SW Fanfic: Illugi's Saga part 1
Jul. 9th, 2006 09:00 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
valarltdThis is from Sanctuary Moon 2, which has timed out. It's slash, sorta, but in a PG fairy-tale way.
Illugi's Saga
by Angel
"Grandfather? What lies beyond the ocean where the sun sets?"
The old man looked at his grandson sitting on the glacial rock, staring over the edge of the fjord. The waning day caught the boy's hair, turning it dark gold. His eyes were the color of the sea, blue, or grey and thunderous, depending upon his mood. A fey delicacy even at fourteen boded ill if he could not translate it into a gift for opening the word-hoarde and bringing forth sagas or making magic.
Already Owan Jenson heard the words argr and seitheskratti whispered behind the boy's name. While argr, being desirous of men, was permissible for old men, it was a deadly nithe, the worst possible insult, for a youth who should be planning for his bride. The others said he did not seek out chances to spy on the maids of the village with other boys his age, preferring his own company too much.
"I hear that beyond the swan-road are many lands, rich and fair. Normandy, the Danelaw of the Saxons, the Hebredies and Orkneys, Eire, Greenland, Iceland, and farthest of all, Vinland where the grapes grow as big as a man's thumb."
"Have you seen them, Grandfather? All of them?"
"Some of them. When I was young and foolish, I went a-viking. In the east, I saw the Rus and Miklagard at the center of the world. I saw the lands where men grow darker than the bark of Odin's sacred Oak. I've sailed the warm seas of the Greeks, and heard the many languages of other peoples. The lands are kinder there, but the people are colder."
"Tell me a story, Grandfather." The boy's eyes were as deep as the fjord beneath them, as bottomless as the sky above.
"Not now." Owan's refusal was a seldom thing. He had taught the boy all the sagas he knew, all the legends, and would tell any if asked. "Your uncle will be wanting his meal, and it's a beating if you are late with the cows. Make your duty to your parents and then we return."
The youngster placed the items he had brought within the boat-shaped outline of the grave and covered them with stones. "For you, Father, because you liked them." He stacked stones over a little wooden bowl of small, orange cloudberries gathered from the high hills. "Mother, another key for your chatelaine." He stacked the stones over the key he'd carved. "Baby, I made this for you." A little toy cow he had carved for the sister he had never seen was the last to go under the stones.
The sea had taken Ani in Illugi's third summer, and childbed the following winter had claimed his wife, Dalla, and her unnamed daughter. Illugi patted the last stone into place over the grave offerings, stood and bowed. "Don't tell Uncle Lars."
"Illugi, your uncle may no longer honor the old ways, but your father did. That is reason enough to continue them when honoring his memory. And who is head of the household?"
"You are, Grandfather."
"Then back to the house now."
They went down the hill gathering their cows as they went.
***
"Illugi, after the meal, I need your help warping my loom." Bera cleared away the remains of their
meal and gestured to the corner where the firelight fell the best.
"Bera, he's getting too old for that. Just because we can't afford a weaving house doesn't mean he
needs to help you."
"I don't mind. While I work, can I have a saga, grandfather?" asked Illugi. He started to his aunt's weaving corner without waiting for an answer. His first job was to tie the bundled warp threads through the holes in the fist-sized rocks.
"And don't you be filling the boy's head with that heathen claptrap, old man," Lars grumbled from
where he was carving a new plow handle. His father never missed a chance to make the boy more
into Ani's son. He'd inherited Illugi with the freehold when Ani died, and by rights the boy was
his, an heir to replace the son Bera had never borne him. He could not afford a thrall-woman to
bear him sons. Ani's hold had not been a wealthy one. "Better to teach him about the turning of
seasons and how to read the planting signs."
"Lars Owanson, you are a guest under my roof as Illugi is. While he is my kin, he will learn the
sagas. Men die, cattle die and only the sagas live on."
"Crazy old wizard." Lars returned to his carving. His father still believed in the old faith, Odin
and Freyja and Thor, and the friction of Lars and Bera converting to the new belief of the
Christian priests had not yet settled. His brother had died, and he felt responsible for his nephew. Times were changing and it was hard to raise the boy right. Sometimes it felt as if Bera and Owan were in league to turn Illugi into one of the argr priests of Freyr who danced with bells and dressed as women.
Owan took a seat near the great loom, and watched as Illugi climbed up the rafters and caught the
warp weights as Bera tossed them to him. He looped them over the rafter and let the bored stones dangle to the floor on the other side. Satisfied the boy would neither fall nor be hit by his aunt's rather erratic aim with the rocks, Owan took up his own carving knife and began on a small piece of wood.
"Far over the sea, in the great city of Copenhagen, there lay a most odd ship at berth. She was
small and trim, shaped like an elm leaf, her sail tall and proud. It was a triangle, instead of the
great striped square sail common to those northern waters. It swung round the mast on a boom,
unlike anything that had been seen. Some said she was so different, she must have been made by
Njord himself. Others, more superstitious, called her Naglfar, which Loki himself will sail on the
day of Ragnarok. She had no oar ports, for she was not large enough for them. Her steersman
was a gigantic Moor, a head taller than every other man in the port."
"That's no Saga," said Bera, heaving the last weight up to the boy. She listened to her husband's
father with half an ear. Her own father had been a skald and she knew the stories by heart.
"It is. It is Illugi Anason's Saga," Owan corrected her.
Illugi climbed down from he rafters, and took up the arrows he was fletching for his friend, Olaf
Thorvaldson, in exchange for a coracle. Bera turned away and began sorting her shuttles.
Owan continued. "Her captain was a Dane, as would be expected, tall and dark haired...."
"Are there no wizards in this city?" complained the newcomer to the brewster. By his sound, he
was a Dane, but one that had traveled much, and spoke several languages. He wore a leather
jerkin over his tunics, in the style of the Italians, to provide both warmth and some small
protection against a footpad's blade. A sword of good Spanish steel hung at his hip. The price of that sword would buy the tavern and half the town. A bearskin cloak and its blue jeweled brooch, twisted into a knotted wolf by the wild Celts, would purchase the other half.
"Oh, we've wizards aplenty, but none mad enough to sail. Not when they can turn a living at alchemy and pennyroyal." The woman's contempt for such trade was clear as she gathered the empty mugs. She had taken stock of the wealth the sailor wore, and raised her prices for him accordingly. He was paying twice what the young sea-wolf beside him was, and never noticing the difference.
"And you've whores enough to support them in that." He tipped a wink at her over his beer. "Plentiful and prettier than most I've seen." Returning to his original line of questioning, he explained, "My steersman refuses to sail without a wizard for wind and weather. I tell him we could do as well ourselves by watching the sky, but he says no. I've a cargo of amber for Naples, and don't want to miss the tide."
"Are you captain or no?" asked the slim youth beside him at the bar.
The Dane looked at him. Barely a man, his blond hair tied back in the fashion of the Norse sea-wolves, his clothing was all wool, recently made, by a skilled and loving hand.
"I am captain."
"When my grandfather's men refused to sail around the Skagarak in a winter storm, he made the mutinous ones draw lots. The loser was thrown overboard. Then he asked if they would sail. Some still said nay. He passed the lot-cup again, and threw another overboard. Four men walked Njord's Road that day before the rest sailed the Skagarak."
"Young for a lore master, aren't you?"
"Old enough to be on my own." The youth almost bristled and the Dane could not resist testing
his bravado.
"But not too old for your mama to sew runes into your clothes." The Dane fingered the intertwined
beasts that bordered the young man's sleeves. "Please return this little boy to--" he began as if reading the letters that formed protection and safety for the wearer.
"Better than yours." He shrugged dismissively at the plain scarlet and blue braid at the neck and
hems of the Dane's woolen overtunic. “No wife, no bondmaid. You purchase some woman’s loom-leavings in the market, doubtless paying too much to wear trim she would not use to decorate her family. At least my mother loved me enough to stitch the end of her magic into my safety."
