John Dalmas - Yngling 3 - The Circle of Power

THE YNGLING AND THE CIRCLE OF POWER

by John Dalmas

Book Three of the Yngling Series

Scanned by foi; proofed by Nadie.

CONTENTS

* Prologue

* PART I: DEPARTURE

* Chapter 1

* Chapter 2

* Chapter 3

* Chapter 4

* Chapter 5

* Chapter 6

* PART II: THE JOURNEY

* Chapter 7

* Chapter 8

* Chapter 9

* Chapter 10

* Chapter 11

* Chapter 12

* Chapter 13

* Chapter 14

* Chapter 15

* Chapter 16

* Chapter 17

* Chapter 18

* Chapter 19

* PART III: THE BURIAT GREAT COUNCIL

* Chapter 20

* Chapter 21

* Chapter 22

* Chapter 23

* Chapter 24

* PART IV: DISPERSAL

* Chapter 25

* Chapter 26

* Chapter 27

* Chapter 28

* Chapter 29

* Chapter 30

* Chapter 31

* Chapter 32

* Chapter 33

* Chapter 34

* Chapter 35

* PART V: CLOSURE

* Chapter 36

* Chapter 37

* Chapter 38

* Chapter 39

* Chapter 40

* Chapter 41

* Chapter 42

* Chapter 43

* Chapter 44

* Chapter 45

* Chapter 46

* Chapter 47

* Chapter 48

* Chapter 49

* Chapter 50

APPENDICES

* THE PSYCHOME AND THE PSYCHE

* THE OGRE AS A HYPNOCONDITIONED SOLDIER

* LINGUSTIC CONSERVATISM IN 29th CENTURY SCANDINAVIA

* PRONUNCIATION GUIDE FOR NEOVIKING NAMES AND WORDS

* LUNAR CALENDAR OF THE WOLF CLAN (& OTHERS)

PROLOGUE

The Sanctuary was semi-dark, lit by a single,

large oil lamp that set blurred shadows trembling and jumping. Seven men,

robed in silk, sat in a circle on straw mats, legs folded beneath them.

Another sat in the center. Their shaven heads were upright. Lamplight

flickered on calm faces, glinting on eyes otherwise black, giving off an aroma

too mild to conceal the fragrance of Korean pine from panels, timbers and

floor. As dark as the room, was the sound that came from their throats -- a

deep and droning “OM,” protracted and near the limit of audibility, like the

dying hum of some great bell.

They were questing. Vague images flicked

behind unfocused eyes. Now and then something vaguely recognizable came to

them, to be gone before it stopped shimmering. They didn’t try to hold them.

When -- if -- they found something significant, it would stay to be examined.

After a bit, they got one clearly, of conical

tents -- a campground -- with a village of log huts not far behind it. Behind

the image was a sense of context; this was some tribal gathering. The picture,

still wavering, shifted, then focused on a very large, physically powerful

man. A man without eyes, they somehow knew, who nonetheless carried a sword. A

man without eyes who walked briskly, meaningfully. Suddenly he stopped. And

turned as if to look at the men who spied on him from their Circle of Power.

He did have eyes, strange eyes without pupils,

that somehow seemed to lock with their collective gaze. Then the vision

wavered and was gone, and they knew without discussion that they would not get

it back.

The emperor, Songtsan Gampo, sat in his study

before open, glass-paned doors. A light cool wind blew from the northwest

across the Yan Mountains, played with the silver wind chimes on his balcony,

and touched his face. Above his left shoulder an oil lamp, its flame shielded

by a glass chimney, cast faintly yellow light on the manuscript he read.

Remotely he heard a small gong -- heard and registered, and ignored. A minute

later there was stirring at his corridor door, and an exchange of muted words.

Then his doorguard entered, a giant humanoid with short, rich-brown fur. It

cleared its throat softly.

“Your Magnificence,” it murmured.

Songtsan Gampo lowered the manuscript and

turned without speaking.

“His Reverence, Tenzin Geshe, wishes to speak

with Your Magnificence.”

Dark eyes regarded the doorman. “Send him in.”

