Hornguard stood with one arm wrapped in Wavestrider’s mast-netting, both feet balanced on the gunwale while her free hand held the far-glass to her eye.
Behind the far-off waterfront, a gray puff of masonry dust burst skywards. A half-beat later a black cloud thundered up to devour it, red-orange whorls swirling throughout.
Nodding in satisfaction, Hornguard sent <Excellent shot, on-target and with the fuse cut to precision.> She allowed herself a few solon to bask in the radiating satisfaction of her forward gun-crew, and for a moment she was many degrees south and decades in the past: congratulating her gunners while their harpoon-line played out behind the stricken leviathan. A hard life, yes, but full of adventure and promise.
Then her teeth gritted together, and the far-glass lowered from her eye. One finger traced over the brass bump in her pocket, the gifted watch and its precious age-worn picture.
All that truly was left, of a life that had been stolen from her.
Narrowing her sending, Hornguard added to her ship-master <Congratulate Spout-caller on her excellent vision, as well. That building does indeed seem to have been an ammunition stockpile.>
<As we all expected.> Mist Glass responded privately, and by the brief — and rare, these days — undercurrent of warmth within her sending it was clear that she, too, had been taken back in time for a moment. Just another instance where Wavestrider’s oldest crew-sister had used her peerless eyesight to spot something that others had missed. It was how she’d earned her name, after all, many tens of years ago. Only now instead of sighting a herd of leviathans on the horizon, she had tracked the bustling of Sezabi’s defenders on — and behind! — their battlements. Had followed the figures, tiny moving dots even through a far-glass’s lens, and spotted where they’d moved what surely must be the last of their gunpowder stores.
That now made three ground-shaking explosions which had rocked the port’s waterfront over the last few days. Everyone knew that Northerners were obstinate & fish-headed as well as bloodthirsty, but even they must be nearing the realization that they were losing this siege.
<Just as well, frankly.> Mist Glass added, responding to the thoughts which Hornguard had let leak from her mind. With only the two gun-crews on deck and the marines still at rest below, it wasn’t like there was anyone nearby enough to mistakenly receive her. <We’ve only enough powder and shot left for a hundred or so more tries.>
Hornguard snorted, even as she collapsed the far-glass and dropped down to the flying bridge. <And they only have enough buildings left for half that.> She waved one hand behind her to take in the pall of smoke that hung low over the sheltered harbor, hemmed-in by the low hills surrounding the town. <They’ll already have a cold time of things come winter, this far north. Another few days of bombardment and there won’t be a ‘Port of Sezabi’ anymore.> Her thought was punctuated by the delayed arrival of the distant crump of the explosion, traveling along with the flattened-wave over the water.
Returning the far-glass to her pocket, she turned and regarded the distant waterfront with the unaided eye. In particular, the ruins of the harbor-tower that had — initially — guarded the narrow inlet leading into the wide bay. Its shattered remains still reached skywards, a ground-funeral place for the few dozen Belerids who had tried to use its height to fire down onto Wavestrider’s deck.
And a fitting tribute to the one crew-sister whom their rifle-shots had actually struck down. Cloudflash's body was stored below, in a brine-tank that had been emptied of preserved foods. It would not be fitting, after all, to commit the mortal remains of a daughter of the warm Isles to the icy embrace of Northern waters.
Pulling in a breath, Hornguard drew her thoughts back to the present. <Anything further to report?> she asked more for routine’s sake, given how Wavestrider had done little more than sit at anchor and exercise her guns for the last eight-day.
<Nothing that requires our intervention.> Mist Glass shrugged, red locks bouncing atop her shoulders. <A few of the engineering crew are getting restless with so little to do, but Hair-thin has them under control.>
There could be little doubt about that. Hornguard let a thin smile curl at the corner of her mouth. Anyone foolish enough to laugh at the diminutive stature of Wavestrider’s chief engineer learned most quickly that her temper more than made up for her male-sized height.
Then again, it was best to minimize any grumbling from the crew to begin with, and Stars only knew that this blockade was unlikely to see much need for the full engine-room stoker crew any time soon…
Eyes briefly narrowing in thought, Hornguard peered across the waters as if she could read the intent of her barbarian opponents. Then nodded to herself. <I think that it would be appropriate if the ship’s pinnace were fitted for a half-day’s expedition or so, and loaded with nets and line.> She turned to regard Mist Glass over her shoulder, one eyebrow raised. <We can spare one shift of stokers, and no-doubt a good few fisherwomen may be found among their number.>
Her captain nodded immediately, even before the thought had been fully sent. The experienced sea-officer had almost certainly reached the same idea herself, and probably had begun the preparations even before Hornguard gave her assent. One of the perks of having worked with the same lead-captain for more than half a century, to have her commands anticipated with such reliability.
