Dreamless at least until I started dreaming of angels.
I stood in the predawn, on the hills just beyond Vermillion’s farmlands, looking down at the Seleen snaking westward towards the distant sea. Baraqel stood above me, on the hilltop, statued against the sky, unmoving until the rays of the rising sun lit his shoulders.
“Hear me, Jalan Kendeth, son of—”
“I know who I’m son of.”
The angel had far more gravitas about him now than he had in his early visits. As if he spoke more with his own voice than the one I’d fashioned for him back when he was nine parts imagination.
“The time will soon come when you will need to remember where you sprang from. You sail into the land of sagas—a place where heroes are needed, and made. You will need your courage.”
“I don’t think remembering my father will help there. The good cardinal would turn and run if a goat blocked his path. It wouldn’t have to be a big one either.”
“It’s in the nature of children to see past the strengths of their parents. Time to grow up, Jalan Kendeth.” He lifted his face to me, golden-eyed, glowing with the dawn.
“And what’s so great about being brave? Skilfar had the right of it. We’re all running around each according to our nature, some cunning, some honest, some sly, some brave—but what of it?”
Baraqel flexed his wings. “Your grandmother spoke to her sister of you. ‘Has he the mettle? Has he the courage required?’ An ‘idle, shallow boy, full of bluster but ringing hollow,’ she called you, Jalan. ‘A mind blunted by sloth, blinkered by a dry wit,’ she said, ‘but whet it and that mind could take an edge. Had we but world enough and time what we might make of the child . . . but we have neither world nor time. Our cause is narrowing to a point not so many miles distant, a second not so many years hence and in that spot, in that moment, will come a test on which the world will turn.’ These are the words she drew you with.”
“I’d be surprised if she knew which one I was. And I’m sharp enough when I need to be. Bravery is just a different kind of broken. The quins are missing whatever it is a man needs in order to feel fear. Snorri’s scared of being a coward. There’s a wyrm like that in their heathen stories, Oroborus, eating its own tail. Scared of being a coward, is that what bravery is? Am I brave because I don’t fear being afraid? You’re of the light; the light reveals. Shine a bright enough light on any kind of bravery and isn’t it just a more complex form of cowardice?”
I stood a moment, the heels of my palms pressed to my forehead, hunting the words.
“Humanity can be divided into madmen and cowards. My personal tragedy is in being born into a world where sanity is held to be a character flaw.” I ran out of words under his gaze.
“Cleverness builds ever more elaborate structures of self-justification,” he said, judgment spilling from his mouth. “But in the end you know what is and what is not right. All men do, though they may spend their years trying to bury that knowing, burying it beneath words, hatreds, lusts, sorrow, or any of the other bricks from which they build their lives. You know what is right, Jalan. When the time comes, you’ll know. But knowing is never enough.”
They told me I spent the best part of a week insensible. Sleeping twenty-two hours in twenty-four, half-waking to let Tuttugu spoon warm gruel down my throat—some of it down the inside, some down the outside. A quin had to hold each arm when nature called me on infrequent trips to the side, or I’d have pitched in and not have been seen again. We crossed the open sea, then followed the Norsheim coast day upon day, heading north.
“Wake up.” The angel’s only instruction this sunrise.
I opened my eyes. Grey dawn, flapping sailcloth, the cry of gulls. Baraqel silenced. The angel spoke true. I always know what is right. I just don’t do it. “Are we nearly there yet?” I felt better. Almost good.
“Not far.” Tuttugu sitting close by. Others moved about the longship in the dimness.
“Oh.” From behind closed eyelids I tried to imagine terra firma, hoping to stave off a prebreakfast vomit.
“Snorri says you’re good with wounds,” Tuttugu said.
“Christ. This voyage is going to kill me.” I tried to sit and fell off the bench, still weak. “I thought it would be the undead horrors and mad axe-men out on the ice. But no. I’m going to die at sea.”
“Probably for the best.” Tuttugu offered a hand to help me up. “Good clean death.”
