King of the North Read online

  KING OF THE NORTH

  Harry Turtledove

  www.sfgateway.com

  Enter the SF Gateway …

  In the last years of the twentieth century (as Wells might have put it), Gollancz, Britain’s oldest and most distinguished science fiction imprint, created the SF and Fantasy Masterworks series. Dedicated to re-publishing the English language’s finest works of SF and Fantasy, most of which were languishing out of print at the time, they were – and remain – landmark lists, consummately fulfilling the original mission statement:

  ‘SF MASTERWORKS is a library of the greatest SF ever written, chosen with the help of today’s leading SF writers and editors. These books show that genuinely innovative SF is as exciting today as when it was first written.’

  Now, as we move inexorably into the twenty-first century, we are delighted to be widening our remit even more. The realities of commercial publishing are such that vast troves of classic SF & Fantasy are almost certainly destined never again to see print. Until very recently, this meant that anyone interested in reading any of these books would have been confined to scouring second-hand bookshops. The advent of digital publishing has changed that paradigm for ever.

  The technology now exists to enable us to make available, for the first time, the entire backlists of an incredibly wide range of classic and modern SF and fantasy authors. Our plan is, at its simplest, to use this technology to build on the success of the SF and Fantasy Masterworks series and to go even further.

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  Contents

  Title Page

  Gateway Introduction

  Contents

  Map

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Website

  Also by Harry Turtledove

  Author Bio

  Copyright

  I

  Gerin the Fox looked down his long nose at the two peasants who’d brought their dispute before him. “Now, Trasamir, you say this hound is yours, am I right?”

  “Aye, that’s right, lord prince.” Trasamir Longshanks’ shaggy head bobbed up and down. He pointed to several of the people who helped crowd the great hall of Fox Keep. “All these folks from my village, they’ll say it’s so.”

  “Of course they will,” Gerin said. One corner of his mouth curled up in a sardonic smile. “They’d better, hadn’t they? As best I can tell, you’ve got two uncles, a cousin, a nephew, and a couple of nieces there, haven’t you?” He turned to the other peasant. “And you, Walamund, you claim the hound belongs to you?”

  “That I do, lord prince, on account of it’s so.” Walamund Astulf’s son had a typical Elabonian name, but dirty blond hair and light eyes said there were a couple of Trokmoi in the family woodpile. Like Gerin, Trasamir was swarthy, with brown eyes and black hair and beard—though the Fox’s beard had gone quite gray the past few years. Walamund went on, “These here people will tell you that there dog is mine.”

  Gerin gave them the same dubious look with which he’d favored Trasamir’s supporters. “That’s your father and your brother and two of your brothers-in-law I see, one of them with your sister alongside—for luck, maybe.”

  Walamund looked as unhappy as Trasamir Longshanks had a moment before. Neither man seemed to have expected their overlord to be so well versed about who was who in their village. That marked them both for fools: any man who did not know Gerin kept close track of as many tiny details as he could wasn’t keeping track of details himself.

  Hesitantly, Trasamir pointed to the hound in question—a rough-coated, reddish brown beast with impressive fangs, now tied to a table leg and given a wide berth by everybody in the hall. “Uh, lord prince, you’re a wizard, too, they say. Couldn’t you use your magic to show whose dog Swifty there really is?”

  “I could,” Gerin said. “I won’t. More trouble than it’s worth.” As far as he was concerned, most magic was more trouble than it was worth. His sorcerous training was more than half a lifetime old now, and had always been incomplete. A partially trained mage risked his own skin every time he tried a conjuration. The Fox had got away with it a few times over the years, but picked with great care the spots where he’d take the chance.

  He turned to his eldest son, who stood beside him listening to the two peasants’ arguments. “How would you decide this one, Duren?”

  “Me?” Duren’s voice broke on the word. He scowled in embarrassment. When you had fourteen summers, the world could be a mortifying place. But Gerin had put questions like that to him before: the Fox was all too aware he wouldn’t last forever, and wanted to leave behind a well-trained successor. As Trasamir had, Duren pointed to the hound. “There’s the animal. Here are the two men who say it’s theirs. Why not let them both call it and see which one it goes to?”

