s wooden pillars.
It had not been morn in Nithraen after all, but dusk. Now the night and the city itself were both broken—though I was still somewhat confused, and hoped the foul invasion could be dispelled. The Elder were mighty warriors, were they not?
Yet the stonedust upon us was so thick, and the damage to those vast caverns likely immense even if not fatal.
“The border’s close,” Gelad said quietly. “We can reach it by nightfall, even on two feet.”
“If our lady alkuine’s strength holds.” Karas did not look at me, and his next words put paid to any small hope of Nithraen’s continuance. “They will be about the wrack and ruin of the city for some while, and will drive the captured northward.”
My ears tingled upon hearing that, and my restless yearning seized upon possible escape. “Let us go.” My whisper was as fierce as Efain’s. “You can escape to this Dorael, and while the orukhar are busy Arn and I will slip by.”
I was weregild, yes; but the one holding my pledge was not here. Between those two conditions I had some room to maneuver, and even to negotiate. I could even use the charge of a dead man’s treachery to free Arn and me from this madness.
“We cannot.” Gelad was still pale, though bright spots of high color stood on both his stubbled cheeks. He had managed to shake much of the dust from his hair, and his left hand rested upon a dagger-hilt. “You are a long journey from your home even during summer travel, my lady. Please, let us arrange this, and—”
“Do you not hear me? I am useless to you, and to your lords. I cannot do the thing you want, and you have a chance to right a great wrong by freeing us.” At least I was still volva enough that my hiss forestalled any interruption, and though Efain opened his mouth I silenced him by glaring, knowing my eyes were bright with seidhr. “It was ill done to take a weregild by lies, but you may set the matter right, and in turn, the gods will smooth your own journey.”
I did not quite apply the pressure of my will to the words, as a seidhr often does when facing a wrongdoer who may easily become violent. Besides, such a weight can wear off with distance and time, and I did not wish pursuit.
Not by Northerners who could change their skins.
“It was ill done indeed,” Karas said. “But they will not last a day without us.”
“Try explaining that to stubborn women.” Efain sighed, and when he spoke in southron, the words bore sharp accent. “My lady, did you have even a slim chance of reaching your home alive, I might agree. But if they have taken Nithraen the South Gap is blocked unless you can use the Elder Roads, and the Enemy watches those so close to the Black Land. ’Tis why bringing you north upon them, even at the very fringe, was such a risk, but we knew there would be an attack soon. We simply did not know whether he would first take Dorael, now that Aenarian is—”
“This is no time for a history lesson.” Gelad had turned his attention to scanning our surroundings just as Arn was. She was leaving persuasion to me, but I thought it very likely she would attempt to free us from our companions in her own way should I fail, and soon. “The sun rises; every moment we linger means the greater chance of discovery by roving filth.”
“Let us go.” I focused upon Efain, for I knew his conscience spoke in my favor. “You knew it was not right. More than that, I cannot use your Elder weapon, seidhr though it may be. Taking us any farther north is a waste, and a violation of hospitality. The gods themselves will be angered.”
“As if the Blessed care for aught we mortals do,” Gelad scoffed. “Will we have to drag them? We must go; I like not the way the wind smells.”
“We can make our way south.” It was difficult not to shift to the Old Tongue, and curse them in the deeper language of seidhr for good measure. “I am volva, Arn is shieldmaid, and the gods will protect us. You can travel for whatever safety you may find among the Elder or your own kind without our weight. Nothing of the Enemy’s will care for us, we shall simply slip by—”
“Please.” A muscle flicked in Efain’s cheek, twitching the scar upon his jaw. He swallowed hard, the stone lodged in every man’s throat bobbing, and continued in a harsh whisper. “Please, my lady alkuine. Do not force us to anything we might all regret.”
“That,” Arn said softly, her gaze settling at a point just above his shaggy black-haired head, “sounds like a threat.”
“I would ask you to trust us, though we have given you little reason to.” Efain did not move, though he was tense as any warrior who suspects the strike will fall soon. “The Enemy’s spies do not care for gods or the Blessed. They will find you; they will slay a shieldmaid and take an alkuine by swift passage to meet their master. Neither of you will survive long in the North without aid, and you are fools to spurn ours.”
“I would rather face those spies than endure further travel with liars.” I did not bother to whisper now, and the words rang like a shout among the chimes of falling ice-leaves. “You are given a chance to right a wrong, Efain of the North. I suggest you take it.”
