Dangerous Talents

by Frankie Robertson

  Yeah, like that’s going to happen. “Done,” she said.

  Dahleven pulled back a little as she re-packed her first aid kit, but he didn’t move away. “Can you walk?”

  Cele snapped her belt-pack around her waist. “Of course!” She might be clumsy, but she wasn’t that badly hurt. Hadn’t she proven by now that she wasn’t some delicate little flower? “Just give me a second to get my stuff together.” Her voice was sharper than she’d intended, and that made her even angrier. She gritted her teeth behind clamped lips. She’d been about to thank him for his help before he opened his mouth.

  Cele felt around for the pack and waterskins. Crawling on the cold stone floor was awkward as she tried to keep her shin from touching down, and her discomfort didn’t improve her mood. She was almost grateful for Dahleven’s stupid question. It was a good reminder how really dumb it was to be thinking sexual thoughts about him. She ought to be glad for the dark, too, since it kept her from ogling his perfect ass and flat abs. Finally, she stood and shrugged into the pack she’d inherited from Lindimer with abrupt, angry movements. Dahleven didn’t say anything when she indicated she was ready. He just groped for her left hand, brought it to his belt, and headed out.

  He took the lead, and from the sound of metal scraping rock, Cele guessed he was feeling his way with his sword. Apparently, knowing the way didn’t keep him from stubbing his toes. The blackness pressed around them, so thick that Cele thought it ought to have substance. With nothing but the steady ache of her leg to indicate its flow, time slowed.

  She hated stumbling around in the dark. She wanted out of this musty hole in the ground. She wanted light. She thought of the clear, clean sunlight that shafted down through the pine trees on the mountain somewhere above and felt that odd tug that said, This way. Off to her left and above there was light. She knew it. But there was also who knew how many tons of solid rock. Cele shook her head and dismissed the peculiar sensation as Dahleven towed her through the inky blackness.

  Twice she felt a change in the air, as though they walked by an opening on the right, but Dahleven never turned from the passage they followed. The third time it felt like the opening was on the left. The peculiar sensation flared. The pull was almost physical, and Cele turned toward it. This is the quickest way to light.

  “What is it?”

  Dahleven’s voice distracted her. What could she say? The feeling she had didn’t make any sense to her, so how could she explain it to him? And she certainly had no business suggesting which way to go. “I, uh, thought I felt a change in the air.” She felt stupid for giving in to her imaginings.

  “You are feeling fresh air. We’re next to a ventilation shaft.”

  “Could we get out this way?”

  “I suppose so. But it’s steep and we have no climbing gear. It would take us longer in the end to get to Quartzholm.”

  With some surprise, she realized her feeling wasn’t wrong, just impractical. She still wanted light, though. Any light. “Did you say something before about torches?”

  “Yes. There’s a store of them not too far ahead.”

  Cele thought about dancing firelight. Even the light of inconstant flame would be welcome in this void. Her odd certainty shifted. Now it pulled in the direction Dahleven had been headed. “Great! Let’s go!”

  They continued down the tunnel, each step the same as the last, but eventually the sound of their footsteps told Cele they’d entered a larger chamber. The air seemed a little fresher.

  Dahleven dropped her hand. “Wait here.”

  Cele wanted to follow the tugging sensation that compelled her forward, but she did as Dahleven commanded. She could hear the occasional ting of his sword as he felt his way around the chamber. Then she heard him put his sword down and fumble with something. Bright, brief flashes of light made Cele wonder for a moment if she’d been staring into the darkness too long, but an instant later she realized Dahleven was striking sparks. In a moment the tinder caught, and a tiny flame flared to life, bright after so many hours of absolute dark, riveting her attention. Dahleven held a torch to the flame. The pitch caught, flaring with the scent of burning pine tar, and its brightness overwhelmed her eyes, long adapted to the dark. She squinted, blinking back tears of relief as the dark retreated. Dahleven put the torch into an iron wall bracket.

  The light revealed a round chamber with three black openings cut into its walls. Wooden chests bound with iron rested against the stone between each doorway. A sconce hung at shoulder height next to each opening, with a bucket of sand beneath. The domed ceiling arched high overhead.

