The Sword of the Lady (63 page)

Rudi nodded. ″You can′t leave your steadings and families unguarded. I wouldn′t expect you to.″

Bjarni′s mouth quirked. ″The Wanderer is at home everywhere and nowhere; he has all the world of Midgard to ward and all the sons and daughters of Ash and Embla to guide, and more besides. But this″—his gesture took in the hall, and the lands beyond—″is
my
world, my tribe and folk, the world my father built, the one I want to hand on to my children when I lay my bones beneath the howe. Yes, and watch over afterwards.″

His fist pounded the arm of his chair. ″But what does it matter if I guard the borders of Norrheim now, and in a generation or two or three etin-craft and troll-men flood over us like a tide!″

Rudi tapped a finger on his chin: ″I think there was more than one message in the seeing you made, lady Heidhveig; and more than one meaning to every message. A certain One we′ve both met is crafty and subtle. You may not have noticed, Bjarni, but the . . . Old Man′s . . . word was not the only part of the vision you need to ponder.″

At Bjarni′s surprised look he went on: ″That unfortunate honey-haired lass who lost her man north of here? Well, that′s the way we′ve come, and the Cutters have been at work there too; hence the man in the red robe with the sun sign on it. That was an adept, an evil magus . . .″

″A
trollkjerring
, we would say,″ Heidhveig said.

Rudi nodded: ″Stirring up the wild bands, those you deem troll-men, so. They′ll move those against you, I would guess. What other dwellers there are in that country are few and weak, and the Prophet′s ambitions are not limited to Montival. Corwin aims to bring all of humankind under their sway in the end.″

Bjarni had looked . . . not fearful, but apprehensive, before. Now his face firmed into a thing of slabs and angles; that was a threat he could understand in gut and bone.

″You see as clearly as Heimdall!
That
I can tell the
Althing,
and be believed!″

″And that will serve our common cause,″ Rudi said. ″Otherwise those men will fall on allies of ours, and enemies of the Enemy, further west.″

″But as for
us
, we need to get to Nantucket,″ Mathilda said. ″Your, ah, High One himself said it. Without the Sword of the Lady, we′ll surely lose. Mary, intercede for us!″

″The old tales have a number of such swords in them,″ Ignatius said, half as if to himself. ″Many were born by paladins of the Light. Arthur′s Excalibur, of course. Durendal, that Roland bore at Roncevalles against the infidel. Perhaps they were less metaphorical and more substantial than my teachers thought. I don′t think the pagan elements matter, in the end.″

″Tyrfing,″ Harberga said. ″Though I′m glad it′s not
that
blade.″

″Getting to Nantucket . . . there
I
can help you,″ Heidhveig said. ″I came out here with my family before the Change because of a . . . feeling you might say; and because Kalk told me he foresaw a great troubling of the world while I was dickering with him over a harp.″

Rudi couldn′t quite hold back a blink of surprise. Heidhveig smiled and stroked one knotted hand over another.

″Yes, I made music once. I stayed with Kalk and his people at the coast through the first month after the Change, before Erik Waltersson arrived; Kalk was pagan too, and a student of the old crafts, and I put them in touch with each other when I heard the Bjornings had come.″

″From which meeting many deeds came in turn,″ Bjarni said.

Heidhveig nodded. ″I stay there still when I′m not traveling between garths working
seidh
. . . or just visiting the great-grandchildren, nowadays.″

″He′s called Kalk the Shipwright,″ Bjarni said. ″He makes ships and much else, at the garth he built by the sea after the Change.″

His hand indicated the carved pillars of the hall, and the grim magnificence on the walls; by implication, the dragonheads that reared proud from rafter and roof-tree outside.

″All the finest woodworkers in Norrheim trained with him and his folk. They′ve cunning smiths and fine weavers there too, and wise in many other arts. Kalk collects craft skill, as some men do gold or horses or fine weapons; and his sons and grandsons are the same.″

Heidhveig took up the tale. ″The Shipwright′s men are great traders and fishermen, and often in viking . . .″

Rudi′s eyebrows went up, and she chuckled.