Arn moved, her spear dropping into guard, and I was ready, backing away to provide what seidhr-aid I could.
Swearing Alliance
During Aenarian’s illness his wife led their people; even as darkness pressed against the borders did she sit in judgment and rule upon the green hill of Paerunn-il. Sadness was etched upon her loveliness, but though her silent grief made every song a lament and dimmed the light beneath the trees she made no move to leave their land, for she knew there was one more guest to welcome.
—Daeglan Silverthroat the Elder, The History of Dorael
It is said the Black-Wingéd Ones themselves train shieldmaids; it is close to the truth. It was Idra who noticed Arneior’s grace and unflinching; test after test was conducted to disprove a child’s selection, for the path is harsh and those not truly called will die in horrible fashion upon it.
Yet each time Arn passed the trial, often with a cheeky grin and a toss of her ruddy head. That wasn’t so hard; the feather-ladies help me.
After the final ordeal—the Hunt of Marrow, performed naked and weaponless in deep winter—proved her worth beyond doubt Arneior sparred with the warriors, and any who thought a girlchild easy prey was roundly disabused of the notion. The Wingéd whispered in Arn’s ear, pulling her limbs into the proper places, and sometimes it was chilling to see her young face blank except for shining trust while she swung a shortened spear or pair of weighted, child-size axes.
That day she was light as a feather herself, her boots whispering as we retreated from the three Northerners. Dawnlight was strengthening, no longer merely grey but shading into gold at its hem. The stars were fading, and it would be a bright winter morn soon enough.
None of the men put hand to swordhilt just yet; I had no idea how long such luck would hold. We had no saddlebags, no trunk, nothing even approaching winter gear except our mantles and my seidhr-bag. Yet I could call fire to any tinder and keep it alive, at least, and Arn had her spear. I knew very well returning home was not likely at this point, and Arn likely concurred.
Yet we would go no farther north as weregild. As prisoners, perhaps, without a polite fiction to smooth our captors’ paths and allowed or even encouraged to attempt escape as often as seemed possible—or as allies, able to exert some small effect over our own fates.
Better than none. My patience might have been thought weakness, but now it paid handsomely, as such things often do.
“This serves nothing.” Efain kept his tone low and reasonable, and though his two companions stepped aside as necessary for three men with a single foe, still none drew. “I am sorry for my part in it, my lady alkuine, but I cannot return you to your home nor let you wander unprotected.”
I have Arn, thank you. “Then you will either take us prisoner or become our allies.” I did not speak overloud now, but I did not whisper. “I suggest the latter.”
Arn retreated another step, ready to dance. With her spear level and her gaze clear and direct, she was every inch the shieldmaid. Some few bits of melting ice clung to the dust upon her ruddy hair. We were a sorry-looking lot indeed, and I did not like to argue with orukhar and possibly more of those lich-things about.
But I would not have a better chance to alter our captivity, and Arneior visibly agreed. At least I had the comfort of knowing she judged my behavior well within the bounds of propriety. I was not shaming Dun Rithell with breaking a compact; the Northerners had marred it at birth.
“What is it she wants now?” Gelad’s eyes, blue as my own, narrowed as he glanced to Eol’s lieutenant.
“Clever girl.” Efain shook his head slightly, forestalling his companions’ further argument. “My lady, we are honored to have you as an ally. Let us leave this place.”
“Not quite.” Arn’s braids swung gently, caressed by cold wind, but her spear was solid and level. “Swear to it, Northerner. And you two as well.”
“There is no time for this.” Karas’s fingertips brushed a swordhilt, and if he drew to strike we would not leave here without spilling Northern blood.
Arn’s stance changed. Just a fraction, just enough. A great brushing calm spread from her in overlapping waves, a sign the Wingéd were watching closely. I hoped they found this acceptable. Since we had done nothing wrong, and were facing men besides, it seemed likely they would lend at least a fraction of their aid.
I hoped it would be enough; the question of just what helpful seidhr I could perform now loomed before me.
“It makes no difference.” Efain studied me closely, as if Arn were not between us—and as if I had done something very interesting indeed, like a saga-hero’s horse deciding to speak at a critical juncture, or a stone moaning a riddle in the night. The slight sounds of ice-leaves falling changed; thin freezing mist crept between the trees as the sun rose. “We may promise them whatever they wish.”
I drew back into the shadow of my mantle’s hood, hoping my face was a mask. “Decide quickly.”