I almost took his hand, then snatched mine back. “Oh no. Not falling for that one.” It wouldn’t be long before I couldn’t beat a leper out of my way without curing the bastard. “You don’t look injured.”
Tuttugu buried his fingers in the ginger bush of his beard and scratched furiously, muttering something.
“What?” I asked.
“Brothel rash,” he said.
“Whore pox?” That at least made me smile. “Ha!”
“Snorri said—”
“I ain’t laying on hands down there! I’m a prince of Red March, for God’s sake! Not some travelling apothecary-cum-faith-healer!”
The fat man’s face fell.
“Look,” I said, knowing I’d need all the friends I could make once we hit dry land. “I might not know much about wounds, but whore pox I know far more about than any man ever should. Do you have mustard seed aboard?”
“We might.” Tuttugu furrowed his brow.
“Rock salt? Some black treacle, tanners’ acid, turpentine, string, two needles, very sharp ones, and some ginger . . . well, that’s optional, but it helps.”
A slow shake of the head.
“Ah, well, we’ll pick it up in port. I can cook it up to an old family recipe. Apply as a topical paste to the affected regions and you’ll be a new man within six days. Seven tops.”
Tuttugu grinned, which was good, and gave me the Norse punch of friendship, which hurt a lot more than the traditional manly shoulder punch down south, and that was that. At least until he frowned and asked, “And the needles?”
“Well, when I said ‘apply’ what I really meant was ‘smear on a needle and jab in.’ You’ll need more than one as the mixture corrodes them.”
“Oh.” Little remained of Tuttugu’s grin. “And the string’s to hang myself with?”
“To tie the bag on . . . Look, I’ll explain the gory details when you’ve got the stuff.”
“Land ho!” One of the quins from the prow, providing a welcome distraction.
My nightmare at sea was all but done.
TWENTY-FIVE
Mist shrouded Norsheim, offering me only glimpses of wet black cliffs and menacing reefs of rock as we closed the last mile or so to reach the shore. We came in past other Norse vessels plying their trade. Fatter-bodied boats in the main, trailing nets or laden with cargo, but all with northern lines to their construction. We saw other longships too, most of the dozen or so at anchor, one heading out to open sea, red sails already too small to make out the device set upon them.
Coming in closer still, we saw the port of Trond rising from a shoreline of black stone to crowd the lower slopes of mountains that stepped wet-footed from the sea. I had thought Den Hagen looked dour and uninviting, but compared to Trond the port of Den Hagen was a paradise, practically open-legged with welcome. The northmen built their homes of slate and heavy timber, turf-roofed, windows mere slits to defy the slim fingers of the wind that already had filched most of my warmth. Rain started to fall, lacing the wind and stinging like ice where it hit my cheeks.
“And this is summer? How can you tell?”
“Glorious summer!” Snorri spread his arms beside me.
“You can tell because in the winter there are no midges,” said Arne behind me. “Also, the snow is six foot deep.”
“And you could walk to the port from here,” Snorri said.
“I didn’t even know the sea could freeze . .
.” I went to the side to consider the matter and leaned out between two of the shields the men had fixed there in preparation for our arrival. “At least it would stop it bobbing about all the time.”
We rowed in the last quarter mile, sail down. I say “we.” I provided moral support.
“How is it the Broke-Oar got his name?” I asked, seeing them all bending to their task.
“The first time he went to row a longship.” Quin Ein.
“He must have been fourteen, or fifteen.” Quin Tveir, probably.
“Hauled on the oar so hard he broke it.” Quin Thrir, possibly.
“Didn’t know his own strength, even then.” Fjórir, his arm still scarred.
“Never seen anyone pull an oar that hard.” Fimm, by process of elimination.
“Is he stronger than you, Snorri?” I found the thought unsettling.
Snorri pulled back on his oar, keeping rhythm with the others. “Who can say?” Another stroke. “The Broke-Oar doesn’t know his own strength.” Another stroke. “But I know mine.” And the look he gave me, all ice and fire, made me very glad not to be his enemy.
