Northstar Rising

by James Axler

  "Wait. See what kind of rules they come up with. Might not just be who can get nearest to the center of the target. Killing's like a lot of things, Mildred. It's a craft that you have to learn."

  The baron of the ville smiled. "Not blasters. Our champion selects the weapon and the grounds for the challenge."

  "Don't take fucking chances!" Jak spit disgustedly.

  Ryan waited. Over the years he'd come across an occasional duel, generally over a woman. Or drugs. There'd been two stupes up near the northwest coast, logging country, who sat on adjacent, identical branches, eighty feet up a ponderosa pine. Each started sawing on the other's branch at the same point and finished sawing through at the same moment.

  Both hit the ground at the same moment.

  There'd been a skinny little kid in some pesthole gaudy house near a desert hot spot, someplace. He'd been challenged by a big bounty hunter to fight, and the kid picked pool balls from the length of a table. The big man laughed at that. The kid wiped him away with his first shot—an eight ball between the eyes, with a vicious snap of the wrist. Ryan could still see the look of shock in the dead man's eyes as he went down.

  "I'm the champion of the ville of Markland, and Sharptooth here is my chosen weapon. We shall fight on the shore of the water. To the death, outlander. Aye."

  Somehow, Ryan had guessed that it would be the slightly built Odo Crookback who would stand against them. Despite his physical disability the young man was light on his feet, the narrow sword in his hand dancing and darting in the crimson glow of the pine fire.

  "Swords? We don't have a sword, Jorund."

  Baron Thoraldson smiled. "We shall be happy to give one to you to fight against our champion. If you lose, then you will be dead. And she will also die on the stake."

  "Sure."

  Mildred watched him, biting her lip. "This is a shit-bad scene, Ryan. Why not just shoot them and run for it? We'd have a better chance than trying to sword-fight against the little weasel-prick."

  "J.B. knows that if I go down, or look like I'm going down, he'll open up with the automatic rifle. That's when we move."

  "But that guy looks like he could be real good with a sword."

  "Yeah. But I have to go—" He stopped abruptly when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

  "Theophilus Algernon Tanner, master of foil, epee and saber, at your service, Ryan," Doc announced, waving his ebony cane. "I'll fight him."

  Chapter Twenty

  THERE WAS a brief but bitter argument among the Vikings when Ryan announced that Doc Tanner would be the champion for the life of Mildred Wyeth.

  The baron led his men to the far end of the longhouse for a degree of privacy. But Ryan and the rest couldn't fail to hear the raised voices or see the clenched fists. It was noticeable that Odo Crookback took no part in the discussion. He sat alone on a scarred table, swinging his feet and tapping the point of his sword against the earth floor. He whistled tunelessly to himself and smiled every now and then at the group of outlanders.

  Jorund came back, the rest of the Norsemen clustered behind him. "We think that the old man should not fight in this matter."

  Doc smiled. "I happen to disagree, and I think that the old man should fight in this matter."

  The baron sighed. "Well, enough. I cannot and will not stop you. But Odo is the best swordsman in this steading. He will cut the old one to pieces. There will be no quarter given."

  Again Doc answered him. "And no quarter will be asked for."

  "You'll borrow a sword, old man?"

  "No. I shall use this." He drew the slim blade of steel from its ebony lining, gripping it by the silver lion's-head hilt.

  Thoraldson nodded. "Then let us to it."

  THE WOMEN AND CHILDREN were sent into the huts, and stray animals were safely penned. The bounds of the fight were quickly set. A rough square was marked out on the beach that sloped gently down to the edge of the water. The perimeters were gouged in the shingled sand, about twenty paces along each side, and a large, dying fire claimed the center. Doc was placed in one corner and Odo stood, light and easy, in the opposite corner, so that the burning logs lay between them.

  Each man was allowed a second to assist him in his preparations. Odo had Sigurd Harefoot and Doc asked Ryan to stand with him.

  "You sure you want to do this, Doc?" Ryan asked. "I don't want to screw up your confidence, but—"

  "I fenced at Harvard and during my brief but pleasant sojourn at Oxford University. I was quite skilled, though I do say so myself."

  "This won't be a game, Doc."