The geshe could have communicated with him

telepathically; given the Circle of Power, the distance from the gomba, the

monastery, was no problem. But the emperor didn’t allow mental intrusions

except when he’d ordered them, or in true emergencies. One sent or carried

messages, on paper or orally. Tenzin Geshe entered the room and bowed low. He

would not speak until invited to.

“Yes?” the emperor asked.

“Your Magnificence,” said the geshe, “your

Circle of Power has been questing. And we have seen a man . . . ”

He opened his mind to his emperor then,

rerunning the experience.

When the geshe had completed his brief report,

he was dismissed. The emperor sat with the manuscript ignored on his lap. The

Circle had learned nothing explicit, except that the man existed and what he

looked like. And that he’d been aware of them observing him, and had broken

the connection. A man of unusual power then, obviously, but where he was, and

of what people, there’d been no clue.

There had been a limited knowingness with the

vision, however: the man was far away, and was important to him. There’d been

no sign of what the importance might be. Logic suggested that the man would

lead an army against his, when the time of conquest came, but that was only

logic, not knowledge.

Songtsan Gampo sat with his mind clear of

thoughts, waiting quietly for more, but no more came.

PART ONE

DEPARTURE

ONE

The council fire flickered ruddy-yellow,

lighting the Neoviking chiefs who sat around it. It was a very large fire, by

the standards of a people whose summer fires normally were small: fires for

cooking, and smoke fires to drive the mosquitoes from their log houses.

Ted Baver squatted unobtrusively as part of

the ring of chiefs, an honor granted him as a representative of the star folk.

He had no role in their council, of course. He was there to watch, listen,

record, and in the process learn. He held a small audio-video recorder before

his face, as if aiming a pistol, and through and around its simple, fold-out

viewing frame he watched the proceedings.

He’d grown used to squatting, this past year.

Occasionally, absently, he squashed mosquitoes on his face with his left hand.

The thump of an insect-hunting nighthawk braking overhead did not catch his

attention. He was engrossed in the dispute before the council, aiming his

recorder at whoever was speaking, capturing their words and image.

Jäävklo,* chief of the Glutton Clan, got to

his feet. He was wide-framed, with remarkably muscular arms, his muscles more

ropy than bulky. His face was creased, but at fifty feet by firelight, his

black hair seemed ungrayed, and the skin on his arms, shoulders and neck was

still tight. Baver guessed his age at between forty and forty-five.

Jäävklo spoke loudly, that the throng of

northmen could hear, the hundreds who squatted unseen on the slope above the

council fire. “Here is my answer to Ulf Varjsson of the Wolf Clan,” he said.

“In the Homeland, we of the Glutton** Clan had the poorest territory of all

the Svear. It was poorest to start with, and as the world grew colder, it

became impossible to feed ourselves adequately. Nor would the Reindeer Clan or

the Salmon Clan adjust their boundaries with us. When we brought it up in

council, Axel Stornäve refused to require it of them. There was bad blood

between the two of us, Axel and me, and so he refused.

“Now the tribes have come to a new land, and

possessed it, dividing it, each clan marking its own. The Glutton Clan has

built cairns at their corners, and other cairns at needful places, according

to the agreement among the tribes. Yet here at the ting, we find the Wolf

people complaining that we encroach on them! We encroach on no one! We have

done all things according to the agreement!”

He looked around the circle scowling, then

squatted down again in the place that was his.

Nils Järnhann got up then, a huge, muscular

young man only twenty-two years old, scarred on legs, face, and shoulder. His

eyes were sky-blue glass, crafted by a machinist aboard the jump ship

Phaeacia. They fitted properly but were conspicuously artificial, and around

them the sockets were sunken. He turned his face to Jäävklo as if the glass

eyes saw. He was lagman of the People -- reciter and interpreter of the Law

and arbiter of disputes, who also presided when crimes were brought before the

council.

“And the corners are on the tails of two

ridges?” he asked. His voice seemed quieter than Jäävklo’s, and mild, but it

could be heard clearly by the tribesmen highest on the slope.

Jäävklo answered without rising. “They are.”

“Can the tail of one ridge be seen from the

other?”

“Distantly, yes.”

