Forging the Runes

by Josepha Sherman

  "I won't," Sorcha agreed. But her steady eyes were unreadable.

  Ardagh crouched behind a rock, Cadwal beside him, watching warily. Ah yes, the Lochlannach really were beaching their ship, bringing that elegant vessel carefully up onto the sand with the wariness of men who knew they might have to make a sudden retreat.

  The raiders were as he remembered them: tall, weather-beaten, powerfully built men, mostly fair of hair and beards, men who moved with the unthinking grace of true warriors even while—yes, Ardagh saw he'd been right about this—scavenging for firewood. Their clothing was as he'd remembered as well, woolen tunics and leggings of good, sturdy, weather-impervious weave. Although they'd left their mail shirts on board in these relatively safe surroundings, of course they went armed even while gathering wood; a raider in a foreign land could never quite abandon caution. Ardagh thought wryly that he certainly did remember their weapons, those beautifully wrought swords and axes.

  A good many of which were raised against me in that battle!

  Listening intently to the Lochlannach talking and laughing with each other, cheerful even though they were pitching their voices warily low, Ardagh frowned slightly. Their language sounded vaguely related to the Saxon tongue, but it contained so many strange words, so many unfamiliar idioms, that the prince groaned. "Just what I didn't need," he murmured to Cadwal, "another language to learn."

  "Eh?"

  "Magically." The Language Spell wasn't a difficult one, nor, fortunately, did it demand much Power. Since it was fueled primarily from the magician's own energies, it could even be cast successfully in this Realm; he'd already learned that when he had first acquired Eriu's language.

  Unfortunately, I also learned that while this Realm may allow the spell, it's not exactly friendly about such foreign things.

  Ah well, the task wasn't going to get easier for the waiting. Bracing himself, Ardagh silently spoke the Words, willing his magic into sharp focus—

  And was suddenly deprived of air, sound, light, thought—

  Then just as suddenly was back in reality, finding himself lying crumpled on the ground, panting, drained, sickeningly dizzy. Cadwal was hovering anxiously nearby, but just then all that Ardagh could do was keep his head down and try not to be ill. At last he could blink up at the mercenary and gasp, "Done."

  Cadwal was eying him as cautiously as though he'd turned into something alien. More alien than the Sidhe, at any rate. "You look done," the man muttered. "You all right?"

  "Yes." His head was finally starting to clear, his stomach to settle. "Yes," Ardagh repeated more firmly, and struggled back to his feet, listening. "Ah yes, I can understand them now."

  "They saying anything useful?"

  Cautiously testing his new acquisition, Ardagh said after a few seconds, "They're hungry."

  "They're hungry? Those bits of greenery didn't go very far."

  "With any luck, we'll be sharing their meal."

  "As long as we're not part of it."

  "Hush, Cadwal. They're no cannibals."

  "Only bloodthirsty pagan raiders. Your pardon about that 'pagan.' "

  Ardagh waved him to silence. It wasn't going to be long before the Lochlannach, ranging more and more widely in their search for driftwood for the cooking fire, discovered them. "Enough delay," the prince said. "Ready?"

  "Hell, no. But let's get it over with."

  "Indeed."

  Ardagh straightened with regal pride and stepped out of hiding. Not at all surprisingly, every one of the Lochlannach, sitting or standing, came fully alert, hands on weapons. But before they could draw blades, one man called out a commanding, "No! Wait."

  So, now! This is clearly their leader, even if he doesn't look very different from the others. He fairly radiates authority, that's the thing and—

  "Powers," Ardagh said in complete disbelief. "I know this man."

  "So do I," Cadwal hissed. "That's the one who led the raiders we fought off back in Eriu. The one whose boy died in your arms."

  How could I forget? How could I ever forget?

  He and the Lochlannach chieftain locked stares, just as they had then, but this time it was in mutual recognition; the chieftain was clearly just as astonished to find himself facing the foe who'd shown such compassion towards his dying son.

  Now, though, the human wasn't dazed by grief. Now he could actually see Ardagh—and, the prince realized with a little shock, see him, being without a doubt a pagan, without any Christian prejudice or blindness.

  The man believes in magic, he believes in Others!

