The Northmen
By: Eric Pierce
Tags: Science Fiction, Themantle, Writing, Fantasy, Fiction

The Mantle is a serialized fantasy story. More about it here Table of contents

The fallen star had gouged a channel into the earth miles long and so deep the sun couldn’t find the bottom. Even so buried, its carcass rose above the low hills like the ill-shaped crown of a god emerging from the black depths of the earth.

It was massive, as Simeon thought stars must be, but otherwise was all wrong, black and irregularly shaped and pocked. Dead. Whatever light it once held seemingly had been burnt up in its fiery descent. Nothing remained of its luminescent beauty. It was all rather disappointing.

They lay on their bellies atop a rise to the south. Simeon squinted into the old man’s looking glass, a clever bit of copper tubing that extended to three feet, capped with glass on either end. At its full length, the glass peeled away the distance until it seemed Simeon stood only a dozen paces from the star and the men camped in its shadow.

“How many are they,” the old man said.

Simeon took his time in answering, sweeping the glass over the squat tents, the mounts tied to hitching posts, the wagons piled with furs and barrels and small chunks of black rock. “Seven.”

“Describe them.”

They were fair-skinned and thickly bearded, long hair unfurling in the wind like pale banners. They wore white and gray furs over hardened leather and carried long hafted axes. “Large men in fur and leather.”

“Have they shaggy garrons?”

Simeon studied the horses, squat, thick-legged creatures with boots of thick fur and stringy manes. “Yes.”

“Northmen, then.” The old man’s tone was neutral. These were not Raiders, nor simple bandits, but something else. “The star must’ve drawn them down from the mountains.”

“They are trying to mine it.” In the time Simeon had been watching, he’d already seen one Northman break his axe on the star. “They are using a hammer and chisel but it doesn’t seem to be working.”

“Nor will it. Have they any stone in their wagons?”

“Not much. Small rocks.”

“The detritus of the impact.” The old man fell into the sort of silence that indicated deep thought.

Simeon studied the Northmen curiously. He had only ever seen Raiders and bandits, and, aside from the encounter at the bridge, only at a careful distance. For all their wild and unkempt appearance, the Northmen seemed to possess a certain nobility to their bearing, a purpose beyond mere plunder and pain. They stood talking while two of their number hammered at the star, and broke into laughter when one of the men threw his hammer away in disgust and sprawled onto the ground. One of them rushed over with a curved tankard and thrust it into the exhausted man’s hands, and helped him sit up to drink.

“They seem friendly,” Simeon said.

“To their own, mayhap. We can expect no warm welcome.”

“At least they aren’t Raiders.”

“Yes.”

“What shall we do?” Simeon looked at the old man.

“Given how little of the star they’ve collected, and that they still work at mining what no metal can break, I surmise that these northerners are only lately arrived. If not for that misfortune at the bridge, we would’ve beaten them here and been away with our prize. Alas.”

He squinted uselessly at men he could not see. “Who knows how long they will try to work the star before turning north again. Whatever it is, it is too long. We haven’t the food to wait them out.” With a heavy grunt, he pushed himself to a sitting position and flung his hand out.

Simeon helped him stand. “Do you mean to ensorcel them?”

“Not unless we have no other recourse. No, we will treat with them and ascertain their purpose and speed them on their way. If Luck is with us, we’ll come away with our prize and full bellies in the bargain.”

The collision of earth and sky had filled the shattered plain with loose rock, boulders the size of houses, and everything in between. They were most of the day crossing, and the sun was slipping past the horizon by the time they were within naked sight of the camp.

The Northmen stood waiting, their labors forgotten. They were arraigned in a loose line and had donned leather helms woven with horsehair and round wooden shields. They carried axes and spears with forked ends.

The old man walked boldly forward, quarterstaff striking the ground rhythmically. Simeon had little choice but to follow. He very much wished for Indomitable just then.

“Mind me well,” the old man said without looking in Simeon’s direction. “Say nothing. Be ever vigilant.”

