Poul Anderson

by The Golden Horn; The Road of the Sea Horse; The Sign of the Raven (epub)

  Thora shivered, and Harald flung his cloak over her shoulders. She nestled against him, and he remembered how they had once sat in just this way, atop the cliffs of Gizki.

  His lips brushed her cheek—the rowers had their backs turned, and the steersman could not see him in the dusk. "Let them make haste," he whispered. "I'd not want you too sleepy by the time we get home and abed."

  She laughed low in her throat. It faded as she looked to the last red clouds. The wind seemed colder than it had been.

  "What is it?" he asked.

  "I know not. . . ." She pressed more tightly to him. "An evil thought I had . . . blood in the west, and night in the east, like a sign ..."

  They heard a gull cry harshly out in the dark. Waves whooshed around the boat, which took one on the prow and shuddered.

  "That's a common kind of sign," said the king dryly.

  "But . . . Harald, of a sudden I wonder how wise this is. Have we not enough already?"

  "No," he said. The shrill air yanked the words from his mouth. "While I live, never enough."

  "I could not endure it if aught happened to you," she murmured.

  "No man escapes his doom." Then she knew dully that all urging him against this war would only drive him toward it. "We die when God wills, neither sooner nor later, and best it is to die striving mightily."

  She was silent, but her arm went tight about his waist. The night thickened; stars began to twinkle forth, high and frosty above the world.

  Harald started. "What's that?" he snapped. "See, toward the south —something waxing, a glow."

  Thora looked aft. The hull was a well of darkness, the fjord like cold metal. She saw the wash of light, far off beyond the hidden horizon.

  The crew's voices lifted, and they lost the stroke. "Bend to it, you bastards!" said Harald sharply. "Soonest home, soonest safe."

  He stood up as the boat surged forward under new speed. One hand gripped an ax; Thora clung to the other.

  "It's like the earth afire at the Weird of the Gods," she said through dry lips. "But never have I seen a light so cold."

  It rose and brightened while they wallowed harborward. The wind carried to them the sound of Oslo's church bells clamoring in panic.

  "A new star," said Harald. "I've seen the sun darken once, but this ..."

  It burned with a chill radiance across the sky, its head was clotted silver and three tails streamed thence like great leaping flames. They saw the fjord catch its baleful light and shudder.

  "Almighty Christ," gasped Thora. "Blessed Virgin Mary ..."

  Harald stiffened his will. "I've heard of these things," he said. "They appear of a sudden, and go away again, and they portend mighty happenings."

  "It's like a sword," she said through clattering teeth. Her hand was cold and wet where it grasped his. "A three-bladed sword."

  "Aye." His own soul shook, but he cried aloud: "Aye, see it there, a sign of war! The Archangel Michael has drawn his sword, lads, and there'll be wrath on the world this year."

  "God help us sinners," groaned a man down in the hull.

  "I tell you, it's a token of luck," shouted Harald. "See how its blades stream easterly. St. Michael has drawn his burning brand for us."

  "Against us," shivered Thora. "It points against us from the west."

  The token was seen till the last night of April, that night called Walpurgis in some lands, when the powers of hell run loose and Asgardh's Ride howls through the sky. Men trembled before it, and the church bells rang throughout the dark hours.

  Then it was gone, and the hosting went apace in the kingdoms of earth.

  Chapter X:

  How Ulf Uspaksson Fared Alone

  1

  The May Queen had gone garlanded through the land, in a wagon heaped with flowers, while the folk danced and sang about her, ere Eystein Gorcock returned. He steered into Throndheimsfjord, where he knew the king would be now, cursing his men that their near-broken backs could not pull the oars faster; as his ship came toward the dock, he made a leap from her, landed on the wharf, and sped afoot to the royal hall.

  A guardsman tried to have him enter in seemly fashion. Eystein sent the fellow sprawling and burst inside. Harald was at meat, with Ulf who had come guesting. The sheriff's eyes went to the women's end of the hall, and Maria stood there, and she took a step forward while joy flashed between them..

