Kushiel’s Dart

Chapter Forty-Four

After the raid, matters settled back into familiar routine, though neither Joscelin nor I were likely to succumb to its comforts any time soon. The raid had served its purpose as a bitter reminder of the reality of our situation.

Winter in the City of Elua is not a pleasant time; it grows chill, and betimes a sweeping wind blows that drives everyone indoors, and halts trade and leisure alike. But it is nothing to life on a Skaldi steading. Here, we were truly snowbound, for at times the weather grew so fierce, not even the Skaldi would venture out for any length of time. And even when it was fair, there was nowhere to go, and precious little to do. In some ways, I think, the tedium was easier on the women and carls, for even in winter there was work to be done. But when they could not hunt, Gunter and his thanes were oft condemned to idleness. If the Skaldi are overly fond of wagering, bickering and drinking among themselves, I learned why: When the men are winter-bound in the confines of the great hall, there is naught else to be done.

They have their poetry, of course, and of that, there was an abundance. In addition to the Skaldi war-songs I knew and those homelier tales I learned from the women, I heard endless heroic sagas, humorous stories, epic lays that related tales of warring Gods and Giants, and a new, growing body of verse-the rise of Waldemar Selig.

Of him, many wonderous things were told. It was said that when his mother died in childbirth, a she-wolf was heard scratching at the door of the great hall in his steading, of which his father was the lord. When his thanes opened the door, they saw the wolf, and none dared harm her, for her fur was as white as snow and they knew her for a supernatural creature. She padded through the hall and straight to the infant Waldemar, lying beside him, and he reached for her fearlessly, taking hold of her white fur with his chubby fists and nursing.

They said that when he was still a lad, though half a head again taller than any man in the steading, and fully as broad, his father gave him a handful of gold and bid him to see the land. Thus did Waldemar travel disguised, with only two loyal thanes to accompany him. To all who gave him hospitality, he revealed himself and paid them in gold. Those who shunned him, he challenged, and defeated every one, revealing himself only after the victory.

So did his name and his fame spread across the far-flung Skaldic territories, and he came to be spoken of in terms of awe. He freed an owl caught up in a trapper’s lines, who turned into a wizard and gave him a charm that would blunt the edges of his enemies weapons so they would deal him no wound. He met a witch, they said, whose son was of Giant blood; him he slew by discovering that his life was held in a gnarled root-ball the witch kept in her cupboard, which Waldemar threw upon the fire. He threatened to slay the witch as well, but she begged for her life, and gave him a charm to make him proof against poison.

When he came home at last to his own steading, he found his father slain, and the most powerful of his thanes, Lothnir, had wed his sister and laid claim to the steading and the leadership of the tribe. Lothnir met him with an embrace, and offered him a poisoned cup in welcome. Waldemar drank it down and threw the cup upon the snow, where it hissed and gave forth fumes, but he was unharmed. Then Lothnir came upon him at night while he slept, and struck at him with a dagger, but the edges of the blade turned dull and slid from his skin as if from a stiff-cured hide, and Waldemar only sighed in his sleep. In the morning, he challenged Lothnir and slew him with one cast of his spear, so mighty it split his shield and pierced his heart. He was acclaimed as leader, and gave his sister to one of his steadfast companions to wife.

These were the tales of Waldemar Selig, and if I was not naive enough to believe them the literal truth-indeed, I recognized in some the echoes of ancient Hellene tales-the glee with which the Skaldi heard and told them made me uneasy. Of a surety, they reckoned this man a hero; and not, from what I knew, without reason. If no other part of these stories was true, one thing was. He had united the contentious Skaldi tribes in their admiration of him.

Soon enough, though, a new dispute rose out of the cloistered life we led, providing the steading with a new distraction from the tedium of winter. And this dispute, unfortunately, had Joscelin at its center.

The young Skaldi woman Ailsa persisted in her interest in him. True to her word, she had washed and mended his Cassiline garb, presenting it to him with an insinuating smile. Joscelin blushed and smiled, there being naught else, as a slave, he could do. When he did not don it, but continued to wear the woolens given him by Thurid, Ailsa pouted and flounced about the hall, flaunting her displeasure until he put it on to quiet her.

