Wings on my Back

by Alex Sapegin

  “So what’ll we even call the new mixed-race?” Tolivel asked hesitantly.

  “K’Rauu—because they’re kids. How else?” Elima put an irreversible end to the conversation.

  The Northern Sea. Hag Tur Seaman…

  The “Valkyrie,” its gear creaking strenuously, surmounted the crest of the next in a series of mountains of water and tumbled downward on the other side. A wave of spray covered the vessel. Teetering from side to side, the snekkja began a new ascent, to the tune of the rhythmic squeak of the rowlocks and the heavy breathing of its tired, wet oarsmen. A long ascent and a new rapid slide downward, a blow by the forward bow on the next wave, and a good portion of the salty sea water all added to the rowers’ dampness. Hag and Helg Kaban held on to the wheel with difficulty. If they let up on their grip for a second, the vessel would turn its side to the waves and the whole crew could say hello to the crabs on the bottom of the sea.

  “The storm’s turning in the other direction,” Kaban cried in Hag’s ear. Hag nodded. He, too, had noticed that the wind was no longer tearing at the tackle so hard and the waves weren’t so high.

  Thank the gods: it was almost over. It would be a shame to sink to the bottom when they were only a half a day away from their native city. The mages who were guarding the ship from the storm’s wrath were exhausted and could no longer save the Valkyrie from the elements. Thank the gods they had lasted through the worst of it. Without them, the vessel would have been smashed to bits. There were four Rauu on board as well, and it was a good thing it hadn’t come to using this strategic reserve, their magical power. No one knew what dangers could descend upon their crew in the half day’s voyage to the port. Better safe than sorry.

  Three and a half weeks at sea after two months in stuffy, crowded Orten (as it seemed to a viking’s sea-salty soul) were a gift from fate for Hag. After two months, he could relate to wolves who pined for the forest from behind the bars of their cages. The city was his cage, and he was a sea wolf enclosed behind the city’s walls. The sea. His native environment, limitless and constantly changing. Black and gray during a storm, red and pink at dawn and dusk, green and bright blue in clear weather. The sea alone could be sweet and calm as a dear sweetheart one day and threatening and wrathful as a rabid bear the next. The sea didn’t like weak men and rewarded the brave and the strong. It was a school of hard knox for real men, where each one learned what he was really made of.

  Hag’s hird had been patrolling the streets of Orten for two months. The monotonous work had begun to tire the rowdy northerners. If it hadn’t been for the Thing’s decision and the direct order from the Great Sea-king Ulmi the Wise to stay in the city, he would have long-since quit what he was doing and headed north. To the sea. Why in the world had they been sent to Tantre? From what or whom were they guarding anyone here? Here people even slit throats at night while offering their greatest apologies and adhering to all the rules of etiquette. Not straight-up murderers, but court yes-men. You couldn’t tell a thief from a law-abiding citizen. What did they need guards on the streets of the lower city for if the artisans themselves were patrolling? They don’t converse very much with the murderers. If they caught a killer, they would send him to the gallows right away where he wouldn’t last long. If they caught a thief, he would discover fifty lashes and then a tar and feathering. No one got caught a third time. After the second time, a thief would make the acquaintance of the rope or was sent to serve in the mines, where he certainly wouldn’t last long. It wasn’t the right conditions, climate, and food for long life; they made you work like a dog. There were those, of course, who still swiped purses. How else could gold get to rich households? But this was in the Middle city and at the Market. The first-class thieves worked there. It was simply impossible to catch one of them red-handed. They all went about with “without a trace” amulets. With that amulet, there would be no traces of your aura on anything. Toss the stolen purse away, and you’re a law-abiding citizen again. “Purse? What purse! I’ve never seen it before. It’s just there lying on the ground… maybe someone dropped it?” No one who didn’t have sharp wit handy could contradict their story.

  Naturally, they feared the Vikings. Their reputation as merciless killers and reckless swashbucklers worked in their favor. The elusive nocturnal thieves got even quieter and hid in their nooks when the northerners patrolled the streets. (After all, those northern barbarians love to hassle and harass even honest citizens.) But Orten and the river Ort weren’t the sea—just a flowing puddle with water troughs such as are disgusting to take on board. Boredom and hopelessness.

