Will opened his eyes. The first thing he saw was a woman's face. It was the most beautiful face he had ever seen his life.
It was a young blue-eyed face, the eyes so blue they hurt him, like a laser to the cornea. They were large and widely spaced. The forehead above them was wide, and a few strands of golden hair fell over it. The nose was short, freckled and a little snubbed. The mouth was very small, and he could somehow tell that it concealed a smile to melt the heart. She reminded him a little of an actress named Inger Stevens, dead many years, though this face was rounder.
The woman was speaking, in a language he could not understand. Her voice was high, sweet and musical.
"Her voice was ever soft, gentle and low—an excellent thing in a woman." Not perfectly apt, but he'd always liked the quotation from Lear.
He could lie here (on a blanket on straw) and listen to this woman speak all day, despite the fact that he couldn't understand a word.
Something in his mind wanted attention, like an itch. He tried to scratch it with a mental finger, but couldn't seem to reach the spot.
And then he found it. The itching eased, and as it did he knew what the girl was saying.
"You're not listening to me, are you?" the girl asked.
"No, go on," said Will.
"What?"
Will realized that he wasn't speaking the same language she spoke. He sought the place in his mind where he understood her, and spoke from out of it, choosing the words carefully, gaining confidence as they came.
"I'm listening," he said in the new tongue. "Speak on. Speak on forever."
"We have to be rid of love," the girl said. "That's the secret, don't you think?"
He wanted very much to agree with her, but had to say, "Well, it seems hard. . . ."
"No, not hard at all. 'Tis love that's hard. 'Tis love makes life unbearable. Without love we'd live forever, for there'd be no need to die. It should be the king, instead of love."
"The king instead of love?"
"Aye. The king must take the families away. If the king owns all the land, and all the beasts and all the grain, he can give to each as they deserve. Let no one own a house, or a farm, or a ship. Let all be the king's. Let all the men live singly, or in companies. Let all the women be whores, and the men pay them to lie with them.
"When a child is born, let it be the king's. The king will let it live or die, as he pleases. Let the child be raised by strangers. Let there be no love for children, no love for parents, no love for a man or a woman."
"But why?" asked Will.
"So no one need die." She looked deeply at him with those lancing eyes. " 'Tis love makes us die."
Will smiled. "You mean I've no hope that you'll love me?"
The girl's eyes went dark like the lights of a house at bedtime, her face went slack, and she whirled and fell into the corner, covering her head with her arms and weeping. Will felt as if he'd stepped onto a stair tread that wasn't there as he realized that the girl was out of her mind.
The corner where she crouched joined two walls made of some kind of rough plaster framed with wood, and the floor seemed to be dirt strewn with straw or something like straw. Will paid attention for the first time to his surroundings. The room was dark, lit only by sunlight from a triangular opening at the gable end of the roof peak.
It all reminded him of something he'd seen before. What?
His right hand hurt. He held it up and saw the fingers and the ball of the thumb had been slashed. The hand was brown with dried blood, and the wounds were crusted, but he saw no sign of infection.
He didn't recognize the hand. Looking farther down, he didn't recognize his feet.
They were someone else's feet. They were larger than they ought to be. The tops were hairy, and the hair was gold-red, not brown.
And why was he naked?
And how had he gotten so strong? He looked at his legs and his stomach, and his chest as well as he could. He looked at his arms and hands.
They were massive. They were like body builders' arms, except that these were not body builders' muscles. No one had trained for definition here. This was working muscle—the kind that looks almost fat; like a powerlifter's muscles, only not exactly.
He had a beard too. He could feel it. He couldn't see what color it was, but he bet it was gold-red.
This is some other guy's body, he thought. Whoever traded this one for mine must be really pissed.
"Fortunately for you he's far from here and out of reach," said a voice. A strobelike shadow flurry made the room blink, and a large black bird flapped down to light on the straw, facing him. It pecked in the straw, came up with a maggot, swallowed it, and fixed him with one bright black eye; it seemed to have only one.
"Nevermore," said the raven.
Will goggled.
"Couldn't resist that," said the bird.
"You speak," said Will.
"Fluently. In several languages."
Will felt an urge to cower in a corner himself. He drew his knees up to his chest in a defensive reflex. "Where am I? What am I doing here? Who am I?"
"That's easily answered. You are where you've no business to be; you do what you've no business to do; you are in fact whom you've only feigned to be heretofore."
"You make game of me."
"All is a game to me, and a losing one at that."
"Then there's no profit talking to you."
"Nor in anything else in this world, or others."
"Others?" Will thought a moment. "Other worlds? Is that where I am, in some other world? My name is Will Sverdrup, I come from Earth in the twenty-first century."
"You futurelings! You always drop your century like a king's name, thinking to cow the savages."
"Futureling! Then I'm in the past? That makes sense! This could be anywhere in Europe, anywhere in the Dark Ages, or even early Medieval. Raven! Think me no fool who vaunts himself because of the year of his birth! I am one who respects the past. I try to take all men on their own terms, rather than judging by the customs to which I was born."
"Know you Yggdrasil?"
"The World Tree of the Norse? Is that where I am? Among the Norse?"
"Know you Yggdrasil?"
"Yes. The tree that upheld the Nine Worlds. The dragon Nidhogg gnawed at its roots; the Norns poured spring water on them to heal them and give growth. Beasts of all kinds dwelt in the branches."
