The Red Bear of Norroway

John Linwood Grant

 

 

1

 

THERE WAS ONCE A QUEEN, a mighty queen, with lands which stretched from mountains tall to the salt-sea shores. Her realm prospered; her people were fair and fine, and swords lay quiet in their sheaths. Besides the produce of field and tree, the market stalls held silks from Araby and sweet spices from the Eastern Isles, and none went in need. And though she clutched the small sorrow that her husband had passed away, she had three strong sons to brighten her days.

These sons were well-favoured, each in his own way. Erys, one hour the eldest, was a quiet man with a mind of spun steel, and saw always to the realm’s safety and defence, having no care for himself or the passing of his hours. Andrys, his twin, was blessed with a most nimble form; he was master of dancing revelries, the favoured child of the land’s many troupes, spreading the love of art to every corner of the land. And last there came the youngest by a year, named Justinian for his father’s father.

Justinian was neither as sharp as Erys nor lively as Andrys, but he held in his stout breast a heart that his mother loved, for it was a heart of dreams, of wonder at the passing seasons, and the whispers of both the North and South Winds. Of all three sons, Justinian had the broadest shoulders, the greatest girth, and the healthiest appetite—in these, he most resembled his mother and the line of kings and queens from olden days.

For many years the queen kept her sons close, but at last she gathered them in her hall, where shafts of sunlight gave the lie to shadows of stone, and she spoke of life.

“My dears, you are of an age, and more, to make your own way—to seek your own fates. Tell me what you would have, what you would become.”

Erys raised his head, and his eyes of silvered grey were narrow in calculation. “Mother, I care naught for bedchamber nor bold adventure. Let me remain, and see each border safe, each and every bothy free from danger. I shall be seneschal for you, and govern these matters, that you may ease your burden of the crown.”

The queen was pleased, for she loved Erys, and knew that his mind served only the realm’s needs. That her son was lacking in passions of the flesh was well-known, yet he would be content in his chosen life. She readily agreed to his request.

Andrys, whose eyes were dark with the dance, traced the cracks of stone floor with one boot. “I would marry, mother, for I seek the Lady Aisha as a bride. She is most graceful. We have cut a gavotte these many nights, and she favours me.”

Again, the queen was pleased, for the fair Aisha had the fires of Araby in her veins; she brought strength, beauty and wisdom to the court. Moreover, she was a horse-archer of uncommon skill, and could lend her support to Erys should adversity arise—the land was not over-gifted with warriors. And so she smiled, and once more agreed.

“And you, Justinian?” she asked.

The queen’s youngest son seemed troubled. Tall and wide enough to be two men made as one, he had eyes flecked with the same golden glint as his tight-bound mane and thriving beard. He glanced at his brothers, and their eager faces urged him on.

Thus he spoke in his deep, even voice. “Mother, each night for a month, the same dream has visited me. In this dream, I stand in a great mead-hall, such as those of the Northern peoples, and brooding there on an oaken throne sits a man whose like I have never seen in all our realm. My heart pounds at the sight of him, and I know him to be the one whose favour I would gain. Whose favour I must gain.”

His mother sat back, her expression one of wonder. “Is this a geas on you, placed by some sorcerer?”

Justinian shook his head. “It is ... it is a thing of the heart, of that I am sure.”

“And do you know this stranger’s name?”

Her son looked away, his broad cheeks each with a spot of red upon them. “You will think me foolish, or mad.”

“I can judge neither, my son, unless you tell me.”

Justinian met her gaze at last. “I believe—I would swear—that it is the Red Bear of Norroway I see in my slumbers.

Now the queen held silent for a moment. Erys nodded thoughtfully; Andrys only smiled with affection.

“‘I will not lie in maidens’ arms; another one must have my charms,’” said Andrys, reciting a verse of his own making, and he reached over to pat his younger brother on the back. “Oft we have wondered when you would settle on one man’s embrace—but here you set yourself a hard challenge, dear Justinian.”

And that was the truth of it, for the Red Bear of Norroway was widely known to be a soul ensorcelled. None in the Southlands knew how the doom had come about, but this fabled prince of the North was perforce a mighty and terrible bear by day, and only a man by night. Many said that he was a dark burden on his own people, though for certain no reiver or rival lord would threaten those lands, fearing the beast’s strength and temper.

“So. A challenge indeed. You will need to be brave, which I know you are,” said Erys at last. “And yet you must also be sharp of wit, to win such a prize—if it is even possible. Know that my counsel will always be yours, and with faith, perhaps you might yet catch your bear.”

“And my counsel also, such as it is” said Andrys.

Seeing no dispute between her sons, the queen clapped her hands once in agreement. She knew that dreams had power, and besides, she was wise enough to see that forbidding Justinian this pursuit would leave him a wounded and haunted bear himself. Better that he attempted what he had set himself, for good or ill, and made his own wyrd.

“The heart must be its own master, my dear. If Norroway is where it bids you, then you have my blessing. Let your dreams be your guide, and see what comes.”

 

 

JUSTINIAN LAY DOWN CLOTHED THAT night, too excited to undress. He swathed himself in goose-feather quilts, and let the dark enfold him. At first, he dreamed of spiced wine and pomegranates; of roast fowl and various glistening sauces, but at last these faded, along with the grumbling of his stomach. He turned under the quilts, asleep but restless, until at last his fancy brought him once more to the magnificent—if chilly—mead-hall.