I know Hedwig had a sharp word with the young woman, reminding her that Joscelin was a slave, and Gunter’s property. Ailsa, however, was clever enough in her own right, and pointed out that as a D’Angeline lord’s son-and it had been Gunter himself who’d put about word that Joscelin was a warrior-prince-he was as much a hostage as a slave, and therefore of a worthy status.

Gunter kept a wary eye on these proceedings and had no great trust of Ailsa, but the prospect of a ransom intrigued him. When he asked Joscelin if his father would pay money for his safe return, Joscelin, all unwitting, promptly answered that he was sure he would, as would the Prefect of the Cassiline Brotherhood, although, he added, not unless I accompanied him.

The matter gave Gunter somewhat to mull over, and Ailsa no reason to desist in her pursuit. I had little hope of the prospect of ransom coming to fruition-fierce though they were, Gunter and his thanes weren’t likely to succeed in fighting their way across the whole of Camlach to deliver the message, and d’Aiglemort was hardly like to carry it for him-but it sufficed to give me concern.

For the other point in this triangle of dispute was one Evrard the Sharptongued, a surly thane who’d come honestly by his nickname and harbored a jealous fondness for Ailsa.

It did not help that she was a terrible flirt, reckoning herself the belle of the steading, and it did not help that Evrard was a homely man, albeit a wealthy one. Evrard’s persecution of Joscelin was blatant. Echoing Ailsa’s own unsubtle techniques, the thane made a point of putting himself in the Cassiline’s path; but instead of a flounce or an incidental brush, he dealt in trips, shoves and taunts. Time and again, Joscelin attempted to step out of his way, only to find himself mocked or sent sprawling. It got so bad that he could not even go to spread new rushes on a clean-swept patch of floor without finding Evrard’s boot-heels propped on the spot, while the thane cursed and swatted at him for the inconvenience.

If Joscelin had given no reason for Gunter and his thanes to mistrust him, he had not incited their love either; his effect upon the women of the steading had provoked too much resentment for that. And when they saw the white lines of silent fury etched on his face, they remembered his early days, and taunted him further, hoping to kindle him to wild rebellion for their sport.

Eventually, they succeeded.

It fell on an evening of blizzard, when everyone was confined to the hall and Joscelin came in shivering from the outdoors with an armload of wood for the cookstove. Catching his eye, Ailsa blew him a kiss and made an unsubtle gesture, hoisting her bekirtled breasts at him to show off her considerable cleavage.

Blushing and distracted-he had not wholly lost his Cassiline prurience-Joscelin failed to see when Evrard thrust a booted foot in his path and tripped over it accordingly, measuring his length on the floor of the great hall, scattering kindling as he fell.

Even that, he endured. I was playing the lute quietly at the time, and saw him kneel, head bowed, gathering up the fallen wood. Gunter sat in his chair by the fire, watching idly.

"Look at that," Evrard said contemptuously, flicking Joscelin’s braid with one brawny hand. "What man has such hair, and none upon his chin? What man blushes like a maid, and takes no offense at being treated like a carl? No man, I say, but a woman!" It drew a laugh from the thanes, although I saw Hedwig’s lips thin from across the room. Joscelin’s shoulders stiffened, though he continued to ignore the thane. "He’s pretty enough for one, eh?" Evrard continued. "Maybe we ought to check!"

Everyone has their own particular genius; Evrard the Sharptongued’s was for goading others, and he saw from Joscelin’s tense stillness that he’d landed a bolt that stung. "What do you say?" he asked two of his comrades, bluff and boisterous. "Give me a hand, eh, and we’ll skin this wolf-cub of his drabs, see if he’s a bitch after all, shall we?"

I stopped playing, and looked at Gunter, hoping he would stop it. Alas, he was bored enough to see it as good sport.

So it was that Evrard the Sharptongued and a handful of thanes set upon Joscelin, intent on wrestling him to the ground and stripping off his clothing. Of their intent, I’ve no doubt; how it played out was another matter. The moment the first hand closed on his shoulder, Joscelin was on his feet, a stout length of branch in each hand.

