Northstar Rising

by James Axler

  "Carry on, lover?" he asked.

  Krysty shook her head, the flaming red hair star-bursting around her shoulders. "This path…there's something up here that…" Her green eyes were clouded and puzzled. "Don't know. Don't like it. We got time to take us a look?"

  Ryan glanced at his wrist chron. "Tight." But he saw the concern on her face. "Let's go a ways and look. Watch the time."

  Mildred was beginning to pant with the exertion of the climb. "Wouldn't think I used to hike the High Sierras, would you? Spent three weeks up in Glacier Park one summer. Grinnell Glacier—what little was left of it—went there and back in a morning. Most beautiful place on God's earth up there. Now I'm bushed in five minutes."

  "Wait here. Me and Krysty'll go up and take a look. Be back inside twenty. You be okay on your own, Mildred?"

  "I'm bushed, Ryan, not totally senile. Maybe Krysty should leave me her shooter."

  "No." Ryan shook his head, smiling at the look of disappointment on her face. "We'll get you a blaster as soon as we can. But we aren't directly threatened. Worst'll be they make you go back to the ville. Not killing time. Not yet."

  A MARMOT SCAMPERED across their path as they neared the top of the climb. It was the only wildlife they'd seen, though there were old deer tracks everywhere. The trees thinned out, and they could see the silvery water of the lake stretching below them.

  "Quiet up here. Thought there'd have been more signs of fresh game," Krysty said.

  "The boy, Erik Stonebiter, told us that hunting was getting harder. Their fathers talked of hills that teemed with deer and rivers that brimmed over with trout and salmon."

  "Could tie in with what Mildred suspects. Another good reason for moving on."

  Ryan glanced around them. "Path leads over there toward that flat rock. We got time for a look."

  Krysty hesitated. "Something bad, lover. Something up there."

  "Danger?"

  "No. Not direct danger."

  "What?"

  She reached out and touched him on the cheek with a long forefinger. "Better go and look."

  On the far side of the high rock was a kind of natural amphitheater, the turf trodden flat by hundreds of feet. Ryan and Krysty stood together, looking up at a block of granite that was about ten feet long and five feet wide. The pale stone was streaked with glittering seams of quartz, and its flanks were heavily carved in ornate, swirling, interlocking patterns. A heavy ring of black iron on a short chain was inset at each corner. Long, thick stains of something black or dark brown had run down the sides of the rock that were exposed to them. The clotted streaks were unmistakably old blood.

  Neither Krysty nor Ryan said a word. They turned away from the sacrificial altar and retraced their steps to where Mildred waited for them.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  THE THREE FRIENDS succeeded in slipping back into the ville without anyone having noticed their absence. Ryan passed the news of the hidden stone to J.B., Jak and Doc. "Had to be blood. Had to be some kind of sacrifice. I figure it as another reason to shake dust off this place."

  Doc was most concerned at hearing about the slab of hewn granite out on the hillside above the lake. "I agree we should make haste to depart from here, gentlemen. Primitive societies have all manner of unsuspected totems, and human sacrifice would not appear to be out of character here. We saw the symbolic burning of the three prisoners."

  "Tad more'n symbolic, Doc," J.B. said. "Looked like a real fire to me."

  Doc tsked-tsked as though J.B. were a precocious student at a Harvard seminar. "The deaths were real. But the use of the human-shaped wicker figures turned them into symbols. I have noticed with some alarm that Jak here appears to be some kind of totem person to the villagers—I think because of his very white hair and pale skin. Several of the thralls make a detour to avoid walking through his shadow." He paused and looked toward the doorway of their hut. "Of greater concern is that they clearly regard our new freezie companion, Mildred, as the dark side of the same coin. If anything goes wrong I could imagine they might seek a scapegoat. And it might be Mildred."

  It was one of the longest speeches Ryan had ever heard the old man make, and it was totally free of his usual slight confusion.

  "You say that they think Jak's a sort of god and Mildred is…"

  "A black demon. Yes. I think we should make our move before something else goes awry and we, the outlanders, are conveniently around to be blamed."