There, on a fine and intricate wooden throne, sat a figure with long copper-red hair and a beard of the like, his clothes of leather and linen in the manner of the Northmen. In truth, the man was less substantial than those who normally caught Justinian’s eye, but there was a noble melancholy about that downcast face which fascinated him. Of this prince’s age, it might have been that he was a half-dozen years older than the Southlander.

It had been Justinian’s intent to learn more through such dreams, and plan his journey north, but such was not be, for to his astonishment, this night he could feel the rush-strewn floor beneath his feet, and smell the low peat fire. He had been transported, body and soul, to cold Norroway!

The figure looked up, startled, and one hand strayed to an ornate sword hilt.

“You!”

Justinian blinked, trying to gather his wits. “You know me, sir?”

“I have dreamed your form, your face, these last weeks, and knew not why. That you should stand before me, however, is a mystery. I am Leif Thurlasson, the prince of these parts, and do not recall bidding you to my hall; should such a meeting in the flesh be for well or woe, I will soon learn.”

The young man bowed. “O prince, Your Highness, I have travelled pale nightmare and sweet night-fantasy, and there I have seen you there also, each night for a moon. I know not how I am here, nor did I mean to stand before you without permission.”

Not for the first time, he wished that he had his brother Andrys’ gift with words.

“I am called Justinian, and what you are named in these sad days I have from the talk of learned and well-travelled men, for I deem you to be the Red Bear of Norroway.”

The prince growled. “I have that misfortune, though once I was free of care, and known as Leif of the Broad Spear. Now am I wary of strangers who come to my door, and if you know of me, then you must also know that none will risk my temper by day, or my sorrow by night.”

“None in Norroway perhaps,” said Justinian, setting his shoulders square with resolve. “But the men of the Southlands are bold.”

“Is that so?” Leif Thurlasson looked the young man over, and must have found no outward fault, for he nodded. “Ah well, I should remember my duties as a host, I suppose.” He gestured to a simple but solid-looking stool by the throne. “Will you take mead with me? No—wine, I should have said, should I not, if you are from the Southlands? I believe we have some, though it may be vinegar by now.”

He clapped his hands, and a youth in russet linen came from the shadows. At his master’s instruction, he brought horn goblets and a dusty bottle which swilled with a liquid dark as blood.

“I would drink the sourest vinegar if it were from your cups, my prince,” murmured Justinian, sitting where he had been bid. He would not have drawn himself back into his bedchamber, even if he could, for his heart pounded to be so close to this man.

“Tell me then of these dreams, and spare no detail,” demanded Leif Thurlasson.

Other servitors came within the quarter hour, and with them came smoking meats, and thick rye bread, and strange cheeses, accompanied by more bottles from the prince’s cellars—deep tawny draughts that drove away the cold. The two men talked long into the night, and if there was caution on one side, and over-eagerness on the other, they found no answer to this strange transportation.

Thus were met Justinian and the Red Bear of Norroway.

 

 

2

 

NEITHER WELCOME NOR UNWELCOME, JUSTINIAN was given leave to remain in the holding, save that he should make no mischief. Assenting gladly, the young man made it his task to learn more of the place, and he who ruled it. Striding from the spread nets of the fisher-folk by the shore to the huts of the trappers in mountain’s shadow, he soon learned the way of things—for all that the prince’s people were stalwart and healthy, this was a troubled realm.

People were generous in most matters, but guarded and soon busy about other matters should the Red Bear itself be mentioned. The tales had spoken truly of the prince’s doom—from dawn until dusk the beast known as the Red Bear left the mead-hall and roamed the forests thereabouts, and all were aware that this was Leif, once of the Broad Spear, his shape and mind transformed into a thing from whom his people shrank.

It was a wonder, this creature, standing greater than any bear should be, with dark eyes deep-set above a fanged and fearsome snout and claws which might rend a longboat. The beast was ill-tempered but not intent on harm, as long as it was left alone.

Villages were forewarned whenever their prince was abroad by day, and heavy wooden shutters served to dull his interest in the folk within.

At first Justinian merely watched and waited as the beast ripped salmon from the streams, or drove that bulk through the most tangled briars. It did in truth seem to be no more that a creature of the forest.

As for the nights, Leif Thurlasson had long dismissed those shield-men who would have shared his high table, telling them they were better breaking bread with their families, and so the two men would drink and talk alone. Sometimes they spoke of their respective lands, at other times of idle matters in which neither had real interest, and Justinian’s voice was the most oft heard. The prince had always regret for the lost day, and as he sank into his cups, melancholy gripped him.

Only when pressed on the Red Bear did Leif show passion, turning a hurtful glare on his guest. He would say little of the curse upon him, save that it was unwillingly gained—and undeserved. When pressed as to why nothing had been done about this burden, Leif only muttered that soothsayers and wise ones had been consulted many times, but none had been able to lift or even soften the curse.

“You have had a worthless dream, and a wasted journey,” the prince would say, and the young man could not persuade him otherwise.

As the days passed, Justinian grew more, not less, determined to win over the prince. He had the courage and foolishness of youth, believing that he alone could change this dire wyrd—and why else would that miraculous transportation have brought him to Norroway? There were fair-faced men aplenty in his mother’s lands if the pleasures of the bedchamber were all he sought. His heart still beat with that love he had heard of in the tales of old, and was he not fit to grasp such a rare prize?

Seeing that his words had thus far held little power for Leif the man, Justinian decided to cleave to the beast more closely, following it in its wanderings. For it came to him that he might seek to befriend the prince in this form, and thus work his way into that tortured breast.

