Poul Anderson - Star of the Sea

“The holy bull,” Edh breathed. “Or the hell horse?”

“No,” Floris said. “I told you, yours is a harder road than the way under.”

Fire sprang and crackled in a trench down the middle of Heidhin’s house. Smoke did not rise well toward the louvers, but hazed and made stinging an air that the flames hardly warmed. Their red light wrestled with darknesses among the pillars and beams. It wavered across the men on the benches and the women who brought them drink. Most sat wordless. Although Heidhin’s home was as grand as many a royal hall, it had commonly known less mirth than a crofter’s hut. This eventide there was none. Outside, wind shrilled through a deepening dusk.

“Naught can come of it save treachery,” Heidhin snarled.

Seated beside him, Burhmund slowly shook his grizzled head. The fire threw a bloodshot shimmer over the milkiness of his blind eye. “I know not,” he answered. “Yon Everard is an odd one. He may be able to bring something about.”

“The best he, or anybody, could bear back to us is a refusal. Any offer would be meant for our ruin. You should never have let him go.”

“How could I have stopped him? It was the lords of the tribes whom he spoke with, and they who sent him off. I told you how I did not hear till lately, when I was already on this quest.”

Heidhin’s lips writhed. “They dared!”

“They had the right.” Burhmund’s tone fell dull to the ground. “They do not forswear themselves merely by talk with the foe. I think, now, I would not have tried to forbid them, had I been on hand. They are sick of this war. Maybe Everard can find them a hope. I too am death-weary.”

“I thought better of you,” fleered Heidhin.

Burhmund showed no anger; but then, Wael-Edh’s oath-brother stood well-nigh as high as he did. “Easy for you,” said the Batavian patiently. “Your house has not been riven. My sister’s son fell in battle against me. My wife and another sister lie hostage in Colonia; I know not whether they yet live. My homeland is laid waste.” He stared down into his drinking horn. “Are the gods done with me?”

Heidhin sat spear-straight. “Only if you yield,” he said. “I never will.”

A knock sounded on the door. The man seated nearest took an ax and went to open it. Wind gusted in; the flames jumped and streamed sparks. Murk rimmed the shaped that trod through.

Heidhin leaped up. “Edh!” he cried, and started toward her.

“Lady,” Burhmund whispered. A mumble went around the hall. Men got to their feet.

Unhooded, she moved a ways alongside the fire trench. They saw she was stiff and pale, and that her gaze went beyond them. “How, how came you here?” Heidhin stumbled. The sight of him, the relentless, thus shaken, daunted every heart. “Why?”

She halted. “I must speak with you alone,” she said. Fate rang in her low voice. “Follow me. None else.”

“But—you—what—”

“Follow me, Heidhin. Mighty tidings are come. You others, abide them.” Wael-Edh turned and strode back out.

Like a sleepwalker, Heidhin went after her. At the entry, his hand of itself plucked a spear from the weapons left leaning against the wall. The two of them passed into the dark. Shuddering, a man crept to close the door.

“No, bar it not,” Burhmund told him. “We will wait here as she bade till she returns or morning does.”

The first stars winked faint overhead. Buildings crouched shapeless. Edh led the way from the yard to the open ground beyond. Sere grass and wind-ruffled puddles faded off into blindness. Near the edge of sight stood a great oak at which Heidhin offered to the Anses. From behind it spilled a steady white light. Heidhin jarred to a stop. He made a noise in his gullet.

“You must be brave tonight,” Edh said. “Yonder is the goddess.”

“Niaerdh . . . she . . . has come back?”

“Yes, to my tower, whence she fetched me hither. Come.” Edh went steadily on. Her cloak flapped in the wind, which threw the loosened hair about the head she bore so high. Heidhin gripped his spearshaft hard and trailed her.

Gnarled boughs reached widely, half seen by the glow. The wind clicked their twigs together. Dead leaves squelched wet underfoot. The two came around the bole and saw her who stood next to a bull or a horse cast in steel.

“Goddess,” Heidhin moaned. He dropped to a knee and bent his neck. But when he rose again, he held firm. If his spear shook, it was with the same wild gladness that burst from his lips. “Will you now lead us to the last fight?”

Floris’s look searched over him. He stood lean and dark, somberly clad, face etched and locks streaked by the hunter years, the iron of his weapon asheen above them. Her lamp cast his shadow across Edh. “No,” said Floris. “The time for war is past.”

Breath rattled between his jaws. “The Romans are dead? You slew them all for us?”

Edh flinched.

“They live,” Floris said, “as your folk shall live. Too many have died in every tribe, theirs also. They will make peace.”

Heidhin’s left hand joined his right, clutching the spearshaft. “I never will,” he rasped. “The goddess heard my vow I made at the shore. When they go, I will dog their heels, I will harry them by day and raid them by night—Shall I give you my kills, Niaerdh?”

“The Romans are not going. They will remain. But they will restore to the folk their rights. Let that suffice.”

Heidhin shook his head as if smitten. He gaped from woman to woman for a whole minute before he whispered, “Goddess, Edh, do you both betray them? I will not believe it.”

He seemed unaware that Edh reached toward him. The wind ran between them. Her tone pleaded. “The Batavi and the rest, they are no tribe of ours. We have done enough for them.”

“I tell you, the terms will be honorable,” Floris said. “Your work is ended. You have won what will content Burhmund himself. But Veleda must make known that this is what the gods want and men should lay down their arms.”

“I—you—We swore, Edh.” Heidhin sounded puzzled. “Never would you make peace while the Romans held on and I lived. We swore to it. We mingled our blood in the earth.”

“You will set her free of that vow,” Floris commanded, “as I already have done.”

“I cannot. I will not.” Raw with pain, the words suddenly lashed at Edh. “Have you forgotten how they made you their slut? Do you no longer care for your honor?”

She fell to her knees. Her hands fended. Her mouth stretched wide. “No,” she keened, “don’t, no, no.”

Floris moved toward the man. In the night above, Everard aimed a stun pistol. “Have done,” she said. “Are you a wolf, to rip her whom you love?”

Heidhin flung an arm wide, baring his breast to her. “Love, hate—I am a man. I swore to the Anses.”

“Do as you like,” Floris said, “but spare my Edh. Remember you owe me your life.”

Heidhin slumped. Leaning on his spear, Edh huddled at his feet, he shadowed her while the wind blew around them and the tree creaked like a gallows rope.

All at once he laughed, squared his shoulders, and looked straight into Floris’ eyes. “You speak truth, goddess,” he said. “Yes, I will let go.”

He lowered the spear, gripped it with hands below the head, and stabbed the point into his throat. In a single swording motion he slashed the edge from side to side.

Edh’s shriek overrode Floris’s. Heidhin went down in a heap. Blood spouted, blackly aglisten. He kicked and clawed at the grass, blind reflex.

“Stop!” Everard rapped. “Don’t try to save him. This damned warrior culture—it’s his only way out.”

Floris didn’t trouble to subvocalize. A goddess might well use an unknown tongue to sing the soul on its way. “But the horror of it—”