  "I know it. There are times—too many—when my mind wanders from my control. But that doesn't mean that I am always a gull and a fool." He smiled, showing his peculiarly perfect teeth. "I rarely have the chance to pull my weight in this company, Ryan. Allow me this moment, will you?"

  "Sure."

  "And if it goes badly, you must not interfere on my part. Promise me that."

  "Course, Doc. I promise."

  But it was a promise that Ryan hadn't the least intention of keeping.

  Doc discarded his frock coat, choosing to fight in his shirt. His pants were tucked into his cracked knee boots.

  Jak appeared for a moment in the corner of the fighting area. "Get bastard face low sun, Doc. Blind fucker."

  "Thank you, dear boy, thank you. I shall endeavor to retain that advice as best I can during the coming duello."

  Ryan beckoned Thoraldson to come over. "Any rules in this, Baron?"

  "None, outlander. Except that no man shall break the bounds of the fight. Down is down, and down shall be dead."

  "Sure. Hear that, Doc? No rules. Anything goes. Right?"

  There was a quick, nervous smile from the old man. He took several deep breaths, bending and flexing his knees, the joints creaking alarmingly in the quiet of the afternoon.

  "Ready?" Baron Jorund shouted.

  "Ready," Doc replied.

  "May Odin aid my arm and speed Sharptooth to the belly of the graybeard outlander," Odo called in a reedy, mocking voice.

  As the two men began to shuffle forward, Doc replied to the Viking's taunting. "And may this blade, Bloodsucker, drain your life, you disjointed lump of humanity."

  "I'll sever every joint in your body for that, you stinking heap of tripe!" the advancing Norseman screamed.

  There was a light wind from out of the east that raised small ripples on the limitless expanse of leaden water. Ryan stood close to the edge of the lake and noticed that his tiny rad counter was showing amber, warning of some middle-power hot spot that was fairly close by. But the start of the fight distracted Ryan from the thought.

  Doc began to shuffle sideways, keeping a careful eye on the Viking on the far side of the fire. As Odo went left, Doc matched him, feeling for a footing, testing the ground. His sword hung loose from his hand, almost as if he'd forgotten he was holding it.

  "Go for him, Doc!" J.B. called.

  Far above them some gigantic mutie bird flew across the sun, giving a piercing, mournful screaming cry, its shadow sweeping the earth far below.

  At Ryan's side, Mildred shuddered. "Like one of the Dark Riders," she whispered.

  Ryan didn't know what she meant and was too involved in watching Doc to worry about asking her. His hand still rested on the butt of his pistol.

  After a couple of minutes there had been no contact at all between the two men. Ryan noticed that Odo shuffled a little, dragging his left leg, the same side as his dropped shoulder. Doc was moving slowly, breathing easily.

  "Must I chase you all the way to Valhalla, old man?" Odo called.

  "You hobble like some bottled spider. If you prefer it, I shall stand here and wait for you, my friend."

  With spots of hectic color standing out on his pale cheekbones, the Norseman rushed around the blazing logs to where Doc now stood his ground.

  "Ready?" Ryan asked quietly.

  "Yeah," J.B. replied. Jak simply nodded his agreement.

  There was the unm
istakable sound of sword blades clashing. A burst of sparks tumbled into the air between the two men.

  Doc easily parried the first clumsy lunge of the Viking, twisting his wrist so that the thicker blade of Odo slid away from him.

  "Try again, young man," Doc taunted, grinning wolfishly at the hunchback.

  Odo gripped the hilt of his sword as though it were a tool, shuffling around Doc, feinting at groin and throat. The older, taller man held the rapier as if it were a delicate musical instrument and ignored most of the false attacks.

  "Fight like a warrior, grayhead!" yelled one of the circle of watching men.

  Doc ignored the shout, wisely fighting his own way, letting the younger man come to him, occasionally flicking away a tentative lunge with an almost contemptuous ease.

  "Is this your best, Baron?" Ryan called, knowing that it would help Doc if Odo could be kept angry and off balance.

  "The man whose wound heals first relishes the jest most, One-Eye," Jorund countered.