“Then may the Blessed witness we are glad to have you as an ally, Solveig of Dun Rithell.” Efain managed to say it as if he were giving a promise of great import. “And for their part, Gelad and Karas will swear the same.”
“Oh, aye.” Karas all but spat. Strands of hair had freed themselves from the leather club he usually bound it in, and the skin-ripple I had seen on others of his kind passed through him once, a warning flicker. “Now may we leave, my lady? If orukhar find us—”
“I will not be further shamed.” Gelad’s sword left its sheath; Arn did not move, though the feather-brushing intensified. The Northerner took two steps toward her, drove the point into frozen turf, then sank to one knee despite the ice creep-clinging to the grasses. There were no threads of green at their hearts now; any tender new growth had faded with the night. “This is how we swear such things in the North, my lady Solveig; I am Gelad son of Aerenil, and I pledge myself to our alliance.” His blade gleamed, and Efain muttered a term in the Old Tongue I had never heard used as an obscenity before. “It is little enough, in light of your bravery.”
“Eol will not like this,” Karas muttered, but he performed the same movement, kneeling with his bared blade a gleaming upright bar. “So do I, Karas son of Nareal, pledge myself.”
Efain did not give his father’s name, but he performed the maneuver as well, then it was done. I was no longer weregild, but an ally. Such a position has much more freedom than one paying off a life-debt, and if Eol of Naras were dead in the ruin of the Elder city…
I did not like thinking upon that possibility; I had enough to worry over at the moment. If the Northern captain by some miracle appeared again, I could use an oath sworn by three of his men as leverage.
And if they treated me as a prisoner afterward, it relieved me and my shieldmaid of any polite behavior, unquestioning obedience, or of the duty to aid our captors. I did not think even my mother, well known for her skill in negotiation, could have done better.
Arn did not lift her spear until they had all resheathed, and we set off again through the rapidly rising mist gilded with dawn. My shieldmaid’s shoulder brushed mine before we followed the Northerners, though, and it was heartening to feel her approval of the gambit.
“We could still make our way home,” she said, not very loudly.
“Soon enough.” My gloved hands were fists, my fingers numb. I was glad of a bloodless victory; no doubt much crimson had been shed the night before, and my stomach flipped uneasily. We were weregild no longer and I had one other piece of useful information gained from the moment: Karas considered their captain still alive. I did not wonder why that realization caused a great burst of warm relief in my middle. “We are not helpless now.”
She did not sniff that we had never been truly helpless, which told me she considered my solution to our predicament canny enough, though perhaps not completely elegant. “Next time, let me stab someone.”
If I thought it likely to get us home, I would. I edged closer to Gelad, walking as softly as possible. “My lord?”
The Northerner kept moving, his boots landing soundless as Arn’s own. “What now?” His whisper was fierce again and his mien severe, but neither were enough to dissuade me.
I had a further purpose for this man, especially if his captain was angered at my new status. It was no different than breaking steading-lords away from a warlord grown too large, or uniting a pair of fractious warriors in common cause to make them cease yapping at each other.
“I wish to thank you,” I murmured. “For your honesty.”
He made no reply.
Individual, Complete
To fight the orukhar, a sword; to fight a trul, the spear; to fight a lich, an Elder’s touch. But to fight one of the Seven, you can only die well.
—Northern proverb
Fog thickened as the sun rose. Yellowing grass, falling ice, mist that distorted every tree into an enemy’s shadow—there are songs of the beauty of lost Nithraen in spring, and of the glory of colors in autumn when the great trees painted their leaves but did not lose them, the song of its fountains in coolness during summer-shimmer heat-haze.
We saw only its demise. Even then, as ice-freighted debris struck the ground like a child’s playful slap during a game of touchwell, there was a sad majesty to the forest, helped by its eerie lack of undergrowth.
Even I heard them before we saw aught, of course—creaking movements, broad boots crushing fragile ice, growls and shouts in a tongue bearing no resemblance to the Old or the southron its great-grandchild. They made no attempt to be silent; Efain gestured our small group toward a tumble of moss-grown boulders, dripping with mistbreath and edged with frozen fragments. I accomplished hiding with very little in the way of noise, though my heart threatened to thump through my ribs and my breath tore at my throat as if I were running instead of creeping in felted overboots.
The Northerners arranged themselves before Arn and me, and I did not need their grim looks at each other to understand the situation, for the voices in the fog were many.