The lagman’s wide mouth pursed briefly before

he spoke. “The complaint of Ulf Varjsson, chief of the Wolves, has been heard,

and also its denial by Jäävklo, chief of the Gluttons. The corners are not in

dispute, but only the line on the plain. Here is how the dispute will be

resolved: The Bull Clan of the Jötar and the Seal Clan of the Norskar will

each provide four warriors to examine the disputed line. Tomorrow they will go

to it, two days ride from here. There they will have a pyre built at each of

the two corners. These pyres will be very large, so that in the dark, each

fire can be clearly seen from the other. Freemen, as many as the eight

warriors think necessary, will help them, providing the necessary wood and

doing whatever else is needed. These freemen will be equally of the Glutton

and Wolf Clans.

“At nightfall of the second day, four warriors

will be at each pyre, two each from the Seals and the Bulls. They will light

the pyres. The fires must be kept burning high till dawn. When the men at one

fire can see the other, two of the warriors from each fire will ride toward

the other, as straight as they can. It is important that they ride straight,

because their trails must make a straight line between the fires, between the

corner cairns.

“They will continue until they come to the

stream, where they will set a tall stake in the bank on their side, tall

enough to be seen plainly from fifty doubles [about eighty meters], tying a

flag to the top.

“The other warriors, with freemen to help

them, will follow the trail of the two through the grass. They will have oxen,

and drag sleds with stones and long stakes on them. From time to time they

will set a stake in the trail, with rocks set against it. Each stake must be

visible from the two stakes nearest behind it. They will also put rocks around

the stakes at the stream. Afterward the freemen, supervised by the eight, will

drag more rocks to all those places, and build cairns as tall as a man. Each

cairn must have a pole three spans tall sticking out the top, and the row of

cairns must form a straight line. The Gluttons and Wolves must provide as many

freemen for the task as the eight warriors require. The line will henceforth

be as marked by the new cairns, and the old cairns will be torn down.”

Nils Järnhann paused, turning his face from

side to side around the council circle. Ingenious! thought Baver. That not

only takes care of the dispute, it establishes a procedure any clan can use on

its own.

But the lagman wasn’t done yet. “This

dispute,” he went on, “creates a debt to the warriors who solve it, and to

their clans. Therefore, their clans will each receive” -- he paused, then

repeated “ -- will each receive a payment of twenty heifer calves and twenty

bull or ox calves, to be selected by the eight warriors. In addition, each of

the eight warriors will be paid two saddle horses, which he can select from

all the horses of the clan responsible. The clan which pays will be the clan

that was in error on the line. Therefore, before the old cairns are torn down,

the eight warriors will determine on which side of the new line the old cairns

stand. If all the old cairns, all of them, stand within ten spans of the new

line, or are on the Glutton’s side, the Glutton Clan will be held blameless,

and the Wolf Clan will pay. Otherwise the Glutton Clan will pay.”

Baver’s eyes found the two chieftains. Ulf

Varjsson showed grim satisfaction. Jäävklo, on the other hand, had darkened

with anger and chagrin. Meanwhile Nils Järnhann spoke on. “As to the request

for feud rights growing out of the fight at the old stream cairns, they are

refused both to clans and septs. Tomorrow at high noon, the two septs will

each have ten warriors at the fighting ground, ready for a fight with hands

and feet.

“And if any of those chosen enter the fight

with a weapon, he will be declared outlaw and fair game, with only a single

day of grace, regardless of whether he uses that weapon. Furthermore, his

household will be held responsible for any blood payment incurred from the use

of that weapon.”

Baver could hear a soft murmuring from the

hundreds of northmen listening unseen behind him.

“As to blood payment for men and horses from

the fight at the stream,” the young giant went on, “that will be the standard

payment, made by the sept in error, the error to be determined by the new

line. However, if all the old cairns are within ten spans of the new line,

there will be no blood payment.”

Again Nils Järnhann turned his face toward the

two opposing clan chieftains. “There will be no appeal to these rulings, nor

to the line laid out by the eight warriors of the Seal and Bull Clans.”