  Gerin plucked at his beard. “Mm, I like that well enough. Better than well enough, in fact—they should have thought of it for themselves back at their village instead of coming here and wasting my time with it.” He looked to Trasamir and Walamund. “Whichever one of you can call the dog will keep it. Do you agree?”

  Both peasants nodded. Walamund asked, “Uh, lord prince, what about the one the dog doesn’t go to?”

  The Fox’s smile grew wider, but less pleasant. “He’ll have to yield up a forfeit, to make sure I’m not swamped with this sort of foolishness. Do you still agree?”

  Walamund and Trasamir nodded again, this time perhaps less enthusiastically. Gerin waved them out to the courtyard. Out they went, along with their supporters, his son, a couple of his vassals, and all the cooks and serving girls. He started out himself, then realized the bone of contention—or rather, the bone-gnawer of contention—was still tied to the table.

  The hound growled and bared its teeth as he undid the rope holding it. Had it attacked him, he would have drawn his sword and solved the problem by ensuring that neither peasant took possession of it thereafter. But it let him lead it out into the afternoon sunlight.

  “Get back, there!” he said, and the backers of Trasamir and Walamund retreated from their principals. He glared at them. “Any of you who speaks or moves during the contest will be sorry for it, I promise.” The peasants might suddenly have turned to stone. Gerin nodded to the two men who claimed the hound. “All right—go ahead.”

  “Here, Swifty!” “Come, boy!” “Come on—good dog!” “That’s my Swifty!” Walamund and Trasamir both called and chirped and whistled and slapped the callused palms of their hands against their woolen trousers.

  At first, Gerin thought the dog would ignore both of them. It sat on its haunches and yawned, displaying canines that might almost have done credit to a longtooth. The Fox hadn’t figured out what he’d do if Swifty wanted no part of either peasant.

  But then the hound got up and began to strain against the rope. Gerin let go, hoping the beast wouldn’t savage one of the men calling it. It ran straight to Trasamir Longshanks and let him pat and hug it. Its fluffy tail wagged back and forth. Trasamir’s relatives clapped their hands and shouted in delight. Walamund’s stood dejected.

  So did Walamund himself. “Uh—what are you going to do to me, lord prince?” he asked, eyeing Gerin with apprehension.

  “Do you admit to trying to take the hound when it was not yours?” the Fox asked, and Walamund reluctantly nodded. “Yo
u knew your claim wasn’t good, but you made it anyhow?” Gerin persisted. Walamund nodded again, even more reluctantly. Gerin passed sentence: “Then you can kiss the dog’s backside, to remind you to keep your hands off what belongs to your neighbors.”

  “Grab Swifty’s tail, somebody!” Trasamir shouted with a whoop of glee. Walamund Astulf’s son stared from Gerin to the dog and back again. He looked as if somebody had hit him in the side of the head with a board. But almost everyone around him—including some of his own kinsfolk—nodded approval at the Fox’s rough justice. Walamund started to stoop, then stopped and sent a last glance of appeal toward his overlord.

  Gerin folded his arms across his chest. “You’d better do it,” he said implacably “If I come up with something else, you’ll like that even less, I promise you.”

  His own gaze went to the narrow window that gave light to his bedchamber. As he’d hoped, Selatre stood there, watching what was going on in the courtyard below. When he caught his wife’s eye, she nodded vigorously. That made him confident he was on the right course. He sometimes doubted his own good sense, but hardly ever hers.

  One of Trasamir’s relatives lifted the hound’s tail. Walamir got down on all fours, did as the Fox had required of him, and then spat in the dirt and grass again and again, wiping his lips on his sleeve all the while.

  “Fetch him a jack of ale, to wash his mouth,” Gerin told one of the serving girls. She hurried away. The Fox looked a warning to Trasamir and his relatives. “Don’t hang an ekename on him on account of this,” he told them. “It’s over and done with. If he comes back here and tells me you’re all calling him Walamund Hound-Kisser or anything like that, you’ll wish you’d never done it. Do you understand me?”