The first time he came close earned him a deep growl, and he let it be; the second time it rose to its full height and stared with hot red eyes until the young man again backed away.

His third attempt was the greatest folly, for he came across it while it was clawing honey from a rotten tree, and reminded of the mead which the prince loved, Justinian thought to go closer and to speak softly.

“This sweetness we might share, and remember the feast-table where we talk without anger. For, my dear Leif, I know that you are beneath that doom-forged form.”

The bear twisted round, its gaze on the daring young man.

The wild cuff that came drove Justinian to the ground, and there was blood in plenty mixed with the honey upon those claws. The young man’s last sight before he swooned was of the Red Bear blundering away, bellowing….

Charcoal burners from the settlement found Justinian some hours later, sprawled beneath the pines, and fortunate that they did. His tunic was ripped asunder, his shoulder bruised and bleeding heavily from deep and open gouges; making a hasty litter, they carried him back to his chamber the mead-hall, even as the first grey fringe of evening touched the woods.

There he lay in a daze, lamenting his failure more than his wounds, as his torn shoulder was washed and bound. But when the servitors had left him, he saw a pale-faced figure in the shadow of the doorway.

“Oh, my Southlands friend,” cried Leif. “You must leave this place, leave me, before worse befalls. You are bold, yes, and brave, but whatever these dreams meant, staying near me will be the end of you.”

Justinian propped himself up on his good arm.

“Better I perish by the claws of day,” he gasped, “than abandon my prince of the night.”

Then the Red Bear of Norroway wept, and kneeling by the bedside, poured drink for both of them. He cradled the young man’s head with one arm, and let dark wine trickle between Justinian’s lips.

“Do not ask for more favour than I dare give. I cannot … I cannot love, I am fated to remain thus, a curmudgeon of a beast whilst the sun is high; a lost soul under the moon’s gaze.”

Justinian’s heart gave him the strength to smile, despite the pain.

“Than you dare give? Then you might not spurn me, were this curse lifted?”

Leif Thurlasson hesitated, and his lips quivered as if they might remember pleasure.

“You must rest,” he said, turning his face away.

 

 

WHATEVER HE MIGHT LACK IN cunning or oratory, Justinian steered true to his course. This saw him up from his sickbed before he was fully healed, and by that Freya’s Day (as they counted the days there) he was yet again wandering among the pines, trailing the Red Bear. On such things, the opinion of the holding was now divided—some folk admired the young man’s honest determination and affection for their prince; others saw another sorry chapter in the making, and wondered how many men it would take to build a pyre for such a bulky fellow.

Thus it went for two weeks and more, with Leif’s people sworn not to mention Justinian’s activities to their lord. Each morn the young man gave the beast his scent and made it more accustomed to—though not perhaps pleased by—his presence. If it did not welcome him, it no longer struck out in anger, and confined itself to sullen grumbling.

And when dusk fell, he would engage Leif the man in talk again, stealing fine phrases as he remembered from his brother Andrys, telling of Erys’ deeds in care of their mother’s realm. Of their mother he spoke, and of their late father.

In turn, Leif Thurlasson softened somewhat, speaking of his boyhood, and how his parents had been lost a-viking, leaving him with this princedom. At times a rare smile was shared, and one evening, when the young man had been in Norroway for a moon and more, a darker tale was admitted to the mead-hall. Leif finally consented to speak of the sly one who had placed the curse, a traveller from far away who had come to the Northlands late one winter.

“Ovelamieli was the name he gave, and I was merely Leif, new to ruling others. He spoke with sense at first, as a wise-man might, but there seemed other layers to his words; I felt his fair face might be more a mask. Ever more uneasy, I began to suspect him to be a warlock. The longer he stayed, the more he sought my affection and the more I said to him, ‘Nay’ ....” The prince’s voice faltered. “When I spurned him openly before others, he uncovered his true sails—I would be his or no one’s, he hissed. That night, in my own hall, he laid the curse of the Red Bear upon me.”

“An evil, evil deed—and clearly a man to match it, this Ovelamieli.”

Leif sighed. “Do you wonder that I was cautious when another stranger came to my door?”

Justinian spread his hand across the other man’s, and it was not brushed away.

“With the first cock’s crow of each day,” continued Leif, “I must take up the bear’s pelt which Ovelamieli had first gifted me, and I cannot stop myself. I can do it no harm; my faithful servitors have tried to drag it far away, but when they do I fall near to dying, and the pelt is always back by midnight. If it is locked in the strongest iron-bound chest, still it finds its way out and near to me once more. Such is the warlock’s power and the strength of the geas he has placed.”

“This seems too cruel. Can nothing be done?”

“I have told you—neither seer nor cunning-man has ever brought an answer to that. I must be what I have been made. I wonder that you can stand it, dear to me though you are becoming. My sunlight hours are a blur, but I know I came close to brute anger again today.”

“But you did not do it. I must be with man and beast—I can do no less!”

“Oh, you sweet fool,” murmured Leif, and their fingers intertwined ….

 

 

NOT THREE DAYS AFTER THAT, with Justinian’s wounds much mended and too many glances between them to ignore, they found their way to the bedchamber for the first time, and there they gloried in each other’s bodies. Nor was Justinian disappointed; Leif Thurlasson had tenderness, but, at times, he also possessed the earthy passions of the beast whose name he bore—and he wielded a ‘broad spear’ indeed.