<At once, Warlord.> came the formal response. <With your permission I would add a brace of marines, just to keep the Sezabids honest.>
Hornguard snorted. <A hopeless task, that. But a good idea nonethele—>
<Cannon-smoke!> came the lookout’s broadcast from far above amidst the mast-tops. <Two points off the right-bow, atop that low rise!>
In one fluid motion, Hornguard spun on one foot, pulled the far-glass from her coat, extended it, and put it to her left eye to search down Spout-caller’s sighting. Only a split-solon later, she found the puff of dirty-gray gunsmoke against the background of dirtier-gray building-smoke.
And not terribly much gunsmoke, at that. The Sezabids had had enough harbor-defense guns knocked out already; were they now using small mobile-guns to move between firing positions? That would be harder for her to destroy, but any cannon that would put out so little smoke must struggle to at all reach Wavestrider so many hundred cable-lengths out from the shore…
Her questions were answered a few solon later as a bright flame licked into being at the base of the dissipating cloud. A gun-carriage with its barrel dismounted, clearly soaked in leviathan-oil, plunged over the edge of the bluff and down into the surf below.
A gesture whose intent was recognized throughout the world-sea, evidently even here among Northern barbarians.
Nodding in satisfaction, Hornguard lowered her far-glass. <It seems that the fishing-expedition will have to wait. We will need the ships’ boats to properly accept Sezabi’s surrender.>
///////
Much later, Hornguard stood alone on the stern of her ship and watched as the lantern-dotted procession of boats rowed back-and-forth. In to shore, loading themselves full of wrapped cargo while under the watchful guard of a triple-company of marines, then back out into the harbor. Across the placid nighttime waters, to the devastated guard-tower on its sandy peninsula-tip. As good a place as any to hold the town’s confiscated stocks of food, now held hostage to the Northerner barbarians’ good behavior.
She shook her head, ruefully correcting herself. ‘Hostage to the Sezabids’ good behavior’, more like. Their capitulation was one of the final steps to implementing her plan, and the whole point was that they would not remain ‘barbarians’ for long. She would bring civilization — peace, trade, and no more raids — to the backwards inhabitants of Beleri, at spear-point so they knew she meant it. They would learn the new rules... or their surviving kin would learn. One way or another.
Of course, that also meant that they were now her people, in every way that that mattered. They had surrendered honorably enough, and thus were owed the proper treatment accorded by the customs of civilized disputes.
One corner of her mouth ticked upwards. Perhaps she had been perhaps a bit slow in explaining to the barbarians just what their ‘rights’ were under the Codes. But by the time they learned that, she would be firmly established as their suzerain.
If only the shredded city’s actual leader was here!
Her smile fading into a scowl, she whirled on one foot and marched her way back down the stern-walk. An open door waited ahead, out of which poured light and warmth.
And within which waited a pair of minds too intimidated — wisely — to direct their attention outwards at all unless directly sent to.
Hornguard strode back into her trade-cabin, specially-weighted boots thumping heavily against the floorboards. A tactic that had served her well through the many, many negotiations driven home in this cabin… albeit those had been struck with oil-refiners and sail-merchants, not cowed barbarians.
Still, the principles seemed to be much the same.
<The horizon remains empty of your town’s war-vessels, even now after three days.> she sent without preamble. <It seems that they will not be coming back.>
The two Sezabids seated before her desk glanced up only briefly, before their eyes dropped from hers. The elder of the two sent back <This… is possible, yes.> Her tone was that of one who knows her duty, but was having to struggle to make herself actually see it through.
Unfortunate.
<Then you are prepared to put your name to the Document?> Hornguard placed herself behind her desk, glaring down at the two representatives of her vanquished enemy. The enemy who had thus far refused to actually sign the Document of Surrender despite their ‘informal’ but absolute capitulation.
<Once the requisite ninety days have passed, yes.> ‘Miros-fond’ replied once more. Her weary resignation was underlined by an iron resolve, for all that the Northerner’s body did not quite match the heft implied by her strange barbarian name. Yet the scars visible on her skin showed that here was indeed one who had known battle.
<You would not yield your city for more than eighty days yet?> Hornguard asked, carefully redacting the frustrated irritation out of her sending. Of all the times for the barbarians to discover the ‘joys’ of legalism, now? She held their city under her guns, she held their people’s very food under guard, and still they would not ‘formally’ recognize her victory for nearly a full season?
<I can not.> Miros-fond admitted. <It is not within the powers of my office to break this law.>
Hornguard turned her back on the Northerners, now free to roll her eyes. They were barbarians; what need did their primitive peoples clinging to such a rocky coast have for codified laws beyond ‘I have the bigger spear, therefore I make the rules!’ She had expected them to decide matters of court by clubbing each other over the head, not such pettifogging quibbling over words on paper!
Admittedly, ‘clubbing them over the head’ was becoming a more and more attractive option to her by the day.
<Your elected-leader seems to have chosen a most poor time to wander the seas.> Hornguard let her contemptuous thoughts leak out into open sanzai. But at least these Sezabids had elected leaders; she’d first expected to be negotiating with some tribal hereditary-chief. Probably clad in stinking furs, for that matter.
