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  Gerin the Fox, Book One

  Harry Turtledove

  I

  “Duin, you’re a damned fool if you think you can fight from horseback,” Drago the Bear said, tossing a gnawed bone to his trencher.

  Duin the Bold slammed his tankard down on the long table. Ale slopped over the rim. “Fool, is it?” he shouted, his fair face reddening. “You’re the fool, you thickskulled muckbrain!”

  Drago stormed up with an oath, murder in his eyes. His thick arms groped toward Duin. The slimmer man skipped back. His hand flashed to his swordhilt. Cries of anger and alarm rang through Castle Fox’s great hall.

  Gerin the Fox, baron of Fox Keep, sprang to his feet. “Stop it!” he shouted. The shout froze both angry men for a moment, giving their benchmates a chance to crowd between them. Drago sent one man flying with a shrug of his massive shoulders, but was brought up short by a grip not even his massive thews could break. Van of the Strong Arm grinned down at him. Almost a foot taller than the squat Bear, the outlander was every bit as powerfully made.

  Gerin glowered at his fractious vassals, disgust plain in every line of his lean body. The men grew shamefaced under his glare. Nothing would have pleased him more than breaking both their stupid heads. He lashed them with his voice instead, snapping, “I called you here to fight the Trokmoi, not each other. The woodsrunners will be a tough enough nut to crack without us squabbling among ourselves.”

  “Then let us fight them!” Duin said, but his blade was back in its scabbard. “This Dyaus-damned rain has cooped us up here for ten days now. No wonder we’re quarreling like so many snapping turtles in a pot. Turn us loose, lord Gerin!” To that even Drago rumbled agreement. He was not alone.

  The Fox shook his head. “If we try to cross the River Niffet in this weather, either current or storm will surely swamp us. When the sky clears, we move. Not before.”

  Privately, Gerin was more worried than his liegemen, but he did not want them to see that. Since spring he’d been sure the northern barbarians were planning to swarm south over the Niffet and ravage his holding. He’d decided to strike first.

  But this downpour—worse than any he could remember in all his thirty years on the northern marches of the Empire of Elabon—balked his plans. For ten days he’d had no glimpse of sun, moons, or stars. Even the Niffet, a scant half mile away, was hard to spy.

  Rumor also said the Trokmoi had a new wizard of great power. More than once, the baron had seen fell lights dancing deep within the northern forests. His ever-suspicious mind found it all too easy to blame the Trokmê mage for the rude weather.

  Duin started to protest further. Then he saw the scar over Gerin’s right eye go pale: a sure danger signal. The words stayed bottled in his throat. He made sheepish apologies to Drago, who frowned but, under Gerin’s implacable gaze, nodded and clasped his hand.

  As calm descended, the baron took a long pull at his own ale. It was late. He was tired, but he was not eager for bed. His chamber was on the second floor, and the roof leaked.

  Siglorel Shelofas’ son, when sober the best Elabonian wizard north of the High Kirs, had set a five-year calking spell on it only the summer before, but the old sot must have had a bad day. Water trickled through the roofing and collected in cold puddles on the upper story’s floor. Spread rushes did little to soak it up.

  Gerin plucked at his neat black beard. He wished for carpets like those he had known in his younger days south of the mountains. Study was all he’d lived for then, and the barony the furthest thing from his mind. He remembered the fiasco that had resulted when exasperation drove him to try the book of spells he’d brought north from the capital.

  History and natural lore had always interested him more than magecraft. His studies at the Sorcerers’ Collegium began late and, worse, were cut short after fewer than a hundred days: a Trokmê ambush took both his father and elder brother, leaving him the unexpected master of Fox Keep.

  In the eight years since, he’d had little cause to try wizardry. His skill was not large. Nor did age improve it: his incantation raised nothing but a cloud of stinking black smoke and his vassals’ hackles. On the whole, he counted himself lucky. Amateur wizards who played with forces stronger than they could control often met unpleasant ends.

