The Sword of the Lady (64 page)

Bjarni′s horn was bound and tipped with rune-graven gold, and bore a carving of a woman carrying a horn to a man who rode a chariot pulled by goats. He held it high:

″I drink to Odin, to Freyr and Freyja, to Njord, to almighty Thor, and to all the Gods and Goddesses. Hail, Aesir, hail Ásynjur!″

Rudi raised his horn and drank; the mead was dry and strong, and left a slight catch at the back of his throat. There was nothing in
his
faith that forbade it. Some of the dwellers signed the Hammer over their horns before they lifted them; a few used the Cross. Some touched the mead with a finger and then their foreheads rather than drinking; Harberga did, he noticed, probably for the unborn babe′s sake.

Bjarni lifed his horn again: ″I drink to our ancestors, who made Norrheim with their might, their main, their craft and luck. Most of all, I drink to my father, Erik Waltersson, Erik the Strong. Drink hail!″

The Bjorning chieftain paused and took a deep breath. When he spoke his voice was matter-of-fact.

″Most of you were here when the
seidhkona
took the high seat last night. Through her the Allfather spoke, and laid a duty on all those who would stand with the Gods to aid our guest, Rudi Mikesson of the Mackenzies, called Artos, Son of Bear and Raven.″

He stepped down from the dais and laid his free hand on the golden ring clenched in the jaws of the gilt boar; there was a tense hush, for that was the oath-ring of their folk. Swearing on it bound doubly.

″As first
bragarfull
, I swear to make Rudi Mackenzie my blood brother; to have the same friends and the same enemies, to give each other sanctuary without stint, to share our goods, to foster each other′s children at need, and each to avenge the other′s death on any foe and give him his rites if he falls on foreign soil. This I swear by almighty Thor.″

His uncle Ranulf stood; the
thul
could object to an oath. ″You swear more than you can perform, Bjarni Eriksson, for blood brotherhood needs the will of two. Will our guest support your oath?″

Rudi nodded. ″I will,″ he said, calmly but forcefully.

He rose as well, and they stood facing one another across the golden boar. He drew the
sgian dubh
from his sock-hose and nicked the flesh at the base of his right thumb. Bjarni did the same with his seax. They clasped hands, letting the blood mingle, then raised them to allow a drop to fall on the holy earth; then each ran a drop into his mead horn and offered it to the other to drink through linked arms.

″Drink hail!″

A murmur ran through the hall as the two resumed their seats; the oath bound the Bjornings as a whole, through their chief. Rudi thought most of them were satisfied; he was himself. Bjarni was a man you could trust to have your back; their acquaintance had been brief, but intense.

A young woman stood and raised her horn. The looks and exclamations and a few gasps told him that this was
not
expected.

″I drink to Odin, Lord of Ravens,″ she said. ″And I ask him to witness the oath I shall make.″

It was as if the room held its breath. Rudi recognized the girl who′d asked after her man Sigurd at the divination, though she looked to have aged a decade in a day.

But the long amber-blond hair was shorter now—roughly hacked off below the ears, a man′s style among the Bjornings. And she was wearing a belted tunic and breeks and boots, not the gown and long apron; all her clothing was in black or dark blue. These folk didn′t make as much of the differences between men′s dress and women′s as Mathilda′s did but from what he′d seen they were more particular about it than Mackenzies, especially on formal occasions like this.

The clothes had some significance here, something that he wasn′t quite grasping. Bjarni′s mouth had closed in a grim line, and Harberga was frowning. An older man and woman seemed caught between anger and tears; probably her parents.

The tall young woman walked down and crossed to the Oath-Swine; as she did the lamplight glittered on a pendant she wore, a
valknut
, a set of three interlaced equal-sided triangles with the points upright.