  "Well!" boomed Harald. "So you're home already. Come eat, and then we'll talk of what you've found out. . . . Yes, yes, your betrothed is in good health."

  Eystein's face burned and he seated himself decently. "Everything looks hopeful, my lord," he mumbled.

  Harald's face remained wooden; he picked up his bone again and cracked it open and sucked the marrow noisily. Then he spoke of weather and crops and a dog which had lately encountered a hedgehog, as if naught of greater moment were at hand. Not till the meal was past and the hand-washing bowls had gone around did he rise and beckon Ulf and Eystein to follow.

  They went into the foreroom, closed the door, and found chairs. The king sprawled his legs halfway across the floor as he loosened his belt. "Now, then," he said. "Tell us how matters have gone."

  Eystein cleared his throat. "Well, I came to Orkney," he began.

  "Strange," murmured Ulf. "I thought you bound for Wendland."

  Eystein grinned and felt his muscles ease. "The Thorfinnssons promised to get the levies ready when you send word," he told them. "They will also raise as many warriors as they can from the Norsemen in Scotland and Ireland. Thereafter I went south along the coast, to learn what was happening. That was not little.

  "Tosti came across the sea and ravaged the Isle of Wight and the coast as far as Sandwich, till his brother King Harold raised a force against him. Then he took some of the Kentish boatmen along, willingly or otherwise, and went up to the Humber. I hear he had sixty ships. There he harried about Lindsey, till the earls Edwin and Morkar drove him out. Now he has gone to the Scottish king, Malcolm Duncansson, who has received him well and is helping him with provisions; but the story is that he brought only twelve ships thither."

  "Hm," said Ulf. "Those English can fight."

  "His man Osric is carrying back word that we are interested in his offer," said Harald. "There will be many crossings of the North Sea this year. But what of my namesake?"

  "He lies out with his whole ship levy, around the Isle of Wight," said Eystein. "He seems more to fear the Normans than us."

  "That suits me well," said Harald. "Spies I've sent to France tell me that William is gathering men from a dozen lands, any he can get, and is promising them vast English holdings—for he has not the means to pay them otherwise." He stroked his chin, thoughtfully. "The term of a levy in England is forty days; Harold can extend that somewhat if he must, but he cannot stretch their provisions . . . and the men will worry about their harvest and begin deserting after a while. William also has an army to feed, which will grow restless if he keeps them waiting too long. But as for us, our folk can stay well fed at home till we are ready to sail."

  "There is one other thing," said Eystein uneasily. "I heard talk of it even in Scotland. Pope Alexander has blessed William's cause and proclaimed him rightful king of England."

  Harald snorted.

  "It were not well to wage an unholy war," said the sheriff.

  "Who steers Rome?" asked Harald. "Not the Pope, but Hildebrand; that much even I know. Take heart, Eystein. ..." He clapped his man on the shoulder. "You'd not want Maria to marry beneath her?"

  "No." The sheriff twisted his mustache.

  Harald's fist smote his palm. "We've a host fit to storm hell itself," he said.

  Ulf sighed. He looked tired and shrunken. "I wonder why you asked the court's advice," he said. "I knew from the beginning you'd not hang back."

  "The venture looks more hopeful each day," replied Harald. "You're not the man you were, Ulf."

  "Belike not. I draw near the end of my days. It seems better to sit and think what has be
en done, and try to make peace with the Powers, than play at being still a youth."

  "Nonsense! You'll outlive us all, old wolf. You'll bore your grandchildren with tales of what you wrought in England."

  "I would I might see my grandchildren," said Ulf. "It would be good to have babies around the house again. Well . . ." He rose. "Best I start back. It's a lengthy ride home; I can scarce reach my steading before dark."

  "I thought you'd help me with the household troops," said Harald in a flash of anger. "It's your task as marshal."

  "Let Styrkaar do it. He knows them better than I. Too many strange young faces . . . Where is the queen? I'd fain say good-bye to her."

  "Which one?" asked Harald coldly.

  Ulf's tone frosted over. "There is only one queen in this land."

  Harald turned his back. The marshal sighed again and shuffled out.

