The High King of Montival: A Novel of the Change (8 page)

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Authors: S. M. Stirling

Tags: #Fiction - Science Fiction, #Alternative histories (Fiction), #American Science Fiction And Fantasy, #Alternative History, #General, #Regression (Civilization), #Science Fiction, #Science Fiction - General, #Dystopias, #Fiction

BOOK: The High King of Montival: A Novel of the Change
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“Hail! Hail!”
Heidhveig shivered a little and drew the cloak closer with her gloved hands. There was a glitter to the steel that was like music—like trumpets and drums, like the silver chime of bells on the bridles of destriers, a song that could seize the hearts of men and transfigure them.
“More potent than Tyrfing, forged for the hand of a King
,
”
she quoted softly: those had been the High One’s words, spoken through her while she was in trance on the
seidhjallr
, the Chair of Magic.
“What do You plan now, old man? Your daughters will bring you many a hero before this is finished.”
The rhythmic shouting broke apart in cheers, and boats set out to shuttle the crew ashore. Heidhveig waited, leaning on her raven-headed staff until Artos came through. Gundridh was riding on his shoulders, yelling shrilly and waving his flat raven-plumed Scots bonnet in the air, and the same frank grin she remembered was on his face. It died as he swung the child down and faced her, bowing his bright head for an instant.
“Merry met again, Lady Heidhveig,” he said gravely, and put the back of his right fist to his forehead for a moment.
She met his blue-green gaze and then bowed herself, more deeply.
“
Come heil
, Artos King,” she said, using the formal greeting from the old tongue.
Some buried fragment of her wondered what the young woman she’d been a lifetime and an age ago in Berkeley would have thought if she could have seen this moment. The rest of her was entirely grave.
His mouth quirked a little. “Not King in
this
land,” he said.
“But King indeed,” she said. “You’ve changed.”
A matter-of-fact nod, and the soft burring lilt went on:
“That I have, Lady. For a man must suit himself to the work fate and the Powers give him. I led a band of friends to find the Sword. Find it I did; and now I must raise a host, win a war, and found a kingdom!”
“Hopefully you won’t need to fight a dragon as well,” she said dryly.
“That too, Lady. That too—though not one with scales or wings, perhaps.”
They bustled him and his folk back to her house; the talk went on through the afternoon and into the early dark. By then the dinner trestles had been set up, and besides her own family others were drifting in to hear the tale, and of course you couldn’t refuse hospitality. She winced slightly at the expense as plate after plate of basted ribs and sizzling pork chops came out, piles of sausage and platters of French fries and round rye loaves and butter.
This wasn’t the mead-hall of a
godhi
, a ring-giving drighten chief; it was just a big house. A
godhi
was expected to be openhanded to all comers, but he had his own lands and the scot from his yeoman followers to supply the means. And this had been a hard winter in Kalksthorpe, with their losses from the attack; late winter and spring were the hungry times in Norrheim anyway. Her family’s share of the corsair ship’s cargo would help, but in a country as thinly peopled as theirs it would take time to translate it into things they could eat and use.
Her mouth quirked a little. She’d loved the old stories even before she came to the old Gods, but the people in them had seemed a little crazed for booty at times. It wasn’t until you’d lived in something like their world that you understood how thin the margin could be between comfort and desperation, and how important it was to build up a reserve. Nor would anyone who’d survived the first Change Year ever take food for granted again.
