The Book of Swords

by Gardner Dozois (ed)

  Later, he squeezed in past the oven wood into the corridor. As he went he could hear the scurrying of rats and he thought that was the noise he had heard.

  The corridor wound down steeply into the dark, but in a niche in the wall, under a dusty veil of cobwebs, he found a rush and a firebox. Someone had come down here often but not recently. He blew the dust off the rush and lit it and took it down into the dark.

  Around a corner, he came to a door, blocked with a balk of wood. He moved the wood, and the door swung open. Holding the rush out before him he went down a long flight of steps, and the cold air that came to him smelled of an ancient fire, and of bricks, and of iron. This was a dead forge, hidden under the tower. He reached the last step and turned, looking around him.

  Almost at his feet, something moaned.

  He went cold. He could not move, every hair staring. The sound came again. Down on the thick dust of the floor lay a shaggy head.

  Vagn knelt beside it. The head’s eyes were closed. Its long thick hair was filthy with dirt and old blood and its raddled beard trailed away beyond the reach of the rush light. He knew it was a dwarf by its beard and its bristling eyebrows, its plug of a nose. Its lips moved but only a moan came out. Vagn remembered the flagon of mead, and took it from his belt and moistened the dwarf’s lips.

  The lips moved, greedy, and smacked. They spoke again, but he could not make out what they said, and he fed them more mead.

  “Tyraste,” the dwarf whispered. “Tyraste, remember.”

  “What.” Vagn put his head down closer. “What are you saying? Who are you?”

  “Tyraste, remember,” the dwarf said, louder.

  The rush light was going out. Vagn looked around to make sure he knew where the stair was. He bent to the dwarf’s head again. “Tell me what you mean!”

  But all the dwarf said was, “Tyraste, remember.”

  The light flickered out. Vagn turned and went up the steps, groping along in the darkness. At the top of the stair he shut the door and jammed the chunk of wood against it, and went on up to the light.

  —

  Beyond the kitchen a flight of steps went up the wall to a parapet overhanging the sea. Vagn climbed up there, to the highest place, and stood looking out over the strait, where the wrinkled water spread out far into the distance. From here, Galdor had seen the knarr coming, had seen from here that the little cargo ship was struggling, and gone down to lure it in.

  A foot scraped behind him, startling him, and he whirled around. Thorulf Grimsson was coming up the stair. Vagn went stiff all over. Two steps from the top, Thorulf stopped and looked up at him, squinting into the sun.

  “You’re going to need a sword. I’ll help you get one.”

  Vagn said, “Very well. You go first.”

  The big man turned and went down the steps ahead of him. At the bottom, Thorulf waited for him to catch up, and said, under his breath, “That was Galdor, yesterday, who did that.” He put his hand out, and said his name.

  Vagn shook his hand. They were walking by the kitchen, by the passageway there. He said, “Who is Tyraste?”

  “Is that a name? Some girl?” In the high stone wall beyond the kitchen was a wooden double-sided door. Thorulf pulled the two panels wide open. The sun shone in on a narrow room, the wheels and shafts of a wagon, a pile of round shields, and a barrel of sand. Out of the barrel there stuck up a forest of hilts and crosspieces. Thorulf gripped the barrel and rolled it forward; Vagn saw again how strong he was.

  “Try this.” The big man pulled a sword out of the barrel and handed it to Vagn.

  The hilt was neatly leather-wrapped, with a round pommel, but the blade felt heavy to him. He looked for something to try the sword against and Thorulf pointed him out the door. In the yard just beyond was a stump of wood, notched and splintered, the ground around it caked with sawdust. Vagn hacked at it; the battered chunk of tree was too low and the angle was bad.

  Thorulf said, “Here. Use this edge, see, that’s the front edge. Try this one.”

  The next blade was spotted with rust and had a big notch out of the blade near the crossbar, but it felt better in his hand. He struck at the stump again, crouching to get the angle, and Thorulf said, “Good. Stiffen your wrist. Like that.” He thumped Vagn hard on the back. “That’s it.”

  Vagn stepped away from the stump, his breath short; he was thinking of his brother. Two other men came over toward them. “What, Thorulf,” said one, “teaching him to beat you worse?” And smirked.

