This Rough Magic

'Give it a little while longer and I'll go and scout. That was the luckiest rainstorm in history,' said Kari.

Bjarni raised an eyebrow. 'Maybe so. But why did the stream flood before the rain fell?'

'It must have rained higher up in the catchment, Bjarni.'

The oldest Thordarson brother shook his head. 'This damned trickle hasn't got a catchment worth talking about, Kari. There is something funny going on here. I hope things haven't just got worse.'

'There is someone coming up the gorge!' shouted the hearthman on guard up on the slope.

They all took cover, including Svanhild. 'Pick your marks!' commanded Bjarni. 'Don't open fire until I say so.'

Svanhild peered anxiously toward the mouth of the gorge. Bright sunlight was shivering into scatterings of brief rainbows through the last veils of rain. The rider came in sight around the corner. His dark hair was wet and plastered about his face, but Svanhild knew those facial planes instantly. Her heart hammered, and she found herself abruptly breathless.

'Svanhild!' he called, his voice echoing off the cliffs.

A shot boomed. The bullet kicked a white spurt of dust from the limestone next to the rider's head. Erik Hakkonsen whirled his horse in the direction of the firing and shook an empty fist. 'You stupid Vinlander bastard! I've come to rescue you!'

Svanhild stopped only long enough to lay down her bow, and then was out and running down the slope. 'Erik! Erik!'

A huge smile nearly split Erik's face in half. As she skidded to a halt on the slippery rock beside his stirrup, his face went from angry and anxious to—well . . .

Foolish. 'Er. Good morning, Svanhild Thordardottar.'

She stood there smiling up at him, feeling equally foolish and desperately wishing she could think of something to say. He vaulted down from the dun he was riding. She could see, though it was no help, that he too was fumbling for words. All the long and carefully thought-out speeches had gone from her head, as if she had never even considered making them. But she had to help get something started, or they would both stand there, looking, not touching, not saying anything.

'Why is your hair dark now?' was all she could think of to say.

He ran his fingers through his hair as if he had not known it was dark. 'I was trying to pass as one of the locals.'

Svanhild looked at him, branding his appearance into her memory, in case—well, in case. He was tall, lean and athletic; she had known that, of course, but now she was aware of it. His face had a hewn masculinity to it, planar and strong, and nothing detracted from the way he looked in her eyes, not even the soot on his face and the water dripping from his hair.

Then a thin sliver of reality intruded. With the high cheekbones and the straight hair, even with his skin and hair darkened, Erik looked as much like a local as a wolf looks like a bison. She had to laugh. And Erik began laughing with her. By the time that her brothers and their hearthmen joined them, they were virtually leaning on each other, helpless with laughter.

* * *

Benito heard the shot, and decided he'd come running. He was wise enough about his own horsemanship to approach on foot. He also kept his head down. Still, by the time he got to where he could see them, the Vinlanders, Erik and his sweetheart were all standing around beaming at each other.

'Well, they look really miserable.'

Benito turned to see both Spiro and Thalia had followed him. Spiro was being his usual quirky self.

'Good,' said Benito. 'Let's go and make them more miserable and tell them they have got to get out of here. Before the villagers come back and roast them again, or roll rocks on them.'

Thalia shook her head. 'Not likely. The men will be hiding under their beds and hoping their wives don't find out where they decided to make a fire.'

'I wouldn't tell these foreigners that in case they decide to have a roast goat to celebrate,' said Spiro. 'People are very touchy about their goats around Paleokastritsa. More touchy about their goats than their wives, which, if you look at the wives, makes sense. Not like the women in Liapadhes, of course.'

Thalia looked at him with her mouth open, as if she wasn't entirely certain whether or not Spiro was mad.

Spiro winked at her. 'Of course the goats around Liapadhes are prettier than those in Paleokastritsa, too. They have to be.'

Benito walked out to the Vinlanders rather than find out any more about the local goats and goat- herds.

'Ah, Benito,' Erik greeted him. 'Friends, this young gentleman is the reason I'm here.'

'And will be the reason we're getting out of here, Erik.' Benito was getting increasingly anxious to break up the happy reunion. 'The locals might come back, and besides, that fire will have told every Hungarian trooper in the area that something is going on here.'

'But where will we go?' asked Svanhild, her face passing from joyful to desperate in a single moment. 'Everyone is trying to kill us.'

'We'll go back to Paleokastritsa,' Benito said firmly, as Spiro and Thalia picked their way toward the group. 'You'll have to do some explaining about their goats. And pay for them.'

The biggest of Vinlanders snorted. 'Of course we will pay for their goats! We would have paid in the first place, if anyone had been willing not to run away from us. What were we supposed to do? Starve?'