This change was a joy to the young man, but always in the far corner of the bedchamber lay the huge russet pelt that the prince must don when morning came, the pelt which would transform him into a creature of instinct and base urges.

One night after pleasure they lay abed, and drew in the scents of fresh, clean sweat and cedarwood which filled the chamber. Leif ran his hand down Justinian’s body, exploring the dense curls upon that massive breast.

“You have something hid behind that fair brow. I sense it.”

Justinian hesitated, his fingers tangled in the other’s hair. “It is nothing. I was thinking idly, and realised that … I miss my family, so far away. I have not spoken to my mother, my brothers, for such a long time, and the seas are so wide ....”

“Oh.” The prince sat up. “I did not dare say before, but I am minded there is a way—dreams have bound us, and dreams are surely to our hand in this. Only lie in bed at night and think hard on your family just before you sleep. Imagine yourself stood with them, and so you will be.”

“But then I will be apart from you, and—”

“Do the same in your bed at home, and imagine your troubled prince in that same manner. If you want to be with me, you will return.”

The next night, Justinian went to an empty chamber and lay down on musty furs, his family in his mind. Within moments of closing his eyes, he felt a shudder run through his body, and found himself wrapped once more in goose-feather quilts. It was morning, and he was in his mother’s keep.

Rushing into the great hall, he saw his brother Andrys and the queen breaking their fast at the long oak table. Such was his excitement that he gabbled as he grabbed at platters of food.

“Rye bread is … very heavy,” he said, tearing into a sweet white loaf. “And they don’t have the fruit we… oh, he really does become an actual bear. And he wants me, but …” He swallowed a mouthful, took a deep breath. “Where’s Erys? Is he well?”

“Erys is riding the eastern borders,” said the queen. “We are hoping to open up some new mines—your brother believes there is silver there.”

“Oh. Did you miss me? What did you think had—”

“We guessed where you had gone.” Andrys stood up and hugged him. “Idiot. You could have left a note.”

Justinian sat down, restrained himself from filling his mouth again, and told them the whole of it, from the evening of the dream which took him to the Red Bear of Norroway. They marvelled at his tale, being cheered that he had found someone for whom he cared, and sad at the curse laid upon Leif Thurlasson.

“How long will you stay here?” asked the queen. “So many will be pleased to see you again, and Erys will return before the new moon.”

Justinian shook his head, his appetite lost. “I do not know, mother. I love Leif Thurlasson, and I must seek out if any in our realm know of a way to relieve my prince’s curse.”

And after a morning with his kin, this he did. He saddled up his faithful grey, a solid stallion who bore Justinian’s bulk with ease, and rode to many a town and village, up into the hills, and down to the slanted houses of the fisher-folk. He talked to the witch-men of the hills, who burned rat’s entrails to read the smoke, and to the star-women of the great towns, who read the night sky. He spoke to the seer of his sister-in-law, Aisha, an old man who had travelled more roads than might be found on the Earth. But none had answers—there had been no skin-changer, by choice or doom, in the land for centuries, and Aisha’s seer said that the Northern warlocks had bitter ways which were closed to even him.

Dejected, Justinian let the grey stallion bring him back to his mother’s keep, for his brother Erys would soon return. In Enrys’s chambers of state, he found a thin fellow of some thirty winters, who was going through bundles of manuscripts.

“My lord,” said the man, bowing. “Your brother is delayed. I am Gullscope, one of his aides—is there aught I can help you with?”

So sad was Justinian feeling that he poured out the tale of the curse, though with less of his heart contained in the telling.

“A tragedy indeed,” said the man at the end. “Although ...”

“You know something?”

Gullscope hesitated. “It is only, my lord, that your brother keeps many scrolls of antiquity, and I believe I saw once a reference to such a curse—a young sea-captain ....”

“A bear-shifter?”

“No, not quite, my lord. In that tale, the victim was trapped as a bull-seal by day and a man by night. But I dare say the principle is much the same.”

“And was there some way to be freed of that burden?” asked Justinian, eager.

“I would have to find the scroll, and—”

“Do that, I beg you,” said Justinian, and swept away in awkward passion.

Later that same day, after dogs were at their hearths and men in their cups, Gullscope came to Justinian’s quarters. The young aide shuffled, his eyes lowered.

“The old tongues are hard to read, my lord,” said Gullscope in his thin tones, “but they tell that a friend of the sea-captain stole into his room one night, and took the pelt to burn it—for the deed cannot be known nor done by the one ensorcelled. A man cannot act against his own curse.”

“And ...”

“Thereafter, the man was hale and untroubled, for all the evil resided within the pelt; the shore-witch who formed the doom was thwarted, and died soon after.”

Justinian had little to cling to but this strand of hope. “You believe that if I did this, Leif Thurlasson might be freed?”

“Who can be sure, my lord? Not all old tales are wholly true, and ...”

But other words were lost on the air, for Justinian was away to the queen.

“Dearest mother, I must haste away, back to the mead-hall of Norroway. I beg you give my love to my brothers, and take twice that for yourself.”

The old woman looked down at the son whose favours most mirrored her in her own youth, with tousled, corn-gold hair and those same, gold-flecked eyes that marked the ancient line.

“You will be uncle soon, for an heir has been born to Andrys and Aisha. Is this prince truly your heart’s desire? A duchy would still be yours.”

Justinian’s head bowed to his mother’s knee. “The realm does not tremble in the night, nor bead itself with tears; if it is not mine to free my prince from his doom, then who else will?”