He paused, then looked at Jäävklo. “Jäävklo, I

have another matter to talk with you about, before the council, and before the

People assembled here. You have told us that Axel Stornäve refused to require

the Reindeer and Salmon Clans to give part of their territories to the Glutton

Clan. Because, you said, there was bad blood between you and Axel. You have

also said this before our present meeting, though never in council.

“What your words mean is that Axel Stornäve

did not treat honestly with the Glutton Clan, that he withheld fairness

because of an old grudge. I have talked with other chiefs about this. They

told me the question of adjusting boundaries never came up in Council. When

did you talk with Axel about it?”

“Just before the First Council of All Chiefs,

held to discuss leaving the Homeland. He refused me then.”

“Who else was there when you discussed it with

him?”

“Arvid Smitsson, who now is dead, killed in

battle with the horse barbarians.”

“No other?”

Jäävklo shook his head.

“You shake your head; your answer then is no.

Axel Stornäve called the First Council of All Chiefs to propose his plan to

leave the Homeland, and to get the agreement of as many clans as possible. And

he succeeded. Did this solve the land problem of the Gluttons?”

“Yes. But now we have another problem, and

with Stornäve’s own clan, the Wolves! Your clan! He has poisoned your minds

against me!”

“We’ve solved that new dispute tonight. Now

I’m looking at your complaint about Axel Stornäve and his honesty. So you told

Axel of your problem on one day and he solved it that same day, is that right?

Or the day after?”

A sullen nod.

“I am also told that you became chief only the

winter previous. When had you had dealings with Axel Stornäve before that

day?”

The Glutton chieftain didn’t answer at once,

and when he did, his voice was shrill. “You’re trying to trick me! You’re of

the Wolf Clan too! You’re trying to make me look like a troublemaker, you and

Stornäve and Varjsson! You’ve talked with the chiefs of the Seal and Bull

Clans, so they will give you warriors who will mark a new boundary that will

steal our land from us!”

“I see. And you have witnesses to this?”

Jäävklo stood staring wildly at the lagman,

who repeated his unanswered question. “When did you have dealings with Axel

Stornäve before you first asked for a boundary adjustment?”

Jäävklo had no answer; to Ted Baver it seemed

that the man’s eyes bulged.

“You do not answer. Therefore unless

corrected, I will assume that you’d never had dealings with him before. From

what then did this bad blood develop?”

Again there was no answer.

“Each tribe has a law against slander, and the

council a law against lies in its meetings. Men are seldom charged under them

unless the lie is harmful, and I will not charge you now. But . . . ”

His words were cut short by a keening noise

from Jäävklo’s throat, a keening that quickly grew to a howl of rage.

Fumbling, wrenching, the chief tore off his sleeveless leather shirt. The howl

had broken into hoarse, grunting cries, wordless shouts, and when his torso

was bare, he drew his sword and charged the lagman.

Nils Järnhann’s sword was out too, and

blind-eyed he met the man’s berserk assault. The violent energy and quickness

of Jäävklo’s attack was shocking to Baver, who’d never before witnessed an

attack to kill. But the lagman beat off the berserker’s strokes, seemingly

without any effort to strike back; either he was too hard pressed or he

exercised an unexplainable restraint.

Then Jäävklo’s sword broke against the

lagman’s, almost at the hilt. With a howl, he flung the rest of it at his

adversary, then turned and threw himself on the council fire, where he lay

roaring as if in rage, without trying to get up. Staring wide-eyed past his

recorder, Baver shook, twitched, almost spouted sweat, and got half up as if

to run and rescue the man. But didn’t. Instead he continued to record. It

seemed impossible that the Glutton chief had done what he had, and having done

it, that pain did not drive him off.

And that no one pulled him off!

The raucous roaring stopped. Then Baver

doubled over and emptied his stomach onto the ground. When he was done

retching, he settled down onto his knees, staring as the lagman, who’d gone to

the dead Jäävklo, grasped the corpse’s feet and pulled it from the fire. Baver

heard no one else be sick, though surely this horrible, this shocking event

must have traumatized some of them, at least.

Then he remembered the departure of the Orcs*

from the City of Kazi, and what the Northmen found there the next day. And

wondered if after all they might handle this with similar dispassion, might

treat it simply as an unfortunate display of aberration.

