by Richard Nell
He put his hands on the rather dull sharpened logs and lifted himself over. Bukayag helped Egil, then almost stepped over without much effort. The fact that a cripple had simply strolled inside without difficulty made the embarrassment even worse.
They ascended somewhat carefully, but still didn’t see anyone roaming. The few guards theoretically on duty must have been sleeping or in any case not at their posts. Birmun grit his teeth and realized Ruka could have easily snuck into the camp, walked all the way to Dala by himself, and in all likelihood killed her. And perhaps, he realized with fear, that is still his plan.
But if so he would not have brought the skald. Bukayag had to assist the man as they climbed the steep hill, and Birmun watched the care with which he did it, remembering how he had whispered in Dag’s ear and stroked his brow at the end. It seemed so bizarre and contradictory, and like everything else about the shaman, made no sense.
They soon reached the top without challenge. Two guards stood at the entrance to the caves. Bukayag and Egil waited behind a cart, the shaman watching Birmun seemingly without concern.
“I’ll get rid of them,” Birmun whispered, “but give me a few moments inside to warn Dala you’re coming. She’s likely sleeping.”
The shaman nodded, and Birmun took a breath and stepped out from the shadows into torchlight.
“Chief.”
Both men nodded in respect when they saw him, and the younger man yawned.
“Go to your furs,” Birmun gestured and smiled. “Both of you. I can’t bloody sleep. May as well watch the hole.”
The men went gratefully and without signs of suspicion. And why would they? Birmun waited until they’d gone down the central path and out of sight before he went inside.
Dala sat at a wooden table pouring over messages and ledgers by candlelight. She blinked in surprise as she saw Birmun, but her face transformed almost instantly to pleasure. Her tired, green eyes sparkled and her mouth curled to show her teeth. Birmun wondered if he could ever live in a world where her reaction was not so.
“There’s little time,” he said coming forward. “Bukayag has come. He waits outside with a skald to speak with you. There’s much to tell you.”
Dala nodded and waited without interrupting, and Birmun shook his head as he considered where to begin.
“Hello, Farm Girl.”
Birmun twisted to see the shaman standing at the entrance. He didn’t understand this greeting or how the shaman could know of Dala’s origins. But she rose without concern, and nodded in respect, though Birmun could sense her anxiety.
“Thank you for coming, shaman. But surely, this is dangerous.”
“Life is dangerous. It seems I must keep reminding you priestesses of this. You helped me, Dala, daughter of Cara. I don’t know why, but it makes no difference. I remember my debts. What do you want?”
Birmun shook his head because he could hardly imagine any man speaking to a High Priestess in this way. Dala did not seem offended.
“I want you to work with me, shaman. I told you once we served the same God, and I will show you. Help me terrify the Order. I will keep you informed of all their movement and activities, and you will attack them where and when I say.”
The shaman’s face gained that hint of arrogance and maybe contempt that Birmun hated. “And why should you want that, Dala? You’re a High priestess now. You’re in the Goddess’ favor.”
Dala mimicked his expression. “The Goddess does not approve of what the Order has become. It is corrupt, and needs new leadership and change. But first there must be crisis.”
“New leadership.” Bukayag raised a misshapen brow. “Your leadership?”
“Yes. And others like me.”
Bukayag smiled at this. “I’m not sure there are others like you, Dala. Tell me, if I made you matriarch, what would you do differently? How would you improve this corrupt land of ash?”
Birmun knew her answers because they had discussed it many times.
“I would ensure the priestesses do their duty,” she said, some trace of her anger bubbling forth. “I would see that the men of ash were seen to, respected, and taught Galdra’s true teachings, and…”
“Would you grow more food?” Bukayag almost spat. Dala blinked and seemed prepared to answer, but the shaman went on. “Would you give those who wished it land, Dala? Decent land? Where would you get it from? Would you spread fresh water further and stop it from freezing half the year? Would you bring more fish to these shores?”