Then the queen knew her son’s great heart was truly set, and she reached to the chest of rosewood and brass which stood always by her seat of state.

“Justinian, take then these tokens which have lain forgotten, unneeded in our peace.”

And she drew out, one by one, treasures of the line—a knife of black obsidian from the burning isles; a silver brooch, shaped as a tumbling rook, and last, the finest spider-silk, wound upon a bobbin.

“You will know their use when you have need, though I pray you do not. Go well, my son.”

The purple of sunset brushed the mountains as Justinian took himself to his bed, and in the embrace of his quilts, held his mother’s gifts close to his breast. He had supped deep of the ruby wine, and eaten three men’s meals—the first for pleasure, the second to be sure that his belly did not complain—and the third to be sure of sleep, which was not long in coming .…

True to Leif’s word, when Justinian awoke, he lay in the small, musty chamber from whence he had come, back in Norroway. The cock had not yet crowed; the household drowsed. Unable to hold back, he rushed to the bedchamber of Leif Thurlasson, treading barefoot so as not to wake the prince. In the corner, under a shuttered window, lay the hated pelt, a thick, shaggy mass of reddish fur and hide.

Justinian took it up and bore it out of the mead-hall, bore it to the fire-pit where sometimes oxen were roasted. A pot of coals glowed by the pit, and it was no hard matter to get a small blaze going. It went against his nature to act without speaking to his love, but if Gullscope were correct, the deed must be done without the cursed one being aware, lest it rebound on him.

“Let my prince be freed,” he murmured, and threw the pelt upon the fire.

The flames which came were thick and oily, and they came so quick that Justinian was filled with wonder—this was no simple blaze. The thick fur charred and spat; the heavy hide beneath embraced its fate with unnatural speed .…

“No!” cried a figure from the door of the hall. Wrapped only in a linen sheet, Leif Thurlasson ran forward and made to drag the pelt from the fire, but the smoke billowed and choked him, driving him back.

“My prince, I—”

“Fool of a man!” Leif wiped tear-filled eyes. “Now you have completed the curse—as the Red Bear, I could at least keep my place here. Without the pelt, I am thralled to the warlock, and have no choice but to go to him and share his bed forever.”

And Justinian, stunned, watched as the man he loved ran off into the growing dawn, as fleet as the hill-goat or the wild deer ....

 

 

DARK WERE THE DAYS WHICH followed. The holding woke in wonder at what had occurred, and those around Justinian were split between sorrow and relief—for they had love for their prince, but feared him also. Some spoke of sending to one of the Kings of Norroway, that another might order the settlement; others held that Justinian should carry the burden of rule, being as near a consort to the Red Bear of Norroway as they might ever have.

“For you have lost us our prince, and thus owe us duty; besides, you are well-favoured by many here,” said a one-eyed elder.

“I have done a terrible thing, for love, and shown I have not the wisdom to rule,” said Justinian, wracked with regret. Seeing that they still waited for his word, he caught at what his brother Erys might say. “Form you a council of those sound in judgement, and not too young. Let them be your voice. For I have proved that youth’s passion, untempered, is folly!”

Inside the hall, they served him mead and slabs of roasted sheep; mushrooms, gathered from the forest and baked, and the thick dark bread of their land. He would not touch a morsel, but sat in sorrowful thought. Each hour he called for one or other from the older men and women, to ask where the warlock might be found, and sought word from the cunning-folk of the prince’s land, but only at dusk did one come who gave slender hope.

“East of the sun and west of the moon, far beyond the pastures and the lands we know,” said a wizened ancient, his large head almost too heavy to be held aloft. “He who caused the Red Bear of Norroway came from there, and I heard him speak, in those days when he sought to catch the prince in his arms. He talked as those who dwell between our people and the Finns; moreover, his magicks sang of Finnish cunning.”

The old man had little else to offer, but said that the way was hard—perhaps too hard for a man of Justinian’s youth, girth and appetite, one who had lived comfortably in fine halls all his life.

“Then I must die upon that trail,” said Justinian without anger, for the man’s words were not unwarranted.

He slept, turning uneasy in the bed that he had shared with Leif Thurlasson, and in the morning, he ate well once more. The people saw his face was set, and they brought him a huge hide cloak against the cold; dried fruits and strips of deer, and with them the prince’s spear and harness for combat.

“I am no warrior,” said Justinian, refusing weapons and armour. A staff of yew he did accept, to help where the footing was poor, and in this way he set himself upon the path to find his prince .…

 

 

3

 

THERE WERE EASY DAYS AT first—his stride was long, and he had muscle as well as girth. Farmsteads and small villages gladly gave him sustenance when they knew his purpose; those who might have wished the prince to take a wife instead were consoled by knowledge of Justinian’s fair and kindly nature. They felt they could have done far worse—“Better a lord of good heart, than a lady with cold ambition,” had been said more than once in the time Leif and Justinian had been together.

But winter was not far ahead, and with each league he came to lands less farmed and with fewer and fewer roads or tracks. One beldam in a cottage thought she had seen a lean figure stride past, unspeaking, a week before; two snot-nosed children thought the same, but none could have named the man. This was no longer the princedom of the Red Bear of Norroway.

Justinian did not relent. He learned to forage, and paid coin for what folk could spare, pushing himself ever eastwards and higher. Hills gloomed around him; birds stared, unsure at the purpose of the great figure who passed them without glancing. And at last he came to a lone farmstead, the only chimney in all the land around him. The air was harsh, the fields mostly stones and wiry grass, and only a lone rook moved, its head tilted as it watched him approach the farm.