  Elizabeth was directing her servants as they scrubbed her dwelling when Ulf found her. She stood in the courtyard before the little house, facing the open door. The light breeze played with her hair and ruffled the simple white gown she had on.

  "Oh. ..." She saw him and smiled. Calm dwelt on the finely cut features and peace on the brow; she stood straight, even at forty-two years of age as slim as a young girl. "Are you leaving already, Ulf?"

  "Yes." The marshal fumbled with his sword belt. A carle brought out his horse, and his few men busked themselves. He blinked in the bright, spilling sunlight. "You seem busy, my lady."

  "Ever there's work to do. I was unused to it at first, and shocked at the thought a queen should have to steer her own household, but now I like it. Time passes quickly."

  "So it does." Ulf stood for a moment, squat and dark and gnarled, his face wrinkled by a smile. It died, and he asked in a low voice: "Are you in such haste to end your days that you must find means to shorten them?"

  "Why . . . no." Elizabeth flushed. "No, I have been ... I am happy. Of course I am."

  "I wish I knew that to be the truth," said Ulf.

  She regarded him wide-eyed. "You've been odd of late. Is aught wrong?"

  "Not for me—but for you. You see," said Ulf earnestly, "your, well, your house has ever been a good friend to us of Norway, and I would gladly serve you if I might. If you lack something ..."

  She dropped her own voice. "No need to walk around your thought, Ulf. I know what you mean. And I swear to you, there has been unhappiness in my life as there must be in all, but now I know the way I wish to fare and how to. . . . No, there is little I need."

  "Those are good tidings," said Ulf. He took her hand; it felt small and warm in his. "Then farewell, my lady, and God keep you."

  She watched him, puzzled, as he rode from the hall.

  2

  Twice on the way home, Ulf reined in and almost fell from the saddle. His man Thorbrand held him till the fit was past. Stars were out when they reached the marshal's hall.

  There he paused, looking up to the light Northern night. Stars glimmered pale in dark blue; his eyes followed the great sprawl of Carl's Wain toward the North Star. It seemed to wink at him, as one old friend at another. The woods rustled, a nightingale sang, a rill tumbled over rocks. He breathed the smell of forest mold and young leaves.

  "This is a fair world, Thorbrand," he said. "Let not the priests tell you otherwise."

  "Yes. . . ." The warrior's tongue stumbled.

  Ulf leaned heavily on him as they went into the hall. Fires were guttering low, but Jorunn sat waiting for him. "You're late," she said. "I had begun to think you would stay in Nidharos."

  He lowered himself to the bench beside her and rested elbows on knees. "It was a troublous road homeward," he replied.

  Thorbrand bade good night and went to join the other unwed men in their lodge. Ulf and Jorunn were alone.

  Her eyes were anxious. "You sound tired," she said.

  "Yes, I am, somewhat." Ulf looked into the waning red coals.

  "Jorunn . . ." he began after a while.

  She raised her brows; he could just see the movement in the dimness which was her face.

  "I fear I've not been much of a husband to you," he said.

  "No woman ever had a better," she answered stoutly.

  He chuckled. "That I grant you. But this sickness, it has made me less than a man in the past year."

  Blood beat in her; he could not see that, but he knew it. "Think you that I wed only for . . ."

  "No. Though there are worse reasons." Ulf shook his head. "I cannot understand this world anymore. The folk in it, I mean. It seems they turn their faces from everything which lies good and clean, ready to their hands, and scourge their souls instead."

  "Hush," she said quickly. "You should not say such things, the more so if you're sick."

  "Perhaps not. Few would listen." Ulf's head lowered. "Well, shall we to bed?"

  He slept very lightly, dreams and memories streaming past his eyes, until he knew not if he woke or drowsed. Once he saw his father's farm on Iceland. Once he saw a green meadow in which horses ran and leaped.

  At midmorning he rose and dressed himself carefully. Jorunn set a bowl of porridge out for him, but he had little appetite. His head felt weightless and hollow, as if it were about to burst its moorings and go skyward on the wind.

  His son Jon came in, laughing. Ulf had ever been pleased that the children had their mother's handsomeness rather than his own looks. "Good morning, father," said the youth.