  During that morning, two young children died in Markland.

  THE SCREAMS BEGAN around noon, and came from one of the huts near the forest. Ryan and the others were sitting outside, enjoying the sunshine, when Erik Stonebiter walked by, his face drawn with tension.

  "What's happening?" Jak called.

  The Viking hesitated, but didn't look at the albino teenager. He talked past him toward the lake, his eyes flickering nervously. "It's the bloody flux again. The wisewoman said Odin and Freya would punish us for taking in the…your dark woman. Said ill would come from it."

  "Who's ill?" J.B. asked. "Sounds like a woman screaming. Or a child."

  "Two skraelings. Little ones. Sons of Ragnar Lothbrok, who was kin to the ale maker whose house this hut once was. The men often went off together with Ragnar's children. Harald would carry kegs of fresh spring water, and Ragnar would fish in the same river."

  Ryan glanced at the Armorer. Two families rad-sick and this common link. If the friends had had more time and far more desire, it would have been interesting to go along the coast and visit this strange and dangerous place for themselves.

  "What is wrong with them?" Doc asked.

  "I said it was the flux. Their bowels run blood and they vomit up everything they're given to eat. Both children have lost teeth, and their skin is covered in a dreadful rash."

  Ryan had seen enough examples of rad poisoning around flaring hot spots to recognize the unmistakable symptoms. "Can—"

  His words were interrupted by a tremor in the ground. From far off came a deep rumbling sound, like a convoy of laden wags grinding below their feet. Dogs barked and the burning logs on the main village fire toppled noisily in a fountain of exploding sparks. Ryan looked beyond the beach and saw that the surface of the lake was covered in fine ripples, as though a bowl of soup had been shaken by a careless hand.

  A black-backed gull that had been perching on top of the longhouse flew squawking into the air, circled the ville once then vanished toward the far west.

  "What!" Jak exclaimed. "Fucking earthquake!"

  "The hammer of Thor strikes at Earth Mother," Erik said. "It happens four or five times every year. A few months ago there was a bad trembling and some huts fell. This was small."

  There was a brief aftershock, and then the earth was still again. The dogs stopped howling and Markland slipped quickly back to normal—except for the thin screams of the sick children.

  Ryan recalled what he'd been about to say when the small quake had interrupted him. "Can we help the sick?" he asked.

  "No. The wisewoman is with them and will do what can be done."

  "Burn a few chicken feathers and rub some pig fat on them." Doc snorted contemptuously. "At least let Mildred see them. She's a qualified doctor, you know."

  "Leave it, Doc," Ryan cautioned.

  "But if we can do some good, Ryan, my dear fellow, then surely…"

  "No. Mildred looks and then they die, like rad-sick kids most likely will. Who gets the blame, Doc?"

  "Ah. Point taken."

  "And she won't have much in the way of medicine," J.B. added.

  Erik looked from face to face, carefully avoiding Jak's ruby eyes. "What is this Mildred? The black nonman?"

  "You could call her that," Ryan said. "But it's best your wisewoman cares for the kids."

  Something happened then to the volume and pitch of the screaming, but Ryan couldn't immediately identify what it was. Jak's hearing was sharp and he picked it up first. "One dead," he announced. "Other's sinking. Go soon."

&
nbsp; Jorund Thoraldson came out of the hut where the sick children were being tended and looked quickly around his steading. He spotted Ryan and the others, and took a few steps in their direction. He hesitated, then continued on.

  "The older boy has gone to the gods," he said, "and his brother treads fast upon his heels."

  "I'm sorry," Ryan said.

  "Will the young whitehead look at the living boy?" the karl asked. "He can touch him and bring his own blessing, as the chosen one. Will he help our sick skraelings?

  "What's say?" Jak asked.

  "He wants you to go and cure the sick and raise the dead," Doc replied angrily. "Just a normal morning for a god."

  "Doc!" Ryan warned. "Keep that mouth under control or, better still, keep it shut."