“I…” she frowned, and flicked her eyes briefly at Birmun and Egil, “these things are…”
“Impossible? They are not.” The shaman sighed. “Your Order is not the problem, Dala. They have their corruptions, as you say, but they have tried to rule this place at least with some semblance of law. In truth, they are meaningless. Vestigial, like that lump of flesh you cut from your cheek. Your aims are too low.”
Birmun looked from the strange man to his lover’s eyes, speechless. Her aims are too low?! The woman means to overthrow the very structure of the world!
Dala looked angry, too, but handled it better. “What exactly are you saying?”
Bukayag smiled, or at least showed his teeth. “I’m saying we should stop fighting over scraps. I’m saying you should turn your mind to the potential of this world, rather than its limits. First, I’m saying we colonize paradise.”
Dala scoffed, but not rudely. “Paradise is not a place, shaman. It is a metaphor, a reward from God. It isn’t for the living.”
“Oh but it is, priestess, and I have seen it. I have walked on its golden shores and drunk from a warm river that has never even dreamed of frost. There is a whole world beyond your understanding, Dala, but if you have the courage, I will show you.”
Bukayag held out his hand, and just as the spear pulled from fire and darkness, sparks erupted about his grip. An almost blackened iron grew downward until the tip touched the stone floor of the cave.
“I am a prophet, Dala, like your Galdra before me, and I bring word of a new dawn for the men of ash. I have sailed North beyond the sea with Egil.” He gestured to the skald. “Together, we found the white-sand beaches of paradise. I have held its wonders in my hands. And I can take others.”
The skald nodded his head in solemn respect. “What he says is true, priestess, before Edda and Nanot. I have seen it with my own eyes. The world is far larger than we ever knew, and nearly all of it is better than here.”
Bukayag waited, perhaps for questions or argument, but Dala said nothing. “My men and I are traveling North,” he said. “There we will build ships no man of this land has ever even imagined. We will sail for paradise in three months, and return with wealth, foreign women to be my follower’s matrons, seeds for a dozen new crops, and many other things. When I have brought enough men to my banner, I will burn away the Order and the power of the great chiefs if they oppose me, and unite this land beneath a king. Then I will take the brave far away from this frozen hell, and their children will never know winter.”
As he spoke his hands clenched around the hilt of the blade, as if his vision were some palpable thing he need only reach out and grasp. His eyes burned as if he might be ill, so purposeful that even next to Dala he seemed a zealot. He is without doubt a prophet, or a madman, Birmun thought, and truly had no idea which.
Dala sat and put a hand to her chin, as if this were a conversation and not insane ramblings of a lunatic. “Destroying the Order is a mistake.”
The shaman blinked from his speech and shook his head, his arrogance returned. “The Order is irrelevant. I already told you.”
“Yes and you’re wrong. It has legitimacy, which you lack entirely except in the South. You can’t overcome a thousand years of belief with anything, Bukayag, not proof, not your magic, not god herself. You’re a son of Noss. I don’t profess to understand exactly what you propose but it’s clear your plan will require time, and help. You will need warriors, miners, builders, fishermen and who knows wha
t else. These men have families, and matrons. They need reassurance. Your message will terrify them, and disrupt their lives. Therefore it will not be believed.”
Bukayag’s jaw clenched as he shook his head. “One can ignore reality, priestess, but not its consequences. Unlike your Order I don’t require belief.”
Dala laughed, now with her own look of arrogance. “Oh yes you do, shaman. You require belief that a different world is possible, and desirable, and that you can bring it without the sword. Even I don’t believe that. The Northern chiefs will rally all their strength and fight you, that is the truth. Unless, perhaps, the Order accepts your tale. They can give you your legitimacy. They can calm the great chiefs and promise security and divine approval, and make everything easier. Wouldn’t you prefer to avoid a war?”