It was the first time, I believe, they had occasion to witness him fight in the Cassiline style of combat. The edge of Joscelin’s skill had not dulled; if anything, the weeks of hard labor and smothered rage had honed it. He fought with calm, deadly efficiency, the impromptu staves moving in a blur, whirling and warding. Within moments, the rest of the hall was in an uproar, thanes rushing into the fray and staggering back out, clutching bruised limbs and battered skulls.

I understand some little about the two-handed Cassiline fighting style. It is designed to afford the most protection to one’s ward, making an armed human shield of the wielder. With no companion to protect, Joscelin grimly protected himself, holding nearly the entire fighting force of Gunter’s steading at bay for a goodly amount of time. For his part, Gunter watched it with the same interest he’d shown when they first captured Joscelin. It took some seven or eight men to bring him down at last, muscling with brute force past the reach of his staves and bearing him to the floor, where he continued to thrash as they roared with laughter and tugged at his clothing.

I had drawn breath to shout, though my mind was empty of words, when Gunter did it himself, raising his voice to a bellow of command.

"Enough!" he shouted.

He had mighty lungs; I could swear the very rafters trembled. His thanes grew still, and allowed Joscelin to rise. He gained his feet, disheveled, his clothing askew, fair shivering with rage-but to his credit, he stood his ground, crossing his arms and bowing stiffly in Gunter’s direction.

If anything, it was that which saved him. Gunter took on his canny look, drumming thick fingers on the arm of his chair and looking thoughtfully at the infuriated Evrard. "So you claim injury of this man, eh, Sharptongue?"

"Gunter," Evrard said with bitter eagerness, quick to take the bait, "this carl, this slave of yours, has made a cuckoo’s nest of this steading! Look," he said, pointing an accusatory finger at Ailsa, "look how he woos the very women from under our noses, into his servile embrace!"

"If there is wooing being done," Hedwig called, casting a direful glance at Ailsa, who sniffed, "look to yon vixen, Gunter Arnlaugson!"

It got a greater laugh than Evrard had done. Gunter rested his chin in one hand and gazed at Joscelin. "What do you say of it, D’Angeline?"

If Joscelin had learned anything in Gunter’s steading, he had learned somewhat of how the Skaldi measure such things, and the vocabulary with which they speak of them. He tugged his garments into order and met Gunter’s gaze evenly. "My lord, he questions my manhood. I beg your leave to answer him with steel."

"Well, well." Gunter’s yellow brows rose. "So we’ve not drawn the wolf-cub’s teeth, eh? Well, Sharptongue, I nearly think he’s challenged you to the holmgang. What do you say to that?"

I knew not this word, but Evrard paled at it. "Gunter, he’s a housecarl at best! You cannot ask me to fight a slave. I will not stand for the shame of it!"

"Maybe he is a carl, and maybe he is not," Gunter said ambiguously. "Waldemar Selig was taken hostage by the Vandalü, and he fought their champions one by one, until they made him their leader. Do you say Waldemar Selig was a carl?"

"Waldemar Selig was no D’Angeline fop!" Evrard hissed. "Do you mean to make a mockery of me?"

"Oh, I think no man will mock you, for fighting this wolf-cub in the holmgang," Gunter laughed, glancing around the hall. "What do you say, hm?"

Rubbing their bruised parts, the thanes met his query with dour glares. No, I thought, none of them would make mock of the challenge. Gunter grinned, slamming his fist down on the arm of his chair. "So be it, then!" he announced. "Tomorrow, we will have the holmgang!"

If they did not favor Joscelin, there was no great fondness for Evrard the Sharptongued either; young Harald shouted his approval, and cried out the first wager, putting good silver coin on the D’Angeline wolf-cub. It was promptly taken by one of Evrard’s backers, and in the general uproar, the matter was approved.

With quiet dignity, Joscelin gathered up his armload of kindling and continued into the kitchen.

The following day dawned clear and fair, and the thanes, grateful for sport, made a holiday of it. I’d no idea, still, what they were about. With great ceremony, a vast hide was brought forth, and a square field trampled flat in the snow. The hide was pinned flat with broad-headed pins, and four hazel-rods set out from the corners, marking an aisle around the hide.