  Thorulf said, “That’s Ketil. Ketil Tooth. And that is Johan, who is not even Norse.”

  Ketil grinned at Vagn, displaying a jagged eyetooth pointing straight out from the gum. He said, “Don’t get too cocky beating up on an old souse like him, boy.” The fair-headed Johan, not much older than Vagn, gave him a nod. He stood watching everybody, his eyes sharp, but said nothing.

  “You’ll need a shield, too.” Thorulf went back into the storeroom.

  Ketil said, “You won’t find much good steel in that barrel, boy.” He bumped into Vagn, as if by accident.

  “Oh, this suits me,” Vagn said. He held his ground, and Ketil had to step back. Big Johan was staring at the sword in Vagn’s hand; he pointed at the blade, where below the hilt now Vagn saw some old runes in the iron.

  “Gut,” Johan said. He nodded vigorously at Vagn. “Gut.”

  “What is the work here?” Vagn asked.

  Johan looked over at Ketil to answer; obviously he had little Norse. Ketil said, “It’s easy enough. We keep the narrows. All that come by must give us some of what they carry.” Ketil stuck his chin out, pointing east. “The big market lies beyond, where the river flows in. Through here is the quickest way there.”

  Vagn knew this; he and his brothers had been on their way to this market. He had the sword in his hand. He could kill someone now. Thorulf brought him a leather sheath. Around him three of the men who had killed his brothers.

  Then they stiffened, and all three were looking across the yard toward the hall. Vagn followed their eyes.

  King Galdor had come out of the hall. He stood upon the threshold, his head thrown back. He wore a black bearskin cloak, a breastplate studded with metal. His sword swung at his hip. He stared at them a moment, saying nothing, and walked off across the yard. As he walked, his hand fell lightly to his sword. Thorulf muttered under his breath and made a sign with his fingers.

  Ketil said, “Shut up, fool.”

  “He’s after me,” Thorulf said. “He’s after me all the time.”

  “That’s a fine sword,” Vagn said. “Galdor’s sword.”

  “No other has such a sword,” Ketil said. “With that in his hand he does not lose.”

  In Vagn’s mind the weapon in his hand shrank to a twig. A few other men walked out of the hall, yawned, stretched. Ketil and Johan started toward them, calling out. Vagn slid his new sword down into the scabbard. He could not kill them all. Galdor he should hate, not these. The girl from the kitchen was wandering by, a basket on her hip, her eyes not quite finding his. He followed Thorulf off to join the other men.

  At undernmeal, he sat between Ketil and Thorulf, halfway up the table. While they were all eating, Galdor called out, “We should have some poetry. Thorulf! Give us a skalding!”

  All around the hall the men laughed, and turned to stare at Thorulf, who had turned white as lambskin. He got to his feet. The jug was there and he took a big slurp of the ale. The laughing swelled, expecting some amusement. Galdor was lounging in his place, smiling.

  “Give us a poem, Thorulf. Speak!”

  Thorulf’s chest heaved. He said, “On the swan’s road—” and gulped. Around the room, the jeering rose; Vagn sat still, seeing this was an old practice. Thorulf’s eyes bulged. “The raven lord came—battle-sweat—unh—”

  The yells of the other men rose to a roar, and from all sides they threw bread and bones and cheese at Thorulf, who flung his arms up to ward off the volleys, and sank down on the bench. He covered
his head with his arms. The table in front of Vagn was littered with bits of food.

  Up there, Galdor said, “Well, that was disappointing.”

  The room hushed. Everybody waited, breathless, on the king, who looked around them all, and finally said, “Vagn Akason. Perhaps you can do better?”

  Vagn stood up; he swiped the crumbs off his sleeves. He said, “Odin’s match is the Vedrborg’s king—”

  A disappointed cheer rose. Beside Vagn, Ketil gave a cackle of a laugh. “Figured it out, did you?” On the high seat Galdor raised his head and beamed.

  Vagn said, “Save he has both his eyes, his spears are bread, and his ravens are crows—”

  The general mutter of approval broke off. Ketil snorted. Galdor’s smile froze. Vagn was cobbling up another line, trying to work in a comparison of Valhalla and the Vedrborg. On either side, Ketil and Thorulf yanked Vagn down onto the bench. Around them the table rumbled up a hard-smothered laughter. Galdor tilted forward from the high seat, staring down at Vagn across the room, and his hands went to the sword lying on the table before him. The laughter stopped.

