Forging the Runes

by Josepha Sherman

  Iron, Osmod reminded himself, rusted.

  Yes, but it had been stupid, stupidly vain, to try something as Powerful as attacking Prince Ardagh from such a distance. No wonder he'd fallen ill!

  A miracle that I truly didn't burn out my mind! I came close enough to it.

  Some quiet divination was another matter; it took more logical interpretation than wild Power. And it would be ideal for edging back into true sorcery.

  Osmod had already cleared a space on the floor and placed the white cloth upon it. Now he spread out the runes before him, looking them over for a moment before beginning the divination in earnest.

  The prince now, the prince was surely Yew, Oak and Ash, just as the runes had claimed before. All right then, Osmod thought, he'd accept that ridiculous reading as accurate. Of course, then, judging from the way the three runes had fallen, it meant that the prince was alive and . . . mm . . . something to do with water, with ships . . . ah, of course. Sailing. But . . . where? Wondering, Osmod cast the runes again, and frowned. Yew, Ash, Oak, yes, and with them, reversed as if to taunt him, the runes that warned of Possible danger.

  "Sailing, are you?" Osmod muttered, feeling a sudden savage flame of rage blaze through him. "Here's a hope, Prince Ardagh, that, wherever you may be, you drown!"

  But the prince, he reminded himself, struggling for control, was far away, and right now regaining a firm hold over King Egbert was much more important. After a fierce inner battle, Osmod managed to block thoughts of Prince Ardagh from his mind and, with a silent sigh, bent to his work.

  Ardagh woke with a savage shock, scrambling to his feet, feeling the deck surging under him, feeling the cold burning of iron all around him, finding himself in the middle of a wild storm of shouts and excitement. What—he must have actually drifted off to an uncertain sleep there at the ship's railing, crumpled uncomfortably against the wooden side, and here it was nearly morning and—

  A raid! They've spotted smoke—a farm, maybe a village—they're going ashore!

  Still dazed by sleep, he nearly fell as the ship was beached with a heavy crunching of sand. Struggling to catch his balance, the prince heard himself trying to protest, one lone voice amid the chaos, hardly knowing why he should care what happened, not to humans, trying to argue that no, they mustn't do this thing. But no one seemed to hear him and all around him were drawn swords, axes, iron in the weapons, in the great lump of the anchor, iron all around him, so close, too close, so much iron, and he—he couldn't bear it and he—and he—

  Was suddenly lost in darkness.

  Ardagh woke more slowly this time, dizzy, head aching, staring blearily up at Cadwal standing over him like a warrior defending a fallen comrade.

  "You all right now?" the mercenary asked.

  "Yes. What . . . happened? No, never mind. I remember." The iron-sickness had hit him so swiftly and strongly he hadn't even had the time to be ill. His overwhelmed body had taken the only escape it could. Blinking, Ardagh saw that he was lying in the prow of the Sea Raven. "You dragged me here?"

  "Thought it was a good idea to get you as far away from the anchor as I could." Cadwal frowned at him as Ardagh slowly sat up. "You don't know how close I came to getting us both out of here altogether and—damnio. Here they come."

  Oh, indeed. Like a gang of boys, Ardagh thought, laughing and joking and carrying whatever it was they'd found to steal: someone's pot (iron of course; just what this ship needed, more of that cursed metal), a bolt of cloth, a woman's necklace—plain clay beads, he saw with an unexpected touch of anger, a poor peasant's ornament. Ae, what brave warriors, these! Ardagh struggled to his feet as the Lochlannach came swarming back on board. Thorkell, the prince saw with a jolt, was dragging someone with him—a woman, no, no, a girl, hands bound before her, and Ardagh thought, in quick horror of that alien human crime, rape. But she didn't seem to have been harmed more than some scrapes and bruises, not yet.

  With a laugh, the jarl dropped his disheveled prize in a heap at Ardagh's feet, then turned to shout at his men, "Oars ready! And—away!"

  Not enough wind to fill the sail. The men bent to the oars with goodwill, still joking and laughing, full of cheer.

  As the Sea Raven bounded back into open sea, the girl at Ardagh's feet stared up at him in shock, eyes wide as she took in his features, so alien amid the Lochlannach. No one much, this youngster, Ardagh thought, save to her people, of course. She was sturdy, with tousled brown braids and a plain brown tunic tied in at the waist with a scrap of rope: a peasant girl from some farmer's holding. But in her eyes was a pure defiance that roused a spark of approval in him.