  Dahleven returned the flint and tinder to the chest nearest him, then shucked his pack and rose, stretching his shoulders and arms until his chest cracked. He gestured at the stone floor. “Sit. Be comfortable,” he said without apparent irony. “We’ll rest here tonight.”

  The stone floor was cold, and they each sat cross-legged with the edges of their blanket-shawls tucked beneath them. Cele became aware she was ravenous and pulled the last of the dried fruit from her pack. Dahleven chewed his jerky. They ate in companionable silence, the only sound the soft sizzle of the torch.

  Dahleven cleared his throat. “We honor our dead by telling their tales, that those we have lost may live on in our memories though they no longer live among us. May Bragi inspire my words.” His speech had a ritual cant to it. Cele remembered he’d said the same thing before the men had started their stories about Sorn the night before. Tonight he talked about Lindimer first, telling how he’d once saved nineteen men from ambush by hearing one of the enemy scratch as they lay in wait to attack. Cele had heard Lindimer’s Talent called Heimdal’s Ear and understood he’d had sharp hearing, but Dahleven’s tale seemed far-fetched in the same way Ghav’s story about Sorn had. It doesn’t matter. The point is to honor a fallen friend, not historical accuracy.

  She watched Dahleven as he spoke. His eyes brightened as he related Lindimer’s warning, and his face grew fiercely joyous as he told how Lindimer and his fellows turned the ambush into a trap for their enemies. She’d seen that kind of intensity on Jeff’s face when he watched football with his friends. But Dahleven wasn’t talking about a game. His story was about life and death, and the loyalty of comrades who depended on one another for their lives.

  The achingly beautiful death song, sung by the men at Lindimer’s cairn, repeated its melody in her mind. Dahleven was part of a tightly woven community, no thread of which could be pulled without affecting the whole. They held values and goals in common, supported one another in life, and honored each other in death.

  That kind of belonging called to her, but the violence of the world it came in was frightening. In just a handful of days she’d been in two battles, seen a friend die horribly, seen another man die with his throat cut by a traitor, and a third man go down with an arrow in his back. The price paid for community was a high one here, and as Knut had proved, loyalty wasn’t guaranteed.

  Dahleven seemed to have followed her thoughts. “Knut’s family will pay a high price for Lindimer’s death. What could that cur have been thinking? What gain could be great enough?” His strong hands clenched till the knuckles whitened and his voice rose, edged with outrage. “The wereguild alone will near break his brother. Unless they find Knut first and execute the sentence for his perfidy, their family will forever be shamed by it.”

  Why should Knut’s family suffer for his actions? “Will Knut be held responsible for the last attack, and for Halsten?”

  Dahleven’s attention snapped to her. “Halsten?”

  Shit. He didn’t know. She shrank from telling him that another of his men had fallen, but there was no help for it. “When we were running I saw Halsten go down…with an arrow in his back.”

  “Halsten, too.” The muscles in Dahleven’s jaw jumped. “Another good man.” His eyes narrowed and his voice was tight. “The Council may not hold Knut accountable for Halsten, but I will.”

  Cele wanted to change the cold expression
carved into Dahleven’s features. “What was Halsten’s Talent?”

  “True Aim. I never met a man who could best him in archery or with thrown axes. But he’ll be missed even more for his music.” Dahleven’s face relaxed as he related how Halsten had won competitions with his music, amused his comrades with his drinking ditties, and seduced more than one maiden with his melodies.

  “Do you know any of his songs?” Cele asked. At his nod, Cele urged, “Sing one for me.”

  Dahleven didn’t demur. Maybe he saw it as the best way to honor Halsten—to remember him through his music. He paused for a moment, then he smiled and cleared his throat.

  The melody was a simple one, but Dahleven’s rich baritone brought it life. It told the adventures of a hapless hunter who returned home empty-handed time after time to an irate wife and vegetable stew. Cele started rocking to the song’s rhythm and felt herself smiling in response to Dahleven’s grin. It was a long song with lots of verses and an often repeated chorus. At the end, Dahleven gestured she join him.