Bukayag damn near snarled at Dala’s words and to Birmun didn’t look exactly like he would like to avoid it. But he took a breath and sat at Dala’s table, eyes shifting as if he examined the potential with his gaze.
“And you wish to be matriarch,” he said flatly.
“I do.”
Bukayag blinked as if he’d snapped shut a book, and glanced at Birmun before he smiled.
“I see why you serve her, chief. My mother would have liked you, Farm Girl. And since my men think me mad already I shall trust you.” He took another breath and glanced at his skald. “We depart from Kormet under the protection of Chief Halvar in three months. If all goes well, we will return at the end of next season. Meet me then and see for yourself what the future holds. Then you and I will discuss how we make you matriarch…” he smiled, “or should it be queen?”
Dala nodded carefully and with respect, and Birmun wondered exactly who the man meant to be king. “I look forward to discussing it,” she said. “Galdra protect you.”
“Come, Egil,” the shaman stood. “I fear she’s right, conversation with her has been most dangerous. Let us escape to the relative peace of the mountain and its warriors.”
Birmun moved to follow but the shaman raised a hand. “We can find our own way, chief.” He hesitated, as if in afterthought, or perhaps of two minds. “Take this as a gift, and for your retainer’s life. I hope we will meet again.”
Birmun glanced at Dala, then took the heavy blade. Without another word the shaman turned and vanished into the night.
Dala sagged onto the table, but she smiled when she looked at him, and her eyes still held a fire. “We’re going to need to convince some of your men to turn traitor, and come up with a story. Then we’ll need to be ready for Bukayag when he returns.” She sighed. “We have a great deal to do, Birmun. And we’ll still have to re-take Husavik or else appear suspicious.”
Birmun nodded absently, busy now as he inspected the huge, two-handed blade in his hands. He touched it in awe and couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing, gaze moving from the blade up to the strange looking hilt.
At the very bottom was a thin piece of metal rather than a rounded pommel, almost like another blade except too flat to be a weapon. All at once he realized what it was and held his breath—recognition flooding in a mix of emotions too deep to be conveyed—it wasn’t a knife, it was a shovel, a small decorative version of one like Birmun had used all his life, just the same as the nightmen used.
Birmun shook his head to hold back the sob as he saw runes inscribed on the flat surface—not raised, but branded, as if with blue, curving scars.
Dala was looking at him now with concern, and he realized perhaps there were tears of wonder in his eyes, and not just at the weapon. The runes on his sword were the only symbols Birmun could read, taught with but a moment’s effort by a strange son of Noss on the road.
“It says night chief,” he said, knowing she could perhaps never truly understand—that not in all his years had one person ever taught him a symbol, not even his mother, or sisters, not even her. That as a nightman and just a man he was not deemed worthy. He whispered it again, this time only for himself, clutching the handle in his grip. “It says night chief.”
Chapter 51
“Did it go as you expected, lord?”
Ruka shrugged at his retainer, thinking not at all, but it may serve.
“I don’t think my words mattered,” Egil said. “She seemed surprisingly willing to accept your story.”
Ruka agreed, and wondered what the strange priestess actually believed, and if all she truly wanted was to rule. “Perhaps. She’s clever, Egil, and I don’t entirely trust her, but we shall see.”
The skald raised his brow. “You’ve told her a great deal about your plans for someone you don’t trust.”
He flinched slightly at this because it was most certainly true. “I owed her the chance to betray,” he said, knowing this wasn’t the whole of it. “If she does, then I will kill her. Now let us return to the horses. Watch your step.”
Ruka took Egil’s arm as they descended, thinking on Dala’s words and finding more truth than he wished to admit. With his powers and knowledge he could certainly win, in the end, but at what cost?
He wasn’t sure her plan was feasible. The Order voted on their leadership and would never choose a young woman from the South as matriarch. Even if Ruka threatened them, even if they knew by choosing Dala they stopped the marauding Bukayag, would they do it?