  "Like her?" That was the beaming Thorkell, the essence of joviality. "Not much of a raid, just a farmer's holding, but it's a start. A good omen. She's the best of the loot—and you've earned her."

  Confused, Ardagh began a wary, "I—"

  "What's this? Modesty? I saw you standing at the rail all night, conjuring this raid for us. Yes, and I saw you collapse from sheer exhaustion!"

  Was that what Thorkell thought? Was that what these barbarians believed? That he would actually help them? Hiding his shudder, Ardagh bent to cut the girl's bonds with a slash of his dagger, whispering to her in Gaeilge, "Can you swim?" adding a quick bit of pantomime in case she didn't understand his words.

  Eyes suddenly fierce with relief, she nodded. Ardagh pulled her to her feet, caught her up in his arms (trying not to stagger; her solid young body wasn't light) with a shouted incantation that was actually nothing but a Sidhe children's rhyme—and tossed her over the rail. Amid the startled storm of protests, he stood with arms regally folded, seemingly staring straight ahead, but actually keeping a subtle watch on the water. Ah yes, there she was, and swimming to shore as swiftly as a seal. Hopefully there was still a holding to which she could return.

  "What are you doing?" Thorkell yelped. "If you didn't want the girl, we could still have gotten good slave-money for her!"

  Ardagh gave him as coldly sorcerous a stare as ever was on a Sidhe's face, and saw the jarl wince. "It was needful," the prince said without a trace of emotion, and added another vague, but perfectly true statement: "The sea takes what it will."

  Put those together and make of them what you can.

  "But—oh. Magic."

  Several hands flew in warding-off signs at that. Thorkell whirled. "All right, you idiots, enough wasting of time. Row!"

  Still no wind, but the men had settled into a steady beat that brought the two ships smoothly around a headland—

  Ah, look at this. The girl really did reach friends.

  Farmers. Fishermen. They had boats, but of course these were nothing to equal the Lochlannach warships. But, the prince thought, a flock of sparrows can drive away a hunting hawk, even, if there are enough of them, kill the predator. And to his somewhat malicious delight, he saw how fiercely the Lochlannach were forced to row to escape this flock.

  At last, out in open, empty water once more, Thorkell called a halt. "Thor seems to be playing games with us," he muttered, peering up at the limp sail. "Not a breath of wind now."

  Nor was there the slightest breeze for the rest of the day. Ardagh heard the softest of uneasy mutterings from the Lochlannach and knew that they must be wondering if his "sacrifice" of the girl had angered their deity and spoiled their luck. He and Cadwal slept that night, by unspoken agreement, back to back, hands near their weapons.

  The morning of the second day found the Sea Raven still becalmed, and the mutterings grew louder, with a few definite references to "Dokk Alfar." Thorkell made fervent vows to his namesake deity, promising a downright regal series of offerings if only Thor would relent and send a wind.

  The air grew even more still. Not a ripple stirred.

  "Guess who they're going to be blaming," Cadwal murmured.

  "I know it."

  "I'm not up to fighting so many, and we're too far out from land to swim." The mercenary glance at Ardagh. "You wouldn't be having some nice, flashy magic handy, wo
uld you?"

  "Not really."

  Ah well, better to take the offensive while he could. "Would you have a wind?" Ardagh called out boldly.

  "Can you bring one?" Thorkell countered.

  "The Ljos Alfar can do many things." As can we all.

  Unfortunately, Ardagh mused, even in the Sidhe Realm, he'd had no great talent for Weather Magic.

  Still, better a bluff than a quick toss overboard as a sham or, worse, an evil Dokk Alfar.

  The most dramatic place for this farce would surely be the prow. As Cadwal watched him dubiously and the Lochlannach uneasily got out of his way, Ardagh struck a dramatic pose, one hand steadying himself against the upturned dragon's head, the other held up to the heavens. Taking a great breath, he began to chant in the Sidhe tongue:

  "That's right, you mighty stealers of unarmed girls, stare at me! Oh you robbers of peasants and helpless monks, fear my magic! You are nothing but hopeless barbarians, the lot of you. Yes, yes, go on, make your superstitious signs against evil. You are creatures without honor, slayers of the weak and defenseless!"