  Cele hesitated. Her voice was untrained, but she liked the song and she could hardly refuse to honor Halsten’s memory. She sang softly at first, but she knew the words after so many repetitions, and by the end of the chorus, her voice was strong.

  “Hot pot, what have you got?

  Naught but a meatless stew.

  A carrot, a turnip, a green tomato,

  Is all I can offer you.”

  “That was one of Sorn’s favorites,” Dahleven said when they’d finished. “He liked to pretend to bare competence as a hunter, but he was nearly as good a shot as Halsten.” Dahleven’s face took light with affection as he talked about Sorn. “Sorn saved my life, but he never liked me to speak of it. His valor assured him of a place in Valhalla many times over.”

  Valhalla? Dahleven had sworn by Odin before, but somehow it hadn’t clicked into place for her till now. As in Vikings? But how would they get here? Cele grimaced at the stupidity of the question and shook her head. How did I get here?

  Dahleven misinterpreted her expression. “It can be painful to speak of those gone, but we honor them by doing so.”

  He was right. It hurt. The more she heard, the worse she felt about Sorn’s death, and the more she wished she’d had a chance to know him better. But the only way to know him now was through the stories of his friends. “Please go on.”

  Dahleven gave her an approving smile. “Two years ago, a petition came before the Kon. The shepherds who run their sheep in the high pastures of the eastern range were losing their lambs to a mountain cat. They’d hunted her themselves, but the canny beast proved too elusive. Worse, while they’d been hunting her, she’d been hunting too, and she’d killed the shepherd left guarding the flock. So they sent a man to bring their need before Kon Neven.

  “I asked for the privilege of ridding the high valleys of the cat, and Sorn came with me. We’d hunted together often, and we each knew the other’s ways. So we begged Freya’s blessing to hunt her cat and rode up to the high pastures. We left our mounts with the men who’d sought our help, and went forward on foot.

  “We followed that cat for four days. We tracked her well, through bone-chilling streams and over the twisted rocky trails she took trying to evade us. We rested little, and she even less. Often we saw her on a distant ridge, grown sleek and fat on the lambs she’d stolen.

  “Late on the fourth day she’d run enough. The summer sun on her coat no longer rippled like molten gold, and her movements were slow and tired. Sorn and I split, circling wide, knowing she was most dangerous now.

  “The sun was in my eyes when I jumped down into a hollow, following her trail, and I came upon her suddenly, and alone. She was above me and leapt before I could knock arrow. Her spotted belly blurred in motion, but I saw clearly her teeth bared, her claws extended, reaching for me as if I was a helpless lamb.

  “Sorn’s arrow took her in mid-leap, clean into her eye. She fell, her full weight upon me. My ankle twisted as I went down, and her weight cracked two of my ribs. Sorn had to half carry me down the mountain.”

  His voice was thick as he continued. “He’d crept quietly around her with the breeze in his teeth so she never knew he was there. He’d been about to take her when I blundered in. And that is how I gave Sorn the chance to be a hero, saving with one shot both the flocks and me.” He coughed and cleared his throat.

  Cele peered at him. The torch flickered unsteadily, nearly burned out, the wavering light concealing his face with uncertain shadows, but she had heard the unshed tears in his voice. She blinked away the moisture that stung her eyes. “I’ll miss him. I know we only just met, but he treated me with kindness.” Dahleven would probably think her words sounded lame, but it was all she had to offer. “That may not be heroic, but it meant a lot to me.”

  “Freyr honors such things.”

  “Freyr?”

  Dahleven raised his eyebrows, and his voice questioned her ignorance. “Freyr. Of the Vanir.”

  He peered at her in the dim light and must have seen her blankness. Hardly surprising, since she didn’t have a clue what he was talking about. Apparently, he came to that conclusion, because he continued, offering explanation.

  “The Vanir are the first gods, older even than the Aesir. We look to Freyr and his sister Freya to bless us with peace and plenty, as he did when he opened the way to this land for us, some eight hundred years ago. We may thank Odin for poetry, Tyr for law, and Thor for courage in battle, but it is Freyr who blesses the union of men and women with pleasure and children. He rewards those who show respect and courtesy to women.”