  Odo tried again, feinting for the head, then closing in, dropping his point to try to hack at Doc's legs. It put the older man under pressure and drove him back toward the fire.

  "Hold him!" Jak called, a note of worry riding his voice.

  For a moment the combatants stood toe to toe, straining against each other, the metallic grating of sword against sword. As Ryan had feared, the young Norseman was stronger, fitter and more used to fighting with steel.

  Slowly Doc gave ground, unable to move away quickly because of the blazing logs at his back, unable to disengage his swordstick without giving Odo a clear opening to thrust at him from close range.

  The beach under their feet had harder patches of packed pebbles, interspersed with much softer areas of grayish sand. As he retreated, Doc's boot heels slithered into a soft patch and he lost his balance. He fell backward and sprawled defenseless in the sand.

  "Farewell, champion," Odo yelled.

  The SIG-Sauer was out of its holster, and Ryan's finger whitened on the trigger. Everyone's eyes were fixed to the frozen tableau.

  As Odo braced himself for the thrust that he intended would spit the old man through the chest, Doc's outstretched hand grasped a handful of the white dust that lay around the edges of the fire, and he heaved it into the young man's face. Odo shrieked and staggered backward, his free hand rubbing furiously at his eyes.

  "Screw him, Doc!" Mildred shouted, her voice rising into the startled stillness.

  Doc made it to his feet and advanced remorselessly on the blinded man. "Foul fighting!" someone called.

  "No rules," Ryan retorted. "You said no rules."

  Odo waved his blade in a whirling mill of frantic defense, trying to hold Doc at bay. But the older man didn't rush in. He took his time, occasionally lifting his own rapier to flick at the other man's sword. There was only Crookback's labored, harsh breathing, and the clang of steel on steel.

  Tears streamed down Odo's face, caking it with gray streaks from the ash. His retreat was taking him down the gently sloping beach, toward the edge of the lake.

  Doc, his mouth set in a grim line of deadly intent, pursued him. He began to use his swordstick with increasing aggression, thrusting and making the Viking struggle to parry the blows.

  "Lunge, riposte and lunge and riposte," Doc recited, as if he were at some Victorian fencing school.

  Both men were knee-deep in the water.

  "Now, Doc," Ryan breathed.

  It was almost as if the old man heard his whispered words. With an easy cut of the wrist he caught Odo's flailing blade on his, turning it away. Half turning so that his shoulder dropped, Doc swung his rapier up and to the right, ripping the Norseman's steel from his hand.

  There was a soft sigh from Odo's watching companions. Ryan holstered his pistol.

  Odo Crookback stood and waited for his end, arms spread. His sword seemed to hang high in the air, the red sun bouncing bloodily off the steel. It finally fell with a surprisingly small splash, twenty yards away from the two men.

  "Strike, outlander," he said to Doc. "Hard and clean."

  "Yes."

  Doc thrust his left leg forward, right arm and wrist extended. The point entered the body of the Viking a hand's span above his belt and a couple of inches to the left of his breastbone. It slid between the guarding ribs, slicing through the outer muscles of the heart, cutting open the lungs. The power of the blow brought Doc up close against the doomed man, the point of his weapon standing out under the shoulder blade by a good six inches of blood-slick steel.

  Odo lurched away, ripping himself clear of the rapier. His fists punched at the sky and he screamed the single word "Odin!" and toppled sideways, falling in a flurry of foam, landing facedown.

  "Looks like Mildred stays alive, Baron," Ryan said.

  Jorund Thoraldson looked at him, his face betraying no emotion whatsoever. "The gods will it so. You must be hungered. We shall feed you. Come."

  Chapter Twenty-One

  RYAN AND HIS COMPANIONS were given a hut that had belonged to a family that had died recently. Harald Verillision, who had been the brewer of ale in the ville of Markland, his wife and both sons had fallen sick of a wasting illness after they'd returned from an expedition to fetch mountain spring water some miles along the coast.

  The young woman who brought food to the outlanders told them about it in whispers, looking over her shoulder to make sure nobody overheard her.

  "Great buboes grew in their armpits and between their legs. Blisters sprang up around their cracked lips. The nails dropped from their finger ends, and their teeth fell from their bleeding gums."

