Zombie fallout 22, p.12
The Wolves and the Ice Lion, page 12
THE WOLVES AND THE ICE LION
ALMA T. C. BOYKIN
Copyright © 2023 by Alma T. C. Boykin
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CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Sources
Acknowledgments
About the Author
1
“All of us, Comtessa?" Arnauld had not allowed himself to hope for half a decade and more.
Comtessa Leonie d'Vosges, Seigneuresse d'Vosges, Margravin von Rhine, inclined her head and spread her arms, graceful and welcoming. "But of course. The land needs defenders, strong men to protect it." She gestured to herself with one delicate, brown-gloved hand. "I have reached the end of what can be done without strong arms and steel."
She spoke only the truth—even powerful magic had limits. Arnauld respected her honesty. Behind him, the rest of the Wolf's Paws muttered. He sensed their approval as well. He glanced to Gaston. The lean Aquitanian nodded and gestured "all agree."
Arnauld d’Loup bowed. "Then we accept your offer, Seigneuresse. We will stay and defend your lands, per the contract offered." Food, shelter, arms, a little coin, and permission to wed if any of the local women and their families agreed—it was far better than their last contracts.
"Good. A drink to seal the bargain." She snapped her fingers, and her servants began handing out cups of watered wine. That was, it had best be watered, so early in the day was it. Arnauld accepted a plain pottery cup. The seigneuresse drank from fine silver, silver probably mined on the d'Vosges lands. Once all the officers had cups, she raised hers. "To the Wolf's Paws."
"The Paws," the men chorused, then drank. They would give the men their pay-share later, after Arnauld and the other officers signed the contract. She'd sent a copy the month before, seeking them out just as they ended their time with the emperor's forces on the Burgundian border. The Duke of Burgundy was supposed to be a vassal of the emperor, but he sometimes forgot.
As they drank, Arnauld studied his new employer. The comtessa stood taller than he by a head or so, tall and shapely but not lean. She wore dark blue and brown, simple but fine stuffs with red and orange embroidery, and a widow's cap under her delicate linen veil. A silver and copper chain hung around her neck, the flat links supporting a dark red stone. The chain showed her to be a powerful magic worker, something that explained why she had been able to hold the lands after her husband's death. She lacked an heir, which explained why she had approached the Paws. Three maids and two old men acted as guards and escorts. The young men— They mined, farmed, or slept underground awaiting the Lord's return. War had taken too many, and Seigneuresse Leoni needed men, men who could fight. Arnauld let the taste of the wine roll over his tongue before he swallowed. Heavy but not too bitter. Unwatered it might be too much, as most reds from this part of the Frankish lands seemed to be.
Once they finished, and signed or marked the contract, the countess said, "Captain, I would that you and two of your lieutenants came with me to my workroom, to see the borders of the d'Vosges lands." She touched the pendant on her chain. "I lack the strength to show more than three."
He caught the meaning. "Certainly, Seigneuresse. Bjorn Najalson and Gaston de Akize." They could tell Karl von Saxe, Jean Niger, and the others. He turned to the other officers, "Unless you prefer someone else?"
Head-shakes answered. Karl frowned a little, but did not object. It likely had more to do with the open use of magic than not being included.
Arnauld turned his attention back to the countess. "Gaston, Bjorn, and me, Seigneuresse."
Fair, red-gold eyebrows rose, but she said nothing. Servants took the empty wine cups. Comtessa Leoni gestured, and the three followed her out of the great hall, down a long corridor, then up the steps of the south tower. The keep had been well maintained, and a few hangings draped the walls between arrow-slits and one glass window. The window faced the inner courtyard, of course. The steps turned opposite what he'd expected, and Arnauld almost tripped.
"Left-handed, Captain," Bjorn said. He smiled and mimicked drawing his sword. For once he had room to move.
Arnauld nodded, then climbed. The white-painted walls bore a few pictures of saints and hunting scenes. Two servants accompanied the countess, as did her senior maid. The countess unlocked a door and they entered. The servants bowed and returned to the flat area outside the chamber.