*For

those who are interested, a brief pronunciation guide for Neoviking names and

words is included in the appendix. Back

**Also

known as the wolverine. Back

*Orcs --

Name applied to the soldiers of Kazi the Undying, a Middle-Eastern

emperor. Back

TWO

From -- A video interview with Ilse in the botanical conservatory on the eve

of the vernal equinox, Deep Harbor, New Home, A.C. 781. By Lateefah Fourier

LF: Intriguing, to have grown up that way. But before I go, our viewers will

never forgive me if we don’t talk about your husband, the Ingling. Did I say

that correctly? The Ingling?

Ilse: Approximately. It’s more precise, however, to say the I sound with the

lips rounded. Yngling. The Y is like the umlauted U in German.

LF: Yngling. There! How did I do that time?

Ilse: Quite well.

LF: But “Yngling” is not his name, right? His name is Nils Järnhann.

Ilse: That’s right. As a child he was known as Nils Hammarsson, because his

father, an Ironsmith, is called Hammar. Which means hammer, as you might

suspect. Järnhann is his warrior name, given him when he completed his sword

apprenticeship. It means Ironhand. While still a sword apprentice, and not

fully grown, he killed a man, a warrior, with a blow of his fist.

LF: The Northman culture certainly seems violent.

Ilse: It’s a controlled violence. The warriors are violent, the rest of the

culture not particularly so. The Northmen have a system of laws that contain

most of the violence within the warrior class. The ordinary freeman is less

subject to violence from within his culture than in my own country, Germany.

LF: And ingling -- Yngling -- is a title, right?

Ilse: In a sense, yes. Long ago, “yngling” simply meant a youth in their

language. Anciently, Anglic had a cognate, “youngling.” All three Northman

tribes share a legend of a young man who appeared in a time of danger perhaps

two hundred years ago, when constant warring threatened to destroy them. They

had no warrior class then; all men fought. The southern tribe, the Jötar, had

gained the upper hand, and it seemed they would kill or enslave the Svear. And

probably the Norskar as well.

Then an yngling appeared among the Svear, to become a great raid leader and

war chief, and before long it seemed that they’d destroy the Jötar instead.

Then an yngling came among the Jötar and saved them. After that he made

himself known as the same yngling who had saved the Svear and Norskar. He said

he belonged to no tribe or clan, but to all Northmen. And he had great power

over them because of his wisdom and truth and justice, and gave them the Bans

that set limits on warring and feuding, the Bans that let them live with

relatively little fear and hatred.

LF: Can you tell us a little about those Bans?

Ilse: Of course. Warriors of the different clans still could fight one

another, but they could no longer take one another’s land. And the clan

borders were reset to the earlier markers. Also, while they could still burn

strawstacks, to burn haystacks or buildings was outside the Bans. They could

steal livestock, but they could not kill it and leave it lie. They could still

kill in vengeance, but only for specified wrongs and within approved feuds.

All the clans agreed to this. But there was a Jytska chief who hated him for

it, who struck him with a poisoned knife he’d hidden in his shirt, so that he

died. And instead of making a burial mound, they put the youth in a canoe and

set it on the Jöta Alv, which floated it down to the sea.

Only then, the legend says, did they realize that none of them knew his name,

so they called him simply “the Yngling.” And the legend had it that in a time

of great need he’d return, for the Northmen believe that after you die, you

will be reborn.

Finally, as was certain to happen sooner or later, there came another time of

great need. And when Nils appeared from exile -- he’d been exiled for a

killing -- the things he did convinced them that he was the Yngling reborn to

them . . .

After what had happened, Ted Baver was

surprised that the council didn’t adjourn at once. He could smell charred

flesh, and surely the Northmen did too; they saw, heard, and smelled more

acutely than he did. But instead of moving that they adjourn, Nils Järnhann

stood beside the corpse and recited what seemed to be a formula for the soul

after suicide. Baver hadn’t recovered sufficiently to follow it all in detail,

although of course his recorder did.

When Nils had completed the formula, he

announced he was resigning as lagman. And not only resigning as lagman; he was

leaving the Northmen. There were questions then; the Northmen didn’t want him

to go. He replied that they were depending too much on him, abdicating too

much authority to him, and that the function of the Yngling was not to

preside.