<She did not ‘wander’!> the younger of the two Sezabids finally opened her mind. Clearly not what her elder desired, by the sharp sending that immediately flashed her way. Yet the — well, not a ‘child,’ but undoubtedly no more than two decades waited behind those flaring eyes — other representative of Hornguard’s conquered people nevertheless sent with obvious pride <She went out to conquer!>
Yet more pointless slaughter, spoken of with such zeal? Hornguard let a thin sneer out onto her face, staring down her nose at this blood-maddened Northern barbarian. <Then it seems better indeed that she will not return.> Even as eyes widened in anger at her sending, a thought struck Hornguard and she added with rising fury of her own <Whom did your Warlord set out to ‘conquer’?>
If the Belerids had set out on yet another of their pointless — but often bloody — incursions south into the Isles, and she had missed destroying them in harbor by what appeared to be only a bare few days, she’d—!
Hornguard’s knuckles whitened where they gripped the back of her chair, heat pouring into the glare that she sent down at her prisoners. Her hostages. Those whom she had sworn not to harm as they traveled under the mantle of peace, yes… but certainly there were others in this surrendered town who would really not be missed. Pirates, murderers, criminals of that sort… if indeed one could find any within this school of biting-fish that weren’t such themselves.
Miros-fond eyed those paling digits, and quickly leaned over to nudge her shoulder against the younger representative of her people. Then swallowed hard and turned to meet Hornguard’s eyes. <Crownholder Minzanarrir departed to attack the arrogant and domineering Clan Whirlpool, and took the entirety of our remaining war-fleet with her.> Something hardened deep in her eyes, and she added <It seems that while few of our own City’s warships returned from the season’s… expeditions, fewer still survived to return to Redrock.>
Hornguard snorted. Then she had missed a few of the Northerner’s raiding ships, in her endeavors before Truce. But perhaps not so many of them, and of course the savages had evidently fallen into infighting as soon as their battered number had limped home anyways.
Typical.
<Call her by whatever title you wish, but I deem her ‘Warlord.’ I do not use this term out of any abundance of respect.> Hornguard sent back, nostrils narrowing. She’d had the term thrown onto her as a pejorative by those back home too gutless to do what must be done to stop the Northern menace, yes, but it wasn’t like they were entirely wrong. A brutish title for a businesswoman forced into employing brutish methods: one who led those under her employ only to violence and destruction, much as the Belerid savages did.
She shook her head to dismiss the thought. <Then if she has not yet returned from her attempted attack against her fellow Belerids, it seems that we can assume that she will not be returning.>
<You may assume so.> Miros-fond sent, pressing her paling lips together. <I cannot. It is not within the powers granted to my office.>
Hornguard let out a frustrated sigh. It was tempting — so tempting — to pitch these two barbarians over the side with ballast-stones tied to their ankles, but if Sezabi’s second-highest leader here was so bound to her city’s rules then it seemed likely that such a violation would result in open resistance from the surrendered city. Which in turn would mean either Hornguard had to expend more cannon-powder that she didn’t have or her marines would need to patrol the city in person. And while Wavestrider’s two cannons, proudly forged by the finest of smiths back home, could easily outrange and out-shoot the Belerids’ primitive smoothbores… the corresponding advantages of her marines’ rifles would mean little within the confines of a town.
And the entire point of this punitive journey was to stop her fellow Amenalids from dying pointless deaths at barbarian hands.
So. What options did she have, then? She could sit here almost an entire quarter-year until the thick-headed Northerner in front of her recognized reality and formally acknowledged her obvious rule over these barbarians. That was… workable, yes, but slow. She had intended to have message-boats sent out to the other Northerner villages known to her new subjects to proclaim her intent to pacify them all… but that would only work properly if it were Sezabid message-boats doing the proclaiming. The three warships of her fleet were more than a match for any Northern barbarian flotilla, but they could still only be in three places at once. If Beleri was to be pacified, it would have to go along with it… not resist her in battle.
Which left one interesting option.
<Then I will go to Redrock.> Hornguard declared, pushing herself up from the chair’s back. As two shocked Northerners stared up at her, she added <They will kneel to me as you have, and then you will hear what news they may have of your no-doubt deceased former ruler.> Her eyes narrowed in thought. <In fact, you both will come with me in person.>
That should meet all of her objectives, with a minimum of additional time spent. The Sezabids had surrendered their town to her conditionally, yes, but with honest intent that was clearly received. She would leave a strong garrison by the remains of the harbor-tower, with a few of the ships’ boats armed with cannon to patrol the harbor against any — unlikely — armed uprising. Perhaps even leave Swelldancer behind; the broad-bellied but lightly-armed supply vessel would be less useful in a bombardment than would Wavestrider and Finchaser.