"Boy--"
"I am no man's boy. I am Illugi Anason, skald and windmaster," the youth snarled, jerking his wrist away from the Dane. He dug briefly in the sack beside him and pulled out a knotted rope. "This is a Wind Cord. I unloose a knot, with proper spells, and the Wind comes. I know the sagas and can read the weather. I can track a bear in the forest and a goat over the mountains. I shoot straight, and my arrows hit their mark.
“My father was Ani Owanson, Captain of the Varangians." The Dane took note of the sword slung
across his back, on a brass and amber-studded baldric recently adjusted to the boy's slight form. "Owan Jenson, my grandfather, reaved a path of destruction from Novgorad to Miklagard, feared by Mongol and Greek, Turk and Christian alike. To Odin and Bragi I do service, and Njord and Aegir do not harm me. I am bound for Miklagard to join the Varangian Guard like my father. When do we sail?"
The Dane threw back his head and laughed at the bold declaration from the stripling. "If you sail half as well as you boast, we'll find a use for you. Come. Ubadah wishes to leave with the tide. We go as far as Naples, you can get a ship to Constantinople from there. It will take a while. This is a trading voyage, and we put in every night. I am Han Hansen, called the Lone One. My ship is the Valr."
Illugi stared hard at the Dane. This was the one he had waited for in this tavern, smelling the sea and chafing to travel. The one the All-father had sent him dreams of. The one with the ship named to match his sword. "I carry the Valrbladir, the Falconblade. It was my father's. It flies swift and sure as the falcon for the enemy's eyes. We were fated to this meeting."
The Lone One studied his passenger. Bad enough he was taking on a wizard, but one fated to meet
him made him ill at ease. He covered it by finishing his beer, and jerking his head to the door. "Come if you are coming then, boy."
The two men left the tavern for the docks. The great Moor sat in the stern of the Valr. He sang out in his own language when he spotted the Dane.
"Yes, I have our wizard. Are you ready? We can just catch the tide if we have a fair wind in the channel. Boy, haul out that wind cord and whistle us up a breeze."
Ubadah took the tiller and complained in the liquid vowels of his homeland.
Han grinned at the youth. "He says that 'boy' is hardly a respectful term for a wizard. I say you earn my respect." He busied himself with the sail as Illugi brought forth the Wind Cord and sang over it in the old language.
Illugi untied one small knot, and the odd sail filled with the breeze. Han felt his stomach leap, as it always did when the sail filled and the ship started moving. He stole a glance where the boy stood in the stern with his arms raised, still singing. The wind grew stronger, until the Valr was sailing at a fair clip, outdistancing the ships around her.
Ubadah held the tiller fast, setting a straight course for the sea, and Han, pressed by the strength of the wind, managed the sail alone as the odd rigging was designed to allow. Once they cleared the last point, Illugi saw they had indeed made the tide, and dropped his arms. Coaxing now, instead of commanding, he added a few more verses to the song, and tucked the Wind Cord back into his pouch.
The sail bellied full, but the wind was not so strong. It aided them, but did not drive them before it as it had in the channel. Illugi moved forward to help Han tie off the sail.
"I've never had a ship take the wind like this one," he commented, his eyes glowing from the magic. "If I made it any stronger, she would fly. Well named, Captain."
"And well-met to you, Illugi Anason, windmaster."
Ubadah added his agreement.
The days passed, weeks flowing into one another, as the Valr trod the waves. The coastline flowed past: Flanders, Normandy. One beach was like another, and they slept under the stars in the fair spring weather.
In each port, Illugi sought out storytellers, jonguleurs, and bards. He listened, and learned, and before they had reached Cherbourg, he was earning a fair coin himself, telling tales.
Most days he stuck to the market places, a small woolen cap upturned at his feet, telling to any who
would stop to listen. Children always flocked to hear the tales, drawing their parents to hear of the
battles of the gods and giants.
But this night, in Bordeaux, he had decided to continue his day well into the evening, seeking out a
tavern well away from the docks, one that catered to a crowd with more money than the sailors. Han had taken a back table, out of the way, and watched as Illugi, hair gleaming like molten gold in the rushlights, held the merchants and travelers spell-bound with the tale of Thor's hammer, lost and found. They laughed at the rage of the Thunderer, at the ruse of Loki: substituting the mighty Thor for the lovely Freyja, and at the smooth lies of the Trickster.
Han wasn't paying attention to the tale, but to the teller. Illugi was a gifted performer and brought new life to tale Han had heard since childhood. Versatile, and useful as well. He'd already saved them two days when a storm blew up, making wind to let them run ahead of the storm, rather that put into port and wait it out. Han hadn't regretted taking him on. For all that he still looked like a stripling, he was a man, and did a man's work aboard ship.
Encouraged by the crowd, Illugi started another tale, and another. At last, a local jongleur edged him aside and began a song. Illugi made his way back to the table, carrying his hat, full of silver pennies and parts of pennies.
"A good day," Han said over the edge of his beer. "You must have at least a pound there. What are your plans for it?"
"It may come in useful," Illugi answered. He wasn't sure why he was collecting the money, except as a hedge against the future. Should the Varangian Guard refuse him, he would need a way to live.
More shores, and the dark bulk of the Pyrenees loomed as they reached Spain. Illugi watched as the light cargo changed from the Belgian lace and Flemish wool to Spanish wine and on to herring and rare saffron spice as they sailed around Al-Andalus.
At last they reached the Mediterranean, the sea at the middle of the world. Illugi gawked at the Pillar of Hercules that marked the entrance of the sea, and Han could almost see him storing up the image for a tale. Illugi watched the enormous rock until it disappeared in the distance.
The water at the center of the world was warm, and the sunshine oppressively hot. Illugi bronzed quickly, his hair becoming even fairer with the sun as they hugged the coast of France.
Illugi sang softly as he sat in the prow cleaning his father's sword and looking over the gentle billows. His blond hair streamed back in the breeze of the ship's passage. Once satisfied with the blade, he took a few practice cuts and sheathed it again in the shoulder scabbard.
He walked to the stern of the ship, nodding to Ubadah at the tiller, and raised his arms, singing up more wind. Han snorted, and kept his eyes on the lines he was repairing. He didn't believe in such superstition, but he did admit the wind picked up as the youth sang.
He looked back to the stern, where the wind that filled the sails was playing in Illugi's hair. The boy's eyes caught the color of the sea, and seemed deep enough to drown in, especially at times when he was making magic.
He caught himself staring again and returned to repairing the lines. What was he thinking? He was no youth, to get swept up by blue eyes and golden hair. Nor was he of the Greek tastes to want a boy. He liked women. Women liked him. The brazen called to him as he strode through their city. The respectable gave him veiled glances from the corners of their eyes. But in his memory, all the eyes were blue as the sea, and as deep.
In the last port, Marseilles, he'd seen Illugi garner some of those looks. After he'd finished his last story, a whore with hair like flame, and eyes like a hungry cat, had pressed herself boldly against him and kissed him before suggesting he share the coins that filled his hat with her. He'd refused and Han had been oddly relieved.
He stole another look at the youth, who had returned to sitting in the prow, the wind in his hair. Illugi arched into the wind, letting it stream over his face and throat, blowing his long hair back like a gold banner. For an instant, Han saw him as a male lorelei, the water spirits of the Rhine that enticed sailors to their doom. Then it was just Illugi, climbing down from the prow to help him sail into the cove.
They beached on the north of Sicily, and would sail for Naples the next day. Illugi sat near the fire, turning the fish he had caught earlier.
"I need a new name."
"What?" Han just stared. This was very sudden. One simply did not change names casually. A nickname might be acquired, but one's given name was more than just a sound, it was a measure of identity.
"Names are very important. They are a design of who we are. At home, Illugi is a name that makes people worry." He shot a sunny grin at his companion. "It means horrible temper."
Han laughed. His passenger was one of the best-tempered people he'd ever encountered. Funny, cheerfully impetuous, sweet... he put a stop to that line of thought.
"How'd you get saddled with that one, kid?"