The announcement startled Baver out of his

mental shock. It seemed to him that the death of Jäävklo must be the real

reason for the lagman’s decision. Or could it be depression because his wife

Ilse had left Earth on the jumpship Phaeacia? The important thing was that his

seniors on the mission, Matthew and Nikko Kumalo, considered Nils Järnhann one

of their two prime resources. Ten days previously, they’d flown pinnace Alpha

to Germany and the Dane land, to interview members of their other prime

resource, the Psi Alliance. They’d intended to be back for the All Tribes Ting

-- the big annual assembly of the Northmen. But three nights ago they’d called

from Neustadt am Weser, to tell him they wouldn’t be back for at least another

week.

Now Nils was planning to leave, and Baver had

the impression that it would be soon. If it was before Matt and Nikko came

back, they’d want to know where he was going, so they could maintain contact

with him.

Meanwhile Isbjørn Hjeltessøn, the leader of

the Council of All Chiefs, had solemnly asked the others for nominations for a

new lagman. After half a dozen names had been called out, Hjeltessøn had

dismissed the meeting and the chiefs, ana the crowd on the slope had begun

moving toward their camps. Or in the case of some of the Norskar, their

cabins, for the Ice Bear Clan was host to the ting this year.

The crowd was leaving now, and Baver followed

Nils. He’d had no personal contact with him before; had spent most of his time

with the Salmon Clan of the Svear. Besides, the man was obviously very

different from the rest of his people, and according to Nikko had a somewhat

exterior viewpoint of them. To talk with him, at least at any length, Baver

had told himself, might skew his data and prejudice his analyses.

Now, though, he needed to question him about

where he was going, and when.

Baver caught up with him as the Northman

approached his tent, a typical, conical affair about four meters tall and four

in diameter, of hides sewn to fit, and laid over slender pine poles. Its door

flap was open, and the leather walls glowed faintly; someone had started a

fire in the fire pit. Which surprised Baver -- the Northman was said to live

alone.

“Nils!” Baver said to him, “may I ask you some

questions?”

Nils slowed and looked at the ethnologist. He

saw a man of ordinary height, soft by Neoviking standards but well

proportioned. His skin was brown, his curly brown hair cap-like; he had it cut

from time to time with clippers.

“Ask,” Nils said.

“When are you going to leave?”

“Tomorrow.”

Tomorrow! “Where will you go?”

“Eastward.”

“Where eastward?”

Nils ducked in through the door, and Baver

followed him. They were met by giggling, and the confused ethnologist looked

around. There were two young women there, in their late teens he judged,

perhaps local, and he realized what they were there for. Nils was as much a

hero among the other clans, or most of them, as in his own. These girls were

there to carry off with them some of the giant warrior’s genes, with which to

bless their family and clan. And no doubt to enjoy themselves and pleasure

him.

Abruptly Baver stepped back into the doorway.

“I -- I’ve got more questions,” he said. “I’ll come back tomorrow before you

leave.” Then he ducked out, his face hot, and hurried off toward his own tent.

Those are damned good-looking girls, he thought, especially if you like them

strong and unwashed. He wished one of them had been waiting for him. When he

got to his tent, he laid a fire, lit it with his fire-starter, and when it was

burning well, put greenery on it to smoke out the mosquitoes.

He’d neglected to ask Nils when, tomorrow,

he’d be leaving. He’d check with him in the morning, to make sure; 0800 would

do it, he decided. Meanwhile he took the radio from his shoulder bag and

called Matt and Nikko; perhaps they’d fly back tonight if they knew.

But neither responded, nor did the pinnace

itself. He was disappointed, but not surprised. If both were away from the

Alpha, they’d leave the force shield on, and if the area wasn’t safe, they’d

leave the commast retracted to prevent vandalism; contact would be impossible.

He’d try them again tomorrow, as soon as he

got up.

THREE

From -- The New School Encyclopedia, copyright A.C. 920, Deep Harbor, New

Home.