Though most of her neighbors were at least bringing along a dish, fish casseroles, a ham, loaves, butter, cheese. Another thing you learned in these times was how much you depended on other folk, for all that Norrheimers boasted of their independence. Artos-Rudi and his companions tore into the dinner with the thoughtless voracity of the young and active who’d also been on short commons for some time.
“The winds were against us much of the time,” Artos finished. “With the ship so crowded we were weary and no mistake, by the time we made the Greyflood!
And
hungry!”
A hammering came at the front of the house. The buzz of conversation died down. The lanterns and candles guttered in the sudden draught; someone had pushed through the inner vestibule before the outer door closed, spilling heat. Her heart hammered, almost painfully.
She didn’t recognize the man; from the cut of his clothes he came from far inland, in the farmlands where most of the Norrheimers dwelt. He was young, just old enough for a downy show of brown whiskers on his cheeks and chin, the hood of his parka thrown back to show longish hair held by a leather headband. Youngster he might be, but a sword and seax-knife hung at his belt, and a round shield over the pack on his back. His boots had the raised toe of the type you wore on skis.
It was the arrow in his hand that drew everyone’s eyes, and brought shocked silence. It was painted bloodred from tip to fletching. That was shown for one thing only; to call out the full levy of Norrheim against a foe who threatened them all.
“War!” he shouted, shaking it in the air; his voice cracked across, and that made him pause, swallow and continue with a little more calm:
“The Bekwa have come through the north woods and crossed the border, thousands, killing, burning. A
trollkjerring
leads them, a sorcerer in a red robe, and the terror of him makes brave men run; the troll-men swear they will eat our hearts and lay all Norrheim waste.
Godhi
Bjarni Eriksson calls the fighting-men of all the tribes to rally to him—in Staghorn Dale, at the Rock of the Twin Horsemen—or we will be overrun piecemeal. Every true man. And he asks you, holy seidhkona, to come as well to battle the red-robe.”
The young man stopped, gulping, swaying on his feet; someone gave him a cup of hot cider, and he drained it eagerly, a little running down his chin as he gulped and half-choked. When he looked up his blue eyes went wide.
Artos stood, and the mild good cheer had left his face altogether, making it a thing of angles and planes. He had hung his sword belt over the back of his chair. Now he took the scabbard in his right hand and set his left—his sword-hand—on the long hilt. The crystal of the pommel caught the light of fire and lamp, breaking it back in shivers of red and orange.
“Bjarni Eriksson and I swore blood brotherhood on the golden oath-ring of his folk, in the name of his Gods and mine,” he said. “And the Threefold Herself gave me this Her Sword for just such tasks as this. Your chief shall have the help he sought, and more besides.”
The great blade flashed high suddenly.
“War!
” Artos shouted, his voice a huge silver peal in the long room.
“War!”
Men stood, and women; fists and drinking-horns and knives flashed in the air as they took up the chant.
Heidhveig shivered a little in her chair, suddenly alone and a little lost in this her home.
War
, she thought.
War indeed.
CHAPTER FOUR
KALKSTHORPE, NORRHEIM
(FORMERLY ROBBINSTON, WASHINGTON COUNTY, MAINE)
MARCH 13, CHANGE YEAR 24/2023 AD
 