  “Mighty king!” On the far side of the room, another man leapt to his feet. “Ring-breaker, feeder of the eagles—”

  Every head in the room swung toward this one, and he went on so, for many lofty words. Vagn sat still; he thought maybe he had shown himself too soon. But he was glad. Already Galdor was making a big point of sending this new poet a golden cup of mead. Next to Vagn, Thorulf clapped him on the shoulder and leaned toward his ear. “Keep watch,” he whispered. “Galdor won’t forget.” He straightened. Up there, Galdor had turned to glare at Vagn again. Ketil handed him the alehorn.

  “You need this, fool?”

  Vagn drank deep.

  Later, he saw Galdor, still on his high seat, leaning on the arm to talk with a balding man, squat as a toad. After that one had gone away, Galdor sent a slave to fetch Vagn up. When Vagn stood before him, Galdor frowned at him.

  “You are no skald. You annoyed me. So I want you to go up on the parapet and keep night-watch. It’s cold up there, in the wind, and it’s likely to rain. You can think about where your stupid tongue has gotten you.” He sat back. The sword lay on the table between them.

  Vagn said, “Yes, King Galdor,” and went off.

  There was some weather coming in, as the night fell; he could feel it in the air. He stood on the parapet, looking into the dark, listening to the wind boom and sigh over the walls around him. The rain began, light as a veil. He thought awhile of his brothers, dead down there, and he alive up here, and could not push this into any balance. He knew no one would come down the narrows on a night like this and he went down the stairs again, and away into the back of the kitchen, where the passage started down.

  The kitchen slaves were asleep around the banked ovens. He took off his shoes, to make no noise, and kept watch on the yard. In the warmth he dozed a little. He dreamt of the dwarf, just down at the other end of the passage; he heard himself begging the dwarf to help him. He started awake, and heard someone scurry by outside, toward the stair.

  He went up to the front of the kitchen, and saw the toad-man climbing up the stair; as he went he drew his dagger. Vagn climbed up two steps at a time behind him, his bare feet soundless. At the top, the toad was peering around.

  “Looking for me?”

  The toad wheeled, his dagger lashing out, but Vagn was already driving into him, shoulder first, hurling him back across the narrow walkway. The dagger nicked his cheek. The toad hit the waist-high parapet wall and tumbled over into the air. Vagn stood there a moment, and heard a thud. Then he went back down the stairs.

  From the kitchen, the girl called him, and he went in there, and lay down with her in the warmth of the hearth.

  —

  Galdor came out of the hall door. The rain had stopped, and the sunlight blazed bright and clean over the world. To his surprise, across the yard, hacking at a barrel with a sword, was the black-haired boy Vagn Akason.

  The king cast a look all around the yard, looking for his man Gifr, and didn’t see him. He called Vagn to him.

  “I see you made a night of it,” he said, when the boy stood before him.

  “Not much happened,” Vagn said. There was a fresh cut on his cheek.

  Galdor said, “You didn’t see anything?”

  “No. A blowfly bothered me, once, but I swatted it away.”

  Their eyes met. Galdor laid his hand on the hilt of his sword. “Where did you say you came from?”

  “West of here. From the big island.”

  “Then how did you get here?”

  “I walked.”

  “On the water?”

  The boy opened his mouth with another lie, then, from the tower, the horn blew. Galdor said a round oath. “Get to the ships,” he said. “Hjeldric is come at last.”

  Vagn loved being back on the water, where everything was simple: the stroke, his strength, and the sea. On the bench ahead of him Thorulf swung his oar; Ketil stood at the helm, steering them through the broken water. All around Vagn, the men were chanting the count.

  He had rowed all his life, but always clunky little boats like the knarr. Never before a vessel like this one, this sea serpent of a ship, light and supple, skimming over the water. The rhythm carried him like great wings. He added his voice to the count, a glad part of this.