The children of Tegrin were poor at judging risk, just as Egil had once been with a boy he didn’t understand. They would require a demonstration of their peril, no doubt, but Ruka found he did not wish to give it. Perhaps this time there would be another way. It was a problem for later.
First, he had the coast, the sea and finally Trung. I mustn’t get ahead of himself.
“My lord.”
Ruka blinked, so lost in his thoughts and his Grove he’d stopped paying attention to the one place that mattered. He followed Egil’s eyes and saw torches out where their horses would be. It seemed the men of Varhus had spotted them.
His impulse was to act quickly, but he crouched and looked about the stockade, and soon realized there were more men than he hoped. Others moved about the field like ants searching for food. He glanced at the horizon and knew the sun would soon emerge and light the world and strip away his protection.
“Run, my lord,” Egil turned to face him. “I’ll stay and distract them. They won’t know me or care about me. I’ll follow to the coast when I can.”
Ruka met the man’s eyes and looked for the deceit. He banished the thought in any case because he still had Juchi and the boy, and while he did the skald would never betray.
There was only a quarter moon, and the light was dim. Ruka thought how far to Aiden and the men and how long it might take on foot. The distance was tremendous. But for Ruka the Outcast, it was possible.
“I will see you in Kormet, Egil.”
Ruka wanted to tell him that Juchi and the boy were not truly in danger, and never would be from him. But it was useful for Egil to believe otherwise, and one more thing to bear for his purpose.
He hurried down the mountain, over a narrow edge of the stockade where men had yet to gather or watch closely. He ran out into the field in dim moonlight, striking a winding path that would take him near the horses in case he might still steal one and flee. Soon he heard a shout from the stockade. A torch flew through the air to land near his feet.
“There! I’ve got him! Trap him in!”
Ruka snarled, and ran.
He kept low and fled towards the closest gap in the net of warriors, picturing the terrain in his mind. He saw rocky ground with low grass, few bushes and fewer trees. He knew he had nowhere to hide.
Men were shouting now and running through the gloom in every direction. Most carried swords or spears or axes and looked like warriors. Only some had torches, and these spread themselves amongst the others, but even without them there was enough light for the sons of Imler to see a little.
Ruka counted fifteen now near his horse, these actively searching and guarding the animals, another twenty or more patrolling.
All of his supplies—most importantly, his water—was on his horse. If he had brought Sula he could call and his mighty friend would ride to his aid. But he hadn’t.
“There! Near the stockade!”
An arrow whistled through the breeze and struck the dirt near Ruka’s feet. He couldn’t see who’d shot it, but it made no difference. He threw away his sword and scabbard, moved to his toes, and sprinted at full speed. A man with a torch was closer now and shouting, and the other men came swarming like moths.
Ruka reached the first gap and escaped the net of bodies, though he heard their boots not far behind him. He pictured the mountain fort and knew he had seen no stables within. It was possible the only horses were the three the men had now captured, and if so they may not think or even know how to ride them. If they did and came at him with only three then he’d kill these and take his animal. He heard no dogs, either, though perhaps they had some in the fort and would bring them soon.
A young voice called almost excitedly from behind, the thrill of the hunt clear in his tone.
“There’s nowhere to go, chiefless scum. You can’t out-run us all!”
You should be more cautious, Ruka thought with judgment, a hunter should always be wary of his prey.
He lifted a shield from his Grove and handed it to his brother, who drew it from the air as sparks and fire forged thin iron from nothing and lit the darkness. The strange sight slowed his pursuers, and another loosed the arrow in his hand.
Ruka deflected it before looping the leather strap he’d made over his neck, then hanging the shield on his back like a turtle shell. He paused briefly on a rise to see his pursuers, who were all clumped together now, at least twenty men with other stragglers catching up.
He looked out in the direction of his camp and calculated again how long it would take to reach it, sorting through the memory of the distance and consulting his always improving map. He guessed what speed would be required, and for how long, and smiled at the difficulty of the task.