“Ho the household!” he called, standing near the open door.

After some moments, a cautious face appeared above a lean body.

“We have nothing to steal,” said the man, doleful.

“I am no thief,” said Justinian. “But if you have peat or logs a-burning, I would lie quiet by your hearth.”

The farmer assented, and let him enter. At a rickety table sat a thin-faced girl with downcast eyes.

“My daughter cannot speak,” said the farmer. “A warlock stole her words, a week and more past now.”

Justinian started. “A warlock?”

“Aye, one who visited unasked for. Gyttha must have angered him or showed him fear—thus he served her, in return.”

“Of what did he speak?”

“I do not know. I was returning with logs, and caught only the shadow of him as he swirled past me and went ever east. I fear … I fear my child will not speak again in this life.”

Troubled, Justinian asked the farmer if he had seen such a man as the prince, but he had not.

“My daughter may have, but none shall ever know.”

Justinian’s reply was lost to the harsh caw of the rook outside, and he went to the doorway. Now there were three black birds, perched on a broken fence, and each was looking at him .…

From within his meagre pack, he brought out the silver brooch of a rook that his mother had given him. Without knowing quite why, he went to the mute girl, and pinned the brooch in her shawl. Wide eyes, she wondered at his act.

“All creatures should have a voice,” he said. “Try to speak.”

She parted her lips, but all they heard was the caw of a rook outside.

“Go on,” he encouraged her.

A cough, a caw from the yard—and then a word from her lips.

“Father!”

The farmer ran to her side, nodding that she try again, and Justinian saw that more of the birds had gathered around the farm, not four, not five, but dozens. With each opening of the girl’s mouth, a rook cawed, and gave her back a word.

Home. Hearth. Grass. Sheep. Arm. Stranger. Warlock ....

“He came at dawn,” said the girl, stroking her mended throat with pleasure. “I asked idly if he knew the man who had passed the day before, the sorrow-eyed one who strode towards the wild places. He said it was not my business, and when I asked more—for I did not like him—he raised his hand and snapped his fingers.

“‘Questions are knives, in other’s lives,’ he said, and pressed his thumb to my neck. ‘No more questions for you, girl.’ And then he left, and I could not form the smallest word … until now.”

The farmer and his daughter brought roots from their stores, and salted meat, setting these in a cauldron on the fire and insisting that Justinian eat until he could eat no more. Over many helpings of the stew, he told them of his search for the missing prince.

“The sad man must have been the one you seek,” said the girl. “But my lord, he trod the path to stony Trolldal, where only death lies.”

They both urged that he go back, but Justinian would hear none of it. He was only two, perhaps three days behind, and he set his face for the narrow gorge they had called Trolldal.

Now, Justinian was no hillsman, and these were not the gentle slopes where he had ridden in his youth. Such trees as stood were wind-slanted and bare of leaf or fruit; even the grass found little comfort on the rocky scree. Cliffs of dull grey stone rose on either side of the way, stealing the light and leading him—along a dry stream-bed—into a gloomy ravine. Not bird, nor beast, nor smallest insect moved in the silence around him, and he knew fear—but his heart remembered Leif Thurlasson in his arms; the scent of his lover was on the clothes he wore.

“Bright is the day we die with honour,” he said, without entirely being enthused by the saying, and stepped forth into the ravine.

Each step echoed; he would have been bolder had he not seen that sometimes what crunched beneath his boots was not loose rock but the bleached remains of men. A broken skull lay here; a shattered leg-bone there. His only comfort was that none of these were fresh, and he trudged on for an hour and more, until at last he saw a glimmer of daylight from the far end of the gorge.

And then there came another sound, a heavy, grinding which did not delight the ears. Justinian held up his staff in readiness, but he was not ready in his mind for what gathered shape ahead—a troll, and a troll such as only his distant ancestors had fought. It seemed to haul itself from the rock face, looming over Justinian, and it stank of death. Its eyes were wide and sickly green; its mouth a savage cut across its ash-coloured face.

“I would pass without harm to any!” called out Justinian, but the troll spread its arms from wall to wall to make its intention obvious.

A slight youth or maiden might have dodged beneath those arms; Justinian was neither, and so he charged, driving the end of his staff at the creature’s eyes and hoping his weight might make it stumble. The troll, surprised, gave ground a pace; it lashed out and scarred the ravine wall with its claws. Justinian pressed himself to a shallow cleft, but that was no true shelter, and all seemed ill. He thought of the knife his mother had given him but, strange to his own mind, he brought out the bobbin from his pack instead.

As the troll lunged, the little spindle danced from his hands and described its own curious movements in the air, the spider-silk gleaming silver as it unreeled. It tangled first between the troll’s talons, then down its lanky arms, and at last from ugly head to crooked feet, wrapping all in a gossamer stronger than iron chains, until the thing could scarce move.

When the creature’s angry bellows subsided, Justinian came forward.

“I seek a comely, sorrow-eyed prince, and the warlock who has bound him. Tell me if they passed, and whence they went.”

The troll ground its yellow teeth, but said nothing.

“Very well,” said Justinian and, taking hold of an end of spider-silk, he pulled with all his might, dragging the bound troll towards the end of the ravine, nearer and nearer the light.

At this the creature moaned, for the touch of the sun would finish it.

“The warlock has me thralled,” it cried, “and I must bend my knee to him and his.”

“Neither knee nor any part of you will bend, when yonder clean sun shines on you,” said Justinian, and set his shoulders to move his burden another pace.

