by Voima
“Come with me, Valmar Hadros’s son,” she whispered with a fleeting smile. “No, don’t look back. Come quickly, and come now.”
He came a few more paces toward her, hand still ready on his sword. But with another smile over her shoulder she began to walk quickly away from him, and he found himself following.
She must be, he thought, a few years older than he—Karin’s age. But she did not look at all like Karin, having tight black curls that escaped from under her helmet and, in the moment that he had seen them, glinting black eyes on either side of her helmet’s nose guard. He glanced back toward the courtyard in spite of what she had said. No one seemed to have seen him go.
In a few minutes he had left the Wanderers’ manor well behind. She darted in and out of shadow, running on the grass between the towering trees that stretched their branches over the hillside below the manor. He followed twenty yards behind, picking up speed as she went faster, but never quite catching up. Once she looked back, black eyes flashing like mirrors in the horizontal sunlight, and grinned at him.
Valmar laughed in return, beginning to enjoy this, and ran even faster. His blood grew hot from the pursuit and the sight of her sweetly-rounded form running before him. “Sprite or faey,” he called, “you cannot escape me forever!”
“Do you think you are man enough to catch me?” she called back. “And man enough to make me yours when you do?”
He still did not gain on her, as her own strides came faster and faster. But when she had run over two miles she suddenly stopped and whirled around, her sword drawn and shield up. She laughed at him, her back to a tree, and when he hesitated sprang at him.
She held no practice sword but the real thing, a boy’s sword such as he had had when he was twelve, sharpened to a razor point. He dodged quickly behind a tree, still rational enough in spite of his excitement to want to avoid being skewered. He drew his sword quietly, counted to three, and leaped out the other side of the tree. She was waiting for him coolly, but she did not stand a chance against a young man who had done little but exercise his muscles and practice his sword play for many weeks.
In two strokes he had his sword wedged solidly against hers and pushed it up and back. She tried to kick him, but he stayed just out of range. His left hand snaked in and grabbed her wrist. She dropped the sword with a cry, and he kicked it away at the same time as he threw his own sword from him.
With one arm he crushed her mailed body to his chest while he pried the shield from her grip, then loosed her helmet. She was laughing again, showing a row of sharp little white teeth. Her hair, dense and curling, cascaded out from under her helmet and down her back, and he buried his fingers in it.
Her black eyes danced at him, tiny points of light at the center, and her mouth smiled widely just before her hot lips closed on his.
They lay afterwards in the long grass, their heads pillowed on Valmar’s rolled-up tunic, the sunset sky tinting her skin pink. Her armor and shield glistened a short distance away.
He felt comfortable, relaxed, and joyous, but he also felt vaguely ashamed now of the overpowering force of his passion, even though he told himself it had all been her idea. That she had surreptitiously called him away from the Wanderers’ courtyard suggested that this would not be something of which they approved. But he put these thoughts aside as she kissed him on the ear.
“Are you then a sprite or faey,” he inquired with a smile, “come to test if a mortal man can match the immortals?” He traced the smooth line of her cheek with his forefinger and kissed her red lips.
“No sprite or faey,” she answered, “as you would know perfectly well if you had ever met the faeys.” She chuckled. “But I am indeed interested in mortal men, Valmar Hadros’s son—or at least one mortal man. And so far I like very much what I have found!”
“You know who I am,” he said, caressing her perfectly formed shoulders and breasts. This was nothing like the furtive interludes with the maids of his father’s castle—some almost twice his age, and with breath tasting of onions. He had been thinking he would give up the maids soon anyway. This was more as he had imagined it would be to lie in Karin’s arms. He pushed thoughts of Karin resolutely from him. “Tell me at least your name.”
But she laughed instead of answering and turned around, propped up on her elbows, to look at his face.
“You came here to find heroic deeds and glorious battles,” she said briskly, in a tone which for a moment reminded him, quite incongruously, of a merchant in a booth trying to persuade him of the rational advantages of buying his products rather than anyone else’s. “I am offering them to you.”
“Are you a Wanderer?” Valmar asked in amazement and almost horror. He had never imagined that he might lie with a lord of voima—or, apparently, a lady.
Her eyes glinted at him. “What do you think?” she asked teasingly, then shook her head. “No, I am certainly not one of those beings you mortals call Wanderers. As you may have noticed, they are all men! That is why I had to get you away from them.”
She referred, he noticed, to “you” mortals, suggesting that whoever she was, she was not an ordinary person who had somehow, like him, reached this realm. He ran a hand down her back to reassure himself that she did, indeed, have one.
“I shall have to get home soon,” he said, beginning again to feel guilty. Whoever she was, it was difficult to see her as connected with the high deeds and heroism to which he had promised his life and manhood. But it would be hard to explain that to those dark eyes. “The housecarls will be heating the bath house and preparing dinner for me,” he added lamely.
“And that is reason enough to return?” she asked with another laugh.