  Well and good and very satisfying in a foolish way, but unless the weather helped out, all the insults he could declaim weren't going to be enough to—

  Ardagh's pseudo-magical chant faltered for a moment. I don't believe this!

  Great dark storm clouds were boiling up on the horizon. Ah, of course! The heavy, still calm had been quite literally the calm before the storm.

  And what wonderful timing it has to arrive just now!

  As Ardagh continued his chant, shouting out whatever wildness came to mind, the first gusts of wind hit the Sea Raven, rocking it fiercely, and men cried out in superstitious terror.

  Then the full weight of the storm swept down on them.

  A Student of the Runes

  Chapter 31

  The storm came crashing down on the Sea Raven like a living predator, whipping up the sea into a frenzy of waves, winds snatching at the Sea Raven's sail, tossing the ship forward like a chip of wood. Ardagh caught Cadwal by the arm and dragged them both down in the prow, which was wet and windblown but the best place to get out of the way of the sailors. Thorkell stood firmly planted at the stem as though the Sea Raven was solid as the land, red hair whipping dramatically about his head as he shouted out orders, fighting to be heard above the roar of the storm. Ardagh raised his head, gasping against the force of the wind and the shock of cold seawater slapping at him, and saw the sail stretched to its fullest.

  They'd better get it furled before the wind tears it to— ah yes, good work, they've got it now.

  No hope to lower the mast, not in this tempest. The best they could do now was simply hope to ride out the storm. Olaf the steersman fought with the rudder as though battling a wild thing, and two others rushed to help him. But with a savage crack that sounded even over the storm, the steering oar broke, hurling all three men to the deck. They grabbed desperately at ropes, oars, anything they could find as a great, cold wave broke over the Sea Raven. Hands caught two of them; the third man was swept right off the deck into the sea.

  Powers, if this flimsy bit of wood goes down, so do we!

  But the Sea Raven showed no sign of sinking. Helpless before the storm though it was, the ship rode the seas as lightly as a gull.

  A rudderless, unguided gull.

  Thorkell was shouting something, pointing frantically, there, there! A coastline, a beach, and like it or not, they were being driven towards it

  If the prow shatters, Ardagh thought in new alarm, so do we! Cadwal realized the danger, too. They both dove from their shelter to the mast, clinging to it with several of the Lochlannach as the ship—

  Hit with enough force to hurl them from their feet, groaning its way up onto the beach . . . and stopped, as neatly as though human hands had guided it. Behind them, the storm raged off as though a sentient entity that was finished with them. The sudden silence seemed almost unnatural, and for a time none of the panting men, draped wherever they had landed, seemed to want to break it.

  But then Thorkell said, very, very mildly, not quite looking at Ardagh, "A simple wind would have been enough."

  Ardagh got to his feet, managing not to sway, raising a regal eyebrow. "If you use the lightning to heat your food, you can't complain if it burns the forest around you."

  "Ah. Yes. Of course." Thorkell closed his eyes, opened them. "Come," he said to his men. "Let's see to the damage."

  The Lochlannach climbed wearily overboard, and Ardagh and Cadwal followed, staggering for a moment as their bodies adjusted to land.

  "Never could understand that bit about kissing the ground," Cadwal murmured to Ardagh. "Till now."

  "At least you didn't get sick."

  "Heh. I was too damned scared for that."

  The Lochlannach, once they'd caught their collective breath, had begun swarming over the beached ship, calling out their finds. The worst of it—a testament to the skill of the Lochlannach shipbuilders—seemed to be the broken rudder, and Thorkell let out his breath in a slow sigh of relief.

  "Not as bad as it could have been, not at all. And Ran seems satisfied with the one sacrifice she claimed."

  Ran? Ardagh wondered. Yet another Lochlannach deity, I'd guess. Presumably a goddess of the sea.

  Thorkell glanced about, hands on hips (and conveniently near sword and dagger hilts). "Forests up there on the ridge. We should be able to find wood for repairs quickly enough."

  Assuming, Ardagh thought, and the Lochlannach plainly realized, that there aren't any local folk just waiting to attack.