Now
that
I know. It is Odin′s mark. I think—

She laid her hand on the ring and spoke: ″This I swear and promise: that I will have vengeance for my betrothed, Sigurd Jeansson; I will be a shield-maid until I have taken a wergild of lives tenfold for his, taken them by my own hand—″

The
thul
stood, and more quickly than before. ″Asgerd Karlsdottir! To speak these words in
sumbel
is to link our fates to yours in the well of Wyrd! If you fail, all of us bear the ill luck that falls on the foresworn. What sith, what recompense, can you pay if fulfilling this oath is beyond your might?″

The ravaged face lifted. ″If it is beyond my might, it is not beyond my main, my soul strength. If I fail in this oath, the price I offer is this: my life. I will fulfill my oath, or I will die with my face to the foe.″

Rudi hissed slightly between his teeth.
If ever I saw someone in most desperate earnest, this is she
, he thought.

″This is a dreadful oath,″ the
thul
said. ″By it you deprive your kindred of strength, not only yours but that of your children who might be.″

Proudly, she replied: ″I am a free woman of Norrheim, and of the Bjorning folk, and of age. I have said what sith I will pay to support my oath. May I swear, or not?″

″All men are born fey. All women, too,″ Ranulf said heavily. ″You may swear; your oath is accepted.″

″So I swear, by Victory-Father. Drink hail!″

She did more than take a draught; she drank steadily, until the horn shed only a drop when she held it upside down. The
Wassail
was ragged; when it died down, Asgerd turned and looked Rudi in the eye. The mead had put red in her cheeks, but her voice was still cold:

″Since the High One commanded us to aid Rudi Mikesson of the Mackenzies, and his foes are those who slew my man, I will fulfill my oath in his service if he will have me. I am trained to arms, I can use sword and spear, and I am better than most with the bow. I′ve hunted and trapped and know the ways of land and water. There are deer and wolves who could testify to it, if they lived! But if he will not, I will follow nonetheless.″

Hmmm.
That
I didn′t expect either
, he thought, a little dismayed.

Then his gaze turned professional. She was tall for a woman—a hair less than his half sisters, perhaps the slightest touch taller than Mathilda—and looked fit.

She moves well. And there′s nothing wrong with her nerve, I′d judge.
Apart from that—

He looked over to Ranulf; he′d gathered that the brother of the Bjorning founder was an arms master and one of his nephew′s right-hand men.

″All our folk
are
trained to weapons play,″ Ranulf said.

It was a little grudging, but with the air of a man who wouldn′t bend the truth about the trade he loved. The same judicious appraisal went through the rest.

″Though women usually put it aside when they wed, and few ever fight except at greatest need, when their home garths are attacked. Asgerd isn′t as strong as a man with her inches, of course, but she′s strong for her weight, and quick, and more skilled than most girls her age. Sigurd Jeansson was a fine fighting man, often in viking, and he sparred with her much. Nor have I seen her flinch from a blow on the practice field, even the hardest.″

Asgerd nodded. ″My Sigurd said he would have no coward, no weakling, to be mother of his sons or to guard his steading when he was away.″

Unexpectedly, Edain spoke as well. ″I saw her shooting at the range earlier,″ he said. ″She′s got a good eye. The archer′s eye. Not the heaviest bow, but she′s sure, and fast; she′d pass trial for the First Levy at home. Though there′s room for improvement, of course.″

She shot him a look of startled gratitude; there was even the hint of a smile in it. Rudi nodded; that settled the question of her skill with the bow. Archery was something an Aylward took
very
seriously.

″I will accept your service, Asgerd Karlsdottir,″ he said. ″But I will tolerate nothing reckless or heedless. So, before we leave Eriksgarth you must swear to me by my own people′s oath. I give you fair warning: that oath will bind you tightly. My war band has but one will, and that one is
mine
.″

″I will swear that oath.″

Asgerd walked slowly back to her seat and sat; Rudi judged her stunned by success . . . and not the least regretful.

That brought a clamor of young Bjornings wanting to enlist with the questers. Rudi picked carefully, just enough to replace the Southsiders killed or too badly wounded to continue, six men and another woman.