"I was a very fussy baby. All the magic, you see. It was all pent up and couldn't be released until I'd learned to control it. Mother could never calm me, only Grandfather. So one day in a fit of her own temper, Mother named me Illugi."
Han laughed some more, and Illugi laughed with him.
"In these south lands, only women and children have names that sound so soft. I want something befitting a warrior. Something a man would wear, that says I am no longer a child. Manly, but much the same so I do not lose myself."
Han thought. "How's the fish coming?" he asked by way of stalling.
"A while yet."
"The Franks use Louis. That's similar."
"Still too soft. Loo-ee."
"How about the Celts. They use Lugh."
"Loo-guh. No, I want a solid ending."
"The Greeks have Luke. Is that solid enough?"
"Luke." He tasted the name, liking the way it flowed over his tongue, the sharp stop at the end. "What does it mean, do you know?"
"Wolf, I think. It might mean light. I'm not really sure."
"A good name. I am Luke." He took the fish from the fire, and they ate as the sun set.
Luke lay under the blanket for a long time, looking up at the stars. They were brighter, bigger here in the soft lands. He liked his new name. And more, he liked the fact Han had helped him find it.
The Dane lay sleeping a few spans away, on the other side of the fire, his back to Luke. One tanned shoulder gleamed in the bright moonlight and Luke wondered how the skin would taste. Would it be salty from the sea, or warm or sweet? He shook himself. The magic was dangerous enough, but to become seitheskratti, a practitioner of women's magic, in addition would be beyond shameful. His family would deny his birth. His friends would set up a shame-pole proclaiming he was a disgrace.
But the sagas had it that even Odin himself had been seitheskratti in the Morning of Time. He wondered. Han had traveled much. Maybe he knew of places and ways where men could love in a fashion that was not like that of a man with a woman.
Resolutely, he rolled away to sleep, to stop the thoughts that consumed him. Sleep did not come as easily as the image of tanned hands on his chest or the feel of warm lips on his throat. He turned onto his stomach, only to squirm in discomfort and roll onto his back, adjusting his loinwrap until it no longer chafed. The warmth of his hand was a temptation, and he stroked himself gently. The sand shifted under him and he glanced over at Han. The Dane stirred in his sleep and rolled over, his face to Illugi.
Illugi looked away quickly and stared at a rock, both hands wrapped around his chest. A rock would not wrap him in those strong arms, help him stop tossing. A rock would not take the kisses he wanted to give and return them with lips warm from the sun and tasting of salt. He stared at the rock until sleep came.
In Naples, they laid in a cargo of glass and wine bound for Constantinople. Luke was pleased that the Valr, which had borne him so faithfully would see him to the end of his journey. Han, seeing the relieved look on his face, knew that the hours spent haunting the taverns and guild houses for a cargo with that destination had not been wasted.
The sun burned high as they approached the great city at the center of the world: Miklagard. Called Constantinople by the Christians and Istanbul by the Turks, it was a riot of domes and towers.
Luke looked long at the vista while they made for the harbor, burning inside as hot as the sun. Not thinking about Han had only made things worse. He was glad the trip was at an end. Now, he could go be a Varangian, gain money and honor and maybe a wife, and forget the moonlight on the lean form and sharp smile of the Dane. He stole what parting glances he could, storing images of Han's arms on the ropes, of his smile, of his easy movement. They would serve on the empty nights. When they clasped arms and Illugi made his farewells to the Dane and the Moor, he strode from the ship without a backward glance.
Illugi strode into the guard room of the Varangians. "I seek your captain!" he announced. "I have come to be tested and tried and join the ranks of the Guard."
The men looked up from their meat and games of chance. He noticed their uniforms were in sorry state, much mended, and their hair and beards were disreputably tangled. The weaponry looked solid enough. Obviously their captain had a slack hand.
The eldest of the Varangians stood up. He towered almost a foot above Illugi. Though his beard was shot with snow, his arms were no less powerful than in his youth. "Who are you boy?"
"I am Illugi Anason, called Luke. My father, Ani Owanson, was captain once."
"Oh, aye. Ani was a good man. I served under him." The Captain measured Illugi by the legend that was his father and found him wanting. "But you are nothing. A boy with fine words and a found sword claiming a name you've yet to prove."
Illugi drew his sword. "The Vlarbladir. Sword of Ani Owanson." As the Varangians gathered to read the runes on the hilt, he continued, "You, Snurri Sigurdson called Stripe-beard, delivered this to my grandfather, Owan Jenson, when I was a child. I remember you for being the tallest man I'd ever seen. You drank too much of Mother's good mead, and sang songs until dawn with Grandfather."
"I told you no name, boy. Yet you know mine, and this is the Valrbladir." He turned to his men and asked "Do we accept him as Ani's son, Owan's grandson?"
The men gave assent with one voice.
"It is no small thing to become a member of our ranks, boy. Tests and trials are needed. Nine is the usual number, but these times are perilous. One will do. If you are truly your father's son, you are a wizard as well as a swordsman. Rid us of the Black One."
"Who is the Black One?"
"None of us knows really. It all started fifteen years ago when we were sent to fend off the Saracens in the eastern desert. They'd encroached further north than usual and were beginning to ally with the Turks and Malmuks for a raid on Miklagard herself. Ani Owanson led us into battle that day, the Valrbladir gleaming and us singing our death lays. We won, but at great cost. Many of us fell and Ani was captured, and although we pursued the desert men, we never reclaimed him. And none lives more than a month in the hands of such captors."
The older man's face fell, and he dropped his voice as if the very walls had ears. "The Black One came here ten years ago, as the old Emperor was dying. A Saracen sorcerer that none of us dared challenge. Not after what happened to Olaf when he did: the Black One sliced him into fifteen pieces with that curved sword of his before Olaf could even draw his own." The man lowered his voice even more, until it was almost a whisper. "It is said he was one of the tribe that took Ani, for he dresses as the desert dogs do, and never shows his face. The Black One convinced the Emperor to promise the princess to him, and make him regent until she was of marriageable age. She approaches it rapidly and soon he will wed her and be our emperor in name as well as fact. None of us dares go against such a sorcerer. He knows this, and so cuts our rations, refuses us new uniforms and parcels our pay but grudgingly. But you, do you have the magic from your father and grandfather?"
Illugi knew, better than most, that in ten years a tale could grow much in the telling of it. He did not doubt the Black One had killed Olaf, but suspected the manner of death had been exaggerated. A sorcerer, the men said. Yet they were fifty and he was one. The Varangians were no cowards. He would do well to be on his guard.
"I have the magic. I will face this man you are all so terrified of while you cower here in the guardroom like women. As you apparently have for the last ten years." He turned and at the door, spat on the ground. "Pah! I come seeking honor and glory to make my own saga, and all I find are men afraid of a single sorcerer!" The ever-helpful leader pointed to the main audience chamber. Illugi strode off, leaving whispers in his wake.
There were no guard at the door and no one challenged him. The Black One was more than capable of defending himself, it seemed, and needed no protection from mere men. Illugi barged into the empty audience chamber, Valrbladir in hand. "I come for you, Black One! Illugi Anason comes, grey sword in hand, for vengeance!"
On the throne of the dais sat a lovely young woman, her eyes flashing dark with anger. To her side stood a man swathed in black. Only his eyes showed out of the black turban and face wrap he wore.
The woman looked down her nose at the intruder. “Illugi Anason is seventeen years dead. He and his mother were burned in their house during a bandit raid. I don’t know who you are, boy, but none bears arms in the court of Leaina of Constantinople. Put up your sword.”
Illugi ignored her and strode closer to the dais. Princess or no, this women would not stop his vengeance. The Vlarbladir gleamed almost as brightly as his eyes.
"My dear, it is not safe." The Black One’s voice was a basso rumble that Illugi felt as much as heard. The woman rose and he bowed his respect before she vanished into the hangings. "Come, boy, amuse me."
He drew a curved sword of the desert, and Illugi slowed his headlong charge. But he did not stop and a few strides brought him to the foot of the dais where the Black One waited. The older man met his first cut easily and turned his parry into a riposte with the second.