Those two warships then would fall upon this ‘Redrock’, the only other town that she had heard spoken of as a potential leader of Beleri’s fractious barbarian tribes.
And she would flatten them.
///////
Archbrook closed the door behind her and walked down the hallway. In her wake, the pain-thin sanzai of those still recuperating in the healer’s rooms faded with distance.
But did not disappear entirely.
Rather, the traces of anxiety which leaked through their sendings were mirrored by so many of those who marched rigidly about their duties throughout Redrock. Such as Archbrook herself. For the veteran warriors who had accompanied Grandmother on her near-fought victory — those few who had come back — were more aware than most just what dire straits the Clan found itself in.
It would take at least two or three years to build their numbers back to what was needed to maintain the preeminence among the lesser Clans of Beleri that Goldenshawl had carefully arranged. Years in which even those weaker — formerly weaker — peoples may feel emboldened to attempt to seize the title of de-facto Foremost of Beleri for themselves.
And worse yet, they might succeed.
The same thoughts kept swirling around within the confines of Archbrook’s mind, and the strain of keeping them contained as best she could was beginning to tell. A constant headache had hung about her like a looming cloud for the past many days, and a dull pain hovered behind her eyes.
She paced through into the kitchens, nodding absentmindedly to the warriors working there to sort what little food had been pulled from the sea by the thinned flotilla of fishing-boats that Clan Whirlpool could now put to sea. It would be enough, yes, but that really only said much about the many mouths that would never again find their seat within the Grand Hall.
<Five barrels salted and packed just today, Clan-Heir!> sent one of the kitchen-workers from behind her just as she neared the door in the opposite wall. Archbrook turned to meet the eyes of a newly-Named warrior who could not be quite through even her tenth year, wearing armor that hung awkward on her too-small frame.
And whose mind rang with the fragile energy of a sending that the barely-not-a-child clearly knew was but the smallest of comforts amidst the worry smothering the entirety of Clan Whirlpool.
Yet still, Archbrook could not find it within her to call her young clan-sister on it. <Well done.> she nodded. <See to it that they are stacked into the cliff-grottos and sealed away correctly.>
Her gaze played over the several other warriors laboring in the kitchens’ briny air, seven other youths watched over by a single senior warrior from two generations before Archbrook herself. The elder met her eyes and they exchanged a nod; each one recognizing that Archbrook had given no command that wasn’t already obvious... and also each one knowing just why she had still sent it.
<Of course, Clan-Heir!> chorused two more of the young ones, their minds reverberating with the same anxious energy and (poorly) suppressed awe as the first. Reinforcing Archbrook’s decision to give the worried children what reassurances she could. And also—
She turned quickly back to the door, hopefully fast enough that none caught the frown which crossed her brows. And also, there was that title again. ‘Clan-Heir,’ a position that Grandmother had not yet returned her to. Yet one that many within the Clan — most disproportionately the younger warriors… and child-warriors — had spontaneously draped across her shoulders all the same.
Archbrook snorted, closing the door behind her to seal away the salty stink of the fish-preparations. She had warned Grandmother, when Goldenshawl had first insisted that Archbrook and Dovindr demonstrate their ‘innovation’ all those days ago. Her proposal of ‘ski-warriors’ had long faded to ash in her throat as the toll paid by Whirlpool’s warriors had become obvious to her, yes, but even her darkened soul still admitted that it was a clever idea. And perhaps even training the youngest warriors, those most open to learning such a new and strange skill, in the use of the wooden snow-gliding planks was a natural choice.
But Archbrook had sensed immediately that Goldenshawl had not been mostly thinking of martial utility when she had ordered Archbrook and Dovindr to put on their demonstration. No, Grandmother had demanded it for its morale benefits, to give the Clan a sense that there was some new trick of the warrior’s art that only they knew. That would warm the guttering fires of their despairing souls to dream once more that the Clan’s supremacy would go on unchallenged and unthreatened, thanks to the clever discovery of one of their foremost warriors.
Archbrook shook her head, turning down the corridor, walking to nowhere in particular. The impressed sendings and wide eyes of those gathered warriors — far too many standing on crutches, or shielding their eyes against the snow-glare using the only functioning hand left to them — had been honest enough, but the burgeoning wave of hope that had flowed through the crowd was still tempered with realism.
After all, one couldn’t ski on water.
A soft scuffing of boots against floorboards — and a soft laugh — pulled Archbrook from her wandering thoughts. She raised her downcast eyes to find herself standing in front of a door that had become surprisingly familiar to her over the last many days.
<You seem to be spending more time here than anyone else.> Iceshard sent with a bemused smile, standing at her usual guard-post outside the door to the Males’ Quarters. <All that new training out in the snow doesn’t tire you out enough already?>
The tone of her sendings made their joking nature obvious enough. It also conveyed that Iceshard was deliberately injecting some levity into the somber atmosphere of the Hall.