• • •
At the dockside I was pleasantly surprised to find the North wasn’t all hairy men in animal skins. There were also hairy women in animal skins. And, to be fair, also some townsfolk in cloaks woven from wool, with tweed or linen jackets, trews cross-bound from ankle to thigh as is the fashion in the Thurtans.
We disembarked and I staggered at the unfamiliar feeling of something solid and unmoving beneath my feet. I could have kissed it, but didn’t. Instead I followed on, burdened by my pack, now adorned with tightly bundled winter gear, more to be added soon. Snorri knew the port well and led us up towards a tavern that he held a good opinion of.
Trond, unlike many of the smaller towns and villages along the coast and fjords, wasn’t the fiefdom of some jarl, dominated by his mead-hall and with every arrival noted, taxed, and subject to his approval. Trade ruled in Trond. The port’s external security balanced upon a number of well-financed alliances, and its internal security depended on a militia paid in Empire coin by the collective of merchant lords who governed the place. As such it presented an ideal landing spot and place to resupply. Snorri planned to travel overland to the Uulisk, a journey of two days or so across mountainous terrain. To limp up the fjord on a badly undermanned snekkja would lose the only advantages a small band possesses, namely agility, speed, and surprise. It sounded a sensible plan given that we were determined foolishly to head into trouble, and Snorri even credited me with helping to formulate it during my more lucid moments on the long voyage, though I had no memory of it.
As we’d pulled into harbour I’d made out storm clouds louring across the ranges to the north, lightning deep inside them as if Thor himself were present. Somewhere out there beyond those peaks, Sven Broke-Oar waited for us in the Black Fort, and beyond him the Bitter Ice with its frozen dead, necromancers, and the unborn. My chances to escape had all but slipped away, and our long journey was at last closing on what would likely prove to be a short sharp end.
• • •
The tavern of Snorri’s choosing bore three rusting axes, stapled to the wall high above the doorway. The Norsemen installed me at a table, then ordered most of a pig to be roasted and brought out along with copious ale, maintaining that both were excellent cures for a man in weakened health.
The rest of the clientele were a rough lot, but none of them appeared to be looking for trouble. You develop an instinct for such things if you frequent as many low dives as I have. Additionally, the fact that I had eight Undoreth warriors in my corner would not have gone unnoticed.
“We’ll meet up here come nightfall.” Snorri sniffed the air with a certain longing. The smell of roasting dominated over all the usual tavern stink of smoke and sweat and ale. And with a sigh he led his men off into the town, Tuttugu armed with my pox recipe. I assumed that Jarl Torsteff’s men must have escaped with at least some of the proceeds of their looting on the Drowned Isles because for once Snorri hadn’t asked me for funds, and he had plenty he needed to buy—warm gear and provisions for nine not the least of it. I patted for my locket, just to be sure.
A lean southerner walked in as the last of my Vikings departed, wrapped in a motley cape, dulled by age, and with a mandolin under his arm. He settled by the fireplace, raising an arm for beer. Another man opened the street door, half-lowered his hood, thought better of it, then left. Not a music lover, perhaps, or finding the place too packed. Something about him struck me as familiar, but my meal arrived and my stomach demanded my full attention.
“There you go, my lovely.” A perky, fair-haired tavern girl set down my roast pork, a heel of bread, a steaming jug of gravy, and a tankard of ale. “Enjoy.” I watched her leave and started to feel twenty-two again rather than ninety-two. Good food, ale, and a floor beneath me that had the manners to stay where it was put . . . the world had started looking up. All I needed was a plausible excuse for staying in Trond until the nastiness up north had been dealt with and I could look upon this whole sorry affair as a vacation gone tragically astray.