Owan had trained Illugi in the niceties of combat, but they deserted him now in his rage. Taken by pure battle-lust, driven like a bear-sark, he harried the bigger man around the chamber. The Black One defended, but did not fight to kill.
In the streets, the people looked up at the roiling purple-black sky. When the first streak of green lightning stabbed down into the market, the vendors closed their stalls. In the harbor, ships took warning as the wind rose into a gale.
Round and round they circled. The Black One conserved his strength but Illugi seemed possessed. In their grim concentration on each other, neither was aware that night had fallen. No words were necessary, as enemies engaged in their deadly dance of flashing steel. Neither could touch the other, but neither would call a truce.
Tired of the charade, the Black One took three steps back, gestured and Illugi's sword flew to his hands as if on wings. Illugi saw the smile in the blue eyes and trembled. This man was more powerful than he could have dreamed. The sorcerer could have ended the duel at any time.
"My Valrbladir. You *are* Illugi Anason."
"Yes. You killed my father, Ani Owanson. I will avenge him."
"Brave words, stripling. They do your grandfather credit. But he did not tell you the truth. None did. Nor did they tell me the truth it seemed. The Varangians soothe themselves and their pride with beer and lost glory, doing an inadequate job of protecting their lady. They told your grandfather much the same. They are soft here, unable to make a stand even when it takes the very bread from their mouths. As their captain, I am shamed. See the true fate of Ani Owanson." The Black One unbound the black scarf that covered his head.
Illugi recoiled in horror. The face presented him was pale as a corpse and as withered. Livid scars marked it. The Black One removed his gloves, and lich-like fingers grasped at the young man. He twisted free of them, and backed away.
"I believed you dead a long time, my son. Does your mother yet live?”
Illugi shook his head. “She died in early spring, the last of her magic expended, her body unable to bear another winter. She gave me your sword and sent me here to follow your wyrd. I buried her with grandmother.”
The Black One’s eyes were closed and his face pained. “I loved her, son. Never doubt that. I could not return to her as I was. Now you are here. Not to avenge me, but to save me. I am accursed. I remain half-dead, half alive, unable to heal myself or show my face."
Illugi dropped to the floor where he stood, shocked, disbelieving. He knew the tale was true, yet something in him still cried for vengeance. Horror warred with pity and sorrow as he stared at the revenant before him.
The Black One sat heavily on the steps of the dais, and drove the sword into the flags of the floor. "Your sword will be of no help to you. I give you a geas: only a feather from the Phoenix can cure me, give me back a whole life and body. Go east, to the Troll Under the Mountain. He saved my life, when the Saracens had tortured me near to death, but at a price. The price was my own vitality, my life-force." The Black One gestured to his face. "He will help you. But negotiate carefully, for he gives nothing away."
Illugi sat in silence, feeling as if someone had punched him in the head with a pillow, repeatedly. He couldn't think, couldn't speak. All he could do was stare. All the tales his grandfather had told him, all the legends he had grown up believing, they were true. And more could be made, were he to aid his father.
Father. The word had taken a mystical quality in Illugi's youth. Now, his father needed him. He would not fail.
"You must return within two months. For then, the princess comes of age and must marry the man who will rule Miklagard. She favors me. After all, who has protected and taught and groomed her to rule since childhood? But the city will revolt, thinking I have ensorcelled her. I must be healed and disappear so Ani Owanson may return."
Aching for the disfigured man before him, Illugi stood. "Father, I go. Ever east?"
"Ever east, my son, through the mountains. The Troll Under the Mountain will find you."
With a small magical gesture, Illugi wrenched the Valrbladir from the stony sheath and brought it flying to his hand. He cleaned it of rock dust and sheathed it. "It may not aid me on the quest, Father, but not all the lands are safe for travelers. Farewell. I will not fail."
"Fare you well, my son. May Odin guide you."
Illugi left the palace by a different route, only to be beckoned into an antechamber by a small, imperious hand. The Princess stood before him. She was his age, if not younger, and very beautiful.
"Will you help him? Make him young and hale again for me?" she demanded. "I heard everything."
"I shall do my utmost, Your Highness."
"Here." She thrust a heavy pouch of gold bezants on him. "Take this to help you on your way."
"My thanks." He looked at her for a moment. "Highness," he asked softly, unsure if he was treading over a line. "Do you love him?"
"Since I was a child, Illugi Anason. He has loved and cared for me for years. Do you?"
"I love the father I know from legend. I hope to know the man."
She pressed a dry kiss to his cheek. "Go and return quickly."
Illugi left the palace, and headed back to the docks. The Bosporus was between him and the east, but he knew a captain with a good ship who was unafraid of magic and could sail the perilous channel.
"Han! Ubadah!" he called from the dock. The Dane lifted one sleepy hand from where he and his steersman sprawled exhausted in the sun and waved him away.
"Han Hansen, wake! I have gold to pay my passage, and a need to sail east."
"Luke?" The voice he had never expected to hear again penetrated his sleeping mind. Han struggled to sit up and rubbed his eyes against sleep, muscles still aching from the battle he'd fought all night with the elements. "I thought you were long gone. What of that storm all day and all night? We were pressed to keep the lady afloat. I was going to go looking for you, see if you'd gotten lost." He stood, stiff and sore, and stretched, the motion wrenching a groan from him.
Luke tried not to watch, not wanting to see the play of muscles under bronzed skin, not wanting to wonder what they would feel like under his hands. "My fault, and the Black One's." The confession was easier than he’d expected. He knew Han would never believe it anyway.
Han's eyes widened. "What happened? The market says he's a sorcerer." He’d seen Luke’s magic, but could not fathom the possibility of such a tempest arising from the youth on the dock.
"Of course. As I am. He's my father. He has set me a quest. Sail with me to find the Great Phoenix."
"Chasing legends?" The information that the Black One was Luke's father was too much to take in. Now the youth wanted to go off hunting another myth. He definitely needed a drink. The sun here at the center of the world was getting to him.
Luke bounced the bag of bezants in his palm again, letting the heavy clank of gold argue for him.
"If you've no better use for that money, you've got a ship. Come, let's go see if we can find some mead in this town."
His protesting body finally starting to comply, he left the ship and joined Luke on the dock, flinging a companionable arm around his shoulders. Luke shrugged out from under Han's arm, and grasped him by the shoulders. "I must go. I want you to come with me."
"We can't leave until the tide turns at dusk. We have time for a drink and a meal. Ubadah, we'll be back soon." The Moor waved his own sleepy hand at the two men. Thinking of real food instead of salt meat and fish seemed to wash the ache from him. "When was the last time you ate?"
Luke thought as they left the docks and made their way to the market. Han led him to a little stall in the market. The beef was fresh but the mead was too new. It slid down their throats, sweet and tingling, but without much strength.
“So, your father, huh? Didn’t you tell me Ani Owanson, captain of the Varangians, died fighting the Saracens ten years ago?” Han was still trying to understand. He felt like he’d fallen headfirst into one of Luke’s stories.
“It is very complicated, Han. He was taken and tortured by Saracens. Now he needs me to help restore him to himself so he can marry the princess. That’s why we seek the Phoenix.”
“I don’t understand, but you have yourself a ship. Do you know where you’re going?”
“The magic will tell me.” The smile that crossed Luke’s face, wise and ancient, raised the small hairs on the back of Han’s neck while tying his guts into a knot of longing.
After eating, they made a provisioning trip. It was common practice for the passenger financing the journey to pay for the supplies. Loaded down, they returned to the ship. As they were stowing the last of the water aboard, Ubadah spoke up. He said something in his own language that made Han laugh.
"He says he knew you'd be back. Said the stars told him."
Ubadah asked a question and looked at Luke.
"East as far as the Sea will take us. Don't know how long we'll be out of port. We're looking for the Phoenix."
Ubadah nodded sagely and steered the ship out into the channel and Luke stepped to the stern and took out his wind cord. He sang of gales and winds from west to east, of falcons riding the winds.