An effort that Archbrook appreciated… and matched, harshly forcing back the gloom away from the forefront of her thoughts. <If anything, it works up an appetite!> She winked at her friend, worries temporarily retreating to the back of her mind. <And I am surprised to see you still posted here as the Wing’s guard, now that you’re on the list yourself.>
The waiting list for access to the Clan’s males, a list that had grown faster than even their enthusiastic efforts to keep pace over the last few days. With so many gaping holes torn into the ranks of Whirlpool’s warriors, Grandmother had become rather more lax in terms of who was honored with the right to bear the next generation.
<Low on the list.> Iceshard shrugged, the spear leaned idly against her shoulder bobbing slightly. Then a glint entered her eye, and when her sanzai came again it was full of entirely-honest teasing humor <A list that I noticed does not bear your name. Is Goldenshawl having second thoughts about calling you her foremost granddaughter once more?>
<No.> Archbrook corrected immediately, but held the rest of her answer until she could think it over for herself. Why hadn’t she sought out the opportunity to join the honored ranks of warriors with children, a rare accomplishment for one of her youth? It hadn’t even crossed her mind to ask Duskflame to add her name to the list; why? Was she truly thinking instead to—
Before Archbrook was able to properly analyze the thoughts leaking from her own mind, Iceshard’s smile broadened. <I thought that was it!> Bracing her weight on her spear’s grip, she leaned forwards and sent more privately <So, what is a Dain male like? Yours is the smallest, but he is still taller than any of ours; is he proportionally—?>
<No.> Archbrook interjected, repeating herself more forcefully. Then quickly added <That is, I don’t know. I haven’t sought an encounter, and he hasn’t attempted one.> Although, as a few memories crossed her vision to remind her, it certainly seemed that he had thought about it.
As had she.
<Truly?> Iceshard asked, blinking, clearly taken aback by the truth in Archbrook’s sanzai. She straightened back up, briefly chewing at the inside of one lip before sending slyly <Then you wouldn’t mind if I were to specifically request him?>
<What?> Archbrook answered faster than thought. Her lips fought their way down into a revealing scowl despite her best efforts to stop them, efforts that came in vain as she felt her thoughts leak past the attempted lotai to block them.
<I knew it!> Iceshard sent, blood-blue eyes widening in elation as she poked one finger at Archbrook. <You’re your grandmother’s daughter, that is indeed most certain! Already set on monopolizing one single male?>
<No.> Archbrook shot back… mostly truthfully. To cover her thoughts from her friend — and to avoid examining them too closely herself — she quickly added <What I mean is that Sun Master thinks that we might not be able to derive children from the Dain males. He sends that the ancient stories don’t mention anything about loroi ‘encountering’ their non-loroi subjects that way.>
<But you’d like to find out yourself, wouldn’t you?> Iceshard smirked.
Archbrook tried to force her thoughts to say ‘no.’ But eventually was forced to yield. <Yes.> she admitted, more to herself than to her friend.
Whose gleeful expression then softened into a warm smile. <Good. Your grandmother has evidently taken much happiness from having a male whose cleverness and determination is a rare match for hers, and from what you have told us of your adventure up north it seems that perhaps you have found someone similar. It is more pleasurable, I am told, with someone who is almost like a fellow warrior.> Iceshard nodded solemnly, doing her best to portray a wisdom greater than that of her seventeen years.
And Archbrook finally saw an opportunity for some teasing revenge against her friend. With a sly grin, she sent <You’d know.>
<Hey!> Iceshard rocked back on her feet as if struck, yet her smile only widened. <Flamedance and I work on only each other’s hair in the baths because we know best the braiding we each like, nothing more!> Then she dropped the act, and winked at Archbrook. <But also yes.>
Shaking her head with a softer smile, Archbrook pulled open the door into the Males’ Quarters and stepped through, followed by the sanzai laughter of her childhood friend.
///////
Dovindr’s hand slipped and the knife jumped towards him. He almost managed to snatch his other hand out of the way in time, but still the point burned across the very tip of one finger. Dropping the tool to the floor with a clatter, he quickly brought up his wounded hand for an inspection.
Only a shallow cut, good. He’d just have to be more careful.
“You will get used to them.” came Eadberht’s deep voice not a moment later, from where the southern-born sailor knelt at the other side of the room. He did not even glance up from where he also leaned over a plank of shaved elf-wood.
But at least his actually looked almost like a ski already, not still just a squared-off log.
“I think I might have cut mine too thick.” Dovindr mused wryly, leaning back onto his heels.
That did get Eadberht to raise his head, although the carpenter’s-knife in his hand still kept up its steady movements. “Better than cutting too thin.” He finally paused, setting the knife down with a quiet click and running one broad thumb over the wood. In what qualified as a long speech by his normal standards, he then added “These elf-trees have much sap. Flexible, not hard.” Wide shoulders rolled in a slow shrug. “They will work.”
