The Yngling

4.

Nils and Kuusta walked all day, and never had Nils seen such farmland. The fields covered more land than the forests-broad fields of oats and barley, nearly ripe. Tame trees in rows, which Kuusta said bore fruit called apples. Large herds of cattle. Even the forests were unfamiliar to Nils. Most of the trees had broad leaves and were larger than the birches of home. And although some of the pines seemed familiar, most of the needle-leaved trees were strange, too, and large.

And there were sheep, which Nils had never heard of before. Kuusta said that sheep were foolish and easily caught and killed by wild dogs, which the Danes hunted relentlessly so that they were cunning and cowardly. In Sweden and Finland, he pointed out, it would be impossible to keep sheep because of the wolves and bears. But the fur of sheep, called wool, could be made into warm clothing, and it was this most Danes wore instead of hides.

Then Kuusta talked about the languages of men. They were as many as the kinds of trees that grow in Denmark, he said, and no one could learn any large part of them. But there was one that could be spoken by most people in most lands, at least to some extent, and was used by traders and travelers outside of their own countries. It was called Anglic, and was easy to learn. He taught Nils a few Anglic phrases, starting with: "I am hungry. Please give me food. Thank you."

During the day they saw two small castles. Kuusta insisted they avoid these, leaving the road and keeping to the woods or hedgerows to pass them.

In the early evening they made camp and Kuusta went out to set rabbit snares. While he was gone, Nils saw a deer, sent an arrow through it, and drank the warm nourishing blood. When Kuusta returned and saw the deer, he became ill at ease, saying the Danish lords forbade their killing by anyone but themselves. When they caught a peasant who had killed a deer, they ordinarily knotted a rope around his neck and pulled him off the ground to kick and jerk and swell in the face until he died. Then they'd leave him there, his toes a few centimeters from the ground, and the magpies or crows would relieve him of his eyes, and in the night wild dogs might come and feast on his guts.

Nonetheless, the deer was dead, and neither man was inclined to let it go to waste. They built a small fire, roasted the heart and liver and tongue, and ate while more meat roasted for the road. Then they put out the fire and rolled up in their sleeping robes.

"Now it's time for questions and answers," Nils said in the darkness, "about the thing you're hunting for."

Kuusta lay silent for a moment. "It's a thing my people had never heard of," he said quietly, "nor yours either, I suspect. As a boy I wanted to see the world, so I left home and traveled. I hired on a Danish ship as an oarsman. We went to Jotmark for lumber and took it to Frisland, where the cattle are fat but there are few trees. We took cattle to Britain then, where Anglic is the native tongue, and got the black stones that burn and took them to Frisland. There I jumped ship and walked south through the land of France, then through the land of Provence to the Southern Sea. In Provence, where there is no king, the lords are always at war with one another, and I took service with one as a mercenary. They use lots of mercenaries, and for that reason the language of their armies is Anglic.

"And in Provence I heard a legend that I believe has its roots in truth, of a magic jewel called the esper crystal. Looking into it, a man is supposed to be able to see and hear things far away or things that haven't happened yet. It's even said that the holder can read the thoughts of others through it."

Then Kuusta lay silent again.

"And what would you do with this crystal if you had it?" asked Nils.

"Get rich, I suppose."

"Have you thought how hard it would be to steal a thing as valuable as that from a person of great wealth and power when that person can see and hear things far away, look into the future, and maybe even read the thoughts of those around him?"

Kuusta lay quiet for some time, smelling the dead fire, but Nils knew he was not asleep. "Yes," Kuusta said finally, "I've thought about it. But I need something to strive for; otherwise, life would have no savor."

"And where do you think this esper crystal might be?"

"I don't know. The story is that once it was in a land east of the Southern Sea. But if it really exists, and if a person travels and watches and listens, he may learn where it is. Something like that must leave evidence."

"I'm not like you," Nils said. "I need nothing to strive for. You were right, in the inn. I'd have been happy to stay with my clan, hunting, raiding, fathering a line of warriors, and watching the seasons follow one another. Taking an arrow in my time or possibly growing old. But it's in my nature to do what is indicated, without worry or pain; so I am also happy to sleep in a Danish oak forest and travel I don't know where. I have no desire for this esper crystal or to get rich. But I'll travel with you for a while and learn from you."