“Well, I serve them, the lords of voima, you see. And if you are not a Wanderer yourself, I need to return to them. Would you perhaps like to come back to the manor with me?” he added hopefully. “I am sure they would be pleased to meet a friend of mine.” The thought shot through his mind that it would be difficult to introduce her as his friend when he did not even know her name.
For answer she rolled on top of him, her elbows by his ears, and began to kiss him. After only a moment’s hesitation he wrapped his arms around her warm body and held her tight to him again.
It was hard to tell time by a motionless sun. Again they lay stretched out in the long grass, the woman’s head on Valmar’s shoulder, her black curls spread across his chest. How long, he asked himself, had it been since he left the courtyard? An hour, two hours, six hours? And did the Wanderers even keep time themselves, or were their cycles of meals and activity only for his benefit?
“They will wonder where I am, back at the manor,” he said.
She turned her head to nibble delicately on his shoulder. It tickled and made him laugh; he tickled her waist until she laughed too. “If they wanted you back,” she said then, “they would have come for you long since. Clearly they do not care if you stay or go.”
“But I haven’t gone!” he protested. “That is, I haven’t actually left their service.” There were implications to what she said that he did not like.
“What lord would allow the man under his command to desert without even following him?”
Had he deserted the lords of voima? he asked himself in panic. “I am not under their command, as such,” he desperately tried to explain. “They asked for my help, but they do not compel it. I am being trained to help them against their enemies here in this realm, before I descend into Hel for them, to find the lords of death so that they and their sun may be reborn.”
It sounded foolish in his own ears as soon as he said it. She laughed, predictably. “And are you so eager for death yourself,” she said in a teasing tone, “that you yearn for steel to bite your flesh in preference to my embraces? Because if so I could get my sword and help you out!”
“No, no, of course not,” he said, pulling her to him and stroking her hair. The Wanderers had warned him that he was not indestructible here in spite of the powers he was sup
posed to have, powers he had yet to see. And her sword had been very sharp. “But, but— Are you one of the Wanderers’ enemies?”
Her eyes glittered at him from two inches away. “Of course I have no use for those beings—those men—who claim to be lords of earth and sky. And you will have little use for them either when I explain to you the honor and glory that will come in overthrowing them.”
He tried to draw back, but she was lying across his chest and her arms were much stronger than they seemed.
“Do you not think there is voima in me?” she asked, giving his lip a playful bite. “Have you not considered them and their quiet hall a little more, well, boring than you expected?”
It was as though she had read his mind. “But who then are you?” he said with dry lips.
“Their fated end is coming,” she said, stroking his beard. “In asking you to help them against us—we whom fate has chosen to succeed them!—they are doing nothing but making a last, pathetic effort to change their end. Is it not better to accept one’s fate with dignity?”
“It’s better to fight to the last man in a courageous, desperate battle for what you believe,” said Valmar.
“When you find courage among them,” she said with a laugh, “let me know. The best they can manage is to ask for a mortal’s assistance. If you want adventure, high courage, and glorious battles with the trumpets ringing, you will have to fight against them. And besides,” moving her chest against his and smiling with the corners of her mouth, “if you go back to them you will have to leave me. And you do not wish to do that, do you?”
He most certainly did not. He embraced her and kissed her almost desperately. For him to have found love like this, so unexpectedly, almost better than anything he could have imagined, and then to risk losing her again just as suddenly!
But the hot excitement had burned out of him. The old tales were full of the conflict between honor and love. Roric had left Karin, the woman to whom he was pledged, to seek the Wanderers, and he, Valmar, could do no less.
Very carefully, he drew his arms from around her and disentangled her legs from his. “Think of the glory to be won in fighting heroically against the most powerful beings you have ever imagined,” she tried, but he was not listening now.
“I am sorry,” he said, standing up to find his clothes. “I cannot define heroism by whether it gives me daily adventure.” He took a deep breath and added as firmly as he could, “Honor and courage must be reflected in keeping one’s pledged word.”
She sat on her heels to watch him dress, her hair tousled and eyes bright.
“Do you, uh, want me to see you back to your manor, wherever that is?” he asked, buckling on his sword.
She shook her head without answering, the smile still lurking at the corner of her mouth. He had expected her to be displeased with him. But she appeared instead very satisfied, as though some plan had all gone well.
3
The black and white piebald mare was certainly fleet of foot, Roric had to admit. At first he had frowned when Karin climbed up to the loft room to tell him that she now had a horse of her own to ride. He feared that Goldmane would have been faster, even carrying two. But the mare matched the stallion’s stride easily, even lazily, as they followed the faint track down the long hillside from the gray oak buildings of the manor.
“All right,” he shouted, smiling at Karin. “We don’t need to race any further—and I haven’t pushed Goldmane yet!” They both pulled their horses to a trot. “And it’s good to have food in our packs as well as a horse for you. I was right to trust you to speak for us both at the manor.”
He was faintly aware that he had been very brusque with her several times since escaping from Hadros’s kingdom, and he did not want to be—this was, after all, Karin, the woman whose love meant more to him than all the lords of voima. Her ruined finery was gone, and she wore a brown wool dress they had given her at the manor, against which her russet braids lay bright. Even though he kept being surprised that a woman could make plans for the two of them, he told himself that so far she was doing very well.