  When Hag received the summons to the “Hidden House,” the representative office of the Royal Secret Chancellery in Orten, he realized it was at least something to do. Whistling the tune of a popular little song, he set off to answer the call. The messenger, a young guy who had just graduated from the School, literally puffed up with his own self-importance, apparently hadn’t had enough “romance” or “adventures” in his life so far. Don’t worry, in a year’s time you’ll be just as quiet and inconspicuous as the other chancellors. That was the people’s nickname for the —the invisibles.

  The “Hidden House” met them with silence. The frivolous tune immediately evaporated from Hag’s head as soon as he and the messenger approached the gates. A mage from the guard of “invisibles” by the gates looked at the northerner in such a way that he felt as if he weren’t wearing anything but his under-trousers. A swarm of cold shivers went down his spine. How about that! What monsters do they have sitting in the chancellery if they have guys like that out by the gates? Enemies of the king would do better to slaughter themselves. The mage sent the messenger away and addressed Hag:

  “Let’s go; I shall accompany you from here on.” Hag nodded and fell in the “invisible’s” wake. No hello, no goodbye. After they had wandered through a labyrinth of empty hallways, the mage finally led him to a tall oak door. “This is where you need to be. They’re expecting you already; go in. Someone else will show you the way out.”

  The mage turned around and headed back to his office. Hag could do nothing but push the door open and step inside.

  “Come in, come in and close the door!” Who should Hag see, smiling ear to ear and staring at the shocked guest, but Great Sea-king Ulmi the Wise. This was the last person Hag had expected to meet in a place like this. “Well, are you just going to stand there like a pillar of salt, or what? Come over here; sit down. I have to talk to you about something.”

  There were two other people in the Great Sea-king’s office as well. A short stout man with male pattern baldness on his head in an imposing gray camisole with silver buttons and the star of the “invisibles” on his chest (a V.I.P.!), and a tall Rauu with a cold look on his face. There were no details of the elf’s clothing to tag him as a higher-up or of noble birth, but judging by the people around him, he was not the low man on the totem pole either.

  It was a simple idea. Go on an expedition to the Foggy Islands. There and back, leave a certain cargo on the shore, and quietly slip away. They had to go covertly and not be detected by the Arians. Why couldn’t they send someone else? Because there was no one else! The Great Sea-king Harald the Shaggy’s men were taking over the Gulf of Terium and the ocean space near the shores of Tantre and the Light Forest. They were shaking down Patskoi merchants to try to get money out of them. It was very difficult to find them at sea. Sveiny the Mast and Haggard the Cat, traveling sea-kings of the Lynx clan, were lying at the bottom of the sea and could no longer help their cause. Their last approach towards the islands was pretty much a failure. The Arians were on their guard and there were more of them…. No one else had gone near the islands. There was only Hag Tur Seaman who could do the job. Well, perhaps many could sail to the islands, but no one else could be trusted. Would he be willing to accept such a mission? The pay would be more than he could imagine. And no wonder. Only a complete idiot would stick his head in the sul’s mouth for free. Inside, Hag was beaming, rejoi
cing like a child: “The Sea! The sea!” But his face remained impassive.

  The aftertaste from the whole conversation was bitter. Ulmi bothered him most of all. The Rauu and the guy with the bald spots had been okay. Ulmi the Wise seemed to be very sure of himself, taking a lot of liberty. He was a Great Sea-king, of course, but Hag hadn’t sworn an oath of loyalty to him that he should have the right to command him like that. He up and sent them southward. In a heartbeat he could feel the need and send them back north again. Hag had enough of his own men, those who were loyal to him alone. Had Ulmi gotten tangled up in politics that were much greater than he? Too happy to be a big-league player?