I noticed a blond woman watching me from beside her companion, young and really quite striking once you looked past the homespun and dirt. Another pretty young thing, white-blond and pale, slanted glances my way from beside an older man. None of them dressed like professional company, even accounting for the summer chill. It seemed as though taking your sister or daughter to the tavern might just be the done thing in Trond. Another woman walked in through the street door, this one solid and dour, and pushed a path to the bar to order black ale. I chewed over that one with my meat. Things appeared to run very differently in the North. Still, I had no objections. I might complain about Cousin Serah and my grandmother’s plan to circumvent the rightful chain of succession, but in general I found the women with the most freedom to act were by far the most fun to be around. After all, it’s hard for the old Jalan charm to get to work if there’s a chaperone or inconvenient brother like Alain DeVeer in the way.
I sat for a moment, letting the conversations flow across me. Many of the locals spoke in the Empire Tongue. Arne told me it was common enough in the larger port towns. In the villages along the fjords a man could go for weeks without hearing a word not spoken in the old speech.
Across the room the troubadour began to pick at his mandolin, scattering a few notes over the crowd. I wiped pork fat from my mouth and swigged my ale. The older blonde kept watching me and I gave her the Jalan smile, the one the hero of Aral Pass offers to the masses. The man beside her seemed to have no interest in our exchange, a slightly built fellow with a drooping moustache and twitchy eye. Still, any peasant can stick a knife in you, so I curbed my instinct to barge over there and introduce myself. Instead I decided to put my goods on show and let the bees come to the honey.
“Do you know ‘The Red March’?” I called across to the mandolin player. Most bards do, and he looked well travelled in any case.
By way of answer, fingers flickered across strings and the first few bars rolled out. I stood, bowed to the various ladies, and crossed to the fireplace. “Prince Jalan of Red March at your service one and all. A guest to your shores and pleased to be here amongst such fierce warriors and fair maids.” I nodded to my new friend and he started to play. I’ve got a decent baritone and the princes of Red March are trained in all the arts: We declaim poetry, we dance, we sing. Mostly we’re trained in the arts of war, but wordcraft and painting are not neglected. Add to this that “The Red March” is a rousing military chorus that forgives a singer’s weaknesses and encourages others to join in and you have the ideal icebreaker. Even the frozen seas of the North couldn’t withstand my charm! I hoisted my tankard and gave full voice with the troubadour filling in the gaps with his own mellow tones.
I’ll say this for Norsemen, they like to sing. Before I’d finished either my ale or song almost ev
eryone under that roof was roaring out “The Red March,” ignorance of the words proving no obstacle. Better still, my delicious blonde had detached herself from Droopy Moustache to stand at my side, showing herself during her approach to have been blessed in all the right places by the gods of Asgard. The pretty pale waif had also ditched her father to keep me company on the other side.
“So you’re a prince?” As the din of the last verse subsided. The blond beauty, more attractive by the moment, leaned in. “I’m Astrid.”
“I’m Edda.” The pale girl, hair flowing like milk, very fine-featured. “Who was that warrior with you? You know, the big one.”
I did my best to keep the irritation from my face. “You don’t want to worry about him, Edda. He’s tall, yes, but women report that he’s very unsatisfactory in the furs. Used all his growing getting too high off the ground and didn’t save enough for the important things. It’s a sad story. His mother and father . . . well, brother and sister—”
“No?” Her lips made a circle.
“Yes.” I shook my head sadly. “And you know how it goes with those sorts of children. They never grow up properly. I do my best to look out for him.”
“So generous of you,” Astrid purred, steering my attention away from sweet Edda.
“My dear lady, it’s the moral duty of nobility to—”
Someone crashed in through the street door, cutting me off. “A brandy if you please!”
A commotion as the crowd parted. A young man, a touch taller than me, a touch older, walked forwards grasping the wrist of his right hand, blood dripping on the floor.
“Oh my— What happened?” Edda clutched her hands below her breasts.
“Just a dog.” The fellow was golden-haired, not white-blond like her, and handsome with it. “The baby’s fine, though.”
“Baby?” Astrid, coming over all motherly.
The man reached the bar and a hairy warrior signalled he’d get the drink for him. “Snatched him from his mother’s arms,” the man said. Someone passed him a cloth and he started wrapping it around his hand.