  His eyes wide with sudden awe, the Lochlannach chieftain made a gesture that could only be one of ritual respect. "Ljos Alfar!" he gasped.

  The Elf

  Chapter 28

  Ljos Alfar? That, Ardagh thought after a bewildered moment, could only be the name, twisted into the Lochlannach tongue of course, of another very distant cousin-race: the Light Elves.

  That fair, golden-haired Folk—humans must think them wonderfully pure. With my black hair, I'm just lucky the man doesn't take me for a Dokk Alfar, a Dark Elf, instead!

  This was hardly the time or place to enlighten the man as to the great differences between the elves and the Sidhe. Ardagh stood with regal stillness, waiting. The human hesitated, a strong warrior suddenly thrown into a very foreign, restrained role, then asked warily, "Do you . . . speak our tongue?"

  Ardagh dipped his head an aristocratic fraction, bemused at how easy it was to slip back into Sidhe aloofness.

  The Lochlannach chieftain glanced briefly at his men, then, apparently getting no help from them, asked Ardagh in a sudden burst, "Will it please you to—to dine with us?"

  Whatever they were cooking—fish and chunks of dried meat, the prince guessed, held over the fire on driftwood branches or daggers—smelled surprisingly good.

  Hunger is, as the humans say, the finest sauce.

  Ardagh dipped his head in gracious consent and sat, signalling to Cadwal to join him. What the Lochlannach thought of his human companion, the prince wasn't sure. What Cadwal thought of them, Ardagh knew very well. But the man's face was a mask of cold dignity, revealing nothing.

  The food didn't, after the first few bites, taste as good as it had smelled; some of the meat was smoked, which gave it an interesting flavor, but most of the fish was heavily salted, and some of it had definitely been carried about too long. Proof, as though the lightly riding ship hadn't been proof enough, that the Lochlannach hadn't had a chance to pillage the land for fresh supplies.

  Ardagh nibbled elegantly, noting out of the corner of an eye that Cadwal was having no problems with his share. Presumably the mercenary had made do with far worse in the course of his career.

  They were, of course, being watched by every one of the Lochlannach, awe in every eye. Ardagh looked down at the branch in his hands, fighting down the impulse to lunge at the men just to see them jump—suicidal with this perilous bunch—then glanced coolly up.

  They all made a great pretense of no, I wasn't staring, really I wasn't, and the prince nearly laughed. Ruthless, deadly warriors, these, reduced to so many overawed boys by a touch of the Unknown.

  Ae, he'd eaten as much of this so-called food as he could stomach. Ardagh put down the branch and looked straight at the Lochlannach chieftain. "I would speak with you. Alone."

  The chieftain scrambled to his feet with a haste that spoke volumes, waving back those of his men who tried to follow. Ardagh briefly locked glances with Cadwal; the mercenary nodded ever so slightly: yes, I can take care of myself.

  "Come," the prince said shortly, and led the chieftain down the shore away from prying ears.

  They walked in silence for a time, just out of reach of the surging waves, sand and bits of shell crunching beneath their feet. The air, Ardagh thought, was wonderfully clean, if tainted a bit by the inevitable sea-reek common, it would seem, to every ocean—and by the animalistic scent of his companion.

  Still, the human wasn't truly dirty, just
a bit less washed than would be preferable. The prince acknowledged to himself that it would, after all, be difficult to bathe regularly while on board a ship in the middle of a salty ocean.

  The Lochlannach chieftain wasn't exactly a savage, either, for all the aura of casual ferocity surrounding him; his tunic was a nicely dyed russet that complemented his yellow hair, and someone had cared enough to edge that tunic with intricate embroidery. The hilt of his sword was ornamented as well, inlaid with thin bands of gold and bronze. He and the prince were almost of a height, though the human was broader in the shoulders, with the strongly muscled build of a true warrior. There was, rather to Ardagh's surprise, a fair amount of clever wit in the blue-grey eyes.

  Easier for me were he duller. Ah well.

  A gull had been circling overhead for some time, crying almost as though giving demands. Now it suddenly darted down in a swoop so low the tip of one wing brushed Ardagh's face. He sternly refused to let himself flinch as the bird soared up again, and he heard the Lochlannach's awed gasp. There wasn't anything supernatural here; the Tylwyth Teg, when they came out to play here in the moonlight, probably threw tidbits to the seabirds. But if the chieftain wanted to believe it something more, he wasn't about to argue.