"Upheld! Gnawed! Poured! Dwelt! You lie when you say you're not bound to the future—you think these times past even when you're in them!"
"I beg your pardon. I spoke out of usage."
"Then listen. You must not think of Yggdrasil as a tree growing up from the ground. Yggdrasil has its root at the middle, and grows out in all directions. It grows ever; it grows at all times. Even I cannot see beyond the end of its growth."
"All right."
"All right? You've naught to say past 'All right'?"
"What would you have me say?"
"Fool's question! What you say is what you are! If you know not what to say, then you're not what I require. You're useless to me. Farewell."
And with a flapping of wings that seemed large as an eagle's in the small house, the raven flew up through the smoke hole (for that was what it was—Will recognized it now) and departed.
Before Will could digest what had happened, the door of the house opened and a huge man entered. Will could not see him clearly, for the sunlight that came with him hurt his eyes.
"And is it here you are, Katla?" the newcomer roared. "Be gone with you! Is not one witling plenty to a house?" He strode to the girl, lifted her by the arm, clapped her bottom and sent her out. She ran with speed and grace, laughing.
"And you'd not the sense to drive her out?" he said to Will, standing above him with his hands on his hips. Will could see him better now. Hulk Hogan, but not bald. He had fair hair—almost white—nearly shoulder length, and a short beard of the same color. His eyes were bright blue, his complexion ruddy. His yellow woolen tunic, or shirt, had long sleeves. Those sleeves would have been roomy on an ordinary man, but fitted snug on this one. He wore rings of silver above his biceps. His trousers were of reddish wool, wrapped with woven bands below the knees rather like World War I soldiers' puttees, and he wore leather shoes. At his side hung a sword which Will recognized immediately for a Norse pattern and an early one—a straight, short guard and flat mushroom-shaped pommel. It was decorated with silverwork and brass in the shape of intertwined gripping beasts.
There could be no question. He was looking at something like a genuine Viking. Somehow he had traveled back in time. He still did not know where he was—it could be anywhere in Scandinavia, or anywhere in Europe in fact, as far as the Vikings ranged. And the exact date could be anytime within centuries (the sword could be an heirloom). But he knew more than he had. It was something.
"Why should I drive her out? She offered no harm," said Will, pulling himself to a sitting position and drawing his blanket around him.
The big man squatted. It seemed a small thing, but Will marveled at his squat. He'd never seen a man do it so easily, as if it were no trouble, as comfortably as a modern man would sink into a chair.
"You really do not know? You've forgotten yourself so much?" he asked.
"I know not what I know or what I've forgotten."
"Do you know your name?"
"My name is Vill Sverdrup." To his irritation, Will found he could not say the later "w." It came out as a "v."
"Sverdrup? 'Sword-place'? A good enough name, I suppose, but 'tis not yours."
"Then tell me what my name is, you who know so much."
"You are Amlodd, son of Orvendil, nephew to my lord, Jarl Feng."
Will fell back against the wall, unable to speak.
"Lost your tongue with your wits?" the tall man asked.
"I am Amlodd?"
"Unless he has a twin, and I've heard of none such."
"Amlodd, prince of Denmark."
"Well 'prince' would be stretching matters a bit. Hrorek is king of Denmark, and of course he's your grandfather, so I suppose you could call yourself a prince. But you're heir to the jarl, which is a high station."
"Amlodd the Dane. 'Tis I, Amlodd the Dane."
"None other."
"What of Katla? Why should I have sent her out as you say?"
"You do not know? You mock me not?"
"I swear by—let's say by Yggdrasil."
"Then I shall tell you. There are two reasons why you should never be alone with Katla. How did she behave with you?"
"She spoke of love. She was against it. When I used the word she broke down in tears."
The big man nodded. "Poor Katla. 'Twas because you spoke of love she did not touch you."
"Touch me?"
"Touch your manhood. She can't keep her hands off any man, old or young, rich or poor, hero or coward. And it drives her madder than before that none of them will lie with her."
"None will lie with her? Why not? Is such a woman as she thought ugly in this time?"
"No, of course she's fair. But she's mad."
"Yes?"
"Yes."
"And so?"
"So what?"
"So why can't a man lie with a madwoman, if she's fair? I'd think it might be good sport."
"It might, I suppose, were it not dangerous."
"Dangerous? How?"
The tall man looked him hard in the eyes. "You truly do not know?"
"You keep asking me. I swear I do not know."
"You're mad yourself. I suppose it follows you'd not understand about madness."
"I'm not mad. I just don't know."
"Of course."
Will realized, with irritation, that the man was humoring him. He said, "Tell me."
"Then listen," the man said. "Madness is a thing of Odin's. He speaks out of it. He uses it to give victory, or to destroy great men. A woman mad is a holy thing, like a beast marked for sacrifice. Her holiness and death might pass to the man, like fleas."
"But if I'm mad as you say, what harm could come to me? I've the fleas already."
" 'Tis different in your case."
"How different?"
"You're sure you don't know this?"
"For the last time—"
"All right. Katla is your sister."
"My sister."
"Your half-sister to state it clear. Her mother was a thrall but Orvendil was her father. He set her on his knee and owned her."
"My sister."
"Aye."
"My sister. My sister."
Guttorm decided, apparently, that the madman would continue to say "my sister" for some time, so he rose with another oiled movement and went out, closing the door behind him and barring it.