  Mildred glanced across at Ryan, as though she were about to say something. But she chose to keep her own counsel.

  "I've been in Markland all my life...." The girl laughed. "Stupid. Everyone in the steading has been here all their lives. Nobody ever leaves, and hardly anyone ever comes."

  As she spoke she was fingering the neck of her dress, scratching at a small red spot at the side of her throat.

  When she pulled down the woven material, the girl revealed the top of an iron collar, locked in place.

  "What's that?" J.B. asked, pointing. "Some kinda punishment?"

  The young woman looked puzzled. "My thrall ring? Is that what you mean, outlander?"

  "Yeah. The iron collar."

  "All thralls wear it."

  "What's thrall?" Jak asked.

  She turned to the boy, then glanced hastily away, making a strange sign with her fingers, almost as if she were averting some sort of evil.

  "Thrall, my dear young man," Doc replied, "is simply an old word for slave. The Vikings built their social order upon thralls."

  "You're a slave?" Krysty probed, unable to hide her shock at the idea. "There aren't slaves anymore."

  "Tell that to barons like Teague," Ryan said, "and plenty more. Plenty of frontier plague pits have folks no better'n slaves."

  "How many of you are thralls, child?" Mildred asked.

  The girl repeated the same sign with her fingers, averting her eyes again. "Some."

  "Who decides?" Ryan asked.

  "What?"

  "Who's a slave…thrall, and who isn't? Who makes the rules?"

  She laughed, shaking her head. "Outlanders are double-stupes! A thrall is thrall-born. A freeman is free-born. How could it be any different way?"

  Ryan nodded. "Yeah. I see that was sort of stupid. Thanks. And thanks for bringing us the meal. Looks good."

  "Eat in fine heart and may Freya bless your dining," the girl replied. She curtsied and left the hut, taking care not to look at either Jak or Mildred.

  "These people are scared shitless by you, Mildred," J.B said.

  "White folks in Montgomery used to feel the same about my parents."

  "She looked triple-stupe me," Jak said, sitting himself at the dusty table and pulling a wooden bowl in front of him.

  Ryan joined the boy. "You're right, Jak. But it's different to the way they look at Mildred her
e. She terrifies them, because I guess they've never seen anyone black before. But it's almost like the opposite with you. Your hair's pure white, and that sort of impresses them."

  The food was excellent.

  Ryan thought the meat was rabbit, but Krysty assured him it was hare, roasted over a fire with sprigs of thyme pushed beneath the skin to give it a marvelous tangy flavor. It was served with a sauce of sugared cranberries. There was also a shoulder of mutton cooked with leeks, mushrooms and sweet potatoes.

  A dark caldron of iron held a simmering stew of herrings and some other, unidentifiable fish in a vegetable stock; a wooden platter was piled high with sun-ripened apples, sweet and delicious and crisp to the teeth; there was a tankard of foaming ale and beakers made from horns, and some bubbling, fresh milk. Two loaves of flatbread with salted butter completed the repast.

  "That ale smells wonderful," Doc said, breathing in its odor with a beatific smile.

  "Run a radiation counter over it before you touch it," Mildred suggested,

  "How's that?" J.B. said, his hand hovering over the earthenware jug. "You heard that slave girl." Ryan punched his right fist into his left palm, angry at himself for having missed it. "Yeah! Course. The guy who lived in this hut and all his family died. He was the brewer."

  "And the symptoms sounded a lot like radiation poisoning of some kind," Mildred added. "If I had to make a guess I'd say that something's happened up the coast."

  "Hot spot?" Jak asked, helping himself to a generous ladling of the fish stew, slopping some on the table in his eagerness.

  "You mean somewhere that there's a higher than usual leakage count? Yeah. Could be. But it has to be something kind of recent or the whole of this village would have been snuffed by now."

  "How about the rest of the food?" Krysty asked. "If it's in the water, then mebbe the fish could have absorbed some of it."

  Mildred nodded. "But it's hardly likely a few small meals can hurt. You'd need repeated low dosages over months for any significant health risk."

  "If you'll forgive me," Doc said, "I don't think I'll sample that beer, even so. But the hare can surely tempt me."