S. Stirling - Lord of Mountains

“I drink to our glorious dead,” Signe Havel called from the high table where she and the Bearkiller leaders and Bjarni sat.

She raised a horn carved and wrought with silver runes at mouth and tip, her voice as fiercely comely as her face as she looked down the long chamber, mourning and pride as naked as a she-wolf’s.

“May they feast with the High One this night. May His daughters bear them the mead of heroes, and greet the new-come einherjar thus at the gates of Vallhöl:

“Drink hail!” she finished.

“ Wassail! ” ran down the tables in a roaring shout.

When the toast and ceremony was finished, Bjarni Eriksson stood and raised his own horn of wine.

“To our alliance,” he called. “True folk, shoulder to shoulder and shield to shield against our foes-from here to the eastern sea. Drink hail!”

“Wassail!”

Eric’s beard and mane were bright against his dark clothing as he went on after Bjarni sat:

“Brothers and sisters of the A-List; Bearkillers of the Outfit; friends and allies from far away,” he said. “The last time we feasted our dead, we celebrated a fighting retreat.”

He grinned and held up his steel fist; the burnished metal caught the flame-light and sent it back.

“And I left this hand on that battlefield. Now we celebrate a great victory. To victory- drink hail! ”

“Wassail!”

This time the cheer made the roof shake. Not long after the first of the feasters left; Bjarni noticed that Eric and Signe, and their young sons, were drinking lightly however many times their horns were raised. A few minutes later Halldor was gone, and the one he’d been trading glances with like whetted swords. It was not long until the leaders were nearly alone at the high seat and could talk privately; this was a feast, but held after far faring and hard fighting and wounds for many. That bred a weariness that didn’t go away with a few nights’ rest. Shadows gathered as lamps burned down, as if to keep the talk cloaked, and the banners stirred overhead with a whisper of thick cloth.

“So,” Bjarni said, putting down his horn in the wrought silver rest; the wine buzzed a little in his ears, but only enough to speed wits. “How long do you think this war will go on?”

Eric and Signe exchanged a look. Signe inclined her head to her brother and he answered:

“There will be little bands of horse-bandits raiding stock and calling on the Prophet and the Ascended Masters for a generation in the far interior,” he said, looking down into his wine. “But how long until we take Corwin and burn it to the ground and gut or hang the last of the High Seekers? No more than two years at most.”

Signe signed the Hammer for luck, and Bjarni touched the silver one around his neck; Eric nodded to acknowledge that he was tempting fate a little, but went on:

“One year, if Boise goes as well as looks likely; possibly before the snow falls next year, if the League of Des Moines pushes hard.”

“Good,” Bjarni said. “Then my revenge for the attack on my people will be taken and my oath to Artos Mikesson will be fulfilled, and I have my own kingdom to see to.”

“After the Horse Heaven Hills, no-one in the Nine Worlds could deny you’ve done what you swore,” Signe said. “The enemy dead were piled before your men’s shields; I saw it when we were riding next day all along where the battle line had stood. The ravens and coyotes and lobos feasted well. For its size, your force did as well as anyone on that field.”

“Or better!” Bjarni said with a fierce grin. More slowly: “I’ve done more than fight and feast here. I’ve seen that you in Montival…and the Midwesterners…have arts that we in Norrheim lack. Machines, tools, knowledge. I want them for my folk. A king’s might is the wealth and strength of his people.”

The two Bearkillers looked at each other, then back at him.

“Good fortune to you, Bjarni Ironrede,” Signe said. “That shows a proper spirit in a ruler. But hasn’t the High King promised you aid?”

“Yes, and he’ll fulfill that,” Bjarni said. “He and I swore blood-brotherhood in my own hall, and he’s a man who keeps his oaths. But I would not have Norrheim dependent on one man’s bounty, even a blood-brother who is a mighty king. A king so mighty that he doesn’t need anything I have.”

“Or you could seek more traffic with the Midwesterners, they’re closer,” Signe said.

Bjarni grinned in his red beard. “Too close for comfort and entirely too numerous. I want them to think as little of me and mine as they may. Let them look west, or north, or south, anywhere but towards me and mine. You, on the other hand, are not only friends…you’re distant friends.”

“Easier to stay friends when there’s nothing to quarrel over,” Signe observed.

“What do you want of us, then?” Eric added bluntly. “We’re friends, I hope, and battle comrades. But we have our own problems here, our duty is to the Outfit and Montival, and Norrheim is very far away. Until Rudi got back, we hadn’t even heard you existed or that there was anything but bones and Eaters left in Maine.”

Bjarni stroked his beard. “Good! No weasel words between us, then. Norrheim is far away, but we have treasure. Our Vikings scour the dead cities, and those of the east are greater than those of the West, and fewer have plundered them. Artos and I showed that men could cross the continent, and in some numbers and without taking many years about it. After the war, things will travel that way again, things and men.”

“I can’t see much trade. Not for a very long time, centuries, if ever. Too much wilderness and wild-men in the way, too few people at either end,” Signe said.

Bjarni nodded. “Not many merchants, not heavy goods, and not often. But a few things of great price, now and then, yes. We used the rail-lines coming back with Artos; and there are the inland seas, that come almost as far west as the Dominions. We have skillful sailors in Norrheim and light boats that can be portaged. You’d have to trust my promises, of course, and we’d have to settle things in detail before we put our hands to the oath-ring.”

“You’re a hard man, but one to trust when he pledges an oath,” Eric said, and his sister nodded. “Take it as given that we’ll accept your word if we reach an agreement.”

“So what do you want in return for this treasure?” Signe added, sipping from her horn.

“Men,” Bjarni said. “And women, for that matter. Those with knowledge of your arts; metalworking with machines, fighting from horseback, catapults, balloons, spinning-mills, railroads, all of it. Books are good, but not enough. Tools, samples, and…what do you call them, diagrams , yes. But above all, folk with the skills to use them and teach others. Perhaps apprenticeships here for Norrheimers.”

Eric smiled. “No insult, friend, but I’ve listened to your tales of Norrheim. Why would anyone leave the Willamette for a place where the growing season is two months shorter? And where there aren’t even any hops for the beer? We’re not crowded. There’s good land untilled not five miles from Larsdalen. It’ll take a long while to fill the Willamette alone. And later, there’s the whole of California and much else besides.”