The lateen-rigged sail bellied full and Han was pressed to hold it. They made the tide, and ran ahead of it.
Illugi's Saga
by Angel
"Grandfather? What lies beyond the ocean where the sun sets?"
The old man looked at his grandson sitting on the glacial rock, staring over the edge of the fjord. The waning day caught the boy's hair, turning it dark gold. His eyes were the color of the sea, blue, or grey and thunderous, depending upon his mood. A fey delicacy even at fourteen boded ill if he could not translate it into a gift for opening the word-hoarde and bringing forth sagas or making magic.
Already Owan Jenson heard the words argr and seitheskratti whispered behind the boy's name. While argr, being desirous of men, was permissible for old men, it was a deadly nithe, the worst possible insult, for a youth who should be planning for his bride. The others said he did not seek out chances to spy on the maids of the village with other boys his age, preferring his own company too much.
"I hear that beyond the swan-road are many lands, rich and fair. Normandy, the Danelaw of the Saxons, the Hebredies and Orkneys, Eire, Greenland, Iceland, and farthest of all, Vinland where the grapes grow as big as a man's thumb."
"Have you seen them, Grandfather? All of them?"
"Some of them. When I was young and foolish, I went a-viking. In the east, I saw the Rus and Miklagard at the center of the world. I saw the lands where men grow darker than the bark of Odin's sacred Oak. I've sailed the warm seas of the Greeks, and heard the many languages of other peoples. The lands are kinder there, but the people are colder."
"Tell me a story, Grandfather." The boy's eyes were as deep as the fjord beneath them, as bottomless as the sky above.
"Not now." Owan's refusal was a seldom thing. He had taught the boy all the sagas he knew, all the legends, and would tell any if asked. "Your uncle will be wanting his meal, and it's a beating if you are late with the cows. Make your duty to your parents and then we return."
The youngster placed the items he had brought within the boat-shaped outline of the grave and covered them with stones. "For you, Father, because you liked them." He stacked stones over a little wooden bowl of small, orange cloudberries gathered from the high hills. "Mother, another key for your chatelaine." He stacked the stones over the key he'd carved. "Baby, I made this for you." A little toy cow he had carved for the sister he had never seen was the last to go under the stones.
The sea had taken Ani in Illugi's third summer, and childbed the following winter had claimed his wife, Dalla, and her unnamed daughter. Illugi patted the last stone into place over the grave offerings, stood and bowed. "Don't tell Uncle Lars."
"Illugi, your uncle may no longer honor the old ways, but your father did. That is reason enough to continue them when honoring his memory. And who is head of the household?"
"You are, Grandfather."
"Then back to the house now."
They went down the hill gathering their cows as they went.
***
"Illugi, after the meal, I need your help warping my loom." Bera cleared away the remains of their
meal and gestured to the corner where the firelight fell the best.
"Bera, he's getting too old for that. Just because we can't afford a weaving house doesn't mean he
needs to help you."
"I don't mind. While I work, can I have a saga, grandfather?" asked Illugi. He started to his aunt's weaving corner without waiting for an answer. His first job was to tie the bundled warp threads through the holes in the fist-sized rocks.
"And don't you be filling the boy's head with that heathen claptrap, old man," Lars grumbled from
where he was carving a new plow handle. His father never missed a chance to make the boy more
into Ani's son. He'd inherited Illugi with the freehold when Ani died, and by rights the boy was
his, an heir to replace the son Bera had never borne him. He could not afford a thrall-woman to
bear him sons. Ani's hold had not been a wealthy one. "Better to teach him about the turning of
seasons and how to read the planting signs."
"Lars Owanson, you are a guest under my roof as Illugi is. While he is my kin, he will learn the
sagas. Men die, cattle die and only the sagas live on."
"Crazy old wizard." Lars returned to his carving. His father still believed in the old faith, Odin
and Freyja and Thor, and the friction of Lars and Bera converting to the new belief of the
Christian priests had not yet settled. His brother had died, and he felt responsible for his nephew. Times were changing and it was hard to raise the boy right. Sometimes it felt as if Bera and Owan were in league to turn Illugi into one of the argr priests of Freyr who danced with bells and dressed as women.
Owan took a seat near the great loom, and watched as Illugi climbed up the rafters and caught the
warp weights as Bera tossed them to him. He looped them over the rafter and let the bored stones dangle to the floor on the other side. Satisfied the boy would neither fall nor be hit by his aunt's rather erratic aim with the rocks, Owan took up his own carving knife and began on a small piece of wood.
"Far over the sea, in the great city of Copenhagen, there lay a most odd ship at berth. She was
small and trim, shaped like an elm leaf, her sail tall and proud. It was a triangle, instead of the
great striped square sail common to those northern waters. It swung round the mast on a boom,
unlike anything that had been seen. Some said she was so different, she must have been made by
Njord himself. Others, more superstitious, called her Naglfar, which Loki himself will sail on the
day of Ragnarok. She had no oar ports, for she was not large enough for them. Her steersman
was a gigantic Moor, a head taller than every other man in the port."
"That's no Saga," said Bera, heaving the last weight up to the boy. She listened to her husband's
father with half an ear. Her own father had been a skald and she knew the stories by heart.
"It is. It is Illugi Anason's Saga," Owan corrected her.
Illugi climbed down from he rafters, and took up the arrows he was fletching for his friend, Olaf
Thorvaldson, in exchange for a coracle. Bera turned away and began sorting her shuttles.
Owan continued. "Her captain was a Dane, as would be expected, tall and dark haired...."
"Are there no wizards in this city?" complained the newcomer to the brewster. By his sound, he
was a Dane, but one that had traveled much, and spoke several languages. He wore a leather
jerkin over his tunics, in the style of the Italians, to provide both warmth and some small
protection against a footpad's blade. A sword of good Spanish steel hung at his hip. The price of that sword would buy the tavern and half the town. A bearskin cloak and its blue jeweled brooch, twisted into a knotted wolf by the wild Celts, would purchase the other half.
"Oh, we've wizards aplenty, but none mad enough to sail. Not when they can turn a living at alchemy and pennyroyal." The woman's contempt for such trade was clear as she gathered the empty mugs. She had taken stock of the wealth the sailor wore, and raised her prices for him accordingly. He was paying twice what the young sea-wolf beside him was, and never noticing the difference.
"And you've whores enough to support them in that." He tipped a wink at her over his beer. "Plentiful and prettier than most I've seen." Returning to his original line of questioning, he explained, "My steersman refuses to sail without a wizard for wind and weather. I tell him we could do as well ourselves by watching the sky, but he says no. I've a cargo of amber for Naples, and don't want to miss the tide."
"Are you captain or no?" asked the slim youth beside him at the bar.
The Dane looked at him. Barely a man, his blond hair tied back in the fashion of the Norse sea-wolves, his clothing was all wool, recently made, by a skilled and loving hand.
"I am captain."
"When my grandfather's men refused to sail around the Skagarak in a winter storm, he made the mutinous ones draw lots. The loser was thrown overboard. Then he asked if they would sail. Some still said nay. He passed the lot-cup again, and threw another overboard. Four men walked Njord's Road that day before the rest sailed the Skagarak."
"Young for a lore master, aren't you?"
"Old enough to be on my own." The youth almost bristled and the Dane could not resist testing
his bravado.
"But not too old for your mama to sew runes into your clothes." The Dane fingered the intertwined
beasts that bordered the young man's sleeves. "Please return this little boy to--" he began as if reading the letters that formed protection and safety for the wearer.
"Better than yours." He shrugged dismissively at the plain scarlet and blue braid at the neck and
hems of the Dane's woolen overtunic. “No wife, no bondmaid. You purchase some woman’s loom-leavings in the market, doubtless paying too much to wear trim she would not use to decorate her family. At least my mother loved me enough to stitch the end of her magic into my safety."