  A snatch of drunken song made him look up. Duin and Drago sat with their arms round each other’s shoulders, boasting of the havoc they would wreak among the Trokmoi when the cursed weather finally cleared. The baron was relieved. They were two of his stoutest fighting men.

  He drained his mug and rose to receive the salutes of his vassals. Head buzzing slightly, he climbed the soot-grimed oak stairway to his bedchamber. His last waking thought was a prayer to Dyaus for fair weather so he could add another chapter to the vengeance he was taking on the barbarians.…

  A horn cried danger from the watchtower, tumbling him from his bed with the least ceremony imaginable. He cursed the bronzen clangor as he stumbled to a window. “If that overeager lackwit up there is tootling for his amusement, I’ll have his ears,” he muttered to himself. But the scar over his eyes throbbed and his fingers were nervous in his beard. If the Trokmoi had found a way to cross the Niffet in the rain, no telling how much damage they might do.

  The window was only a north-facing slit, intended more for shooting arrows than sight. The little Gerin saw was enough. Jabbing forks of lightning revealed hand after hand of Trokmoi, all searching for something to carry off or, failing that, to burn. The wind blew snatches of their lilting speech to his ears.

  “May the gods fry you, Aingus, you tricky bastard, and your pet wizard too,” Gerin growled. He wondered how the Trokmê chieftain had got so many men across the river so fast. Then he raised his eyes further and saw the bridge bulking impossibly huge over the Niffet.

  It had to be sorcerous: a silvery band of light leading from the northern woods into Gerin’s holding. It had not been there when the baron went to his rest. As he watched, Trokmê nobles poured over it in their chariots, retainers loping beside them. Once long ago, Gerin thought, he had read something of such spans. He could not recall where or when, but the half-memory sent a pang of fear icing up his spine.

  No time for such worries now. He hurled himself into trousers and hobnailed sandals, buckled on his sword, and rushed down dim-lit passageway and creaking stair to the great hall, where his vassals had hung their corselets when they arrived. That hall was a swearing jumble of men donning bronze-faced leather cuirasses and kilts, strapping on greaves, jamming pot-shaped helms onto their heads, and fouling each other as they waved spears in the air. Like Gerin, most had skin that took the sun well and dark hair and eyes, but a few freckled faces and light beards told of northern blood—Duin, for one, was fair as any Trokmê.

  “Ho, captain!” Van of the Strong Arm boomed. “Thought you’d never get here!”

  Even in the rowdy crew Gerin led, Van stood out. Taller than the Fox’s six feet by as many inches, he was broad enough not to look his height. A sword-cut creased his nose and disappeared into the sun-colored mat of beard covering most of his face. Little hellish lights flickered in his blue eyes.

  His gear was as remarkable as his person, for his back-and-breast was cast of two solid pieces of bronze. Not even the Emperor had a finer one. Unlike the businesslike helms
his comrades wore, Van’s was a fantastic affair with a scarlet horsehair plume nodding above his head and leather cheekpieces to protect his face. Looking more war-god than man, he shook a spear like a young tree.

  If his tale was true, he’d been trying to cross the Trokmê forests from north to south, and had all but done it till he fell foul of Aingus’ clan. But he’d escaped them too, and had enough left in his giant frame to swim the Niffet, towing his precious armor behind him on a makeshift raft.

  His strength, bluff good humor, and wide-ranging stories (told in the forest tongue until he learned Elabonian) had won him a home at Fox Keep for as long as he wanted to stay. But when Gerin asked him his homeland, he politely declined to answer. The Fox did not ask twice; if Van did not want to talk, it was his affair. That had been only two years ago, Gerin thought with a twinge of surprise. He had trouble remembering what life had been like without his burly friend at his side.

  The Fox’s own armor was of the plainest, leather much patched, plates battered and nicked. The leather was firm and supple, though, and every plate sound. To Gerin’s way of thinking, the figure he cut was less important than staying alive himself and putting a quick end to his foes.

  The warriors wallowed through thick mud to the stables. It squelched underfoot, trying to suck their sandals and boots into its cold, slimy mouth. The chaos was worse inside the stables, as boys tried to hitch unwilling horses to their masters’ chariots.