For all that Evrard was not well-loved, he was Skaldi, and the bulk of the thanes supported him, crowding round him, testing the edge of his blade and offering advice and extra shields alike. Joscelin watched the preparations with perplexity, at last approaching Gunter and asking respectfully, "My lord, may I ask the manner of this fighting?"

"What, you the challenger, and not knowing?" Gunter teased him, and laughed at his own jest. "It is the holmgang, wolf-cub! One sword to each man, and three shields, if you can find those who will lend them. The first to shed the other’s blood upon the hide is the victor; and he who sets both feet onto the hazeled field is reckoned to flee, and forfeits the victory." Good-naturedly, he unslung his own sword. "You defended your honor well, D’Angeline, and for that I give you loan of my second-best blade. But for a shield, you must go begging."

Joscelin took the hilt in his hand and stared at it, then raised his gaze to Gunter’s. "My lord, my oath forbids me," he said, shaking his head and offering it back, laying the blade across his arm and preferring the hilt. "I am bound to draw my sword only to kill. Give me my daggers and my-" there was no word for vambrace in Skaldic, "-my arm-shields, and I will fight this man."

"It is the holmgang." Gunter clapped him cheerfully on the shoulder. "You should kill him if you can, wolf-cub, or he will surely challenge you again tomorrow or the next day. Anyway, I have a bet on you." He wandered off then, shouting at one of the thanes who had mismeasured the placement of a hazel-rod. I stood shivering under my fur cloak, while Joscelin stared back down at the sword in his hand. He’d not held a blade since we were captured. He looked helplessly up at me.

"He would take your life, Cassiline," I said to him in D’Angeline, struggling to keep my teeth from chattering, "and leave me unprotected. But I cannot tell you what to choose."

Knud, my kind and homely guard, sidled up to us. "Here," he said gruffly, thrusting his own shield at Joscelin. "Take this, boy. There’s no honor in forcing a slave to fight unguarded."

"Thank you," Joscelin said to him, bowing awkwardly with sword and shield. Knud nodded brusquely, moving away from him and whistling as though he’d naught to do with it. Joscelin settled the shield in his left hand and hoisted the sword, testing its balance, eyeing it with a kind of awe.

On the far side of the hide, Evrard essayed a few darting jabs and doughty strokes with his own sword, to shouts of laughter and encouragement. Sharptongued he might be, but he was a Skaldi warrior, in the prime of life, and a veteran of a dozen raids. It would be no easy match. His second stood by with a replacement shield, and another close at hand.

"Any last bets, eh?" Gunter shouted, having satisfied himself regarding the pinning of the hide and the placement of the hazel-rods. "We are ready, then! Let the holmgang begin, and he who is challenged may strike the first blow!"

Grinning through clenched teeth, Evrard stepped onto the hide and scraped his feet against it, testing the surface. Joscelin stepped soberly up to meet him. The women of the steading had gathered to watch, and no few of them sighed at the sight of him.

"Take his pretty head off, Sharptongue!" one of the thanes yelled; other laughed.

"He has the first blow," Gunter cautioned Joscelin, who nodded, bracing his shield.

I remember well how the sky overhead was the deep, brilliant blue that the Skaldi sky turns on clear winter days, the ground beneath it eye-blindingly white with snow. Evrard warmed to his attack with a prolonged roar, a rumble that began in the depths of his chest and gathered momentum as he swung his blade, issuing from his mouth in a powerful bellow as he rushed forward. All around, fur-clad Skaldi shouted and gasped; I think Joscelin and I were the only two silent.

Joscelin raised Knud’s shield; it took the blow, but shattered beneath it, leaving worthless bits of painted wood. He cast the broken shield aside, as Evrard, still bellowing, made ready to launch a second blow.

I had never seen the Cassiline fight with a sword, save in his practice bouts with Alcuin. He held the hilt in a two-handed grip, slanted across his body, and moved like a dancer. The blade of Gunter’s sword whirled, and Evrard’s blow was parried; Joscelin spun lightly into the backstroke, and Evrard’s shield broke beneath it.