  He agreed to the three men’s offer. All the details and the timeframe for the voyage were negotiated later. They had five days to get ready. He could choose any drekkar, snekkja, or other boat. They would meet any reasonable requirements. And since that was the case, the mages would open a portal to Dalhomburg tonight. Please don’t be late. What?! Hag was surprised—he still had to gather his crew! No problem, they were outta here! Ulmi the Wise was prepared to send his own people. After the angry look he got, Ulmi realized he had bent the stick to the breaking point. Traveling sea-kings have a reverent attitude towards their crews. They had their crew members’ backs, and that went both ways; the crew would do the same. His hurried actions had just turned Hag Tur Seaman against him. Once the Orten contract was up, traveling sea-king Hag Tur Seaman would no longer be in his service. He wouldn’t help at any price. Too bad.

  Dalhomburg met Hag and a dozen of his hirdmen with the screams of seagulls and a wretched drizzle, but that wasn’t the last surprise of this long day. After he had cleared the portal platform and left the walls of the teleporter, he came face to face with Miliberilem.

  “Weren’t expecting me, then?” his tutor hummed. The Rauu hadn’t changed a bit since they last saw each other. Actually, yes, he had a few more wrinkles by the corners of his eyes. Beriem and Hag hugged awkwardly. The rest of the crew bowed briefly. They had heard much about the old elf. “Glad to see you! Look at you, quite the man now! The minnow has turned into a shark!”

  “Glad to see you too, teacher! Was it your idea to match me with this trip?”

  “No, but I’ll be coming with you to sea. I want to see what you’ve learned. I’ll have three Rauu minnows with me too, and a dozen human mages. The cargo you’ll be carrying is special; you have to know how to handle it. Let’s go have a look at the ships, shall we?”

  “Teacher,” Hag asked Beriem. “What prompted you to quit the islands and head the expedition? Am I correct in my understanding that you will be the real commander of this trip?”

  The Rauu snorted and carefully examined his former student.

  “Good for you, right to the point. But as for your actions as captain, that area’s beyond my authority. It’s my great grandchild who asked me to tear my backside away from the mossy boulders of my island; no reason for you to know why.” Beriem frowned and became pensive. They walked on, in complete silence, for a few minutes. Finally, the elf pulled himself out of his reverie and asked a question. “What boat do you plan on taking?”

  “Preferably a light, fast one; I don’t intent to fight with the Arians. We need speed and stealth,” he answered. Hag had been thinking about that question for a while now since they left Orten and had come to the conclusion that speed was more important than heroism. Beriem only nodded approvingly in time with the words. They had come to the piers and the student stopped in his tracks and extended his hand towards the chosen vessel. “There she is!”

  The Vikings who had been following clicked their tongues approvingly. The snekkja the sea-king had chosen looked light and swift. With its sharp stem, high mast slightly mown back, and aerodynamic silhouette, it was a swallow, not a ship.

  “Good choice,” the Rauu said. “Now you just need to convince the owner to let us have it.”

  They convinced the owner. True, he asked for a buttload of money. Beriem, without trying to talk him down, called over one of his “minnows,” who was holding a small trunk in his hands. He counted its content silently and handed the gold over to the now former owner of the “Valkyrie.”

  “This beauty’s ours!” the Rauu said, looking at Hag with a merry spark in his eyes.

  The remaining days until they set out were spent getting the ship ready. The “Valkyrie’s” sides were tarred and greased with whale oil; the crevices were caulked. They changed all the rigging to hemp and replaced the sail and decayed boards. A supply of provisions and water was loaded on board. While they were preparing the ship, Hag’s hirdmen from Kongelm arrived, who had stayed home. His teacher contributed people too; Hag could turn down the use of Ulmi’s people. On the morning of the sixth day the “Valkyrie” left the waters of Dalhomburg.

  The expedition went well. They never saw an Arian ship, not once the whole time. It was as if the gods had specially swept them out of the “Valkyrie’s” way. Actually, not the gods, but the mages they had on board, with their cargo. The Vikings relaxed. The blessing lasted only a little while. A sudden storm forced them to make up for all the work for the days that went by and to take a couple weeks’ worth of work in advance. The sea gave them a stark reminder of its changeable nature and tossed the snekkja from one wave to another like a peanut shell. As is always the case in this situation, their sense of time was lost for a while. They couldn’t say how much time had passed since the start of the storm. It had surely been a long time. The sea finally decided it had had enough of tormenting the humans and calmed its wrath.