"Boy--"
"I am no man's boy. I am Illugi Anason, skald and windmaster," the youth snarled, jerking his wrist away from the Dane. He dug briefly in the sack beside him and pulled out a knotted rope. "This is a Wind Cord. I unloose a knot, with proper spells, and the Wind comes. I know the sagas and can read the weather. I can track a bear in the forest and a goat over the mountains. I shoot straight, and my arrows hit their mark.
“My father was Ani Owanson, Captain of the Varangians." The Dane took note of the sword slung
across his back, on a brass and amber-studded baldric recently adjusted to the boy's slight form. "Owan Jenson, my grandfather, reaved a path of destruction from Novgorad to Miklagard, feared by Mongol and Greek, Turk and Christian alike. To Odin and Bragi I do service, and Njord and Aegir do not harm me. I am bound for Miklagard to join the Varangian Guard like my father. When do we sail?"
The Dane threw back his head and laughed at the bold declaration from the stripling. "If you sail half as well as you boast, we'll find a use for you. Come. Ubadah wishes to leave with the tide. We go as far as Naples, you can get a ship to Constantinople from there. It will take a while. This is a trading voyage, and we put in every night. I am Han Hansen, called the Lone One. My ship is the Valr."
Illugi stared hard at the Dane. This was the one he had waited for in this tavern, smelling the sea and chafing to travel. The one the All-father had sent him dreams of. The one with the ship named to match his sword. "I carry the Valrbladir, the Falconblade. It was my father's. It flies swift and sure as the falcon for the enemy's eyes. We were fated to this meeting."
The Lone One studied his passenger. Bad enough he was taking on a wizard, but one fated to meet
him made him ill at ease. He covered it by finishing his beer, and jerking his head to the door. "Come if you are coming then, boy."
The two men left the tavern for the docks. The great Moor sat in the stern of the Valr. He sang out in his own language when he spotted the Dane.
"Yes, I have our wizard. Are you ready? We can just catch the tide if we have a fair wind in the channel. Boy, haul out that wind cord and whistle us up a breeze."
Ubadah took the tiller and complained in the liquid vowels of his homeland.
Han grinned at the youth. "He says that 'boy' is hardly a respectful term for a wizard. I say you earn my respect." He busied himself with the sail as Illugi brought forth the Wind Cord and sang over it in the old language.
Illugi untied one small knot, and the odd sail filled with the breeze. Han felt his stomach leap, as it always did when the sail filled and the ship started moving. He stole a glance where the boy stood in the stern with his arms raised, still singing. The wind grew stronger, until the Valr was sailing at a fair clip, outdistancing the ships around her.
Ubadah held the tiller fast, setting a straight course for the sea, and Han, pressed by the strength of the wind, managed the sail alone as the odd rigging was designed to allow. Once they cleared the last point, Illugi saw they had indeed made the tide, and dropped his arms. Coaxing now, instead of commanding, he added a few more verses to the song, and tucked the Wind Cord back into his pouch.
The sail bellied full, but the wind was not so strong. It aided them, but did not drive them before it as it had in the channel. Illugi moved forward to help Han tie off the sail.
"I've never had a ship take the wind like this one," he commented, his eyes glowing from the magic. "If I made it any stronger, she would fly. Well named, Captain."
"And well-met to you, Illugi Anason, windmaster."
Ubadah added his agreement.
The days passed, weeks flowing into one another, as the Valr trod the waves. The coastline flowed past: Flanders, Normandy. One beach was like another, and they slept under the stars in the fair spring weather.
In each port, Illugi sought out storytellers, jonguleurs, and bards. He listened, and learned, and before they had reached Cherbourg, he was earning a fair coin himself, telling tales.
Most days he stuck to the market places, a small woolen cap upturned at his feet, telling to any who
would stop to listen. Children always flocked to hear the tales, drawing their parents to hear of the
battles of the gods and giants.
But this night, in Bordeaux, he had decided to continue his day well into the evening, seeking out a
tavern well away from the docks, one that catered to a crowd with more money than the sailors. Han had taken a back table, out of the way, and watched as Illugi, hair gleaming like molten gold in the rushlights, held the merchants and travelers spell-bound with the tale of Thor's hammer, lost and found. They laughed at the rage of the Thunderer, at the ruse of Loki: substituting the mighty Thor for the lovely Freyja, and at the smooth lies of the Trickster.
Han wasn't paying attention to the tale, but to the teller. Illugi was a gifted performer and brought new life to tale Han had heard since childhood. Versatile, and useful as well. He'd already saved them two days when a storm blew up, making wind to let them run ahead of the storm, rather that put into port and wait it out. Han hadn't regretted taking him on. For all that he still looked like a stripling, he was a man, and did a man's work aboard ship.
Encouraged by the crowd, Illugi started another tale, and another. At last, a local jongleur edged him aside and began a song. Illugi made his way back to the table, carrying his hat, full of silver pennies and parts of pennies.
"A good day," Han said over the edge of his beer. "You must have at least a pound there. What are your plans for it?"
"It may come in useful," Illugi answered. He wasn't sure why he was collecting the money, except as a hedge against the future. Should the Varangian Guard refuse him, he would need a way to live.
More shores, and the dark bulk of the Pyrenees loomed as they reached Spain. Illugi watched as the light cargo changed from the Belgian lace and Flemish wool to Spanish wine and on to herring and rare saffron spice as they sailed around Al-Andalus.
At last they reached the Mediterranean, the sea at the middle of the world. Illugi gawked at the Pillar of Hercules that marked the entrance of the sea, and Han could almost see him storing up the image for a tale. Illugi watched the enormous rock until it disappeared in the distance.
The water at the center of the world was warm, and the sunshine oppressively hot. Illugi bronzed quickly, his hair becoming even fairer with the sun as they hugged the coast of France.
Illugi sang softly as he sat in the prow cleaning his father's sword and looking over the gentle billows. His blond hair streamed back in the breeze of the ship's passage. Once satisfied with the blade, he took a few practice cuts and sheathed it again in the shoulder scabbard.
He walked to the stern of the ship, nodding to Ubadah at the tiller, and raised his arms, singing up more wind. Han snorted, and kept his eyes on the lines he was repairing. He didn't believe in such superstition, but he did admit the wind picked up as the youth sang.
He looked back to the stern, where the wind that filled the sails was playing in Illugi's hair. The boy's eyes caught the color of the sea, and seemed deep enough to drown in, especially at times when he was making magic.
He caught himself staring again and returned to repairing the lines. What was he thinking? He was no youth, to get swept up by blue eyes and golden hair. Nor was he of the Greek tastes to want a boy. He liked women. Women liked him. The brazen called to him as he strode through their city. The respectable gave him veiled glances from the corners of their eyes. But in his memory, all the eyes were blue as the sea, and as deep.
In the last port, Marseilles, he'd seen Illugi garner some of those looks. After he'd finished his last story, a whore with hair like flame, and eyes like a hungry cat, had pressed herself boldly against him and kissed him before suggesting he share the coins that filled his hat with her. He'd refused and Han had been oddly relieved.
He stole another look at the youth, who had returned to sitting in the prow, the wind in his hair. Illugi arched into the wind, letting it stream over his face and throat, blowing his long hair back like a gold banner. For an instant, Han saw him as a male lorelei, the water spirits of the Rhine that enticed sailors to their doom. Then it was just Illugi, climbing down from the prow to help him sail into the cove.
They beached on the north of Sicily, and would sail for Naples the next day. Illugi sat near the fire, turning the fish he had caught earlier.
"I need a new name."
"What?" Han just stared. This was very sudden. One simply did not change names casually. A nickname might be acquired, but one's given name was more than just a sound, it was a measure of identity.
"Names are very important. They are a design of who we are. At home, Illugi is a name that makes people worry." He shot a sunny grin at his companion. "It means horrible temper."
Han laughed. His passenger was one of the best-tempered people he'd ever encountered. Funny, cheerfully impetuous, sweet... he put a stop to that line of thought.
"How'd you get saddled with that one, kid?"
"I was a very fussy baby. All the magic, you see. It was all pent up and couldn't be released until I'd learned to control it. Mother could never calm me, only Grandfather. So one day in a fit of her own temper, Mother named me Illugi."