A river ran along the bottom of the hill, in a narrow defile dense with willows. A wooden bridge crossed it.
Karin’s mare’s hooves rang on the bridge as she started across before him. Mingled with the sound of those hooves was another sound, moist and squishy. Roric knew what it was and kicked Goldmane wildly forward. A troll eased itself out from under the bridge and directly into her path.
The piebald mare reared, front hooves flashing, teeth bared. Karin clung desperately to the mane as the horse went higher and higher, threatening to go over backwards. Goldmane stopped short of the bridge, front legs stiff, almost catapulting Roric over his head.
Roric kicked his feet from the stirrups and leaped off, his sword out. “Stand back, troll, or taste cold steel!” he shouted.
This was not the nearly-domesticated troll of the stream below King Hadros’s castle. This was a troll of enormous yellow teeth and great muscular arms, now reaching up toward Karin: a troll that did not fear sunlight.
Roric’s sword darted forward. It rang from the troll’s body as though it was made of iron rather than soft flesh. But the troll turned its red eyes from Karin toward Roric, and its mouth opened, showing rows and rows of teeth and a greedy tongue. The mare came back down abruptly, Karin still in the saddle.
Roric danced out of the way of a reaching troll hand and struck again. This time his sword bit, for green blood welled from the wound. He grinned fiercely, though his next strokes bounced again. He had to keep dodging the powerful, flexible arms reaching for him. Fighting this great, wet mass of troll was not like fighting Gizor—the troll at Hadros’s castle had never attacked an armed man.
He yelled and sprang closer again, raining down blows, and was just too slow to avoid an enormous hand that closed around his boot.
The hand jerked, and his feet went out from under him. Wildly he tried to scramble back up, flailing with his sword. But he was drawn closer and closer to the enormous mouth, from which a bubbling laugh came. Karin, her knife in her hand, approached warily, but the troll’s other long arm snaked across the bridge surface toward her. In a second it would have them both.
“Troll!” came a completely unexpected clear voice. “Let them go!”
Roric’s foot was suddenly released. He scrambled backwards, his sword before him, not daring to take his eyes for a second from the troll even to see who had spoken.
The troll pulled its arms back towards its body, its mouth wide open in frustrated rage. “Troll, you should not be out in daylight!” came the voice again.
Roric dared at last one look over his shoulder. It was the lady of the manor, wearing a flour-dusted apron, her hands white with dough. “Shall I threaten you again with the powers of voima?” she demanded.
The troll snapped its mouth open and shut. It hesitated a moment, meeting her stare, then slowly, with a soft squishing noise, lowered itself back over the edge of the bridge. It disappeared into the stream beneath with a splash.
“Well,” said the woman, turning toward them with hands on her hips. “I regret the troll bothered you. When you have just escaped death at the hands of raiders, you do not need to meet a troll!”
Roric remembered just in time that Karin had told this woman they were fleeing raiders.
“How did you do that?” asked Karin in wonder.
“And how did you know we needed help?” asked Roric, eyeing her carefully. She looked like a completely normal woman, with none of the indistinctness of the creatures in the Wanderers’ realm, and not like someone a troll should obey.
“I was watching you go,” she said easily. Roric glanced up the hill. They were at least a mile from the palisade that surrounded her manor, and she had stood at the gateway waving as they rode away. “The troll has lived here many years. We long since had to reach an agreement with it, or we would have had few of our flocks left.”
“Thank you,” said Karin some
what belatedly. “Thank you very much. We owe you our lives now.”
“And I may require those lives of you at some point,” said the woman, still lightly.
When Roric turned to glare at her, Karin nudged him hard, and the woman laughed. “I do not seek to harm either of you,” she said. “It is much better that you be alive than that you be dead, but at some point—who can say?—I may ask for your living strength. Now, I need to get back to my bread making. No more trolls should trouble you, Roric No-man’s son.”
She started back up the hill at a walk. Roric caught their horses and untangled the reins. He went across the bridge first this time, his sword out, but Goldmane crossed now without hesitation and there was no sign of the troll.
On the far side he reined in hard and turned around in the saddle to stare after the woman, a distant figure now, trudging back to her home. “Karin,” he said between tight lips, “I thought you said you had not told her our names.”
# * # * # * # *
Long, long, ago, even before your great-grandfather was a little boy, and many, many miles away to the north, a raider buried his treasure trove deep inside the mountain. He intended to return one day for it, but he was killed on his next raid and his treasure long lay unguarded and forgotten.
That is, until it was discovered by a dragon. He was a young dragon, coming down from the frozen Land of Ice to the Fifty Kingdoms, when he caught a whiff of treasure scent. And he flew down with a flurry of leather wings, and clawed into the mountain side with his long claws, and he established his lair there. And every month he flew out in search of more treasure and carried it home, until his trove was wealthier than three kingdoms.
