Crimson Fire (6 page)

But Havgan, whose heart was
fi
lled with the joy of at last at- taining his dreams, didn’t really mind the trouble. As necessary Havgan and Sigerric together had split heads and broken bones in order to impress upon the other members of the Eorl’s war- band that Havgan was just as good a warrior as the son of any lord. And, after a time, when he had shown his prowess on the
fi
eld, the other men began to accept Havgan as one of them.

Of the one hundred men in the Eorl’s warband, there were

only four others whom Havgan counted as his true friends. There was Baldred, the son of the Eorl of Tarbin, and Talorcan, son of the Eorl of Bernice. There was Catha, the brother of the Eorl of Pecsaetan, and Penda, the son of the Eorl of Lindisfarne.

For a time, Havgan had been happy. But it had been all too brief. For as year followed year, he discovered that being a warrior wasn’t enough, after all. He discovered that he was just as out of place in this world as in the old one. And sometimes he felt despair in his soul so heavy that he could not breathe.

That was when the dream began for him—the dream of the woman on the rocks, the dream from which he always awoke weeping though he did not know why, the dream that often made him afraid to sleep.

Trapped in the waking world, trapped in the sleeping one, he sometimes thought he would go mad. As mad as his mother was.

Mad enough, perhaps, to let out the dark thing buried deep inside, damning his soul to Hel.

N
OW IN THE
near-silent hall
fi
tfully illuminated by the em- bers of the dying
fi
re, he quietly rose and slipped outside. He breathed in the crisp night air with a sigh of relief, glad for this momentary illusion of freedom.

To the left of the hall the kitchens and storehouses bulked, dark and quiet against the night sky. Across the courtyard the weaving rooms and workshops were also still. The horse pens were quiet, the animals asleep beneath the feeble beams of the waning moon.

Overhead the stars winked and glittered slyly, as though holding a secret. He picked out the constellation of Tiw, the

Warrior, and thought again of what was facing him tomorrow. He knew he needed to be well-rested, but he almost feared to sleep—thinking that the woman on the rocks was waiting for him, and he feared her almost as much as he longed for her.

And as he stood there in the shadows, his cloak wrapped around him, he thought he heard the faint sound of hunting horns and baying hounds. The horses shifted uneasily, some of them lifting their heads to stare toward the north.

He shivered, afraid that tonight the Wild Hunt was riding, afraid that Wuotan One-Eye himself would come to claim his soul. He shook himself, for that was no way to think. He was a true believer in the One God. He was not, would never be one of the Heiden who worshipped the Old Gods in secret, nor one of the Wiccan, those with powers given them by Sceadu, the Great Shadow. He was a man of Lytir, and he would
fi
nd a way to please the God, in spite of the thing inside him.

Tomorrow he would be champion. He would win the bat- tle, just as Sigerric had said. But for now, he must sleep, dream or no dream. He swiftly returned to the hall, telling himself that he was not running, telling himself that he was not afraid.

He picked his way across the crowded
fl
oor and returned to

his place by the
fi
re. As he wrapped himself in his cloak and set- tled on the rush-covered
fl
oor, he had one last coherent thought as he gazed at the dying embers. In the name of Lytir, he begged silently, don’t let me dream tonight. Don’t let me dream.

C
hapter
2

Aecesdun, Marc of Cantware Weal of Coran, Coranian Empire

& Caer Dathyl, kingdom of Gwynedd, Kymru, Ostmonath & Ysgawen Mis, 486

W

Mondaeg, Sol 4—Gewinnan Daeg

hen he woke the next morning there were tears on his cheeks. Sigerric helped him to sit up, handing him a cup of warm, spicy mead. As Havgan gulped

the brew down, Sigerric asked quietly, “The dream again?”

Havgan nodded but did not bother to speak. They had said it all before, hundreds of times.

The dream never changed. In the dream he walks by the sea, the damp sand scrunching beneath his boots. His ruby- red cloak
fl
ares out behind him in the sturdy breeze. Wave after wave washes onto the shore, and then retreats with angry hisses. The sun is a baleful orange orb, setting the water ablaze as it sinks slowly into the ocean. The sorrowing cry of a seagull splinters the air and is carried away by the stiffening wind.