Han laughed some more, and Illugi laughed with him.
"In these south lands, only women and children have names that sound so soft. I want something befitting a warrior. Something a man would wear, that says I am no longer a child. Manly, but much the same so I do not lose myself."
Han thought. "How's the fish coming?" he asked by way of stalling.
"A while yet."
"The Franks use Louis. That's similar."
"Still too soft. Loo-ee."
"How about the Celts. They use Lugh."
"Loo-guh. No, I want a solid ending."
"The Greeks have Luke. Is that solid enough?"
"Luke." He tasted the name, liking the way it flowed over his tongue, the sharp stop at the end. "What does it mean, do you know?"
"Wolf, I think. It might mean light. I'm not really sure."
"A good name. I am Luke." He took the fish from the fire, and they ate as the sun set.
Luke lay under the blanket for a long time, looking up at the stars. They were brighter, bigger here in the soft lands. He liked his new name. And more, he liked the fact Han had helped him find it.
The Dane lay sleeping a few spans away, on the other side of the fire, his back to Luke. One tanned shoulder gleamed in the bright moonlight and Luke wondered how the skin would taste. Would it be salty from the sea, or warm or sweet? He shook himself. The magic was dangerous enough, but to become seitheskratti, a practitioner of women's magic, in addition would be beyond shameful. His family would deny his birth. His friends would set up a shame-pole proclaiming he was a disgrace.
But the sagas had it that even Odin himself had been seitheskratti in the Morning of Time. He wondered. Han had traveled much. Maybe he knew of places and ways where men could love in a fashion that was not like that of a man with a woman.
Resolutely, he rolled away to sleep, to stop the thoughts that consumed him. Sleep did not come as easily as the image of tanned hands on his chest or the feel of warm lips on his throat. He turned onto his stomach, only to squirm in discomfort and roll onto his back, adjusting his loinwrap until it no longer chafed. The warmth of his hand was a temptation, and he stroked himself gently. The sand shifted under him and he glanced over at Han. The Dane stirred in his sleep and rolled over, his face to Illugi.
Illugi looked away quickly and stared at a rock, both hands wrapped around his chest. A rock would not wrap him in those strong arms, help him stop tossing. A rock would not take the kisses he wanted to give and return them with lips warm from the sun and tasting of salt. He stared at the rock until sleep came.
In Naples, they laid in a cargo of glass and wine bound for Constantinople. Luke was pleased that the Valr, which had borne him so faithfully would see him to the end of his journey. Han, seeing the relieved look on his face, knew that the hours spent haunting the taverns and guild houses for a cargo with that destination had not been wasted.
The sun burned high as they approached the great city at the center of the world: Miklagard. Called Constantinople by the Christians and Istanbul by the Turks, it was a riot of domes and towers.
Luke looked long at the vista while they made for the harbor, burning inside as hot as the sun. Not thinking about Han had only made things worse. He was glad the trip was at an end. Now, he could go be a Varangian, gain money and honor and maybe a wife, and forget the moonlight on the lean form and sharp smile of the Dane. He stole what parting glances he could, storing images of Han's arms on the ropes, of his smile, of his easy movement. They would serve on the empty nights. When they clasped arms and Illugi made his farewells to the Dane and the Moor, he strode from the ship without a backward glance.
Illugi strode into the guard room of the Varangians. "I seek your captain!" he announced. "I have come to be tested and tried and join the ranks of the Guard."
The men looked up from their meat and games of chance. He noticed their uniforms were in sorry state, much mended, and their hair and beards were disreputably tangled. The weaponry looked solid enough. Obviously their captain had a slack hand.
The eldest of the Varangians stood up. He towered almost a foot above Illugi. Though his beard was shot with snow, his arms were no less powerful than in his youth. "Who are you boy?"
"I am Illugi Anason, called Luke. My father, Ani Owanson, was captain once."
"Oh, aye. Ani was a good man. I served under him." The Captain measured Illugi by the legend that was his father and found him wanting. "But you are nothing. A boy with fine words and a found sword claiming a name you've yet to prove."
Illugi drew his sword. "The Vlarbladir. Sword of Ani Owanson." As the Varangians gathered to read the runes on the hilt, he continued, "You, Snurri Sigurdson called Stripe-beard, delivered this to my grandfather, Owan Jenson, when I was a child. I remember you for being the tallest man I'd ever seen. You drank too much of Mother's good mead, and sang songs until dawn with Grandfather."
"I told you no name, boy. Yet you know mine, and this is the Valrbladir." He turned to his men and asked "Do we accept him as Ani's son, Owan's grandson?"
The men gave assent with one voice.
"It is no small thing to become a member of our ranks, boy. Tests and trials are needed. Nine is the usual number, but these times are perilous. One will do. If you are truly your father's son, you are a wizard as well as a swordsman. Rid us of the Black One."
"Who is the Black One?"
"None of us knows really. It all started fifteen years ago when we were sent to fend off the Saracens in the eastern desert. They'd encroached further north than usual and were beginning to ally with the Turks and Malmuks for a raid on Miklagard herself. Ani Owanson led us into battle that day, the Valrbladir gleaming and us singing our death lays. We won, but at great cost. Many of us fell and Ani was captured, and although we pursued the desert men, we never reclaimed him. And none lives more than a month in the hands of such captors."
The older man's face fell, and he dropped his voice as if the very walls had ears. "The Black One came here ten years ago, as the old Emperor was dying. A Saracen sorcerer that none of us dared challenge. Not after what happened to Olaf when he did: the Black One sliced him into fifteen pieces with that curved sword of his before Olaf could even draw his own." The man lowered his voice even more, until it was almost a whisper. "It is said he was one of the tribe that took Ani, for he dresses as the desert dogs do, and never shows his face. The Black One convinced the Emperor to promise the princess to him, and make him regent until she was of marriageable age. She approaches it rapidly and soon he will wed her and be our emperor in name as well as fact. None of us dares go against such a sorcerer. He knows this, and so cuts our rations, refuses us new uniforms and parcels our pay but grudgingly. But you, do you have the magic from your father and grandfather?"
Illugi knew, better than most, that in ten years a tale could grow much in the telling of it. He did not doubt the Black One had killed Olaf, but suspected the manner of death had been exaggerated. A sorcerer, the men said. Yet they were fifty and he was one. The Varangians were no cowards. He would do well to be on his guard.
"I have the magic. I will face this man you are all so terrified of while you cower here in the guardroom like women. As you apparently have for the last ten years." He turned and at the door, spat on the ground. "Pah! I come seeking honor and glory to make my own saga, and all I find are men afraid of a single sorcerer!" The ever-helpful leader pointed to the main audience chamber. Illugi strode off, leaving whispers in his wake.
There were no guard at the door and no one challenged him. The Black One was more than capable of defending himself, it seemed, and needed no protection from mere men. Illugi barged into the empty audience chamber, Valrbladir in hand. "I come for you, Black One! Illugi Anason comes, grey sword in hand, for vengeance!"
On the throne of the dais sat a lovely young woman, her eyes flashing dark with anger. To her side stood a man swathed in black. Only his eyes showed out of the black turban and face wrap he wore.
The woman looked down her nose at the intruder. “Illugi Anason is seventeen years dead. He and his mother were burned in their house during a bandit raid. I don’t know who you are, boy, but none bears arms in the court of Leaina of Constantinople. Put up your sword.”
Illugi ignored her and strode closer to the dais. Princess or no, this women would not stop his vengeance. The Vlarbladir gleamed almost as brightly as his eyes.
"My dear, it is not safe." The Black One’s voice was a basso rumble that Illugi felt as much as heard. The woman rose and he bowed his respect before she vanished into the hangings. "Come, boy, amuse me."
He drew a curved sword of the desert, and Illugi slowed his headlong charge. But he did not stop and a few strides brought him to the foot of the dais where the Black One waited. The older man met his first cut easily and turned his parry into a riposte with the second.