  “Aye, lord prince,” Trasamir said, and his kinsfolk nodded solemnly. He didn’t know whether they meant it. He knew he did, though, so if they didn’t they’d be sorry.

  The girl brought out two tarred-leather jacks of ale. She gave one to Walamund and handed the Fox the other. “Here, lord prince,” she said with a smile.

  “Thank you, Nania,” he answered. “That was kindly done.” Her smile got wider and more inviting. She was new to Fox Keep; maybe she had in mind slipping into Gerin’s bed, or at least a quick tumble in a storeroom or some such. In a lot of castles, that would have been the quickest way to an easy job. Gerin chuckled to himself as he poured out a small libation to Baivers, the god of barley and brewing. No reason for Nania to know yet that she’d found herself an uxorious overlord, but she had. He hadn’t done any casual wenching since he’d met Selatre. Eleven years, more or less, he thought in some surprise. It didn’t feel that long.

  Walamund had also let a little ale slop over the rim of his drinking jack and drip onto the ground: only a fool slighted the gods. Then he raised the jack to his mouth. He spat out the first mouthful, then gulped down the rest in one long draught.

  “Fill him up again,” Gerin told Nania. He turned back to Walamund and Trasamir and their companions. “You can sup here tonight, and sleep in the great hall. The morning is time enough to get back to your village.” The peasants bowed and thanked him, even Walamund.

  By the time the man who’d wrongly claimed the hound had got outside of his second jack of ale, his view of the world seemed much improved. Duren stepped aside with Gerin and said, “I thought he’d hate you forever after that, but he doesn’t seem to.”

  “That’s because I let him down easy once the punishment was done,” the Fox said. “I made sure he wouldn’t be mocked, I gave him ale to wash his mouth, and I’ll feed him supper same as I will Trasamir. Once you’ve done what you need to do, step back and get on with things. If you stand over him gloating, he’s liable to up and kick you in the bollocks.”

  Duren thought about it. “That’s not what Lekapenos’ epic tells a man to do,” he said. “‘Be the best friend your friends have, and the worst foe to your foes,’ or so the poet says.”

  Gerin frowned. Whenever he thought of Lekapenos, he thought of Duren’s mother; Elise had been fond of quoting the Sithonian poet. Elise had also run off with a traveling horse doctor, about the time Duren was learning to stand on his feet. Even with so many years gone by, remembering hurt.

  The Fox stuck close to the point his son had raised: “Walamund’s not a foe. He’s just a serf who did something wrong. Father Dyaus willing, he won’t take the chance of falling foul of me again, and that’s what I was aiming at. There’s more gray in life, son, than you’ll find in an epic.”

  “But the epic is grander,” Duren said with a grin, and burst into Sithonian hexameters. Gerin grinned, too. He was glad to see knowledge of Sithonian preserved here in the northlands, cut off these past fifteen years and more from the Empire of Elabon. Few hereabouts could read even Elabonian, the tongue in their mouths everyday.

  Gerin also smiled because Selatre, having first learned Sithonian herself, was the one who’d taught Duren the language. The boy—no, not a boy any more: the youth—didn’t remember his birth mother. Selatre was the one who’d raised him, and he got on so well with her and with his younger half brothers and half sister that they might have been full-blooded kin.

  Duren pointed eastward. “There’s Elleb, coming up over the stockade,” he said. “Won’t be too long till sunset.” Gerin nodded. Ruddy Elleb—actually, a washed-out pink with the sun still in the sky—was a couple of days before full. Pale Nothos floated high in the southeast, looking like half a coin at first quarter. Golden Math wasn’t up yet: she’d be full tonight, Gerin thought. And swift-moving Tiwaz was lost in the skirts of the sun.

  Walamund had his drinking jack filled yet again. The Fox brewed strong ale; he wondered if the peasant would fall asleep before supper. Well, if Walamund did, it was his business, no one else’s. He’d hike back to his village in the morning with a thick head, nothing worse.