Then and only then, Havgan raises his eyes and sees a promontory jutting out to sea. The stones are black with sea spray. He sees the woman who stands on the outermost rock.

Her back is turned to him so he cannot see her face, but every rigid line in her slender body shows her need. Her arms are out- stretched to the west in unbearable longing. Her long, honey- blond hair tumbles down her back, the outer strands caught and lifted by the steady breeze. The wind begins to moan with a low keening wail.

He calls out to her. It is dreadfully important that he see her face, dreadfully important that she speak to him, dreadfully important that she turn to him, so he can see himself re
fl
ected within the eyes he knows are full of tears, so he can know him- self to be real.

When he calls out to her, her arms drop to her sides. Her head lifts at the sound of his voice. She begins to turn.

Then, everything stops. There is no sound. The waves still crash on the shore, but they are silent. The gulls wheel over- head without a sound. The wind whips his blood-red cloak, but he can hear nothing. He freezes there, motionless.

And sees only the woman, her back still to him, now frozen on the rock. Forever turning, never turning, her face hidden from him forever and ever.

With tears running down his face, he is crying to her with the voice of the sea for her to turn to him. Crying to her with the voice of the gulls. Crying to her with the voice of the wind. And crying with her, the lost and lonely woman who looks out to sea. And always, when he jerks himself awake, there are salty tears on his face, as though the sea itself has returned with him

from the place where he has been.

“The battle is at noon,” Sigerric said quietly, re
fi
lling the cup held in Havgan’s trembling hands. “Meet us one hour be- fore and we will arm you.”

Havgan took a deep breath. “The fair is here today.” “Yes,” Sigerric said easily. “Fairs do gather at tournament

time.”

“I’m going to see the valla.” Something inside, perhaps something he brought back with him from his dream of the sea told him he must go back to the valla today. He could feel it. Today was a turning on the path. A crossroads.

Sigerric nodded, his dark eyes serene. “Don’t be late.”

T
HE FAIR WAS
crowded as Havgan absentmindedly made his way through the throng. He was preoccupied with the feeling that today would mark something momentous. The word had come to him as he woke up that morning—
crossroads
. Cross- roads. Today.

He neared the tent of the valla, marked with the traditional stars and half moons. There was a scruffy man sitting on a stool in front of the tent, drinking ale with a contented air. His breeches and tunic were worn but clean, and his long brown hair, sprinkled with gray, was braided in the old-fashioned manner. His small blue eyes looked alertly up at Havgan, as he dragged himself to his feet. Taking in Havgan’s well-made boots and rich tunic, the man bowed slightly. “A reading, good lord? One seid for a penny.”

Havgan, his face unmoving, dropped a large, silver coin into the man’s hands. “The runes. Two readings.”

The smaller man nodded. “Yes, good lord. Enter and learn the future.” With a showman’s gesture, the man opened the tent
fl
ap and motioned him inside.

The tent was dim, lit only by a small brazier set to the side of a low table. A woman sat at the table, dressed in a long, black

robe. Her face was covered with a
fi
lmy black veil. Her smooth hands, with long, tapering
fi
ngers, rested quietly on the table- top. Beneath the veil he caught a hint of shining, blond hair. Wordlessly, Havgan sank down on the opposite side of the low table, tucking his feet beneath him.

The woman spoke in a low, musical voice. “I am Egwina. I am the valla. I am the keeper of secrets. I am the teller of truths. I speak for the Wyrd, the three goddesses of fate. I speak for past, for present, for future. What is it you wish to know?”

“Today I woke with a dream I have had for many years.

And today I
fi
ght a battle. I have two questions.”

“Ask your questions, then, warrior, and I will see what we can learn.”

“First. Today I stand at the crossroads. What path do I take?” Slowly the woman reached out a hand and laid it gently on Havgan’s arm. After a moment, she gripped his arm convul- sively, then snatched her hand away. She rubbed one hand with

the other, as though to slough off whatever she had felt.

“Yes,” she said in a strained voice. “You stand at the crossroads today. There are those among us who have dreamed of this.”

“What do you mean?” Havgan asked coolly. But his heart was beating wildly.