  Hag set his face toward the salty drops and grinned gleefully. Helg looked at the captain; he, too, grinned with his craggy, half toothless mouth. Kaban could have paid a sorcerer and grown them back, but he didn’t want to. He had lost them in fights and skirmishes. “They’ll just break them out again!” he would always answer. Helg understood his captain like no one else. The city was a cage for him too. After three tours of duty there, he wanted to howl from boredom. After a month of walks along the city streets, he wanted to just kill the first person he met. When the sea-king announced he was looking for volunteers to go on an urgent voyage to the Foggy Islands, all the Vikings were in, no exceptions. Hag chose five men to go with him to the Foggy Islands; the rest had to draw lots. Helg drew the long stick; he was lucky. He only regretted one thing, though: that in three weeks, they hadn’t had a sea battle with anyone, but still, being at sea was better than walking among the bridges of Orten.

  Hag, unlike Helg Kaban, was secretly rejoicing inside over the fact that they had missed a skirmish with Arian ships. The four elves and ten Tantrite mages on board the snekkja would have been of great interest to the Arians. If they’d met Arians on the way to the islands, they wouldn’t have failed to notice several cages, now thrown out because they were no longer needed. They brought several baskets of stones. What the stones were and what they needed them for, Hag realized when they loaded the first basket onto the shore. There were seagulls and three albatrosses in the cages. When Hag asked “what for?” Beriem pointed to the collars on the birds’ necks and rings around their legs. These artifacts allowed them to control the birds, even from thousands of leagues away. Specially trained Life mages could look through the eyes of the zombified birds and transmit what they saw to a special sphere. It was a stone’s throw from the Foggy Islands to the Arians’ land, and they desperately needed the reconnaissance info, so they would have to worm their way out of the situation somehow. The thing was, the mages and birds needed to orient themselves using the landscape. And so the mages sailed with the expedition, in order to figure out the coordinates on the spot and then orient the birds’ search. The main advantage of this approach was that magically speaking, it was very difficult to detect intelligence agents like these. Their collars and rings gave off practically no magical background, and the telepathic connection didn’t submit to tracking. At least not at the height of a bird’s flight. Stone golems lay in the baskets. In the words of
one Tantrite mage, “The zenith of complex golem building!” When the stones were scattered on the ground, nothing happened at first. But then… the stones reached out to one another and took on a human-shaped form. The golem quickly buried itself in the gravely shore and disappeared from view. A few minutes later, it appeared on land at the very top of a hill a few leagues away from the place it landed. Complex golems could transport themselves underground. In case of danger, they would deconstruct themselves down to their component parts and no one could tell whether the resulting pile were a pile of stones only, or the scattering of stones of a magical creature. They could cross shallow water to another island, which they were planning on doing. They controlled the stones as they controlled the birds, only this was done not by Life mages, but by elemental mages of earth and fire. The cargo was certainly strange and required skilled people to use it. And it came in very handy during the voyage. Five seagulls were constantly patrolling far from the “Valkyrie” and the operator mages reported the current conditions to Hag. The birds really helped them avoid the Arian patrols.

  The boat crested yet another peak and plummeted downward. Hag grabbed the wheel with all his might. It landed hard on the water’s surface. The oar jumped and jangled as if alive and hit Helg, who was off his guard, in the jaw.

  “Aww… I bit my tongue and…,” Helg savagely hocked and spit out a bloody loogie. One less tooth in his mouth.

  The storm ended as suddenly as it had begun. The howling wind suddenly died down and the mountainous waves got a lot smaller. Only a small rocking from side to side recalled the now passed rampage. Sunbeams split the gloomy storm clouds. The sea was brilliant with the sparkle.

  “Lower the sails! Dry the oars!” Hag commanded. The Rauu “minnows” sitting near the mast begrudgingly moved to the side to let the agitated Vikings through. The storm was difficult for them. They had green circles under their eyes. Even their snow-white braids were shimmering with shades of green. They were holding on with the last of their strength. Too bad, get used to it. Beriem was a happy-go-lucky elf; it was as if he had come back from a nice stroll, not survived a raging storm. The sail slapped side to side angrily a couple of times, took on a wavy texture for a couple seconds, and then, embracing the favorable wind, puffed out into an arc.