Andrew Offutt: When Death Birds Fly

Veremund blinked, started to speak, glanced at Irnic. Wulfhere added to the case Cormac had presented:

“Besides,” he grunted, “Danes build ships better, and sail ’em better, every day of the year.”

King Veremund’s fine brow furrowed in thought. He looked at his cousin Irnic, and though he did not speak his mind Irnic was able to follow its turning. The king much desired the service of these men-needed them, in truth. He was loath to send them excessively far beyond his reach.

“A longer voyage,” the King of the Sueves repeated. “Even unto the land of the Danes?”

Wulfhere Skull-splitter chuckled. “It’s there most Danish men are to be found.”

Wulfhere… plague take ye… Cormac thought, but the king and his two advisors showed no offense at the Dane’s over-plain words. Veremund visibly considered. The thoughts moving in his head were as convoluted as the thick, barbaric knot of his hair; a twisted 8 atop the back of his skull.

“So be it,” he made concession at last. “One does not ask aid of experts and then tell them how their work should be done. The Powers speed you on your journey and bring you safe back to Galicia. Rest easy that while you’re away, your wounded shall have no less care than mine own hearth-companions.”

Cormac smiled in sardonic appreciation of this gentle reminder: the king held hostages against any deceit or failure in what he doubtless saw as the reivers’ duty. A low rumble of laughter filled Wulfhere’s bull-throat.

The giant said, “The shipwright I have in mind is a man named Ketil, lord King. He is far-travelled. In his early youth he was apprentice to an itinerant boat-builder who helped Saxon families-and sometimes entire villages-cross the water to Britain. Since then he’s lived among the Franks and the Frisians; aye, and those Armorican Britons too, in pursuit of his trade. What last I heard, he had settled to family life in Jutland.”

“Then would he wish to leave them for our service?” Veremund asked, with a hand at his brown beard. “It’s a long journey to make for a promise.”

“To found a sea-fleet for a king, I am thinking he’d be unable to resist! He is the master of his craft and has made it an art, and loves it as-as I do mine, by the Thunderer! Moreover, news of your wealth in silver will sweeten him greatly, King of Sueves! When we show him our offspring of your enchanted chain, lord King, there will be no sailing fast enow for Ketil!”

Half-smiling, Cormac thought on Veremund’s wealth in silver. Wealth indeed!

In the king’s treasure room lay a chain of massive links of silver, twelve of Wulfhere’s stridey paces in length. Dwarves had forged it long aforetime, under the direction of their king Motsognir. It had the unique and most desirable property of growing new links when heated in fire, so that it could spawn new wealth forever, were its power not abused. Cormac and Wulfhere had earned five paces’ length of such new growth. It was theirs, to take where they would-and it was silver indeed, and permanent. Yet, at Wulfhere’s words Veremund’s eyes narrowed a little at realization that they meant to take it out of Galicia.

And yet… it made little difference. They had earned the payment. Were they so short-sighted not to return to him, they were not the men he wanted, after all. The thought and concept had occurred to Zarabdas, though as yet it but toyed at the edge of the king’s mind: wealth was power. Unending wealth could lead to absolute power. With a goodly fleet and good leaders of good weapon-men, along with clever merchants and diplomats-that chain could change the course of history and make Veremund the Tall master of Europe-and beyond.

“With your permission, lord King?”

Was the dry, scholarly voice of Zarabdas the mage. Veremund’s gesture assured him of utter freedom.

“Cormac mac Art,” the easterner began, and his dark eyes were intent as, those of a ship’s lookout in dangerous waters. “I know that naught will turn you from this voyage. Yet I foresee it will be filled with such danger, physical and else than physical as well; as even you have seldom confronted. Monsters and sorcerers loom dark athwart your path, and wraiths of haunted darkness flap among the shadows of the time-to-come on wings of death. Whether you will triumph, or they, I cannot know. In this only can I advise you hopefully: do you keep ever on your person the golden sigil that once you showed me. It will aid you.”

Cormac’s dark face remained impassive, despite his surprise. The object Zarabdas spoke of was an ancient golden pendant in the shape of a winged serpent. It had come to the Gael as most things of value come to a pirate: in the way of plunder. He had kept it, though mentally disavowing superstition. Even now it hung agleam against the black linen of his tunic. Mac Art’s hand did not go to it at its mention as any other’s would have done; this man was not like any other.

“Ye say so, mage? Ye’re after telling me otherwise not long since, when ye named this pendant no more than a piece of jewellery.”

“A blind,” Zarabdas said, his expressive hands making light of the matter. “A distraction. You were a foreigner come to our shores, with pirates and by night. I did not know you. Besides, I was not sure of the object’s nature. Since then, I have found mention of it in my books, and one rude drawing. The winged serpent is an Egyptian sunsymbol, mac Art, and far older than the winged disc of Atun that the saintly if impractical Pharoah Akhenatun caused to be worshiped. Yea, older and more powerful as well.”

“Why, that bauble almost wound up betwixt the breasts of a mere taverngirl of Nantes,” Wulfhere said, forgetting that the young woman he mentioned was now quite close to the King of the Sueves of Galicia, whose wife had died in the service of Lucanor’s god of ancient evil.

Zarabdas took no notice whatever of the Dane’s blurted words. His dark gaze remained on mac Art, and intense. “I believe the sigil adorned the prow of one of the mystical boats of Ra, long and long agone, in which souls were ferried to the sun-god’s paradise. Although,” the mage urbanely added with a wave of his hand that rustled his robe’s full sleeve, “you must know this, mac Art. You yourself spoke of its power to protect you, on the day we met.”

“Aye,” Cormac nodded brusquely. He had said something of the sort, to bluff Zarabdas and test his knowledge. Was not the first time a lie of expediency had enveloped a kernel of truth.

So far as Cormac knew, the Egyptian sigil had no more magical power than a stone he might pick up in the fields. Could wearing the turquoise, amid certain incantations, make one fearless? Was the aventurine the sacred power-stone of dead Atlantis? Might the amethyst as so many believed, heighten shrewdness, particularly in matters of trade and business? Zarabdas might now be attempting to befool him in return. He might even be both sincere and correct, though the likelihood of that seemed small. It scarcely mattered. Cormac had kept the sigil because it was after all gold, and of value. He would continue to wear the golden serpent beneath his mail on the off chance of its aiding him-though he’d not be depending on it. He put no faith in such trinkets.

“And should it fail you, Cormac,” Irnic Breakax said smiling, “your sword-arm must make good the lack!”

Cormac shrugged. “My wits and my sword are all I’ve ever trusted.”

“Well then, my lords,” Wulfhere said, pouring ale down his throat, “I sail with the Wolf here as soon as our ship is provisioned.” He looked about at pleased expressions. “And if this settles all our business, I know where two eager wenches await me-and by Wotan, I’d be cruel did I keep them waiting longer!”