  From the watchtower atop the keep, a sentry shouted, “A chariot approaches, lord prince.” On the palisade surrounding Castle Fox, soldiers looked to their bows and bronze-headed spears. In these troubled times, you never could tell who might be coming. After a short pause, the sentry said, “It’s Van of the Strong Arm, with Geroge and Tharma.”

  The soldiers relaxed. Van had been Gerin’s closest friend since before the great werenight, and that had been … Gerin glanced up toward Elleb and Nothos once more. Those two moons, and Tiwaz and Math, had all been full together nearly sixteen years before. Sometimes, that night of terror seemed impossibly distant. Sometimes, as now, it might have been day before yesterday.

  Chains creaked as the gate crew lowered the drawbridge to let Van and his companions into Fox Keep. The bridge thumped down onto the dirt on the far side of the ditch surrounding the palisade. Not for the first time, Gerin told himself he ought to dig a trench from the River Niffet and turn that ditch to a moat. When I have time, he thought, knowing that likely meant never.

  Horses’ hooves drummed on the oak planks as the chariot rattled over the drawbridge and into the courtyard. “Ho, Fox!” Van boomed. The outlander was driving the two-horse team, and in his fine bronze corselet and helm with tall crest could easily have been mistaken for a god visiting the world of men. He was half a foot taller than Gerin—who was not short himself—and broad through the shoulders in proportion. His hair and beard were still almost all gold, not silver, though he was within a couple of years of the Fox’s age, one way or the other. But the scars seaming his face and arms and hands gave proof he was human, not divine.

  Yet however impressive the figure he cut, Walamund and Trasamir and all the peasants who’d accompanied them to Castle Fox stared not at him but at Geroge and Tharma, who rose behind him in the car. Trasamir’s eyes got very big. “Father Dyaus,” he muttered, and made an apotropaic sign with his right hand. “I thought we were rid of those horrible things for good.”

  Van glared at him. “You watch your mouth,” he said, a warning not to be taken lightly. He turned back to Geroge and Tharma and spoke soothingly: “Don�
�t get angry. He doesn’t mean anything by it. He just hasn’t seen any like you for a long time.”

  “It’s all right,” Geroge said, and Tharma nodded to show she agreed. He went on, “We know we surprise people. It’s just the way things are.”

  “How’d the hunting go?” Gerin asked, hoping to distract Geroge and Tharma from the wide eyes of the serfs. They couldn’t help their looks. As far as monsters went, in fact, they were very good people.

  Tharma bent down and slung the gutted carcass of a stag out of the chariot. Geroge grinned proudly. “I caught it,” he said. His grin made the peasants draw back in fresh alarm, for his fangs were at least as impressive as those of Swifty the hound. His face and Tharma’s sloped forward, down to the massive jaws needed to contain such an imposing collection of ivory.

  Neither monster was excessively burdened with forehead, but both, under their hairy hides, had thews as large and strong as Van’s, which was saying a great deal. They wore baggy woolen trousers in a checked pattern of ocher and woad blue: a Trokmê style.

  Pretty soon, Gerin realized, he was going to have to put them in tunics, too, for Tharma would start growing breasts before too much time went by. The Fox didn’t know how long monsters took to reach puberty. He did know Geroge and Tharma were about eleven years old.

  Monsters like them had overrun the northlands then, after a fearsome earthquake released them from the caverns under the temple of the god Biton, where they’d been confined for hundreds, maybe thousands, of years. The efforts of mere mortals hadn’t sufficed to drive the monsters back, either; Gerin had had to evoke both Biton, who saw past and future, and Mavrix, the Sithonian god of wine, fertility, and beauty, to rout them from the land.

  Before he’d done that, he’d found a pair of monster cubs and had not killed them, though he and his comrades had slain their mother When Mavrix banished the monsters from the surface of the world, Biton had mocked his sloppy work, implying some of the creatures still remained in the northlands. Gerin had wondered then if they were the pair he’d spared, and wondered again a year later when a shepherd who’d apparently raised Geroge and Tharma as pets till then Drought them to him. He thought it likely, but had no way to prove it. The shepherd had been maddeningly vague. He did know no other monsters had ever turned up, not in all these years.