  "What was so funny?" asked Ulf.

  "The lambs hopping about." Jon wriggled with sheer gladness of being alive. "What said the king?"

  "Oh . . . he's bound he'll go conquer England." Ulf looked up with a cold green stare. "You are not to go along, Jon."

  "What? But . . ."

  "I say you are to stay at home this year. You're too young."

  "I am not!" shouted the boy. "I am sixteen winters old. Hjalmar Leifsson is going, and he . . ."

  "Be still!" After months in which he could scarce be heard, Ulf's roar shocked Jon into stiffness. "I say you are not to go, and I want your oath on it."

  "St. Olaf left home younger than I." The words were sullen.

  "That was on a luckier venture than this. Now swear before me you will stay behind this year."

  Jon tried to hold back tears. "You'd not have me win any fame of my own," he said.

  "That's enough." The marshal stood up, and there was that about him which would not be disobeyed. He got the oath.

  Thereon he went around the table and put a hand on Jon's shoulder. "It's only that I wish you well," he said gently. "I'd not have you cast your life away on a foredoomed war."

  The lad wrenched free and stormed out of the hall.

  "Think you the king is fey?" asked Jorunn. "I hear there'll be no such force out this year such as he can raise."

  "It may be," said Ulf. He looked down at the table, touched its scarred surface. "If anyone has might to stuff his will down the Norns' teeth, that man is Harald Hardrede. Yet I think of a Norse realm chafing under his grimness, and I think of a sea between him and any retreat, and I think of brave men warding their own hearths, and it seems ill to me. . . . Do you remember how this scratch was made, Jorunn? Little Brigida was sitting on my lap one Yule eve, and playing with my dagger, and . . . Where are the children?"

  "They are about. Shall I call them?"

  "No. Let them play. I think I'll walk around for a while." Ulf kissed his wife on the forehead.

  Taking a spear, he went from the garth. When he climbed the stile to get into a meadow, breath left him and darkness swam before his eyes. He sat till his heart eased; he could feel it shiver in his breast like a wounded bird. When it lost a few beats, a cold jag of fear would go through him, and that was worst of all.

  Presently he felt strong enough to go down into the meadow. He walked slowly, leaning on his spear shaft. The grass whispered with wind, early flowers danced in it, and a swallow darted lightning blue through sunbeams. He looked over to a patch of woods, and marveled
at how many different shades of green it held.

  Now if only some foeman would come after me, he thought. But the meadow sloped off empty toward the distant heights.

  In the middle of it was a grass-grown mound. Folk believed it was the home of some old Viking, and Ulf had wanted to dig and see if any treasures had been buried there. Now he felt somehow glad that he had not.

  He climbed the mound, stopping often to rest, and sat down with his back against a stone. Its warmth was good on his ribs. The steading was behind him, he faced the unseen mountains.

  "As well that she never ..." His voice seemed too loud in the stillness, where only the wind spoke, and he stopped.

  Well, he thought, here I am. Come and take me.

  The sun reached its height and began to fall again. He felt a small hunger and wished he had brought something to eat. A crock of ale, at least, would be welcome. He reckoned up the beer he had poured down his gullet in a lifetime —surely it would float a ship —and chuckled. The Norns had not treated him so badly.

  The sun slipped toward night. He started out of a doze, feeling chilled. It would not be fair if he had to go back. But they would come looking for him soon. Best go on his own feet.

  A raven flapped overhead. In this sign conquer.

  Ulf gripped his spear, planted the butt in the earth, and began hauling himself up.

  Thunder and darkness smote him.

  Jorunn found him sprawled on his face atop the mound. He had flung the spear a long way.

  3

  Harald was drinking among his men the next evening when Jon Ulfsson trod into the hall. "What brings you here?" asked the king.

  "My father is dead, lord," said the youth. "I thought you should be told."

  The ale horn splintered in Harald's grasp. He looked at his bleeding hand for a while, and silence dropped into the room.

  "What did he die of?" he asked at length. "If any man has harmed him, the feud is my own."