The Orc Wars, A.D. 2831-2832 (A.C. 779-780) --

Tribal chiefs and feudal lords had fought innumerable small wars since before

records began to be kept again (about A.D. 2350). But in post-plague Europe

there was no large-scale war until 2831. In that year the Orc Wars began.

It seemed predestined that there would be such wars, given the post-plague

return to primitivism, with society organized variously under tribalism,

feudalism, and despotism. What actually brought it about was the development

of a new imperialism in the Middle East. Its outcome, however, was the result

of a folk migration out of Scandinavia, in response to severe climatic

cooling, the opening stage of the new, so-called Athabasca-Skanderna

glaciation . . .

. . . On one side, two powerful military forces were allied, one the

so-called Orcs, the other of assorted horse barbarians, united under the

command of His Imperial Majesty, Kamal Timur Kazi, known as Kazi the Undying.

These met and destroyed a series of European opponents: first the South

Ukrainians; next the “North Ukrainians” (more properly Byelorussians); and

later a mixed and ill-coordinated army of Poles, Magyars, Saxons, Neovikings,

and finally migrating Finns, which combined was still much smaller than the

imperial forces. The first encounter . . .

. . . Thus the Neoviking hero, Nils Järnhann, on the first occasion turned a

situation of military overwhelm into the withdrawal of the conquering Orcs

into the Balkans, and the dissolution of the horse barbarians into a still

dangerous but unled mob of marauders. While on the later occasion, it is

Järnhann who must also be credited with converting the terribly vulnerable

Neoviking situation into the decimation and collapse of the Orcish army, and

its withdrawal from Europe across the Bosporus into Anatolia . . .

Baver had learned to cook Northman style, sort

of. In the village, he lived in a bachelor house with two young, still

unmarried warriors. An old widow came in twice a day, morning and evening, to

cook for them, and he’d watched what she did. Watching, listening, and

recording were his principal activities. En route to the ting, a six-day trek

on horseback from the principal village of the Salmon Clan, he’d not only had

his first experience in all-day riding on horseback, a genuine ordeal, but his

first experience in cooking, and in eating what he’d cooked. It hadn’t been so

bad. By New Home standards, he’d never cared a whole lot what he ate, as long

as he was decently nourished.

That night he dreamed of cooking. People kept

appearing in his cook fire -- which in the dream was much larger than ordinary

-- or over it in a big cauldron. The first time it wakened him, he’d been

quite upset. After building up his fire a bit, and adding greenery to thicken

the smoke, he’d gone out among the mosquitoes to one of the campground’s

straddle-trenches, to relieve himself. Before he fell asleep again, the

thought had come to him that in his dreams, the persons being cooked had all

seemed to be there at their own insistence. And when he slept again, though

the dreams recurred, they didn’t upset him as they had earlier.

It was the noise of boys playing that woke him

to the day. When he got up, many of the adults had already eaten, and gone to

the broad ting ground to talk or trade; wrestle or shoot or watch those who

did; or watch the council. Baver relieved himself again; filled his waterskin

at the stream; ate jerky, strong cheese, and hardtack; and tried once more to

reach Matthew and Nikko, with no more success than the first time.

When he finished eating, his watch read 0806.

He left his tent to go to Nils’s and ask when, that day, the Northman planned

to leave.

Nils’s tent was gone, leaving the fire hole

and a circle of pressed-down grass. While Baver stood staring, not knowing

what to do, a boy came loping up, one he’d never seen before, tallish and

gangling, with a narrow, hawk-like face and orange-red hair. He guessed his

age at possibly fifteen years. On one shoulder the boy carried a bridle and

light saddle; on his belt he wore a shortsword and knife. “Is he gone already

then?!” the boy asked.

“It appears so.”

“Do you know where?”

“No. I wish I did. Were you going with him?”

The boy nodded absently, staring at the

trampled grass of the tent site.

“Can you track him?” Baver asked.

“If the horse guards tell me what direction he

started in.”

Abruptly the boy left, trotting briskly, and

Baver followed him down grassy avenues separating clan camps, to the large

rope corral of the Wolf Clan. It was guarded by a one-eyed old warrior with a

John Dalmas - Yngling 3 - The Circle of Power

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