 
 
“T
hey attacked us!” Kalk said furiously. His voice rose under the high roof of the three-quarters-empty warehouse the town was using to muster its fighters.
“They’re
pirates,”
he half-shouted.
“They are pirates, and they did attack, and most of them are dead. The survivors are forty-four first-class fighting-men, and neither you nor I can spare them. Nor are folk who make
viking
a term of honor in a position to be . . . what was the word they used . . . picky,” Artos said.
It was becoming more natural to think of himself by that name.
Artos
is
my name,
he thought.
It always was, in the Craft. Rudi . . . Rudi I can be in private, I suppose.
Most of the Kalksthorpe fighters were mustering here, ready to leave at dawn; it was hard cold outside the town wall, and the granular snow was still thick enough for skis. Their families were there to see them off, and a low murmur of voices sounded. Most of the good-byes were quiet and solemn, with fewer embraces or tears than there would have been among Mackenzies, even when a mother tucked the last bundle of fruitcake or rolled socks into a young man’s haversack. Everywhere about love met necessity with a fierce dignity.
Rudi turned to the Moors, who stood in a clump amid a circle of empty space. Abdou al-Naari was there, and his son beside him, a slim young man just old enough to journey with a war band; his arm had healed while his father was in Nantucket. Abdou’s blood brother Jawara stood by his other hand, smiling grimly as he fingered the edge of a broad-bladed spear. He looked to have shed years or gained inches with a weapon in his hand again, a leopard’s hunting eagerness on his broad features.
“Is it agreed?” Rudi said. “You join us for this one fight. If we win, you get your ship and enough food to sail her to your home, and pledge your word of honor by your own God that you will trouble these lands no more. The cargo is still forfeit.”
“Agreed,” Abdou said. “May God destroy me if I break the oath.
Inshallah
, God willing, we will begin our revenge on those who tricked us and blasphemed the Faith.”
He turned slightly and repeated the words in his own language. An eager baying snarl ran through the corsairs.
“And an equal share of any loot,” Abdou added, in a more matter-of-fact tone.
“Agreed, though the savages aren’t likely to have more than hard blows to give us. Stay close to my band, Abdou al-Naari. These folk may accept the bargain but they don’t love you for it.”
Abdou shrugged and smiled. “I not love ugly pagans either, we same-same so there,” he said.
Artos turned to Kalk. “The cargo is worth more than the ship; consider that wergild.”
“I’d rather have blood for blood,” the Norrheimer said.
The Mackenzie smiled at him, and the grim old man blinked a little at the savagery of the expression.
“And so you shall,” he said quietly. “Do you think they’ll all come through such a campaign as this unhurt? They
could
have stayed safely here waiting for an English ship to pick them up. Instead they’re offering their lives. For their own reasons, but that won’t make their blood flow any the less red, eh? When a man takes up the spear of his own will in a country not his own, he consents to his death and makes himself a sacrifice whose blood blesses the land.”
Heidhveig chuckled mirthlessly. “I
told
you he used his head for something besides a helmet-rack,” she said. “Now do you see why the High One said he would found a line of Kings that lasted forever in the tales of men, if he lived and won his victory?”
Kalk nodded wordlessly and turned away to his sons. Artos looked at her:
“If you can keep up, you’re welcome,” he said bluntly. “But if you can’t, Lady, then you must ask the Gods for protection, for I cannot stay to offer it.”
The seeress inclined her head. “My sleigh should be enough.”
“Pray for cold, then. If we get a thaw and then mud ...”
“I will. We’ve held our
blót
and spoken with the wights and cast the runes. Now it’s in Victory-Father’s hands.”
Rudi turned his head. “Matti?”
“Arms and armor in good condition, enough arrows, and the food supplies look adequate assuming we can restock at Eriksgarth,” she said.
“Ignatius?”
“Our medical kit is full—the healers here are excellent. Enough are coming along that I can be spared for combat duty.”
“Ingolf?”
“They’ve got no cavalry at all,” the Richlander said in frustration, and Virginia Thurston scowled agreement. “Mounted infantry at best.”
Rudi sighed. “You fight with the army you’ve got, not the one you might wish. The ideal one that has a core of well-drilled pikemen and longbowmen, with field artillery to suit, three thousand good light cavalry, and a thousand knights on destriers . . . It would be a nightmare getting enough fodder anyway. Wait until we get farther west! Fred?”
Frederick Thurston turned his hands upward, the pink palms contrasting with the chocolate-brown of his skin.
“There’s not much unit articulation in this lot,” he said, frowning slightly. “They fight by households. Given a week or two—and if they listen to me—I could at least get them to sort by the way they’re armed.”
Artos hid a smile. Fred was young—still short of twenty—but he was very intelligent and very well trained in his father’s army. The problem was that the army of the United States of Boise was a superbly disciplined precision instrument, and he judged everything by that standard. As village militias went, the Kalksthorpe
fyrd
weren’t bad at all. He’d have to learn to be a bit more flexible.
“We’ll do that along the way; but Fred, remember it’s the art of the possible. Ritva, Mary . . . I need to know more than
there are thousands of them
and
gather at Staghorn Dale
, and I need to know it quickly. Can you do it?”

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