  Gerin strung his bow and stowed in on the right side of his car next to his quiver; on the left went an axe. Like many of the Fox’s vassals, Van affected to despise the bow as an unmanly weapon. He bore sword, dagger, and a wickedly spiked mace on his belt.

  His shield and the Fox’s, yard-wide discs of bronze-faced wood and leather, topped the car’s low sidewalls when put in their brackets. Gerin’s was deliberately dull, Van’s burnished bright. Despite their contrasting styles, the two formed one of the most feared teams on the border.

  Gerin’s driver, a gangling youth named Raffo, leaped into the chariot. A six-foot shield of heavy leather was slung on a baldric over his left shoulder. It gave Gerin cover from which to shoot. Taking up the reins, Raffo skillfully picked his way through the confusion.

  After what seemed far too much time to the Fox, his men gathered in loose formation just behind the gatehouse. Shrieks from beyond the keep told plain as need be that the Trokmoi were plundering his serfs. Archers on the palisade kept up a sputtering duel with the barbarians, targets limited to those the lightning showed.

  At Gerin’s shouted command, the gatehouse crew flung wide the strong-hinged gates and let the drawbridge thump down. The chariots lumbered into action, trailing mucky wakes. Van’s bellowed oaths cut off in midword when he saw the bridge. “By my beard,” he grunted, “where did it come from?”

  “Magicked up, without a doubt.” Gerin wished he were as calm as he sounded. No Trokmê hedge-wizard could have called that spell into being—nor could the elegant and talented mages of the Sorcerer’s Guild down in the capital.

  An arrow whizzing past his ear shattered his brief reverie. Trokmoi swarmed out of the peasant village to meet his men. They had no mind to let their looting be stopped. “Aingus!” they shouted, and “Balamung!”—a name the Fox did not know. The Elabonians roared back: “Gerin the Fox!” The two bands met in bloody collision.

  A northerner appeared at the left side of the Fox’s chariot, sword in hand. The rain plastered his long red hair and flowing mustaches against his head; he wore no helm. The reek of ale was thick about him.

  Reading his mind was easy. Van would have to twist his body to use his spear, Raffo had his hands full, and Gerin, who had just shot, could never get off another arrow before the Trokmê’s blade pierced him. Feeling like a gambler playing with loaded dice, the Fox snatched up his axe with his left hand. He drove it into the barbarian’s skull. The Trokmê toppled, a look of outraged surprise still on his face.

  Van exploded into laughter. “What a rare sneaky thing it must be to be left-handed,” he said.

  More barbarians were hustling stolen cattle, pigs, sheep, and serfs across the gleaming bridge to their homeland. The villeins had no chance against the northern wolves. Huddled in their huts against the storm and the wandering ghosts of the night, they were easy meat. A few had tried to fight. Their crumpled bodies lay beside their homes. Sickle, flail, and scythe were no match for the sword, spear, bow, and armor of the Trokmê nobles, though their retainers were often little better armed than the peasants.

  Gerin almost felt pity as he drove an arrow into one of those retainers and watched him thrash his life away. He knew the northerner would have had no second thoughts about gutting him.

  A few Trokmoi had managed to light torches despite the downpour. They smoked and sputtered in the woodsrunners’ hands. The rain, though, made the thatched roofs and wattle walls of the cottages all but impossible to light.

  With a wave and a shout, Gerin sent half his chariots after the pillagers. His own car was in the middle of the village when he shouted, “Pull up!”

  Raffo obediently slowed. Gerin slung his quiver over his shoulder. He and Van slid their shields onto their arms and leaped into the mire. Raffo wheeled the horses and made for the safety of Fox Keep’s walls. The chariot-riders not chasing looters followed the Fox to the ground. Panting footsoldiers rushed up to stiffen their line.

  A Trokmê sprang on the baron’s back before he could find his footing in the mud. His bow flew from his hand. The two struggling men fell together. The barbarian’s dagger sought Gerin’s heart, but was foiled by his cuirass. He jabbed an elbow into the Trokmê’s unarmored middle. The fellow grunted and loosened his grasp.

