Read Online The High King of Montival: A Novel of the Change by S. M. Stirling - Free Book Online Page B

that standard. As village militias went, the Kalksthorpe fyrd weren’t bad at all. He’d have to learn to be a bit more flexible.
    “We’ll do that along the way; but Fred, remember it’s the art of the possible. Ritva, Mary . . . I need to know more than there are thousands of them and gather at Staghorn Dale , and I need to know it quickly. Can you do it?”
    The two Dúnedain gave identical nods. “We can travel three times faster than this bunch,” Mary said.
    “There and back again,” Ritva added, despite her sister’s glare.
    Rudi signed agreement; a war band traveled at the speed of the slowest. And the Rangers trained hard in just that sort of scouting and endurance trek. He himself could keep up with his half sisters cross-country, but he didn’t know many others who could.
    “Go, find out who’s where with what, and get back to me. Hopefully by the time I reach Eriksgarth.” Then he added: “Hortho le huil vaer, muinthel nín . ”
    That meant fair winds speed you on, sister . He’d never had the time to spare to learn the Rangers’ special tongue, but he had a fair assortment of stock phrases. Ritva and Mary both put their right hands to their hearts.
    “Harthon cened le ennas, muindor nín ,” Ritva said solemnly: “I’ll see you there, my brother.”
    Mary spoke to Ingolf: “Unad nuithatha i nîr e-guren nalú aderthad vín.” When his lips began to move in silent translation, she leaned close and whispered:
    “Nothing will stop the weeping of my heart until we are once more together.”
    Ritva added a wink—he thought at Hrolf Homersson—and they picked up the skis that leaned against a pillar, put them over their shoulders and left at a tireless springy trot.
    Artos took a deep breath and jumped to the top of a great hogs-head full of something heavy.
    “Folk of Kalksthorpe,” he called.
    His voice wasn’t pitched very loud, but absolute silence fell; he could hear the cold wind hooting around the logs of the walls.
    “You’ve agreed to follow me to this war-muster,” he said; his glance went to Thorleif Heidhveigsson.
    The man nodded soberly. “I did,” he said.
    Kalksthorpe didn’t exactly have a chief, besides Kalk himself; they settled matters by a folkmoot where every adult had a voice, much like a Mackenzie dun. The settlement was small enough for that to work, just, if most were sensible. But the seeress’ son was a leading trader and craftsman, a respected man whose word carried weight. Hers carried even more, and the word of the Gods through her.
    “I’m not going to quarrel with the High One’s opinions about war,” the householder said, confirming Artos’ thought. “Who here is fool enough to do that? He’s the Father of Victories.”
    Nobody volunteered to put on the offered shoe; Artos held his grin within himself. He didn’t doubt for a moment the truth of Heidhveig’s vision, but it was politically convenient as well, and no mistake.
    “Do you all swear to it?” he said.
    A moment’s silence, then a crashing shout of agreement from the two-hundred-odd fighters; most of them hammered weapons on shields, a hollow booming thunder that turned into a roar as it echoed back from the rafters.
    “We swear!”
    “Then hear my word! You will obey my orders; a war band without a leader is like a ship at sea without a captain, food for the carrion eaters. And you will take those orders through those I appoint as if from my own mouth. Doubtless there are many men of mark among you, but we’ve no time for me to make their acquaintance. Frederick Thurston here is my chief of staff—”
    The dark young man nodded. He had the specialist training for it . . . and Fred had come to follow the same Gods as the Norrheimers, over the past year or so; the Lord of the Ravens had personally claimed him as a follower through Heidhveig. That would give him added authority.
    “—and Ingolf the Wanderer is my second-in-command.”
    Ingolf crossed his muscled arms on his