The two men — for Dovindr certainly considered himself to belong to that group now, after his fraught journey to the north with Rozelsarad! — returned to their quiet work. For some time, the small bedroom echoed dully with the rasping of iron on wood. Frida slept silently in the corner, whetstone resting at her feet much as Halfdan rested in her arms. Bitter fumes wafted up from the sap-wet wood… and perhaps one or two more muttered oaths from Dovindr as his knife slipped again. But he was getting better at it; the wooden plank underneath him that had started as a raw log was slowly coming to better resemble an actual flattened ski. Vaguely, anyways.
He’d gotten so used to the routine that it took a while for him to properly notice the slight chill breeze that whispered through the cozy room. Frowning, Dovindr glanced up towards the entrance.
And found Rozelsarad standing quietly in the door, her red-orange eyes clouded as she looked down at him. But only for a moment, before she smiled and stepped inside. “Greetings Dovindr.” The elf-woman crouched next to him, balancing on her toes as she ran one hand over the almost-ski at his feet. “This seems to be finished soon! It is a good ski, yes?”
“Uh...” his eyes flitted automatically to the many nicks and cuts that marred the soft wood. None were large enough to be anything more than a visual blemish — he’d learned better, after his first try had to be relegated to scrap wood — but they still betrayed his product to be very much the work of an inexperienced craftsman. He smiled wryly, “It’s a ski, yes.”
She chuckled, patting the plank with one hand. Then, after a moment, she brushed aside wood shavings to make a clear patch on the floor. Sitting down with a soft thump, the elf-woman rested her chin atop her drawn-up knees. And said nothing.
Dovindr paused, torn between returning to his work — he was proud that Eadberht had chosen him to be the one taught to split wood this precisely, the other men having been judged too ‘thick-fingered’ — and waiting for Rozelsarad to speak. The silence stretched on, and yet it felt rude for him to ignore her and go back to—
He flicked one finger against his other hand, the tiny prick of impact a self-inflicted chastisement. Rozelsarad of all people — of all women — would hardly be likely to mind him working instead of paying her full attention. In fact, she would probably like to learn what he was precisely doing. “See here how the wood is made to split along the, uh...” he searched for the elf-word for ‘grain,’ even as he otherwise echoed Eadberht’s teachings from earlier that morning. “Wood-lines?”
Rozelsarad laughed quietly, one finger reaching out again to trace along the length of the half-formed ski. “The word is ‘soiston.’”
“’Soiston.’” Dovindr carefully enunciated the elf-word. Their language was strange indeed, yet it… fit coming from Rozelsarad. And the way that his not-quite-right pronunciation never failed to draw more laughter from his friend was, if anything, only a positive. Sharing a smile with the elf-woman, he shuffled the ski further along to expose more of the raw and un-shaped portion. “Then the bottom-side is made not-rough, and the upper-side only flat.” He spun the knife still in his hand and held it out grip-first to her. “You want to try, maybe?”
As expected, she instantly took the tool from him. He shuffled off to the side, letting her straddle the ski for a better angle.
“Like this seems to be the correct grip?” she asked, pausing before putting blade to wood. The others were right — she was clearly one who had experience at working with her hands; ‘learning well’ was its own talent, after all.
It was good to see that she did indeed have skills and interests that did not involve bloodshed; Dovindr’s mind still felt a bit strange when he tried to reconcile this headstrong-but-friendly Rozelsarad who crouched here before him with the blood-stained Rozelsarad who fought three other elf-women and left one of them gut-sliced.
She was a strange woman, and he wasn’t quite certain how to feel about her. “Yes, that is almost right.” He reached out, placing one hand over hers and correcting her grip slightly. “Now it is.” The cool, blue hand underneath his was yet another reminder of just how different this elf was from a man of Midgard like himself.
He had seen her hold much larger blades than the knife currently wrapped in those deceptively-fine fingers, after all.
Swallowing, he applied a slight bit of pressure to pull the knife towards where he crouched next to Rozelsarad, shoulder against shoulder. She followed immediately, slowly dragging the notched rear-edge of the blade along the wood at an angle. Small shavings curled up and split off, dropping behind along with the bitter-sharp scent of this strange wood.
For a while, he and Rozelsarad worked quietly. One hand atop the other as he guided her through the basics of smoothing the wood, a task familiar enough to him from a childhood spent helping maintain Harbor-glory at Father’s instructions. Applying the same skill to making skis from elf-wood was similar enough in principle.
Although it certainly did feel different to be showing it to Rozelsarad. What he would have thought to be a mere passing — or performative — interest in the muscle-straining work from any other woman was likely an actual curiosity, with her. She genuinely did want to learn how the skis that had so excited her were made… and he found himself definitely enjoying showing her.
For one thing, despite how cool her skin was against his Dovindr still felt his shoulder burning with warmth where it pressed against hers.