  Both men scrambled to their feet. Gerin was quicker. His foot lashed out in a roundhouse kick. The spiked sole of his sandal ripped away half the Trokmê’s face. With a dreadful wail, the marauder sprawled in the ooze, his features a gory mask.

  Duin the Bold thundered by on a horse. Though his legs were clenched round its barrel, he still wobbled on the beast’s bare back. Since a rider did not have both hands free to use a bow and could not deliver any sort of spearthrust without going over his horse’s tail, Gerin thought fighting from horseback a foolish notion.

  But his fierce little vassal clung to the idea with the tenacity of a bear-baiting dog. Duin cut down one startled Trokmê with his sword. When he slashed at another, the northerner ducked under his stroke and gave him a hefty push. He fell in the mud with a splash. The horse fled. The Trokmê was bending over his prostrate victim when an Elabonian with a mace stove in his skull from behind.

  Van was in his element. Never happier than when on the field, he howled a battle song in a language Gerin did not know. His spear drank the blood of one mustachioed barbarian. Panther-quick, he brought its bronze-shod butt back to smash the teeth of another raider who thought to take him from behind.

  A third Trokmê rushed at him with an axe. The barbarian’s wild swipe went wide, as did Van’s answering thrust. The impulse of the blows left them breast to breast. Van dropped his spear and seized the barbarian’s neck with his huge fist. He shook him once, as a dog does a rat. Bones snapped. The Trokmê went limp. Van flung him aside.

  Gerin did not share his comrade’s red joy in slaughter. The main satisfaction he took from killing was the knowledge that the shuddering corpse at his feet was one enemy who would never trouble him again. As far as he could, he stood aloof from his fellow barons’ internecine quarrels. He fought only when provoked, and was fell enough to be provoked but seldom.

  Toward the Trokmoi, though, he bore a cold, bitter hatred. At first, it had been fueled by the slaying of his father and brother, but now revenge was only a small part of it. The woodsrunners lived only to destroy. All too often, his border holding tasted of that destruction as it shielded the softer, more civilized southlands from the sudden bite of arrows and the baying of barbarians in the night.

  Almost without thinking, he ducked under a fl
ung stone. Another glanced from his helmet and filled his head with a brief shower of stars. A spear grazed his thigh; an arrow pierced his shield but was turned by his corselet.

  His archers shot back, filling the air with death. Spouting bodies disappeared in the mud, to be trampled by friend and foe alike. The Trokmoi swarmed round Gerin’s armored troopers like snarling wolves round bears, but little by little they were driven back from the village toward their bridge. Their chieftains fought back, making fierce charges across the Fox’s fertile wheatfields, crushing his men beneath the flailing hooves of their woods ponies, sending yard-long arrows through cuirasses into soft flesh, and lopping off arms and heads with their great slashing swords.

  At their fore was Aingus. He had led his clan for nearly as long as Gerin had been alive, but his splendid red mustachioes were unfrosted. Almost as tall as Van, if less wide through the shoulders, he was proud in gilded armor and wheel-crested bronze helm. Golden fylfots and the ears of men he had slain adorned his chariot. His right hand held a dripping sword, his left the head of an Elabonian who had tried to stand against him.

  His long, knobby-cheekboned face split in a grin when he spied Gerin. “It’s himself himself,” he roared, “come to be corbies’ meat like his father. Thinking to be a man before your ape of a friend, are you, laddie?” His Elabonian was fluent enough, though flavored by his own tongue.

  Van shouted back at him; Gerin, silent, set himself for the charge. Aingus swung up his sword. His driver, a gaunt, black-robed man the Fox did not know, whipped his beasts forward.

  On came the chariot, its horses’ hooves pounding like doom. Gerin was lifting his shield to beat back Aingus’ first mighty stroke when Van’s spear flashed over his shoulder and took one of the onrushing ponies full in the chest.

  With the awful scream only wounded horses make, the shaggy pony reared and then fell. It dragged its harness-mate down with it. The chariot overturned and shattered, sending one wheel flying and spilling both riders into the muck.