  So. They'd walked far enough. Ardagh stopped and turned to face the human. He'd already decided not to mention his royal title; these Lochlannach were unpredictably dangerous enough as it was and he didn't want this particular example to try something foolish. Such as attempting to hold him for ransom. "You may call me Ardagh Lithanial," the prince said in his most regal tone. You may call me that, since, that's my name! "That is all that I shall reveal to you, save that, yes, I am never of humankind." That, he thought, was vague enough. "I need a name by which to call you."

  "Ah. I am the Jarl Thorkell Sveinsson, also known as Thorkell the Bold."

  The word he used for that epithet could, Ardagh mused, just as easily have been translated as "Foolhardy."

  "A fitting enough title," the prince said, voice sharp as a blade, "for a man who was reckless enough to take a child into battle."

  He saw the human wince at that. "Erik was nearly of warrior age," Thorkell said defensively. "And there wasn't to have been a battle, or I never would have—" He cut himself off sharply. "My boy died a good death, in combat, as befits a true warrior. And even if he—even if he was still so young . . ." The jarl broke off again, rigid with the effort at self-control. "Ah well, who can say what the Norns have woven for us?"

  "Who, indeed?" Ardagh agreed in perfect truth, having no idea who these Norns might be. One thing he did already know was how humans often chattered or blustered to try disguising true emotion.

  As Thorkell was doing. " 'Fate none escape,' and all that. Erik's safe up there in Valhalla, and Uncle Ragnar will look after him." He shrugged, a little too lightly. "Meanwhile, I have two other boys growing at home."

  And a wife who is, no doubt, still grieving. "Fortunate."

  It was said so flatly that Thorkell frowned. "I don't mean to be taking anything away from you. Hardly that! What you tried to do for my boy, I mean. I saw you try to save his life, even at the risk of your own, and I . . ." Suddenly all the nervous bluster was gone. "Ask what you will of me," the jarl said quietly, "and if it's within what a human can do, it will be done."

  Ardagh dipped his head in courtesy. "A truly noble offer." I only wish I knew enough about your folk to know if you keep your vows! "At the moment, though, all that I require is passage for myself and my human companion off this charming but rather limited little beach."

  Thorkell stared. "Your pardon, but . . . well . . . can't you just magic yourself away?"

  Careful, now. He can't possibly know how limited Power is in this Realm. "There are reasons," the prince said severely, and let Thorkell make of that cryptic statement what he would.

  Which, as Ardagh had expected of a human, was something dark and mysterious and Not For Man to Know. "Of course," Thorkell said, just barely keeping from glancing nervously about. "You are welcome aboard my ship. More than welcome, in fact."

  A warning bell sounded in Ardagh's mind. "What does that mean?"

  The human didn't answer at once, and the warning bell grew louder. "It's about luck," Thorkell said at last. "Luck."

  From the surprise in the jarl's eyes, this was something every self-respecting Alfar, Ljos or Dokk, would have understood without explanation. But Thorkell continued without more than a momentary pause, "With luck, everything to which a man turns his hand is golden. Without it . . ."

  "No one remembers his name and he goes down to dust unsung," Ardagh completed, guessing.

  "Exactly."

  "Let me see if I can deduce the gist of this: Since the disaster of your last raid, the murmur has gone about your people that your luck has failed you. Now, you think, with my presence, your luck has turned again."

  The jarl smiled widely. "And has it not?"

  "That," Ardagh said, absolutely without expression, "remains to be seen. Shall we return to the others?"

  Cadwal was waiting, the image of apparently total calm for all that he was surrounded by warriors. But tension was sharp in his voice as he asked, "Well?"

  "I've won us passage from this pretty prison," Ardagh murmured, voice warily low since he wasn't certain that none of the Lochlannach understood Gaeilge. "What else I may have won in the process, I'm not yet sure. But at least we'll be away from here."

  Cadwal stared. "Sail with them? You're going to trust these barbarians?"