  Erik Stonebiter turned away, staring across the lake, the water now placid and mirror calm after the brief quake.

  "Things go ill here, outlander," he said to Ryan. "I am not one who will lay blame at your door. But I tell you this—" he looked around to make sure nobody was close enough to overhear "—I fear that there are others who will. Many who will."

  Seconds later the screaming died away in a drawn-out bubbling moan.

  A NOON MEAL WASN'T BROUGHT to Ryan and his companions. They kept to their hut, making sure their weapons were primed and ready. Through the open door they saw that the ville was almost deserted. There had been an outburst of keening from the women shortly after the death of the second child. Since then the steading had been quiet. Everyone seemed to have retreated to their own homes.

  "I'll go scout some food," J.B. said. His chron showed one-thirty in the afternoon.

  "Why not?" Ryan agreed. "But we'll all go. Mebbe get to Krysty and Mildred. I don't like being separated from them. There's a real bad gut feeling about all this."

  "No," Jak said from the doorway. "Baron and Krysty and freezie coming."

  Jorund had a couple of the elders of the ville with him. Krysty and Mildred walked at his heels, followed by half a dozen kitchen thralls, carrying bedding and cooking pots.

  "Looks like they are about to be moved in with us," Doc observed. "I wonder whether that is a good omen or not."

  Doc's supposition was correct, and his concern was also confirmed.

  Jorund Thoraldson stood in their doorway, signaling everyone else to remain outside. His face was grim and he was perspiring heavily, though the afternoon was cool. "Your women must come to stay with you," he said. "It has been decided. The wisewoman has cast runes. The red thread and the rowan sprig tell a sad tale, outlanders."

  "I was sorry to hear that two young children had died," Ryan said.

  "It was a sorry day that ever you came to the steading of Markland," the baron replied.

  "There was the sickness long before we came here," J.B. said, anger creeping into his usually calm voice.

  Thoraldson shook his head. "I will not argue. It has been decided that you will remain here. None of you must leave this hut, but for the exercise of your bodily needs. Any attempt to depart from Markland will be looked upon as hard and treasonous."

  "For how long?" Ryan asked.

  "A day. Two, perhaps."

  Ryan knew with total certainty that the tall Norseman was lying.

  "Then what?" J.B. asked, taking off his glasses to polish them. He glanced at Ryan, showing his own disbelief.

  "Then the wisewoman will cast the runes again. And it may be that the light will come again."

  The baron turned away. Doc looked as if he were about to argue, but Ryan spotted him and quickly held a finger to his own lips. Doc shook his head in disgust.

  Jorund Thoraldson paused, then turned back to them. "We give you back the black woman. It may be we shall have need of the white-haired boy. A small thing, only."

  Then he was gone, calling out orders to the thralls, and gesturing Mildred and Krysty to join their friends.

  Only when the six companions were left alone did they talk. And the talk was brief.

  Ryan told the woman what the baron had said to them. "You know about that bloody altar up in the woods. We've all gotten the feeling that they regard Jak here as some kind of mysterious stranger-god, and that Mildred is evil on the hoof."

  "Story of my life." She grinned.

  Doc cleared his throat. "Are you suggesting, my dear Ryan, that these Viking throwbacks might somehow wish to sacrifice this lady to their pagan gods? And use young Jak here as their chosen instrument on earth? Is that it?"

  "Yeah. In a cartridge case, that's it."

  "So, we go?" J.B. asked.

  "Yeah."

  And that was the end of the discussion. The plan of escape took only a little longer.

  THE VILLE WAS RINGED by sentries at night, guarding against another sneak attack from the muties. But the central area, near the beach, was left unguarded. The large fire was allowed to smolder during the hours of darkness. There was a quarter moon, mostly hidden behind banks of tattered cloud. Though none of the companions had much experience on water, they had all agreed that the ships offered their best chance. The plan was to push off and make their way eastward, keeping close to land to avoid becoming lost. They'd strike inland at the first hint of dawn and head for the high ridge to the south. With luck the friends would get over the top before any pursuit could get close.