Four long tables stood along the walls at the four directions, between the arrow-slits, and a fifth table stood in the center of a circle marked on the floor. A book, containers of strange things, a piece of unicorn horn, and metal objects littered the tables. He noted a sword and dagger, both small enough for a boy or a woman. Arnauld glanced out the openings, as did his lieutenants. He pursed his lips. The trees came closer than he preferred. Perhaps there was a reason. He would have to see for himself.
"Here, Captain," the seigneuresse commanded. Arnauld turned and joined her and the others at the center table. A clear globe of glass, perhaps as large as his two hands held with the fingertips together, rested atop a carved wooden stand. He stared, eyes wide. Mist swirled inside the glass, grey and as thick as the fogs of sea. "You see it as it should be," she told them. She studied the sphere, then removed her gloves and held her bare hands on either side of the wooden stand, as if she cradled the glass without touching it.
The mist swirled, then took a different form and color. "You see as an eagle sees," the countess said. Bjorn and Gaston made the Cross. Arnauld leaned forward, watching as green and grey grew solid. He had never seen the land from above in such a way.
"The river border, on the southern edge." Rich green fields, river forest, and marshes spread east from the tall, forested ridge he'd crossed as they rode in from the Rhine. The river flowed from south to north in a series of curves and bends that extended as far as the eye could see. The image shifted and Arnauld nodded. One good road led west from the valley and across a low place in the ridge. He'd noted the watch post above the road. The ridge moved—no, the eagle moved to the west. He glanced down at the floor, reminding himself that image moved, not him.
Comtessa d'Vosges said, "Now you see the keep, west and north of the southern gate." Sturdy brown and reddish-tan stone sat on the flat shoulder of a different ridge. The land dropped quickly to the south and west, less steeply to the north. The eagle turned north, following a trail to pastures and meadow, then a stream that grew to a small river.
"This is the difficulty at present, Captain." He glanced to her, then back to the image as she explained. "The duke of Bar claims that his lands extend south of this river and mountain. The duke of Burgundy and the count of Upper Burgundy also claim lands west of the mountains. Were that not sufficient, the king in Paris too claims suzerainty over these lands, but the d'Vosges family has always looked to the emperor, since Karl the Great."
The three men nodded. "In the last division, these lands went to the empire, or so we were told, Seigneuresse." Gaston frowned as he studied the glass. "That has not changed?"
"Not in the time of my husband, his father, or his father, when the last heir of Charlemagne's blood sat on the throne of Rome." She lowered her hands and grey-white mist filled the glass sphere once more. "Given that the king in Paris also claims all of Burgundy and the southern lands held by the Moors—?" She turned one hand palm up, and half-smiled as she left the rest unspoken.
Arnauld inclined toward her. "Indeed, Seigneuresse." The mines of the Vosges produced silver, lead, and copper, all highly sought after. The lands also had good sheep, timber and charcoal, and a few other things.
She pulled her gloves back on. Bjorn nodded, as if he had expected the action. The soldiers followed her out of the work room. She closed the door. Arnauld sensed something run around the door, perhaps. They did not linger. The countess dismissed them once they returned to the main audience chamber and collected their men's pay.
Once out in the warm September sun, Arnauld turned to Bjorn. "What saw you?" he asked.
The big Northman bared tusk-like teeth in a smile behind his pale beard. "The gloves keep her power in, like the animal-callers in the north. It is a powerful magic, but one that can overwhelm body and soul." The smile faded. "At least it can for those who call down the great ice bears and northern wolves."
"Huh." Gaston blinked, then shrugged. "If we see ice bears, it's time to stop drinking."
"Aye that!" The broad smile returned, and a large, calloused hand slapped the Aquitanian on the shoulder. "Or throw the steersman out of the boat to the bears."
Arnauld smiled even as he shivered inside. He'd seen the hide of one of those bears. He did not want to fight anyone who took that power for his own in battle. Bjorn was deadly enough when he went bear-mad. And that had nothing to do with finding quarters for the rest of the Wolf's Paws and paying them before they decided to pay themselves with someone else's wine or ale.