Looking for adventure, I think,
he decided.
Or for a trip away from troubles; or perhaps for gain, rising with a King newcome to power and willing to risk all for it. Or such reasons mixed together. Not a bad start. I′ve been questing for the Sword; but once I have it, I must build a host.

″And that is all for now,″ he said firmly; he thought Bjarni looked a little relieved. ″When I return with the Sword, we shall see what we shall see. I fear that my blood brother will need all the strong sword arms he can muster before then, and need them here.″

There were pleased nods from the yeoman landholders at that. Several heads of household rose and pledged to take in their wounded or horses; others swore to provide gear or goods to those who′d joined him, even costly items like mail shirts. Which was welcome; they hadn′t brought along all the gear of their fallen, there being no space in the sleds to spare. Bjarni caught Rudi′s eye and nodded.

Rudi stood.
Ogma of the honey-tongue, be with me now,
he thought, then pitched his voice to carry:

″Folk of Eriksgarth, of the Bjornings, of Norrheim, by now you know somewhat of my story. Hear also what my mother said when she held me over the altar in our
nemed
, our sacred wood, when she gave me my name and made prophecy:

″This was the fate laid upon me at my birth;
Orløg
, you say. Here I swear to take up this destiny, and the Sword. I will defeat the black evil of Corwin, and free those it holds in thrall. I will be
Ard Rí
in Montival; I will be High King. To my own people I will be land father and give good lordship and fair judgment; in my lands each shall hold his own, and each folk shall follow their own customs and Gods and laws, subject only to the common good. To foreign friends—such as yourselves—I will offer the open hand of welcome and alliance, and see that none trouble any who come to trade or visit. Only to the reiver, the evildoer, the oppressor and the invader shall I show the edge of the Sword, but to them it shall be a sword of fire indeed. So I swear, by the Gods of my people, by the Maker of Stars, by the Lady of the Ravens who has held me under Her wings; and also I swear by great Odin, Victory-Father, who has given me of his strength and wisdom here and elsewhere.″

He took the oath-ring in his hand. ″So I swear; so shall I do. And if there comes a day when the King must die for the people, then I will go consenting, with open eyes.
Drink hail!
″

Mathilda smiled at him over her horn, but tears trembled in her eyes. She rose:

″I have sworn service as vassal with Artos the High King already. Here I swear that I will take him for my man, for my war captain, for my King, and keep faith with him in all ways so long as life is in me. Drink hail!″

Edain stood in his turn. ″I started on this quest a boy, following a friend. Along the way I′ve found a King to follow, who′s still the best friend and comrade a man could have. I swear I′ll stand by him as best I can, all my life long. Drink hail!″

The others followed; the twins swore their pledge in liquid Sindarin, causing a little confusion. Odard went last, and stood silent for an instant. When he spoke his voice was low at first:

″When I started this journey, I came because of the Princess more than Rudi. There was bad blood between my family and his . . . A man′s mind is never all of one thing, nor does he know himself or all his reasons beneath the masks he wears. They deceive even the wearer. But by following Rudi, I′ve found enemies worth fighting, and a man . . . a King . . .
worth
following. I will follow him, and raise my sons to follow his. Drink hail!″

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

″You attack this time,″ Ritva Havel said to Asgerd Karlsdottir. ″On the count—one—″

The Ranger had her parka off, and wore only the down-quilted vest, wool undershirt, wool tunic, padded gambeson and mail-lined leather jerkin. That was miserably chilly but exercise would help, though there was a hint of moisture in the air today that made the cold sink right into bone and joint. For some reason the same quilted padding that turned a mail shirt hellish in summertime did nothing for you in weather like this. At least the cold muted the harsh rank smell of old sweat and rancid oil inseparable from armor, leaving the clean scent of spruce and pine the strongest odor around them.

The edge of her shield snapped down the visor of the sallet she was wearing, and the steely gray light of the winter′s day shrank to a line of tarnished brightness across her eyes through the vision slit. Her shield came up under her chin, and her feet felt for the balance—the mealy snow moved beneath her boots, as bad as sand for leeching away speed. Sword up, point up . . .