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He lunged forward and
On the shore of Rikin Fjord the good, strong folk of Rikin Tribe wait to greet him. Here are Eika warriors grown too slow to sail the seas and fight in foreign lands but strong enough, still, to build and labor and fight in defense of their home. Here are the home troops, doing their duty to protect the fjord until they are given a chance to sail. Here are Deacon Ursuline’s flock looking healthy and eager, crowding forward as they would never have done in the days when they were kept penned and mute.
“What have you brought us, Mother?” they call when they see the deacon.
“What gifts will enrich us, Deacon?” they ask her. “You must see what we have built in your absence!”
“Ask your lord what he has brought with him to enrich the tribe,” she tells them, and they see him and fall silent, heads bowed respectfully. They fear him, too, but fear is no longer the only spear that drives them.
“The riches of Alba belong to us,” he tells them. “Silver brooches and spoons. Tin. Iron ingots. Shields. Swords. Glass beakers and jars and drinking horns. Wool cloth. Ivory arm rings. Amber and crystal beads. And more besides. Let the cargo be brought ashore and into the hall.”
He looks out onto the waters, but the surface lies still. The fight that exploded so suddenly has vanished into the depths and he still cannot explain it. Truth to tell, he hesitates before he disembarks, recalling that moment when he saw Nokvi in the flat face of the merman who attacked him. Nokvi is dead, devoured by his allies—some of whom are not, after all, his allies any longer. Or perhaps some of the merfolk were never his allies at all.
He comes ashore. First Son bears his standard behind him. His counselors move in a group, whispering among themselves.
The SwiftDaughters stand in their ranks by OldMother’s hall. They wait, so beautiful in their sharp metallic hues: copper, silver, gold, iron. Snow lines the valley, a white tracery among the fields and rocks. Small ones race down from the main hall, shouting and laughing, and they tumble into place before him, some of them on two legs and some on four, nipping and snapping and pinching and shoving. They are born with the instinct to struggle and compete. Yet he notices that there are fewer four legs and more two legs than is usual among the litters.
Sensing his interest, they fall together into their packs and become silent. Watching him.
They are half his size but growing fast. In another year they will be full grown and in a year or two after that they will be what humankind would call adults: as smart and fast and strong as they will ever be, the new generation of Eika warriors. He has himself, after all, only lived through ten or twelve winters since he hatched from the nests. Their life is short, but after all, a short life is all most creatures on Earth can expect.
“Answer me,” he says to them sharply. “Brute strength and bright baubles will not give you victory.”
At first they answer with silence. The old, fading warriors and younger home troops and the human tribe look on. This is the first time the sire has met the hatchlings.
One among them speaks up boldly. “Then what?”
“Who are you?” he asks.
“I am First Son of the Third Litter.”
He nods.
“First,” he says, “observe. After this, learn. And when this is done, think. These are the three legs on which we stand.”
“We only have two legs,” says First Son of the Third Litter. A different small one snickers.
“What is your name?” he asks the snickerer.
The small one flinches Never a good sign. But after all, not all these will survive, nor should they. Some will never grow beyond a reliance on brute strength and swift running. It is those who observe, learn, and think who will thrive. Who will rule.
“Third Son of the Sixth Litter,” says the snickerer. “There are four legs also. Three is between two and four, but there is no creature with three legs.”
“Is there not?” He frowns at the hatchlings, yet after all they are a handsome looking group, not the biggest he has ever seen, but he does not have girth and breadth to give them. He has given them something more valuable. “The third leg is your brother. Two legs only, if you stand by yourself. But if you stand with others, then you cannot easily be knocked down.”
caught the corner of a linen band as the tiny body struck the floor. Cloth pooled around it in loops and heaps. He swooped down and grasped at it with a gasp of dismay.
It gurgled. Its lips smacked and pumped. It squawked out a feeble wail, then hiccuped.
Would it name itself? First Son? Fourth Child? Nay, it was a helpless human infant, doomed to many years of childhood, not ready to run and fight within a pair or three years after its birth. It was so tiny and feeble! No wonder the Eika thought that humankind were soft.
The nurse ripped the baby out of Alain’s hands, pulled down the front of her bodice, and put the baby to her breast. It rooted for a moment, then got hold and sucked.
Such an uproar ensued that he had to grab the collars of the hounds and hold them to stop them from biting as folk swarmed, yelled, cried, gesticulated. The crowd surged in and out, right and left, until Sabella’s ringing voice brought order and soldiers herded companions, attendants, and courtiers out.
“This way,” said Captain Lukas, appearing at his side as if he had never left. “Come now, I pray you.” He said the words urgently. His frown had a storm cloud’s menace. Alain went along because it was easier to and because the sight of that infant’s face troubled him. So quiescent. It had seemed to hit the ground so hard, but that was God’s mercy, surely: some substance had clogged its breathing and the shock had jarred it loose. Newborns were such fragile creatures. Weiwara’s twins—how could he forget them? The smaller one had been born, likewise, too weak to draw breath on its own. What had happened to that baby? Had it survived the great weaving or been consumed by the tempest? Had Adica known the spell would doom those she loved? Had she gone forward despite that knowledge?
He would never know.