As the weeks passed, Arnauld and the other officers slowly spread their men out from the keep. The farmers, miners, hunters, and others acted wary, as they should. A free company, even hired by the seigneuresse, was a threat to respectable men and women. Several of the shepherds had made the Cross at Arnauld when h
is back was turned, or so Gaston told him later. Did they sense something? Some horses seemed to, as did most dogs. "Holy lord, forgive me, but I hope my sire is burning in the deepest pit of the lake of fire," Arnauld murmured to himself as he cleaned his sword and checked the edges.
THUNK. A wooden practice blade hit his shield. Arnauld shifted with the blow, drove the shield forward to knock Phillip's sword arm out of his way, and stabbed upward. Phillip moved too fast and dodged before Arnauld's sword could slice up and catch him under the arm. The two parted, breathing hard and watching for the next attack.
"Yarrrrrrgh!" Bjorn jumped into the fight. Arnauld and Phillip moved as one, shifting to take on the new attacker. Bjorn, teeth bared, swung hard at Arnauld. The older man caught the blow on his shield's edge, moving as he did. The blunted ax slid off the shield and Arnauld went low and to the right, past the Northman. He tried to cut the bigger man's leg, but Bjorn pivoted and went after Phillip. The horseman managed to dodge. Bjorn overbalanced. Arnauld twisted and stabbed, catching Bjorn in the back.
"Out!" the men watching the bout called.
Bjorn made a rude gesture at them, then left the ring. Arnauld managed to walk a few steps, but his left leg didn't want to unbend. He forced himself to move. The pain grew neither worse nor better, at least. Phillip too left the ring. "The years wear," he admitted very quietly to the captain.
"Ja. But better this than dead." Few men in their forties could fight on foot with the younger men. He'd traded some dexterity for deceit and experience. Even so, the years wore more and more. Not that he dared show that to the other Wolf's Paws. He stretched, slowly, twisted, then set aside the practice weapons and drank some warm water. It came from one of the boiling springs, then cooled. It tasted a little like iron, but didn't make a man gut-sick like cold water did.
Thunk-thud. One of the youngest of the Paws sat firmly on the dirt. He let go of sword and shield and held his head. "Which is why you don't watch other men until your own opponent is down and past," Karl reminded him.
Arnauld moved among the men, watching and making occasional comments. He was the only man of the Paws not to have a separate skill. Karl's arrows never missed. Phillip could ride anything with hair, and could calm multiple horses at once. Many spells slid off of Gaston, and he had little fear of fire. Others could fight longer than most warriors, or used slings with deadly skill, or never missed a sword blow or spear throw. Arnauld was not so blessed. His curse would overwhelm most of the men despite their gifts, if he ever gave in to it. That he would not do. Experience was his talent.
Two days later, he finished saddling Gepard. He'd called Bjorn, Gaston, and a few others to ride with him. They'd not studied the road north from the keep as they should have, and he needed to fix that. Wood cutters had begun to remove some of the trees closest to the keep, with the countess' blessing. That gave the archers and others a clear view of the steep, rugged flank of the ridge. Arnauld did not like that the keep sat below the crest of the ridge, but the cliff on the other side from the keep should protect them from attack from the east. Perhaps.
Gepard snorted and thumped one heavy hoof down onto the dirt. The grey and brown gelding was larger than most horses, and as ugly as anything Arnauld had seen with four feet. None of the nobles or others had wanted the gelding. The horse tolerated his rider, and had a few surprises of his own. Arnauld mounted. The gelding twitched but didn't fuss more than usual.
"We're all here, Captain," Gaston called.
"And I am coming with you." Arnauld turned in the saddle to see the seigneuresse, She wore a sturdy, plain gown and cloak, and sat astride a well-bred, light brown gelding. She wore trews under her gown, and boots.
He blinked but said nothing as the countess rode up beside him. "I know my lands," she informed the soldiers. Her maid, riding a smaller gelding, frowned but stayed quiet.