When they were within two dozen paces, the man centering the Northmen stepped forward. He stood half a head taller than the rest and was wrapped in white fur. “That’s far enough, lowlander.” For all his size, his voice was soft and carried with it the promise of song.

The old man stopped. “It is rare to find mountain folk south of the Jagged Edge.”

“Stars do not fall from heaven every day.” Blue eyes shifted to Simeon and held there. “You are mystics.”

It felt as though the comment had been directed to him, but Simeon knew better than to speak up. He looked away, studying the other men. They were universally large, gripping their weapons and scowling, but Simeon didn’t fear them outright as he had the bandits; highwaymen and their ilk didn’t stop to talk.

“We are learned men, seeking knowledge. Nothing more.”

White teeth muscled aside his beard as he grinned without humor. “Even in the north we have heard stories of your learning. Some of us wanted to fall upon you with blade before you could use your fell powers.”

The threat hung between them like fog clinging to a graveyard.

“It is fortunate you did not.”

He blinked, the grin fading. “We have no quarrel with you, mystic.”

“Nor us with you. I will not believe that Fate has sent a prophet such as this,” he waved a hand at the fallen star, “solely that we might spill one another’s blood.”

The Northman inclined his chin as he considered the dead star. “Your words ring true.”

A man with three pale scars slashed across his face said something in a foreign tongue. The tall Northman cut him off with a sharp glance.

“The sun is low and my belly empty.” He hooked his axe over his shoulder. “We shall have a fire, and a feast, and horns of winter mead, that we might palaver as of old.”

The old man bent at the waist. “We humbly accept your gracious offer.”

The Northman crossed over. “I am Staal son of Halada,” he said, offering his hand. “The Snowcat. Voice of the Spring. Avalanche Breaker. The Howling Tempest.”

The old man smiled weakly. “I have lost my name to age, alas, along with whatever titles I’ve accrued. You may name me however you wish.”

Staal frowned heavily at this; when he relinquished the old man’s grip, he cradled his arm to his chest. “What of you boy? Have you a name?”

Simeon was very mindful of the old man’s warnings about the power of names, and he didn’t believe his master had truly forgotten his own. Taken together, he knew how he ought to respond. But it seemed rude to withhold his name when Staal had so willingly given his own, and anyway Simeon had always wanted to share his name and be called by it. “I am Simeon. I don’t know my parents and I have earned no titles.”

Staal smiled and gripped Simeon’s elbow in one massive hand. “In time, I’ve no doubt. Well met, Simeon.” He strode away, shouting instructions to his men in their tongue.

The old man glared at Simeon. “It seems I was wrong to believe you ready. If you cannot follow even the simplest instructions, how can you possibly expect to wield the Art?”

Stung by the rebuke, Simeon looked away. “I am ready, master.”

“Bah. Make yourself useful and help those men. But keep your mouth shut, hmm? I may yet salvage our end here but only if you aren’t undermining my every effort.” He wacked Simeon across the backside with the end of his staff. “Get going.”

Simeon hurried into the camp and helped gather wood for the fire. He sat beside it once it was burning pleasantly and watched a pair of Northmen butcher and clean a scrawny goat. It was hung over the flames on an iron spit and began sizzling nearly at once.

Someone thrust an ivory drinking horn into his hands, foamy liquid sloshing over the rim. By instinct, Simeon looked toward the old man for permission. His master was standing outside the camp amid the long shadows of dusk, with his eyes closed and one hand braced against the star as though trying to commune with it. Oblivious to the Northmen’s long looks. Indifferent to Simeon.

A stocky Northman with a coppery beard and a matching braid plopped down beside Simeon. He took a long drink from his own horn and smacked his lips with a grateful sigh.

Simeon sipped. The mead was strong but fresh, tasting faintly of sage and berries. “Thank you for the drink.”

“Think nothing of it.” He offered his hand. “I am Cordo, son of Kan. The Burning Bear.”

Simeon glanced toward the old man. “I am Simeon.”