  “Sorn is dead. That’s not much of a reward.” She swallowed hard. “I’m sorry. That’s not fair. I can’t blame someone else for what I did.”

  “What you did?”

  Cele looked down at her hands clenched in her lap. “It’s my fault he died. If I hadn’t distracted him…”

  Dahleven lifted her chin with two fingers and looked her in the eye. “Did you summon the Renegades to attack us?”

  “No! Of course not!”

  “Did you wield the club that pierced Sorn’s belly?”

  “That’s not—”

  “Did you not prevent two Renegades from taking him unaware?”

  “I suppose so, but—”

  “These things happen in battle, Celia.”

  “Sorn said something like that, too, but he was only trying to make me feel better.”

  Dahleven shook his head. “He spoke the truth. We do our best, but we have no say in when the Norns snip our life’s thread. I am sorry to have lost my sworn brother, but his death was an honorable one. You bear no fault in this. You owe no wereguild for Sorn.”

  Cele looked into Dahleven’s steady gray eyes. He meant it. He didn’t hold her responsible in any way. He was far more familiar with combat than she was. Maybe she should trust that he knew what he was talking about. Maybe Sorn’s death wasn’t her fault.

  But her heart still ached.

  The light flickered wildly, casting erratic shadows on the walls. “The torch won’t last much longer,” Dahleven said. “I’ll show you to the latrine.”

  “Latrine?”

  Dahleven’s tone was rather arch. “We don’t usually relieve ourselves in the hallways.”

  Cele felt herself blushing and hoped he couldn’t tell in the uncertain light.

  They’d barely returned to the chamber when the last small flame of the torch finally died. Its light had been minimal, but the return of absolute blackness oppressed Cele by its stark contrast with the cheerful red flame. She hadn’t slept with a nightlight since childhood, but she’d welcome one now. The floor was smooth but hard and unyielding and the wool beneath her did little to insulate her from the cold seeping into her bones. She felt isolated in the utter absence of light, and as she huddled at the edge of the blankets, she listened for the sounds of Dahleven’s breathing to tell her she was not alone.

  She wished she could reach out to him, just f
or the relief of touching another person, but she didn’t want to give him the wrong impression. It would only embarrass them both if he thought she was issuing an invitation. The memory of the first morning flashed into her mind, that moment when she’d awakened entwined with Dahleven, her head pillowed on his shoulder. Heat flooded her face—and other parts of her body.

  They’d fit together perfectly. She’d felt comforted and secure until she realized he was awake. I don’t need this. I don’t want this. Life is weird enough without me falling for some macho jerk of a Viking. Maybe the dark wasn’t so bad after all, since it hid her blush from his eyes. Cele groaned and covered her face.

  Dahleven put a warm hand on her shoulder. “Are you unwell? Does your leg pain you?”

  A macho Viking who worries about my welfare.

  Cele managed to reply in a perfectly normal voice that she was fine, but when Dahleven withdrew his hand, she had a hard time not pulling it back.

  *

  Dahleven tried to ignore his frustration as he rolled away from Celia. Something troubled her, something beyond the wearing strain of the endless dark. He wanted to take her into his arms as he had after Sorn died, as he would one of his own sisters. Except that his feelings for her were not exactly brotherly. It was probably just as well that she kept her fears and troubles to herself. The concern he felt for her had uneven footing; it would be too easy to slide down that slope, out of control.

  He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. It could have been two or twenty feet away for all he could see. He’d never enjoyed exploring the tunnels, not the way Sorn had. It wasn’t so much the dark—most of the tunnels had torches—but the thought of all that rock overhead.

  He’d possessed no special advantage in their youthful tunnel adventures; his ordinary sense of direction failed him underground and his Talent had developed late. He remembered the year his younger brother’s Talent bloomed. Ragni had never gloated over him, but he had a boy’s natural excitement in exercising his new ability and learning how to use, or not use it, appropriately. Meanwhile, their elders had obviously begun to fear Dahleven’s Talent would never Emerge. Even when it did appear, it had taken many months to master. Until he’d learned to concentrate, to commit to one path, his variable interest in first the most direct route, then the easiest, or the one with the best light or water had his Talent pulling him hither and yon.