“Enough! The man-thing has no choice; his master no mercy. Both will be found far east of Trolldal, in the warlock’s hold beyond the Weeping Plain.”

Justinian stopped hauling.

“With time you may free yourself,” he said, “but not before I return to seal your fate, should you speak falsely.”

“On my father’s twisted gut I swear!” said the troll.

So Justinian left him there, and scrambled to the welcome light.

Beyond lay a flat, drear marsh, pocked with pools of foetid water. Tussocks of thin grass stood in places; others were rank with weed and dying moss.

“The Weeping Plain,” he said, low in spirits, and took up his staff to test the ground before him. It was well that he did, for there was no straight path. A boot placed here might find firm purchase; elsewhere, the staff could find no bottom to the mire. In this place and that could been seen, half-submerged, a finger-bone with ring upon it, or a rotting leather helm.

Slow and difficult was the journey, which took all of two days and more, Justinian resting an hour here, an hour there, on some meagre hillock of land between the chill pools. As his eyes could tell little of the danger, it was no worse to travel at night, the end of his staff ever poking at the footing before him.

By the third morn that followed, he trod little but noisome mud, and could see the dry, featureless land that lay beyond. Featureless, except for the single low building which crouched a league away, unattended by tree, or bush, or other sign of nature’s blessing.

Justinian halted, for he had neither Andrys’s wit and lore, nor Erys’s cunning, and was without a plan. It came to him that warm heart and earnest will did not always win the day, yet what else did he have? So he stretched out and slept a while in a dry gully, that he might face the warlock with as much vigour as he could.

When the sun was full, he arose, and casting aside his staff of yew-wood—for its virtues were too weak to trouble the warlock—he made for the hold. The closer he came, the more he feared the place, for it was uncommon wrought, and did not look clean of purpose. A stone’s throw, and he could see how the split pines were made fast with human hair and yellowed dead men’s nails; the doorposts were of bones bound in dark patterns, and there was no door.

“Ho the household! I would have word with the master here.”

“Come in, come in, and be welcome,” replied a reedy voice—one which Justinian seemed to recognise.

He stepped into the light of tapers and oily candles, which revealed a single chamber barely high enough for Justinian to stand. His first gasp was at the sight of Leif Thurlasson, huddled in misery at the back of the hold, by a wide and soiled bed; his second was when he saw the man who sat on a stool in the middle of the chamber.

“Gullscope!”

“It is a name I use from time to time,” agreed the warlock. “I had word of your travels home, and in your brother Erys’s absence, I guessed that you would need counsel.”

“False counsel! You are also the cur Ovelamieli; you knew that if I burned the pelt, Leif Thurlasson would be yours.”

“Of course. I trusted that your blundering would deliver.”

All Justinian’s woes seemed met together, and his folly complete.

The warlock stood up. “Yet I am pleased to see you, still full of figure and fine despite your journey. For I tire of this wretch, who is thin and without spirit these days. I see the golden curls upon your big chest, the rich tangle of your beard, and find that you might suit me well. My bed is eager; my appetites deep, and you will last many a moon.”

“Do what you will to me,” said Justinian, sinking to his knees, “only free my prince. Let him return to his people, to mend and prosper without my foolishness.”

The warlock shrugged. “As you wish, so shall it be—but I am no child to be gulled like you. I will bind you, until I am assured your word is good.”

“Very well. You shall have me, for I count myself worthless now. But the prince—”

“Pah. A small matter.” The warlock snapped his fingers, and Leif Thurlasson rose to his feet. “Go you now,” commanded the warlock, “and find your mead-hall, tarrying not until you have it in sight. By black thread and broken reed, I release you.”

And the prince staggered out through the empty doorway, his face towards the west; in his wordless passage, he showed no recognition of his Southlands lover, which tore Justinian’s heart the deeper.

The warlock grinned, and kinder grins were seen in graves. He snapped his fingers again, and thick ropes wound from the corners of the chamber, twisting around Justinian’s ankles and his wrists. The touch of them brought a shiver of disgust, and he knew they were no common ropes.

“No steel can cut, nor fire burn, these bindings,” laughed the warlock. “You will grow used to them, and when you grow used to me, I may command them back into their dens. If not, there are parts of you unbound that will bring me amusement in the days to come.”

Thus was Justinian subject to the warlock’s whims. Ofttimes the sorcerer was far from his hold, making mischief in this land or another. One day was he Gullscope; another was he Peterkin, or Malvolt, or even Sweet Peggy, so easy did he move from guise to guise. And on certain cold nights the man would return, and take pleasures with Justinian’s body, delighting that his new captive was full of form, caressing the golden hair on every limb and in every secret place ....

The ropes which bound Justinian had their own ways, giving him lease to attend to most needs, but they would tighten fit to break bone should he offer threat or stray beyond the warlock’s doorway. The blade used to carve his meat would not mark them, nor could his teeth split a single fibre from their coils. True to the warlock’s word, when Justinian braved the fire and held his bound wrists over the flames, all that came were pain and blisters; the ropes remained unmarked.

His only comfort, in pain or unwanted pleasure, was to know that he had freed the Red Bear of Norroway, that his prince was safe, and might—in time—recover from the warlock’s wickedness and Justinian’s folly ....

 

 

TWO MOONS HAD PASSED; HIS captor was away in the land of the Finns, but would soon return, and Justinian’s will was low. The sun in the warlock’s land was without vigour, but the captive would drag himself to doorway and stare longingly to the west. Not the least discomfort of his prison was the rank smell within, and the scuttling noises from the shadowed corners.