  Jak left the hut first, his white hair covered by a hacked piece of blanket. J.B. followed, ready to move in fast at any sign of trouble. Doc and Mildred were third and fourth, with Krysty at their heels. Ryan brought up the rear.

  There was no point in their stealing one of the fifty-foot-long dragon-ships. It would have been utterly impossible for so few to handle one. But there were several smaller boats, narrow, with single oars, and lying low in the water.

  The ville was asleep; not even a dog stirred. They reached the lower part of the beach safely, though Ryan winced at the noise their feet made on the shingle. They reached one of the small boats, its oars neatly stacked inside. Jak took up a position in the stern, alert for any threat, while the others climbed aboard. Ryan and J.B. were last and set their shoulders to the task of moving the craft off the grating pebbles.

  Very slowly they began to float away from the Viking ville.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  "GET YOUR ELBOW off my tit, Doc!"

  "I'm sorry, ma'am, but this contrary piece of wood won't do what I want it to do."

  "Hold her straight, Krysty."

  "Gaia! You want to steer, lover, then you come and have ago."

  Trying to propel the boat in the direction they wanted was proving even more difficult than Ryan could possibly have imagined. Once the boat floated a few yards out onto the lake, Ryan and J.B. had each taken an oar to paddle the craft farther from the steading.

  As soon as the others took oars, the chaos began. The oars were long and heavy, and it was hard for Doc and Mildred to control them. Ryan had to hiss a biting warning about the amount of noise they were making—splashing, cursing and banging the clumsy oars against each other and against the sides of the vessel.

  Another big problem was that the boat had no conventional tiller or rudder. Ryan followed Doc's tentative suggestion that the bracket near the stern was for a steering oar. Trailed over one side the blade of the oar could be angled to change the course of the vessel. But Ryan found the method clumsy and difficult. If he altered the pitch of the oar a fraction too much, the boat went careering off in the opposite direction.

  Eventually Ryan managed to find an effective way of running the boat. Jak took the steering oar and tried to hold the craft just within sight of the shore. Ryan, J.B. and Krysty each took an oar, while Mildred and Doc shared a thwart and did their best to share the last of the oars.

  It wasn't terrific, but it was the best they could do.

  The night air was cool, and Ryan could see his breath misting in front of him. Behind the boat he could just make out the silvery line of the wake, cutting erratically over what had once been called Lake Superior. His si
ght was only a little better than average, and he'd long since lost the red glow of the fire at the center of the ville. Nor had he been able to make out anything of the land to their right.

  In the darkness it was difficult to judge what kind of progress they were making. As they were on a lake there wouldn't be much of a current, but there was a fresh breeze blowing.

  "Jak?" he called.

  "Yeah?"

  "How're we doing?"

  "Moving."

  "How far off from the land?"

  "Hundred yards, mebbe two."

  "No sign of anyone coming after us, or anyone on shore?"

  "Nothing. Quiet as a hunting gator."

  Ryan, trying to keep a steady stroke that the others would be able to match, was worried that they were moving too slowly. The dragon-ships, fully manned, would overhaul them within minutes, once they were within sight. It was important that they keep a watch behind them, and look out for the first lightening of the eastern sky ahead of them.

  The sky finally began to grow less dark, but with an infinite slowness. Ryan noticed the silvery sparkle of water off the broad blade of the oar. Glancing to his right, he realized that he could now make out the low silhouette of the shore. And, rising above it, he was now able to see the pinkish tint of the higher ground.

  "Still nobody after us?" he asked Jak, aware of how tired he felt after the long row,

  "No. But light's come. Head in?"

  "Stop rowing a minute," Ryan instructed, taking several slow, deep breaths.

  Krysty slumped over her oar, her hair trailing across it. J.B. sat back on his thwart, fedora pushed off his forehead. "I'll stick to walking or wags in future, if you don't mind, Ryan," he said.

  There was a narrow headland jutting into the lake about a quarter mile ahead, with what looked to be a sheltered bay beyond it. The trees came down close to the water, and behind them the hillside seemed to slope steeply upward.