The last time he could remember something like that, it had been more than a year ago when Elgiva the mead-maker’s daughter was showing him how to carve honey out from the wicker-hives that her family made for the bees which brought them their produce. She had excitedly showed him the woven-straw cap that she had placed atop the skep, moving his hands over the exposed opening and explaining how she thought she could now draw honey from the hive while leaving her beloved bees mostly alone.
An affection that the stinging buzzers did not seem to quite return — both Dovindr and Elgiva had sported quite a few angry red welts by the time they withdrew. But the small handful of waxy honey that they’d come away with, however sweet it was, had been as nothing compared to seeing the proud, rosy smile on his childhood-friend’s face.
She’d chosen Hammarsten the blacksmith over him only later that summer, yes, but Dovindr knew that it had been a close choice. Perhaps even for the better, in the end, as he was exiled along with Father and Frida shortly afterwards.
And besides, if Elgiva had chosen him then he wouldn’t have met Rozelsarad. The elf-woman turned to him then, her own smiling face only a hand’s-width away. He could feel her breath on his nascent chin-hairs as she said “It seems to be most fun! Like carving fish-scales.”
Dovindr nodded. “That is a good...” he searched for the word for ‘analogy’ “’thing-equal-thing?’”
She cocked her head, brows furrowing slightly. “’Thing-equal-thing’?” Then her face cleared, and that smile returned to light up the room. “Thing-equal-thing!” Rozelsarad snorted, quickly pulling her hand back and leaving the knife embedded as her chest rocked with laughter. Rocking that did… interesting things to her figure, dressed in lighter metal-plated robes than he normally saw her in. “Moio sagit! You Dains seem to be the champions at twisting words!” Her eyes narrowed in thought. “Or perhaps that is a specialty of Dain males, like with loroi males?”
He didn’t know about elf-men, as while the only one he had actually spoken to definitely appeared to be a clever fellow, that wasn’t very much to guess from. But still, “There are men who twist words in music and, uh,” how to say ‘poetry’? Well, she’d seemed to find his last guess at her language amusing, so... “’word-story-music’ to sing of heroes’ glory, ‘skalds.’ There are also women who use word-magic to change fate or to heal, ‘wise-women.’”
He was rewarded as Rozelsarad laughed again, shaking her head. And she appeared as interested as always when he spoke of home. “This ‘word-story-music,’ what is it?” The elf-woman sounded out the words, clearly at a loss.
“Uhh… words placed in patterns, to tell a story?”
“Spoken words only?”
“Well, yeah. We don’t have your ‘sanzai.’” he used the elf-word that she had described to him before. A strange concept indeed, but they were elfs after all.
“Yes,” her face fell, and her darkening eyes bored into his. The wood-carving knife sat forgotten, unmoving. “that is sad.”
“Oh.” Dovindr shrugged. “We talk well enough together.”
“True, but talk only.” For whatever reason, that did seem to bring Rozelsarad’s mood down. She turned away,
Well, he can’t have that! After chewing on his lip for a moment —well, several — he hesitantly voiced a basic four-line stanza that he had quickly put together. Coughed after the first word, and then lowered his voice to the best mimic he could manage of a skald filling a dimly-lit evening hall with hero-tales of old:
“Nenzit-armed did the warrior go forth,
nenzi-focused on her mission of duty.
Sillar-dark was the night when the hero Rozelsarad left, but
sillat-bright was the victory with which she returned.”
That… mostly sounded like a poem, right? He was really pushing his knowledge of the elf-tongue, but he thought he’d gotten the opening-strong words of each line to rhyme… sort-of.
He peered anxiously into Rozelsarad’s eyes, waiting for her response.
He didn’t have to wait long.
At first, the elf-woman’s brows only lowered further. Clearly not familiar with the concept of skaldic poetry, as she had explained; her lips moved silently to shape out the words. But then her eyes shot wide open, her mouth parting slightly. A soft breath escaped, unformed words drifting within it.
That was… a good sign, right? That she’d actually liked—
Her arm reached out around his back, and pulled him closer.
Then a cool-warm pair of lips slammed into his own.
Dovindr blinked in surprise, but certainly didn’t object! His nose rubbed against the side of her cheek, and the exotic-but-pleasant scent of elf — or maybe it was specific to Rozelsarad? — filled his nostrils. Her warm eyes stared into his own from no distance at all, and he could trace every red-orange fold in her irises.
Soft lips pulled at his own, and—
Oh.
A corner of his mind chuckled that now he did have more experience with ‘elf-tongue’!
But the rest of his mind remained… distracted.
After a moment which lasted for days, she pulled back. Only far enough that they no longer quite touched, rapid breaths panting warm across each other’s faces.
Rozelsarad’s smile widened further, and her eyes danced. Voice low and purring, she intoned “A warrior’s thanks for your… ‘word-story-music,’ you called it?”
“Skáldræði,” he breathed. And here he’d thought that the boasts of those thin-armed poetry-men had been inflated! Yet this elf-women here before him evidently appreciated his poorly-composed work just as much as those gray-beards had claimed!