On one drear morning, he sat silent between the pillars of bone, when he heard a harsh caw, and saw a single rook tumbling and swooping in the air. For a heartbeat he remembered his journey, and in the next, he saw a tall figure striding the earth towards the hold, coming from the Weeping Plain. Too tall for the warlock, surely? Half Justinian’s great heart hoped for the prince to have come; the other half wished his lover safe and far away.

Leif Thurlasson it was, for good or ill. Gaunt and fell-looking, he walked with a long spear rested on his shoulder, halting as he espied Justinian in the doorway.

“Better I die at warlock’s hands, than live loveless in my empty hall,” said Leif before Justinian could even rise.

“Avaunt!” the captive cried out, torn between love and fear. “Go back, dear soul! The foeman is on his way, and we have naught that can give him pause.”

Lief ran forward, and kissed Justinian tenderly upon the lips, stroked the golden hair.

“What has he done to you?”

“I am bound hard to this hold, and cannot leave. My prince, if failing you and freeing you are equal measure, then nothing is owed. Go back to your mead-hall and your people, and forget.”

“Neither can I do,” said Leif taking out his sword.

He slashed at the ropes; he stabbed the point between their strands; he hauled with all his might. There was no yielding.

Again the lone rook croaked its warning.

“The warlock is near,” gasped Justinian—yet the bird’s call drew his thoughts back to the brooch he had used in that time of need. “Wait—my pack is by the bed within. There is a knife there ....”

The prince swept past, and was soon back with the obsidian knife of Justinian’s mother.

“No steel can cut these bindings, the warlock said.” Justinian gazed upon the glistening black stone blade, edged like sudden night. “And no steel is in your hand.”

Sure enough, the ropes might have been soft flax beneath the obsidian; almost was it that they parted and fled, rather than let it touch them. Eager hands pulled the last of the strands away, and Justinian was free.

“He is come,” said Justinian, seeing a swift movement over the prince’s shoulder. “But I am fearless when we are shoulder to shoulder, even to our ending.”

There in the bone doorway they stood, and looked hard on Gullscope and his furrowed brows.

“Two pretty birds, eh?” The warlock’s lips formed a narrow smile. “No matter. This time I shall keep you both, I think—one for the bed and one to scour the pans.”

The prince hefted his spear and stabbed forward, yet a mere whisper from Ovelamieli shattered it, casting the fragments aside.

Justinian groaned, too worn to think of what else he could do.

“I am not made,” said the warlock, “to be taken by the weapons of men—or by those of women, if you think yourself clever.” He lifted one thin hand to snap his fingers and work some evil ....

“Clever enough,” said the prince, “to turn your ways upon you. As you gave, so shall you be given,” and drew from his tunic a singed and ragged piece of hide, with coarse red hair upon it. “Not all was fully burned—nor is a doom so ill when it is chosen.”

And he thrust the hide between his lips.

In an instant his gaunt form filled, grew, and in Leif’s place stood the Red Bear of Norroway, more terrible than a troll, more vengeful than a thwarted love. The warlock froze at the change, his snapping fingers stilled by shock, and that pause was plenty; he had neither Finnish cunning nor stolen glamour enough to escape the two huge paws which clapped sudden to his skull, claws sinking to the bone .…

Spine parted, sinew snapped, and the head of Gullscope bade an unexpected farewell to the body which had borne it. Over and over in the air it went, and when it fell it was but a misshapen lump of rock, like any other boulder thereabouts.

The Red Bear of Norroway bellowed, and turned to where Justinian stood, black blade now in his hand.

“Would you still have me in your arms?” growled the bear.

“Oh, I would, my prince.”

And letting the knife fall, Justinian charged full into the embrace of the coppery beast. Such love and urgency was there in that charge, that the piece of hide shot out of the prince’s mouth.

Instantly did the form in Justinian’ s arms shudder and change, but to their wonder, Leif of the Broad Spear was no longer the massive bear that had been there a moment before, nor was he the gaunt and troubled man that had been its shadow. Instead, he stood fine and proud, his long red hair shining, his beard a proud mane at his jaw, and his chest as wide as Justinian’s.

“Well now,” said the younger of the lovers, “This doom I like. More of a prince than ever to hold in the cold nights.”

Leif marvelled at this new form, caught twixt shaggy beast and noble man. “I shall not complain,” he grinned. “Though we may need a sturdier bed.”

Justinian nodded. “I shall ask that such be my troth-gift from my mother, when we tell her of our triumph.”

And he laughed full loud until his belly shook.

“But for now, ‘I need not look for maidens’ arms; another one has shown his charms.’”

 

 

SO IT WAS THAT, WHEN the Red Bear of Norroway and his lover took ship to the Southlands and stood in the great hall of Justinian’s line, none could question that Justinian’s heart had chosen as it must. Naysayers could not be found, for those few skulked in meanness in their homes and battened on petty thoughts.

“The Red Bear and the Gold,” announced the heralds, and in brightness were the two lovers hand-fasted. This joyful deed was done before the eyes of Andrys, his dark-eyed Aisha and their new son; of Erys wise in his governance, and of the queen, who had no complaint that the Northlands were now her ally.

Besides, she too had a generous nature. She had heard that Leif yet had an unwed aunt in Norroway, a fine, big woman who was said to be seeking warmer climes—and possibly a goose-feather quilt to share ....