  "You, you, and you," Thorkell snapped out, "climb up there and see if you can find out where we've landed. Yes, and if there are any little surprises waiting for us."

  As those left behind waited, not a man would meet the prince's eyes; no one uttered so much as a word of blame. After all, he thought, who was going to argue with someone Powerful enough to raise a storm? Even Cadwal, now that he'd caught his breath, wasn't quite looking at Ardagh.

  "That storm wasn't my doing," the prince whispered to him.

  "Of course not."

  "Stop that! I didn't do anything."

  "Right."

  "Cadwal, I don't have any such Weather Magic! I didn't even when I was back in the Sidhe Realm and— ae, never mind."

  For a time the prince stood watching Thorkell carefully not watching the prince.

  There must be some use I can make of his suddenly renewed awe of me. . . .

  Suddenly inspired, Ardagh moved to Thorkell's side. "This would seem to be a safe time to mention a certain matter. Regarding Eriu."

  "Ah?" warily.

  "Concerning magic."

  Now Thorkell did turn to face the prince. "What are you saying?"

  "There is the possibility," Ardagh said, delicately sidestepping untruth, "that such a land is under Otherly protection."

  The jarl glanced at him, glanced away. "That explains it. I always suspected that there was something magical about the way the raid was blocked."

  "Then you agree. Eriu is protected. It must not be attacked again."

  "All right."

  The prince, set to argue, opened his mouth, shut it, echoed weakly, " 'All right?' "

  The jarl shrugged. "Why not? There's just as good picking to be had in Britain. That's not under elven protection, too? No? Fine. Then I'll spread the word at the next Thing, the next great assembly. Can't guarantee that everyone will believe me or listen to me, but that's their problem, not mine."

  It took every scrap of Ardagh's Sidhe self-control not to scream, "All right?" I nearly get myself killed over and over, I go through all this hardship and the whole point of my mission, the whole problem of Lochlannach raids, the whole Darkness-Take-It reason I came to Wessex, is solved with a casual, "All right?"

  Ah well. This spectacular anticlimax was no stranger than anything else that happened among humans. And as the humans put it, take what was given.

  "But of course," Thorkell wa
s continuing smoothly, unaware of Ardagh's inner struggle for self-control, "you'll want to travel on with us, not return to Eriu. That's hardly the Ljos Alfar's realm, if the scalds are correct."

  "True. But—"

  "Well, then, there we are!"

  No, there we are not! "Jarl Thorkell, I have done enough. You saw the fury of the storm."

  "Of course, and I also saw how you brought us to land as safely as you could. Only lost us the one man—well, you could hardly want to fight Ran's will, I'd think—and the one steering oar; that's amazing control, say what you will."

  "Yes, but—"

  "And what can I say? Of course you'll sail on with us. We'd be cruel to turn you out like some unwanted beggar in this—this wherever we are. No, no, you are our guest! I would not think of abandoning you!"

  Which means, "I would not think of abandoning your magic."

  "Of course not," the prince agreed without the slightest trace of emotion. "And of course we both understand that none of the Folk can be held for long against their will."

  "Against your will! I would never think of such a thing!"

  Of course not. And I'm a little green wyvern. "You do realize that when I wish to leave, I shall do so in so complete and sudden a manner that it will seem I've dissolved into the air." "Seem" being the active word. "Ah, look," the prince added. "Here come your scouts hurrying down the ridge to meet us."

  If Thorkell had wanted to say anything more to his "guest," that was forgotten in the excitement.

  "We've landed on a good-sized island," the scouts told Thorkell. "Just which one only the gods know. We could see land to the east that's probably Cymru, and some largish villages to the south that look nice and prosperous. There's one smaller village well within reach. No real sign of defenses to any of them."

  "Indeed?" Thorkell said, eyeing Ardagh thoughtfully.

  Wonderful. He thinks I arranged this as well.

  "Well, Jarl Thorkell?" the men clamored. "What say you? They won't be expecting any—"

  "No, you idiots! What do you want to do? Attack on foot? Carry off loot and get away without a seaworthy ship? How are you going to do that, eh? How? Going to swim all the way back? Or maybe you were going to steal some leaky little fishing boats and row and bail your way back. 'Where's the dragon-ship?' 'Oh, we couldn't wait for it; we turned ourselves into thralls in our impatience.' "