  Through the corner of his eye he could see that they were racing to cut off another longship, streaking up the strait from the west. Ketil yelled out and the count quickened. Vagn pushed himself to match it, gasping at the effort; all around him the other men strained at the oars. The ship trashed across a rough current. The oncoming ship was fighting the same surface chop and lost half a length, and then Vagn’s ship glided out onto a patch of easy water. The other longship stood up its oars and veered off.

  A hoarse cheer rose from the benches around Vagn. Ketil laid them over. The jug came by and Vagn gulped down most of the water in it. His sword lay under his bench. Maybe now they would fight, ship to ship. He longed to try the sword in a real fight. Over there, across the open water, the other longship faced them, too far to see any of those men. He dragged in a deep breath. Thorulf reached around and slapped his shoulder, and someone else gave a random yell. Vagn felt his blood beating through his body; he shook his muscles loose. He looked quickly around at the other men, his crew. His brothers now. He thrust that problem off. He looked out over the water toward the other ship, his hand itching to pick up his sword.

  Then a horn blew, behind them.

  He twisted to look over his shoulder. Back there, Galdor had his other two ships bow to stern across the narrows. Three more enemy ships lay up the strait, waiting. Lean and low, they were beautiful, and it swelled him to think he would fight in such a one. The horn sounded again and Vagn felt his scalp prickle. This was the beginning of it. But none of the other men even looked up. Back at the helm, Ketil suddenly gave over the steerboard to somebody else and went forward.

  Thorulf was sitting back. Another jug came. Vagn said, “What’s going on?”

  “They’re talking.” The man across the way from him turned toward him. “Nothing is going to happen for a while.”

  On the bench behind him, somebody said, “They outnumber us. Galdor doesn’t fight against the odds.” Thorulf muttered something under his breath.

  Vagn looked around them. They were at the narrowest part of the strait. He remembered the rocks that cluttered the water along the shore. It seemed to him Galdor’s three ships could hold off the four enemy ships easily enough. Probably there was some piece of warcraft he was not grasping here. Now Galdor was shouting from his ship toward one of the others, and someone there was shouting back. They were arranging to meet on the land. There would still be a fight. Vagn reached down to touch the hilt of his sword.

  —

  Galdor had sent most of his men back up to the Vedrborg. The rest he kept below, in a broad meadow just inland of the beach where Hjledr
ic’s ships drew up, and he went among them and counted out seven of them. Thorulf was among these seven and so was Vagn. When Ketil was not counted in, he and the others went away. Galdor paced up and down past the men who stayed.

  He said, “I am staking the Vedrborg on this. I will reward good work here.” His eyes were hot and bright. He drew his sword; Vagn imagined it hissed like a snake, coming out of the sheath. “Thorulf, take the weather edge. I will take the middle.”

  Thorulf stepped back and leaned on his sword. Around him the other men were gripping each other’s hands, drinking deep of the alehorns. Across the grass Hjeldric’s eight men gathered. Vagn looked over his new sword again. He had worked on the rusty parts with sheep’s fat and a rag and gotten some of it clean. The notch he could not fix. But the blade felt good in his hand. He took a deep breath. The sun was warm on his cheek. He told himself he might never see another sunrise; this seemed a far-distant, unimportant matter.

  Thorulf stood there, swinging his arms back and forth. He said, “Is this the first time you’ve fought like this?”

  Vagn said, “Yes.” His voice had a squeak.

  Thorulf said, “I think it is my last.”

  Ketil suddenly appeared again. To Vagn, he said, “Galdor will win this. Keep your sword up.” He thumped Thorulf on the back. “You’d better get down there. Feed a few ravens for me.” Thorulf walked heavily away across the grass, and Vagn followed.

  —

  Vagn could not stop bouncing. He was gripping the sword too tight. Beside him, Thorulf slouched, scratching his beard. He said, “Tonight in Valhalla, Vagn Akason,” and spat through his fingers. Galdor came pacing along in front of them, calling their names and jabbing his sword in the air.

  He lifted his shield, and the horn blew.

  They walked together in a row toward Hjeldric’s men, who came toward them in a row, each to each. In front of Vagn was a lanky body behind a big round shield, red hair sticking out all around a leather helmet. Vagn could not quite get his breath. Beside him, Thorulf gave a screech and dashed forward.