″Oh, that′s changed meaning here. They go to the dead cities and hunt for goods they can use or barter. As far as New York, sometimes.″

″Hmmm.″ Ingolf rubbed his short-cropped beard. ″I was in the same trade, though overland; I think we were the only Midwesterners to reach the east coast and survive. So far, at least. Vikings? You′d need something like that. Salvage work′s . . . well, there are treasures, right enough, but yah, they′re hard to get at. I can see why you used that word.″

Bjarni shrugged. ″We trade in peace with the Isle of the Prince, and with the English Empire and the Norrlanders. And the Icelander folk. Those of them who stayed there and didn′t go back to the ancient homelands—to Norrland, it′s called now—or to England, offer to the Aesir now too. Not much trade in any one year, but it′s welcome.″

He scowled. ″And besides the troll-men who haunt the ruins, our folk fight with the
blaumenn
sometimes, southward, over salvage rights.″

″Blue-men?″ Rudi said.

″The English call them Moors,″ Heidhveig said. ″They′re from Senegal, really. They′re numerous but their lands are metal poor, not having as many cities from before the Change for mining and salvage.″

″My foster father, Sir Nigel Loring, helped keep the Isle of Wight alive through the Change, and was a leader in the resettlement of England before he had to flee from Mad King Charles,″ Rudi said thoughtfully. ″He mentioned trouble with them.″

″No, they′re not friendly to outsiders at all, though I suppose they have their own reasons which seem good to them,″ Heidhveig said.

Bjarni inclined his head towards Fred Thurston, sitting astraddle a bench among the group around Odard. He was laughing, his head thrown back, with a mug of the dark Bjorning ale in his hand, and Virgina stood with her arm around his shoulders and his around her waist.

″I thought he might be one, from his looks, but he seems a fine young fellow, and I′d judge him a good man of his hands already.″

″Few better, none braver,″ Rudi said crisply. ″No lord could want a better . . .
gesith
, you say?″

″
Gesith
—companion? Yes, or
hirdman
.″

″And no warrior a better comrade,″ Rudi finished.

″He′d better be a strong man, to keep up with
that
she-cat,″ Harberga said. ″She′s a wild one, if I′ve ever seen any.″

″She has reason to face the world like a drawn blade,″ Rudi said soberly. ″They′re well matched; Virginia′s shrewder than you might think from her manner, and Fred uses his head for more than a helmet rest, too. And doesn′t lose it when the steel′s out.″

Bjarni nodded. ″Of course, he′s an Odinsman. Why, the High One claimed him in person! That′s a great honor, though not one I envy; I′ll stick with my old friend Thor.″

″And if he′s good enough for Odin, he′s good enough for me,″ Heidhveig said, with an odd half-chanting tone in her voice.

When they looked at her she shrugged. ″Classical reference. Now, we were speaking of Kalk Shipwright . . . Kalk′s stubborn—more now than ever, he′s even older than me!—and he won′t want to risk a ship. Most are laid up this time of year. But I think he′ll listen to
me
. And if not to me, then to the High One. Though he offers mostly to Njord and Freyr, himself.″

They spent some time thrashing out the details; when Rudi′s party would leave, how Bjarni would help with the journey to the coast, and how to send out messages warning the rest of the Norrheim tribes that trouble was foreseen. The conversation wound up as the celebrations began again in earnest.

Rudi joined in the laughter and applause as thirteen masked youths in gaudy-raggedy costumes entered and cut capers, tumbling and playing pranks.

Then the children in the hall called out their names, seeking to chase them down and tag them:

″Stiff-Legs!″
one cried, and clutched the sleeve of a figure who had stilts under his too-long breeks.

The others were caught one by one, some trying to climb the pillars until they dropped back into the shrieking crowd: Gully Gawk, Shorty, Ladle Licker, Pot Scraper, Bowl Licker, Door Slammer, Skyr Gobbler, Sausage Snatcher, Window Peeper, Sniffer, Meat Hook and Candle Beggar.

When they were captured the tumblers handed out shoes stuffed with toys and candied nuts and other treats. Harberga carried a broom around the hall and beat them forth with it, the youngsters following in a chain dance, before relenting and announcing:

″Come, those who wish to come; stay, those who wish to stay; and farewell, those who wish to fare away, harmless to me and mine!″

That brought the rest of the grown folk in for the evening meal—which for a Yule feast started in midafternoon.