"Indeed, Seigneuresse. I had thought to go north, past the end of the ridge, to the contested stream, then west to the old border fort's remains." He sensed Bjorn shifting, and shot him a look. The tall northerner subsided without a word. They'd settle it later—that was the way of the Paws.
"Good. There are three places you need to be wary of. Two can be avoided easily. The third—," she hesitated, frowning a touch. "Is harder to pass around, as you will see."
He raised his eyebrows. "Ah. Shall I lead, my lady? For now."
"Yes. The trail will widen after a mile, once we leave the edge of the ridge."
Arnauld nudged Gepard with his knees, and the sturdy gelding plodded forward. The blocky head rose as the warhorse sniffed the wind, nostrils flaring, then lowered once more. Arnauld gave the horse more rein. The head shook and made the tack jingle. "Quit." He slapped the heavy neck. A snort, then Gepard settled and thudded into his usual walk. Chuckles from behind him made Arnauld shake his own head a touch. The others found the gelding's habits amusing. Their captain's apparently poor eye for horseflesh was an old joke among the Wolf's Paws. Arnauld turned his attention to the land around them. They moved slowly as they studied the terrain and its hazards.
The forest only seemed to stretch to the end of the world. To the east, it spilled down the mountain slope and disappeared on the edge of the Rhine Valley, consumed by farms and flood meadows. The mountains sheltered the trees and provided fuel and building timber as well as craft timbers and other wood. Oaks, ash, ironwood, beeches, chestnuts wild and otherwise, all vied for control. A few pines stood sentinel on the highest ridges in the Vosges, more on the east side of the Rhine. The fall wind blew among the branches, fluttering the leaves and sighing past on its way east. Deer had browsed here, and boar as well as farm pigs grazed on the beech mast and acorns. Wolves likely prowled, and perhaps the shy wild cats. Someone had cut the brush back away from the trail, but not so far as to leave the riders exposed. He could see into the woods. Arnauld nodded to himself.
As the lady had said, the trail turned away from the height toward the end of the ridge. Ahead, the trail along the ridge faded into a footpath that led to a small, blocky stump of stone tower, half-hidden in the trees. That would be the strong point guarding the stream cut, or should be. The riding trail eased down toward the valley. Soon, two horses could easily fit abreast on the soft dirt of the track. The countess nudged her gelding forward and joined him, riding at his left hand. "There are other ways to the castle, but this is the best known from the north. It is not suited to wagons, as you will see."
"Ah." Indeed, the path steepened, and grew stony. He let Gepard slow and pick his way. Seigneuresse Leoni's horse snorted but showed no other signs of trouble. "Can one leave the trail, Seigneuresse?"
"Oh yes." She bared her teeth and pointed with her left hand. "You will then drop at least twenty feet into a narrow stream edged in stone. I do not recommend it. To the east, you will find a cliff that is more crumbly than it first seems."
He nodded, smiling a little. "Thank you. That is good to know." He had not planned on riding into the woods, but others might be so inclined, or directed. A good place for an ambush, in other words. He noted the location and tucked it away for the future.
"Stop here," the countess ordered a quarter mile farther on. He reined Gepard to a halt. "Look to the west, up the slope across the valley. What do you see?"
He stared through the trees. "A clearing, flat? With pale stones?" They seemed fog-blurred. He made the Cross.
"A wise precaution, Captain. The White Ladies disport themselves there on nights without moon. A few have seen them in moonlight, but they are weaker for the competition then."
Behind them Gaston made a puzzled sound, then asked, "Seigneuresse, the White Ladies truly dwell here?"
"Not dwell, no, at least not that I can be sure. They dance there, and lure men and some women. Any man who cannot match their tastes in manners and courtly dance suffers a cruel end. Even a Byzantine courtier would find himself exhausted early in the game, and meet an unhappy fate. Avoid the place. No magic can cleanse it. The first priests to serve here banished the White Ladies, but they eventually returned." She shrugged, left hand turned palm up. "Some things are greater than we are, for now."