She gazed at him, still rubbing her hand. “You are powerful, warrior. The more so because you know not what you can do.”

In a
fl
ash, Havgan reached out and grabbed her wrists in

a grip of iron. “You will tell me nothing about that. Do you understand? No words of what I can do, or I will kill you.” His voice was deathly quiet.

She shrank back, but he did not loose his hold. “Do you un- derstand?” he asked again. She nodded, and he slowly released

her. “My reading. Read the runes for me. Answer my ques- tion. And only that question. Now.”

She swallowed hard, then lifted a golden bowl to the table. “Choose three runes—one for the past, one for the present, one for the future,” she said, her voice low and subdued. “Close your eyes and choose one piece. The
fi
rst piece is for the past.” Havgan plunged his hand into the bowl and picked out a small piece of wood, with a rune marked on it outlined in gold,

and laid it gently on the tabletop.

The valla leaned forward and studied the rune. In a trem- bling voice she said, “This is
chalk
, the dead man’s rune. It is a sign of barrenness, of emptiness, of hopes and dreams that have turned to ashes. This has been your life up to now.”

As though
, he thought bitterly,
I needed runes to tell me that
. But he said nothing.

“Now choose the next rune, the rune for the present,” she went on.

Again, Havgan choose a piece of carved wood and laid it on the table. “Ah,” the seeress said, with relief. “You have chosen
ansuz
. This is truly a momentous rune. It means that you will soon experience the divine. The God himself will send a mes- sage to you, a signal from his Holy Presence.”

“A signal to show the way to take at the crossroads?”

“So it would seem, warrior.” Her voice sounded more con-
fi
dent now. “Choose the last rune, the rune for the future. We shall see where the signal will take you.”

Havgan chose the last rune and laid it down. The valla, glancing at it, took a ragged breath but said nothing.

“What does this one mean?” Havgan demanded, startled out of his calm demeanor.

“This is
gar
. It is a symbol of power.” She raised her head, and he knew she was staring at him. “It is a symbol of royalty,” she whispered.

Havgan was stunned. Royalty? Power? But how? The Coranian Empire had an emperor, secure on his throne. And yet, the emperor had only one child—a daughter. The idea that came to him seemed farfetched beyond belief. And yet, he felt power here from the seeress. If that is what she saw. . .

He interrupted his own musing. “Now answer my second question. For many years I have had a dream that will not leave me. My question is, who is the woman who stands on the rocks?” “For such a question we must use the runes of Achtwan,

the Great Wheel of Existence. These runes are powerful, and a seid with them can be dangerous.” She paused, then tilted her head challengingly. “A seid with these runes could lead again to words of what you can do. Words you have said you will kill me for.”

Havgan smiled, without warmth. “Then you must be very careful, mustn’t you?”

She swallowed hard, then reached under the table and grasped a bag made of swan’s skin. “Reach your hand into the bag of Achtwan, then, and choose a rune. You will choose three runes. They are not for past, present, or future. They will tell you the answer to your question in their own way.”

Havgan reached into the bag. These runes felt heavier, and when he pulled one out, he saw that they were made of solid gold. Gently, he laid the rune on the table. The golden sym- bol glittered in the
fi
tful light. “You have chosen the Wolf’s Cross,” she said slowly. “This is the rune for unchangeable fate. Choose another.”

Havgan chose, and laid the golden rune on the table. “You have chosen the Dragon’s Eye. This is a symbol for the dwell- er on the threshold of the mind—that which is hidden within. Choose the last.”

As he chose, he noticed that her hands had begun to trem- ble. But her voice was steady as she said, “You have chosen Iar, the Magician. It is a symbol for the danger of approaching that which lies hidden.”

For a moment she studied the runes with her head bowed. Suddenly, she drew off her veil and looked full into his amber eyes. Her own eyes were dark blue, and they blazed now with both power and fear. Her golden hair vied with the shining runes for brightness. “Warrior, you have chosen runes for a fate that was marked before you were born,” she said urgently. “You have chosen runes that say that to ful
fi
ll your fate, you must not look too closely inside yourself. You can break this path only by looking at that which is hidden there. And if you do not break the path, thousands will die.”