″We drink
sumbel
this evening,″ Bjarni said to Rudi when it was well under way and his wife was away putting their daughter to bed. ″You know that custom?″

Rudi nodded. ″My half sisters′ mother, Signe, is a follower of your Gods and so are many of her folk,″ he said. ″I′ve been at
sumbel
in Larsdalen, and the other Bearkiller holds. Perhaps you do it a bit differently, though.″ He grinned. ″For a start, they like to drink it with wine; they′ve many fine vineyards there. The western side of the Willamette is better for the grape.″

Bjarni sighed. ″I′ve never drunk wine, except a few bottles found by Vikings . . . salvagers. They sound like an interesting lot, these Bearkillers of yours. With a fine fair land.″

Then Bjarni′s smile grew crooked: ″Perhaps they′re more interesting in a tale of far away than as neighbors!″

″They′re not
my
Bearkillers, as Lady Signe would be the first to tell you! Though I′ve many friends among them, my uncle Eric for one, and my blood father′s young namesake by Signe is a very likely lad. And they are a warlike lot,″ Rudi admitted. ″But only in a cause they think righteous.″

Bjarni snorted. ″I′ve seen a fair number of fights, Rudi Mikesson, over matters great and small. But never
one
yet where both sides didn′t think they′d rightful cause to bash the other.″

″A point, a very palpable point,″ Rudi agreed. ″But I′m certain and sure they were always wrong if they fought against you, my friend!″

Bjarni bellowed laughter. ″True!″

Harberga returned. ″Swanhild′s sleeping hard,″ she said. ″They do, at that age,″ she added to Rudi.

″That they do!″

″You don′t have children yet, surely?″ she asked, her eyes flicking to Mathilda.

″No, but the little lass reminds me of my youngest sister at that age. Fiorbhinn will be turning ten now; it′s a grief to me to miss so much of her life in the swift-changing years. Her hair and eyes are just that shade, and she was always active as a squirrel, until she drops in her tracks.″

″
Fiorbhinn
,″ Harberga said, as if tasting it. ″A pretty name. What does it mean?″

″
True-Sweet
, in the old tongue,″ Rudi replied. ″After a famous harp, you see. And well named, for she could sing true almost as soon as she could talk at all. And Swanhild?″

″Swan-battle. Also well named, especially since she learned the word
no
!″

The last remains of pies and pastries were cleared away, the last children not quite old enough for the ceremony shepherded off to their beds, and horns and horn rests were set out—like Bearkillers, the Bjornings considered that the proper vessel for solemn toasts, oaths and boasts. Four youths and four maidens brought in a litter; on it was a gold-sheathed wooden image of a boar done life-size, with the tusks of a real one and a wrought golden ring in its mouth. They carried it around the inside of the long rectangle of the tables, and folk did it reverence.

When the golden boar was set before the chieftain′s seat, Rudi noticed that it stood in a wooden tray of dirt.

″That′s earth from the first
hof
″—which meant
temple
, more or less—″of the Bjorning kindred, that my father brought north and mixed with the soil here at the land-taking,″ Bjarni said. ″We swear all the greater oaths on this boar, the Oath-Swine of the Bjornings.″

″That′s a strong rite,″ Rudi agreed.

″Yes, it′s the holiest we have; and this the season for the most powerful oaths.″

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Father Ignatius politely taking his leave, and frowning a little when Mathilda and Odard shook their heads and stayed. Rudi wasn′t too concerned; he′d gathered that there were still some Christians around here, and that they came to this type of ceremony, if not the
blòt
-sacrifices. It would be difficult to be a member of the community if you didn′t.

Bjarni rose and spoke:

″Bjornings and guests! Now we drink
sumbel
; to the Gods, in memory of the ancestors, and to make boast and oath. Take care when you do, for to make oath before all is to lay your words in the well of Wyrd, binding the fate of all. My uncle Ranulf Waltersson shall be
thul
of this
sumbel
″—

An older warrior in his forties nodded, with his arms crossed across his tunic; he was darker and leaner than his nephew, but had a family look of him.

—″and none shall dispute his judgments. Let the Valkyries fill the horns!″

Harberga and Gudrun led a group of women—kin of the chief, for this was a duty of honor and high regard—to pour mead from the pitchers they carried. Most of the drinking so far had been ale, and usually not very strong ale at that; this mead was heady, smelling of flowering meadows gone, and itself a boast of sorts—being made from honey it was expensive in this land where life lay sparely, and only a great chief could bestow it so lavishly.