Within a few moments Nils's breath slowed to the shallow cadence of sleep, and in Kuusta's mind the esper crystal shone like a cut gem glowing white, occupying his inner eye, until there was nothing else and he too was asleep.

The early light wakened them and they ate venison again. Kuusta visited his rabbit snares to no avail, while Nils dragged the deer carcass into a thicket. Each put a portion of roast haunch into his pack-enough to last until it would be too foul to eat-and they set off.

Soon they came out of the forest again, and the road was a lane between hedges atrill with birds.

Nils found the land pleasant. His eyes moved about, seeing things, interpreting, as he repeated the Anglic that Kuusta spoke for him.

He interpreted the rapid thudding of hooves, too, but the hedges at that point were a thick lacing of strong, thorny stems confining them to the lane until they could find a break. The horsemen came into sight quickly after the hoofbeats were heard, and Nils and Kuusta stood aside as they rode up, as if to let them pass. The five horsemen pulled up their mounts, however, and looked grimly down at the two travelers. Their green jerkins told Kuusta that these were game wardens of the local lord. Their leader, his knighthood marked by helmet and mail shirt, sat easily, sword drawn, smiling unpleasantly. Leaning forward, he reached a strong brown hand toward Kuusta.

"Your pack, rascal."

Kuusta handed up his pack, and the knight threw it to one of his men. Then he looked long and hard at Nils, who clearly was no ordinary wanderer. "And yours," he added.

Nils shrugged calmly out of his straps, took his shield off the pack, and handed the pack to the waiting hand. Kuusta tensed, suddenly convinced that Nils would jerk the man off his horse and they would die quickly by sword bite instead of slowly by noose. But Nils's hand released the pack and he stood relaxed. The men who opened the packs took out the roast meat and threw packs and venison into the dust of the lane. The knight licked his lips.

"Poachers. Do you know what we do with poachers?" he asked in slow Danish.

Poacher was a new word for Nils, although he took its meaning from context.

"What is a poacher?" he asked.

The knight and his green-clad men grinned. "A poacher is someone who kills the lord's deer," he explained. "Poachers are hung with their feet near the ground, and the dogs eat them."

"I have killed deer all my life," Nils said matter-of-factly. "Large deer called moose, and wild cattle, openly, and it has never been called a crime."

The knight studied Nils. His speech was strange and heavily accented; he was clearly a barbarian outlander of some sort. The knight had rarely seen foreigners before. The barbarian's sword, shield and steel cap were those of a man-at-arms, but his bare feet and torso were marks of a peasant. His manners were bolder than peasant manners, though. His size and brawn were those of a champion, but his young, unmarked face and scarless torso suggested green, unblooded youth.

"What are you?" the knight asked.

"A warrior."

"Of what wars?"

"Of no wars. Until this summer I was still a sword apprentice."

"Like a squire," Kuusta interpreted for the knight. "He is a Swede of the Svea tribe. There, ways are different than yours."

"Does your lord have use of fighting men?" Nils asked.

"If they are good."

"How does he test them?"

"They fight. With an experienced man-at-arms or a knight."

"Would he have use of two more?"

"I'm already of a mind to hang you from a tree as a warning to others who might have a taste for venison," the knight answered. "It is the custom here." He studied them further. "But with one as big as you it does seem a waste. It's possible you might fight well enough to serve his lordship. Certainly you're big enough, and bigger. If you can't, you can always serve as a thrall-or for public execution." He turned to one of his men. "Tie them," he ordered.

The man dismounted agilely with a long leather rope, and Nils and Kuusta submitted, wrists behind backs and loops around their necks. The horses trotted back down the lane then, in the direction they had been going, Nils and Kuusta running awkwardly behind, not daring to stumble. They were muddy with their own sweat and the dust kicked up by the horses, Kuusta cursing quietly but luridly in Finnish.

What kind of man is this Swede, Kuusta wondered? In town he seemed a great fighter, but here he had submitted as docilely as a thrall. Yet they were alive instead of stuck full of arrows like two porcupines. And the ropes around their necks had not been thrown over an oak limb.