Maybe he should have listened to them more.
“’Sgald-reishi.’” she approximated carefully, nodding slowly. Then her darker-blue lips — still glistening in the light that bounced in through the high and narrow window set into one wall — curled into a knowing smile. “You will have to speak more of this to me, later.”
Yes... yes he certainly would.
The elf-woman nodded again, more firmly. As if confirming something to herself. Then asked “Your father is the one who truly seems to lead your group, yes?”
Dovindr blinked in surprise once more, his mind lurching from one wagon-track to another to follow Rozelsarad’s change of topic. “Yes…?” he confirmed hesitantly.
“That is good. He does not seem to object.” her grin sharpened. “I will ask him directly later.”
Ask Father what? Dovindr frowned. Wait, was she thinking—?
The elf-woman continued, and even with his much-improving grasp of her peoples’ language the focus required to understand her still required his full attention. “Are you… completely needed here, helping with the ski-making?” She bit her lip, clearly waiting with some trepidation on his response.
Ah. He was now quite sure he knew what she was asking... and he was now equally certain of his answer.
“Not for some time, no.” Dovindr breathed back faster than thought. But then a trickling reminder of duty traced its way down the back of his skull, and he added “Or, actually wait.” Rozelsarad’s face paused mid-smile, while Dovindr turned away from her to ask Eadberht “Is it, uh, all right if we— if I take a break for some time?”
The Saxon raised his head from his work, and even through his thick mustache it was clear that he was fighting back a smile of his own. It appeared that even his much-lesser grasp of the elf language had been enough to follow what Rozelsarad was asking… or perhaps the deep kissing had, uh, been something of an obvious hint.
Either way, the twinkle in the sailor’s eyes redoubled the heat blooming on Dovindr’s face. “Aye, ‘tis no hurry. Go, young man.”
Dovindr had to cough before he could manage “Thanks! I, uh, will.”
Turning back to Rozelsarad, he nodded hurriedly.
The blue flush that broke out across her own cheeks probably matched his own. “That is most good to hear!” Her smile halted, and her forehead creased slightly as she glanced around “Yet this room seems… crowded, perhaps.”
Oh. A cold flush raced down his spine. Frida was deep-asleep, yes, but while Eadberht’s deep focus on his work was a well-known trait of his there surely were limits—
Rozelsarad turned her head again, staring for a few moments at one blank wall. Then her smile returned, and she pushed herself to her feet. “But it seems that there is space in another room.” She held out one arm to him.
“That’s, uh, very good to hear.” he echoed her previous words, staring at her proffered hand. Then grasped it, yet standing up by himself. The elf-women did indeed do things differently… but he also still had his pride as a man.
And it certainly didn’t take much strength for her to ‘pull’ him after her out of the indeed-crowded room.
///////
Author's NoteShow
I pulled the rhyming method there from Beowulf. It was written at least a few centuries after Dovindr’s lifetime, but we sadly don’t have any good records of Norse/Germanic verse from this much earlier than Beowulf. So I’m just assuming that the rhyming method is the same, where instead of the last word(s) in a line rhyming (as is the standard for rhyming verse today) it is the first word(s) that are meant to rhyme. Making that (mostly) work with the limited Loroi Trade vocabulary on the website was fun, though!
And while loroi really don’t do ‘romance’ in any way recognizable to humans, they do seem to appreciate their stories of warrior heroes. So I figure that the closest to a ‘romantic gesture’ that a loroi would understand was to compose some story/poem/etc. praising her as a warrior. It’s like roses and chocolate, but lasts longer!
Come to think of it, I wonder if (higher-class) loroi males get handed a report on their ‘clients’ a day or two in advance. <Your next one’s a gallen, been working as a carrier hangar-technician for her whole career. Two years ago she won her crew a commendation for containing a warhead chain-detonation and diverting it outside the ship. So make sure you bring up how war is a ‘team game’ and the support personnel are at least as heroic as the dashing pilots, and how the most praiseworthy thing for a warrior to do is to risk her life to protect her ship from danger.>
And while loroi really don’t do ‘romance’ in any way recognizable to humans, they do seem to appreciate their stories of warrior heroes. So I figure that the closest to a ‘romantic gesture’ that a loroi would understand was to compose some story/poem/etc. praising her as a warrior. It’s like roses and chocolate, but lasts longer!
Come to think of it, I wonder if (higher-class) loroi males get handed a report on their ‘clients’ a day or two in advance. <Your next one’s a gallen, been working as a carrier hangar-technician for her whole career. Two years ago she won her crew a commendation for containing a warhead chain-detonation and diverting it outside the ship. So make sure you bring up how war is a ‘team game’ and the support personnel are at least as heroic as the dashing pilots, and how the most praiseworthy thing for a warrior to do is to risk her life to protect her ship from danger.>
And as the distant Epilogue will show, *some* traces of human ideas just may survive all the time from 715 AD to ~2160+ AD... 