Read Online The High King of Montival: A Novel of the Change by S. M. Stirling - Free Book Online
Authors: S. M. Stirling
Tags: Fiction, General, Science-Fiction, Science Fiction - General, Fiction - Science Fiction, American Science Fiction And Fantasy, Alternative History, Alternative histories (Fiction), Regression (Civilization), Dystopias
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might be, but a sword and seax-knife hung at his belt, and a round shield over the pack on his back. His boots had the raised toe of the type you wore on skis.
It was the arrow in his hand that drew everyone’s eyes, and brought shocked silence. It was painted bloodred from tip to fletching. That was shown for one thing only; to call out the full levy of Norrheim against a foe who threatened them all.
“War!” he shouted, shaking it in the air; his voice cracked across, and that made him pause, swallow and continue with a little more calm:
“The Bekwa have come through the north woods and crossed the border, thousands, killing, burning. A trollkjerring leads them, a sorcerer in a red robe, and the terror of him makes brave men run; the troll-men swear they will eat our hearts and lay all Norrheim waste. Godhi Bjarni Eriksson calls the fighting-men of all the tribes to rally to him—in Staghorn Dale, at the Rock of the Twin Horsemen—or we will be overrun piecemeal. Every true man. And he asks you, holy seidhkona, to come as well to battle the red-robe.”
The young man stopped, gulping, swaying on his feet; someone gave him a cup of hot cider, and he drained it eagerly, a little running down his chin as he gulped and half-choked. When he looked up his blue eyes went wide.
Artos stood, and the mild good cheer had left his face altogether, making it a thing of angles and planes. He had hung his sword belt over the back of his chair. Now he took the scabbard in his right hand and set his left—his sword-hand—on the long hilt. The crystal of the pommel caught the light of fire and lamp, breaking it back in shivers of red and orange.
“Bjarni Eriksson and I swore blood brotherhood on the golden oath-ring of his folk, in the name of his Gods and mine,” he said. “And the Threefold Herself gave me this Her Sword for just such tasks as this. Your chief shall have the help he sought, and more besides.”
The great blade flashed high suddenly. “War! ” Artos shouted, his voice a huge silver peal in the long room. “War!”
Men stood, and women; fists and drinking-horns and knives flashed in the air as they took up the chant.
Heidhveig shivered a little in her chair, suddenly alone and a little lost in this her home.
War , she thought. War indeed.
CHAPTER FOUR
KALKSTHORPE, NORRHEIM
(FORMERLY ROBBINSTON, WASHINGTON COUNTY, MAINE)
MARCH 13, CHANGE YEAR 24/2023 AD
“T hey attacked us!” Kalk said furiously. His voice rose under the high roof of the three-quarters-empty warehouse the town was using to muster its fighters.
“They’re pirates,” he half-shouted.
“They are pirates, and they did attack, and most of them are dead. The survivors are forty-four first-class fighting-men, and neither you nor I can spare them. Nor are folk who make viking a term of honor in a position to be . . . what was the word they used . . . picky,” Artos said.
It was becoming more natural to think of himself by that name.
Artos is my name, he thought. It always was, in the Craft. Rudi . . . Rudi I can be in private, I suppose.
Most of the Kalksthorpe fighters were mustering here, ready to leave at dawn; it was hard cold outside the town wall, and the granular snow was still thick enough for skis. Their families were there to see them off, and a low murmur of voices sounded. Most of the good-byes were quiet and solemn, with fewer embraces or tears than there would have been among Mackenzies, even when a mother tucked the last bundle of fruitcake or rolled socks into a young man’s haversack. Everywhere about love met necessity with a fierce dignity.
Rudi turned to the Moors, who stood in a clump amid a circle of empty space. Abdou al-Naari was there, and his son beside him, a slim young man just old enough to journey with a war band; his arm had healed while his father was in Nantucket. Abdou’s blood brother Jawara stood by his other hand, smiling grimly as he fingered the edge of a broad-bladed spear.
It was the arrow in his hand that drew everyone’s eyes, and brought shocked silence. It was painted bloodred from tip to fletching. That was shown for one thing only; to call out the full levy of Norrheim against a foe who threatened them all.
“War!” he shouted, shaking it in the air; his voice cracked across, and that made him pause, swallow and continue with a little more calm:
“The Bekwa have come through the north woods and crossed the border, thousands, killing, burning. A trollkjerring leads them, a sorcerer in a red robe, and the terror of him makes brave men run; the troll-men swear they will eat our hearts and lay all Norrheim waste. Godhi Bjarni Eriksson calls the fighting-men of all the tribes to rally to him—in Staghorn Dale, at the Rock of the Twin Horsemen—or we will be overrun piecemeal. Every true man. And he asks you, holy seidhkona, to come as well to battle the red-robe.”
The young man stopped, gulping, swaying on his feet; someone gave him a cup of hot cider, and he drained it eagerly, a little running down his chin as he gulped and half-choked. When he looked up his blue eyes went wide.
Artos stood, and the mild good cheer had left his face altogether, making it a thing of angles and planes. He had hung his sword belt over the back of his chair. Now he took the scabbard in his right hand and set his left—his sword-hand—on the long hilt. The crystal of the pommel caught the light of fire and lamp, breaking it back in shivers of red and orange.
“Bjarni Eriksson and I swore blood brotherhood on the golden oath-ring of his folk, in the name of his Gods and mine,” he said. “And the Threefold Herself gave me this Her Sword for just such tasks as this. Your chief shall have the help he sought, and more besides.”
The great blade flashed high suddenly. “War! ” Artos shouted, his voice a huge silver peal in the long room. “War!”
Men stood, and women; fists and drinking-horns and knives flashed in the air as they took up the chant.
Heidhveig shivered a little in her chair, suddenly alone and a little lost in this her home.
War , she thought. War indeed.
CHAPTER FOUR
KALKSTHORPE, NORRHEIM
(FORMERLY ROBBINSTON, WASHINGTON COUNTY, MAINE)
MARCH 13, CHANGE YEAR 24/2023 AD
“T hey attacked us!” Kalk said furiously. His voice rose under the high roof of the three-quarters-empty warehouse the town was using to muster its fighters.
“They’re pirates,” he half-shouted.
“They are pirates, and they did attack, and most of them are dead. The survivors are forty-four first-class fighting-men, and neither you nor I can spare them. Nor are folk who make viking a term of honor in a position to be . . . what was the word they used . . . picky,” Artos said.
It was becoming more natural to think of himself by that name.
Artos is my name, he thought. It always was, in the Craft. Rudi . . . Rudi I can be in private, I suppose.
Most of the Kalksthorpe fighters were mustering here, ready to leave at dawn; it was hard cold outside the town wall, and the granular snow was still thick enough for skis. Their families were there to see them off, and a low murmur of voices sounded. Most of the good-byes were quiet and solemn, with fewer embraces or tears than there would have been among Mackenzies, even when a mother tucked the last bundle of fruitcake or rolled socks into a young man’s haversack. Everywhere about love met necessity with a fierce dignity.
Rudi turned to the Moors, who stood in a clump amid a circle of empty space. Abdou al-Naari was there, and his son beside him, a slim young man just old enough to journey with a war band; his arm had healed while his father was in Nantucket. Abdou’s blood brother Jawara stood by his other hand, smiling grimly as he fingered the edge of a broad-bladed spear.
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