They were put in a cell together in the barracks, but shortly a man-at-arms came and led them into the courtyard. A grizzled veteran stood there, with several other knights and squires, among them the knight who had brought them in.

The old knight glowered at the two prisoners. "So you claim to be fighting men," he said.

"I am a freeman of Suomi," said Kuusta. "I've served as a mercenary, and like all Suomalainet I am hightly skilled with the bow. In our country we live by the bow."

The veteran grunted. "Make him a mark," he ordered.

A squire picked up a horse dung and threw it thirty meters.

"Give him a bow."

Kuusta bent the unfamiliar bow, testing its flex and strength. "Can I use my own?" he asked. The old knight said nothing, so he fitted an arrow, drew back and let go. It struck centimeters short.

The old knight himself picked up a horse dung then and threw it high. Quickly Kuusta had to nock and draw, letting the arrow go when the target had already passed the height of the throw and was starting downward. The arrow broke it apart as it fell. Kuusta concealed his surprise.

The veteran tried not to look impressed. "Now you," he said to Nils, and signalled a man-at-arms who handed Nils his sword and shield. "And you, Jens Holgersen."

The knight who was game warden stepped out smiling, his sword drawn. He was not in the least awed by the size and musculature of the youth he faced-a half-naked barbarian of some tribe he'd never heard of. Besides, he had handled the opponent's sword and knew it was too heavy to be used properly, even by such a big ox. On top of that, the barbarian was barely past squiredom, unblooded and with no armor except his steel cap. Hopefully old Oskar Tunghand would stop it before the boy lay dead. Such size and strength could be trained if he didn't prove too clumsy, and besides, he'd taken a liking to the barbarian's open and honest disposition. He'd make a good Dane.

They faced each other. The boy showed no fear; his face was calm and his stance easy.

"Fight until I say to stop," the old knight ordered.

Their swords met with a crash, and Jens Holgersen began to hew. The youth parried, using sword as much as shield, and the knight was impressed at the ease with which he handled the heavy blade. He increased his efforts and the barbarian backed away, defending himself easily, measuring the strength and skill of the knight. Sword struck on sword and shield.

The man is not too bad, Nils decided, and with that he attacked. The great sword began to fly, smashing the other's sword back, the shocks jarring bone and sinew so that the knight could scarcely recover before the next blow struck. His shield was cloven nearly to the center with the blow that knocked him from his feet, and he lay in the dust, thunderstruck, the point of the heavy sword touching lightly at the latch of his throat.

"Must I kill him?" Nils asked casually, looking across at the old marshal. "He was merciful and spared our lives when he might have hanged us from a tree."

Oskar Tunghand stood erect, his brows knotted in consternation, his right hand on the hilt of his sword, not threateningly but in shock. "No, don't kill him. He"-the words almost choked the old knight-"is one of our best swordsmen."

Nils stepped back, put a foot on the encumbering shield and freed his sword. His wrist relaxed then, the point of his sword in the dust, and Jens Holgersen climbed slowly to his feet, his eyes on the mild young face above him. He saw no exultation there, or even satisfaction. The eyes, squinting against the sun, were simply thoughtful. And to the astonishment of the watchers, when Holgersen stood again, the young warrior knelt, picked up the knight's fallen sword, handed it to him by the hilt and slid his own back into the scabbard.

"Peder! Take them back to the barracks," Oskar Tunghand said hoarsely. "See them fed and properly equipped." He turned to Jens Holgersen. "Come."

Nils and Kuusta had walked several steps with their guide when the old knight's rough voice called, "Hey you, big one!" Nils stopped. "Your name."

"Nils Jarnhann."

The veteran gazed at him for a moment. "Jarnhann." His lips tightened slightly and he turned to walk on with Jens Holgersen.

After Nils and Kuusta had washed and eaten, an artificer attempted vainly to fit Nils from his existing supply of mail shirts. "I don't want one anyway," Nils told him. "I'd feel ill at ease in it. Among my people it's the custom for men to go shirtless in warm weather. Would it offend your customs if I go as I am?"