Owan had trained Illugi in the niceties of combat, but they deserted him now in his rage. Taken by pure battle-lust, driven like a bear-sark, he harried the bigger man around the chamber. The Black One defended, but did not fight to kill.
In the streets, the people looked up at the roiling purple-black sky. When the first streak of green lightning stabbed down into the market, the vendors closed their stalls. In the harbor, ships took warning as the wind rose into a gale.
Round and round they circled. The Black One conserved his strength but Illugi seemed possessed. In their grim concentration on each other, neither was aware that night had fallen. No words were necessary, as enemies engaged in their deadly dance of flashing steel. Neither could touch the other, but neither would call a truce.
Tired of the charade, the Black One took three steps back, gestured and Illugi's sword flew to his hands as if on wings. Illugi saw the smile in the blue eyes and trembled. This man was more powerful than he could have dreamed. The sorcerer could have ended the duel at any time.
"My Valrbladir. You *are* Illugi Anason."
"Yes. You killed my father, Ani Owanson. I will avenge him."
"Brave words, stripling. They do your grandfather credit. But he did not tell you the truth. None did. Nor did they tell me the truth it seemed. The Varangians soothe themselves and their pride with beer and lost glory, doing an inadequate job of protecting their lady. They told your grandfather much the same. They are soft here, unable to make a stand even when it takes the very bread from their mouths. As their captain, I am shamed. See the true fate of Ani Owanson." The Black One unbound the black scarf that covered his head.
Illugi recoiled in horror. The face presented him was pale as a corpse and as withered. Livid scars marked it. The Black One removed his gloves, and lich-like fingers grasped at the young man. He twisted free of them, and backed away.
"I believed you dead a long time, my son. Does your mother yet live?”
Illugi shook his head. “She died in early spring, the last of her magic expended, her body unable to bear another winter. She gave me your sword and sent me here to follow your wyrd. I buried her with grandmother.”
The Black One’s eyes were closed and his face pained. “I loved her, son. Never doubt that. I could not return to her as I was. Now you are here. Not to avenge me, but to save me. I am accursed. I remain half-dead, half alive, unable to heal myself or show my face."
Illugi dropped to the floor where he stood, shocked, disbelieving. He knew the tale was true, yet something in him still cried for vengeance. Horror warred with pity and sorrow as he stared at the revenant before him.
The Black One sat heavily on the steps of the dais, and drove the sword into the flags of the floor. "Your sword will be of no help to you. I give you a geas: only a feather from the Phoenix can cure me, give me back a whole life and body. Go east, to the Troll Under the Mountain. He saved my life, when the Saracens had tortured me near to death, but at a price. The price was my own vitality, my life-force." The Black One gestured to his face. "He will help you. But negotiate carefully, for he gives nothing away."
Illugi sat in silence, feeling as if someone had punched him in the head with a pillow, repeatedly. He couldn't think, couldn't speak. All he could do was stare. All the tales his grandfather had told him, all the legends he had grown up believing, they were true. And more could be made, were he to aid his father.
Father. The word had taken a mystical quality in Illugi's youth. Now, his father needed him. He would not fail.
"You must return within two months. For then, the princess comes of age and must marry the man who will rule Miklagard. She favors me. After all, who has protected and taught and groomed her to rule since childhood? But the city will revolt, thinking I have ensorcelled her. I must be healed and disappear so Ani Owanson may return."
Aching for the disfigured man before him, Illugi stood. "Father, I go. Ever east?"
"Ever east, my son, through the mountains. The Troll Under the Mountain will find you."
With a small magical gesture, Illugi wrenched the Valrbladir from the stony sheath and brought it flying to his hand. He cleaned it of rock dust and sheathed it. "It may not aid me on the quest, Father, but not all the lands are safe for travelers. Farewell. I will not fail."
"Fare you well, my son. May Odin guide you."
Illugi left the palace by a different route, only to be beckoned into an antechamber by a small, imperious hand. The Princess stood before him. She was his age, if not younger, and very beautiful.
"Will you help him? Make him young and hale again for me?" she demanded. "I heard everything."
"I shall do my utmost, Your Highness."
"Here." She thrust a heavy pouch of gold bezants on him. "Take this to help you on your way."
"My thanks." He looked at her for a moment. "Highness," he asked softly, unsure if he was treading over a line. "Do you love him?"
"Since I was a child, Illugi Anason. He has loved and cared for me for years. Do you?"
"I love the father I know from legend. I hope to know the man."
She pressed a dry kiss to his cheek. "Go and return quickly."
Illugi left the palace, and headed back to the docks. The Bosporus was between him and the east, but he knew a captain with a good ship who was unafraid of magic and could sail the perilous channel.
"Han! Ubadah!" he called from the dock. The Dane lifted one sleepy hand from where he and his steersman sprawled exhausted in the sun and waved him away.
"Han Hansen, wake! I have gold to pay my passage, and a need to sail east."
"Luke?" The voice he had never expected to hear again penetrated his sleeping mind. Han struggled to sit up and rubbed his eyes against sleep, muscles still aching from the battle he'd fought all night with the elements. "I thought you were long gone. What of that storm all day and all night? We were pressed to keep the lady afloat. I was going to go looking for you, see if you'd gotten lost." He stood, stiff and sore, and stretched, the motion wrenching a groan from him.
Luke tried not to watch, not wanting to see the play of muscles under bronzed skin, not wanting to wonder what they would feel like under his hands. "My fault, and the Black One's." The confession was easier than he’d expected. He knew Han would never believe it anyway.
Han's eyes widened. "What happened? The market says he's a sorcerer." He’d seen Luke’s magic, but could not fathom the possibility of such a tempest arising from the youth on the dock.
"Of course. As I am. He's my father. He has set me a quest. Sail with me to find the Great Phoenix."
"Chasing legends?" The information that the Black One was Luke's father was too much to take in. Now the youth wanted to go off hunting another myth. He definitely needed a drink. The sun here at the center of the world was getting to him.
Luke bounced the bag of bezants in his palm again, letting the heavy clank of gold argue for him.
"If you've no better use for that money, you've got a ship. Come, let's go see if we can find some mead in this town."
His protesting body finally starting to comply, he left the ship and joined Luke on the dock, flinging a companionable arm around his shoulders. Luke shrugged out from under Han's arm, and grasped him by the shoulders. "I must go. I want you to come with me."
"We can't leave until the tide turns at dusk. We have time for a drink and a meal. Ubadah, we'll be back soon." The Moor waved his own sleepy hand at the two men. Thinking of real food instead of salt meat and fish seemed to wash the ache from him. "When was the last time you ate?"
Luke thought as they left the docks and made their way to the market. Han led him to a little stall in the market. The beef was fresh but the mead was too new. It slid down their throats, sweet and tingling, but without much strength.
“So, your father, huh? Didn’t you tell me Ani Owanson, captain of the Varangians, died fighting the Saracens ten years ago?” Han was still trying to understand. He felt like he’d fallen headfirst into one of Luke’s stories.
“It is very complicated, Han. He was taken and tortured by Saracens. Now he needs me to help restore him to himself so he can marry the princess. That’s why we seek the Phoenix.”
“I don’t understand, but you have yourself a ship. Do you know where you’re going?”
“The magic will tell me.” The smile that crossed Luke’s face, wise and ancient, raised the small hairs on the back of Han’s neck while tying his guts into a knot of longing.
After eating, they made a provisioning trip. It was common practice for the passenger financing the journey to pay for the supplies. Loaded down, they returned to the ship. As they were stowing the last of the water aboard, Ubadah spoke up. He said something in his own language that made Han laugh.
"He says he knew you'd be back. Said the stars told him."
Ubadah asked a question and looked at Luke.
"East as far as the Sea will take us. Don't know how long we'll be out of port. We're looking for the Phoenix."
Ubadah nodded sagely and steered the ship out into the channel and Luke stepped to the stern and took out his wind cord. He sang of gales and winds from west to east, of falcons riding the winds.
The lateen-rigged sail bellied full and Han was pressed to hold it. They made the tide, and ran ahead of it.