"Shield!" Evrard shouted, scrambling backward. "Shield!" Joscelin allowed him to take his second shield, settling it on his arm, waiting with the hilt of his sword at shoulder-level now, the blade still angled to ward his body.

The Cassiline Brotherhood is, at its most basic level, an elite bodyguard. They are trained to work in tight situations, not battlefields, and do not bear shields; that is why they wear the vambraces. If Joscelin lacked his, he did not need them that day. He feinted once, moved smoothly away from a wild swing of Evrard’s, and thrust forward. This time, Evrard’s shield stuck on the point of his sword. He dislodged it swiftly, yanking it from the Skaldi’s grasp, and snapped the cracked wood in two with one quick stamp of his foot.

"Shield," Evrard whispered, groping blindly.

I do not know what Joscelin was thinking, but I saw his face as he swung, and it was empty of everything but a calm at once serene and blazing. He turned beneath that bright sky, moving his head only slightly to avoid Evrard’s blow, and the two-handed stroke he dealt held all of his momentum. The blade flashed like a star, crashing through the third and final shield, and splinters flew like rain.

"No." Evrard’s voice trembled; he put up one hand, and took a step backward off the hide, setting one foot in the hazel-rod aisle. I might have pitied him, were it not for the thought of D’Angelines dying under his spear. "Please." Joscelin held the raised sword-blade angled high, and sunlight glinted off it to cast an edge of brightness across his face.

"I will not be foresworn, Skaldi," he said softly, taking care with the words in a strange tongue. "Step off the hide or die."

If it had only been the two of them, I think Evrard the Sharptongued would have retreated. But he was among Skaldi, warriors with whom he’d ridden cheek to jowl, and all were watching; and not only them, but the women. If he feared to lose face by fighting a slave, how much more did he stand to lose by running from one?

I did not like the man, but I will say this for him; he met his death bravely. Forced to choose between the watching Skaldi and the waiting Cassiline, Evrard summoned his courage and loosed it in a final roar, charging, swinging his sword like a berserker. Joscelin parried the blow, pivoting, following through on his own swing, the edge of his blade catching Evrard full across the midriff, angling upward.

It was a death-blow, and no mistake. Evrard crumpled to the hide and lay unmoving, a pool of blood spreading slowly beneath him. For a moment, there was silence; then Gunter pumped one fist skyward and shouted his approval, and his thanes echoed it. It had been a fair fight, and a good one, by their standards. Joscelin stood watching blood seep from Evrard’s corpse, his face pale. I remembered then that he had never killed a man before, and I liked him better for taking it hard. He knelt then, laying down his sword and folding his arms, murmuring a Cassiline prayer beneath his breath.

When he was done, he rose and cleaned his blade, walking over to present it hilt-first to Gunter, who took it back with a shrewd look.

"Thank you, my lord, for allowing me to defend my honor," Joscelin said carefully, and bowed. "I am sorry for the death of your thane."

"Sharptongue brought it on himself, eh?" Gunter said cannily, putting a meaty arm about Joscelin’s shoulders and giving him a shake. "I tell you, wolf-cub; how is it if you take his place?"

"My lord?" Joscelin shot him an incredulous look.

Gunter grinned. "I’m minded to take a risk on you, D’Angeline! They seem to pay off, hm? If I give you your irons back, does your oath still bind you? Are you still minded to protect and serve; my life with your own, if need be?"

Joscelin swallowed hard; it would be harder, a harder chore and temptation than he’d been given before. He met my eye, and resolve hardened his features. "I have sworn it," he said. "Do you keep my lady Phèdre nó Delaunay safe."

"Good." Gunter gave his shoulders another squeeze and shake. "Give him a cheer, eh?" he cried to his thanes. "The boy’s proved himself a man this day!"

They cheered then, and came around, clapping him on the back and boasting or bemoaning the bets they’d laid on the holmgang, while Evrard lay dead and cooling nearby. Someone began to pass around a skin of mead, and the singing began, one of the wits beginning to make a story of it: The epic battle of Evrard the Sharptongued and the D’Angeline slave-boy.

I watched a while longer, still shivering, then went inside with Hedwig and the women to prepare for the boisterous carousing to follow. Whether things had just gotten better or worse, I could not have said.