  For answer, Ardagh looked about at the warriors, merely looked, putting no menace into it at all. The Lochlannach busily looked away, some of them making furtive signs against evil that reminded him of those made by equally uneasy Christians. "You see?" he said to Cadwal.

  "Right. They're cowed. Till something happens that their friendly 'Alfar' can't solve."

  "Tsk, Cadwal," Ardagh purred. "I'm not all that Powerless. And let us take one crisis at a time, shall we?"

  "Right." This time it was said without any sarcasm. "And the first crisis I see," the mercenary added with a groan, "is that I'm going to have to set foot in yet another ship."

  The prince gave an involuntary little chuckle. "Ae, I'm sorry, I don't mean to mock you. At least these are much more elegant than the . . . thing we rode from Eriu."

  Elegant, indeed. The Lochlannach ship was built of smoothly overlapping planks—oak, the prince guessed, since that seemed to be the most durable wood in this Realm—and was long and sleek as the dragon whose intricately carved head crowned its prow. As Ardagh looked down the sleek lines that spoke of deadly speed, he found his hand itching to stroke the ship as though it were a living beast.

  Hearing Thorkell come up beside him, he turned to see the jarl beaming with pride. "Like it, do you?"

  "It is truly beautiful."

  "It is that. This is the Sea Raven, and a finer ship you'd be hard-put to find. In the world of men," the human added hastily.

  Ardagh bit back the decidedly perilous urge to say, I know, I've seen it in retreat. One did not insult a host's prize possession. And, courtesy aside, if Thorkell didn't want to mention that he'd last seen Ardagh fighting against him, this was hardly the time to remind him!

  Cadwal's right. What do I do when something happens that I can't magic away? No. I was right as well: one crisis at a time.

  It hadn't surprised Ardagh to see how quickly the beached ship could be returned to deep water; after all, he'd seen it happen during the battle back in Eriu. What he hadn't seen was how efficiently a Lochlannach dragon ship was arranged. Standing aboard the Sea Raven, he saw that it was almost as long and narrow as a racing craft. Craning his head back, the prince saw that the great square sail was lashed to a long cross-pole that could be turned by ropes to catch the wind. The tall mast could be lowered—convenient, Ardagh guessed, for storage during the bitter Northern winters, in addition to providing less resistance for rowers; these sat on the two-man benches lining the sides of th
e Sea Raven, dropped down from the central deck.

  And efficient rowers these men were, even with the mast raised, quickly bringing the ship back to open water. Ardagh caught his balance easily, a little unnerved by the reminder of how swiftly the Lochlannach could strike and be away again.

  I'd be happier, too, if there wasn't that great mass of an iron anchor there on the aft deck as well.

  The wind rose. Rigging creaked, then, with a sudden boom, the great sail caught the wind and billowed full.

  "Pretty as the belly of a woman with child," Thorkell murmured, then called, "Up oars!"

  All thirty oars snapped up in unison and were quickly shipped, impressing Ardagh anew.

  Bad enough to fight these folk on land. I would hate to have to fight a sea battle against them.

  The wind blew steadily from the north. "See?" Thorkell crowed. "Thor is kind to us. Or is it," he added warily, "that it's you who've brought us the wind?"

  Thor? Presumably that was some Lochlannach deity, possibly Thorkell's own patron. As for the wind: Ardagh . . . smiled, no more, no less. Oh yes, by all means let us build up the mystique of the Ljos Alfar, he told himself dryly. At least until the time when he wants some great and wondrous magic from you.

  Magic he really would have to work, somehow, if he and Cadwal were to remain safe. A dangerous game, this, Ardagh mused. Like playing with barely leashed ice-wolves.

  Not much that he could do about it right now. Save pose like the arrogant Faerie being Thorkell expected and ignore the human, staring out to sea as though aware of far-distant wonders.

  As the Sea Raven sailed on, Thorkell went astern to speak with Olaf, the steersman. Ardagh hesitated, then decided that a little more image-making never hurt anyone. It was, he knew, ridiculous to stand in the prow of a sailing ship, regardless of all those romantic visions in various tales of the hero looking bravely ahead; since the wind pushed the sail—and boat—forward, any foul odors on board were pushed forward as well.