"It is the custom for knights to wear mail while on duty, and Oskar Tunghand has ordered that you be equipped as a knight. And it's the custom of all but peasants to cover their bodies. It is strange that you don't know these things. But as none of these fit you, I'll have to make one that will. Meanwhile, you'd better wear a shirt of some kind or men will think you're uncouth and lowly."

Peder paa Kverno, the man-at-arms in whose charge they were, found a woolen shirt that Nils could wear. Then Nils found a sharpening steel and began to replace the edge on his sword.

The job was hardly well started when a page came to take him to an audience. They crossed the dusty courtyard and climbed a flight of stone stairs to enter the great hold, one pikeman preceding them and another following. The corridor was wide, with a tall door at the far end and lesser doors along both sides. The tall door was of thick oak, banded and bossed with iron and guarded by two pikemen. For all its weight it swung easily when the page pushed on it, and they entered a high, dim room richly hung with dark tapestries. Polished wood glowed in the light that came through narrow windows high in the walls and from oil lamps burning pungently in braziers.

A tall man with a great forked beard sat richly robed upon a throne. To one side stood Oskar Tunghand, with Jens Holgersen behind him in clean hose and jerkin. At his other side stood a white-bearded man, slight but erect in a blue velvet robe, his eyes intent on the newcomer. Behind the throne, on either side, stood a pikeman.

Nils walked down the carpeted aisle and was stopped five paces from the throne by a pike shaft.

The man on the throne spoke. "Has no one taught you to bow?"

"Bow?"

"Like this, dolt," said Tunghand, and he bowed toward the throne. Nils followed his example.

The slight, white-bearded man spoke next. "You are in the presence of his lordship Jorgen Stennaeve, Greve of Jylland, Uniter of the Danes and Scourge of the Frisians. Name yourself."

"I am Nils Jarnhann, warrior of the Wolf Clan, of the Svea tribe."

The Greve of Jylland rose abruptly to his feet, his face darkening even in the poor light of the throne room. "Do you joke with me?" he demanded. "There cannot be an Iron Hand in the land of Stone Fist."

"Your lordship?" It was the soft, strong voice of white beard again.

"Yes?" snapped the greve.

"The names given by barbarians to barbarians need not concern us. Their names are conceived in ignorance of the world outside their forests and meant without harm to their betters." He turned and gestured toward Nils. "Look at him, your lordship. There is neither guile nor meanness there. Let him be called Nils Savage, for he is a barbarian, and let him serve you. I sense in him a service to your lordship that no one else can render."

Slowly the greve sat down again, and for a moment drummed his big fingers on the arm of his throne. "And you wish to serve me?" he asked at length.

"Yes, your lordship," Nils answered.

Jorgen Stennaeve turned to the white-bearded man. "We can't have a mere man-at-arms who can defeat our best knights; such a man should be instructed in manners and knighted. But I have never heard of knighting foreigners, and especially not barbarians. What do you say, Raadgiver?"

The white-bearded counselor smiled at Nils Jarnhann. "What is your rank among your own people?"

"I am a warrior."

"And how did you come to be a warrior?"

"I was chosen in my thirteenth summer and trained for six years as a sword apprentice. Then my hair was braided and I was given my warrior name, and I became a warrior."

Raadgiver turned to the greve. "Your lordship," he said, "it seems that his people, in their barbaric way, have something rather like squires, which they call sword apprentices. And in due course they are made warriors, somewhat equivalent to knights, although uncouth. It is my thought that he need be called neither man-at-arms nor knight, but simply warrior. Let him live in the barracks with the men-at-arms, for he is a barbarian, but let him go into battle with the knights, for that is his training and skill."

At this construction, a smile actually played around the scarred lips of the grizzled Oskar Tunghand, and Jorgen Stennaeve, too, looked pleased. The greve rose again. "So be it," he said. "Let Nils Savage, barbarian, remain simply 'warrior,' housed with the men-at-arms but riding with the knights. What do you say to that, warrior?"

"Willingly, your lordship."

"Then return him to the barracks, Tunghand, and have him instructed in his duties."