The Year's Best Science Fiction, Volume 29

numerous as the leaves in a forest.”

“Did the Ice Lander tell you that? They’ve no trees in the Ice Land.”

“Thorfinn Rafn’s son, he names himself. He is not from the Ice Land, but from some other place farther off. They call it the New-Found Land.”

“‘New-found,’ is it? St. Brendan the Navigator sailed the shores of Ui Braiseal in the long ago.”

David shrugged. “Thorfinn said that some of those who went with Eric the Red to the Green Land discovered it. He thinks two hundred years ago. Perhaps they went looking for Irishmen to plunder. It’s what vikings did back then, and ’tis said that a party of monks fled west from the Ice Land when the Danes first came to it.”

“The Saga of the Lost Danes,” said Kevin. “I’ve heard that tale sung by their skalds down in Galway Town. When Leif went back, he found no trace of the settlement; only some cryptic runes. Then he vanished, too. I never thought it was true; only a saga the Ostmen made up for amusement.”

“Olaf Gustaf’s son—he’s the tall one, the Galwegian—believed so, too. But he can understand the Danish that Thorfinn speaks. It’s near enough the Ice Land tongue. Olaf says it’s like talking to his grandsire’s grandsire. This Thorfinn claims that Leif’s party in the Vine Land met with savages—skraelings, they called them—but found them easy enough to overawe. Then one day the skraelings were attacked from the south by an army of the o Gonklins…”

“O Gonklins, was it?” said Donnchad. “So they were Irish after all?”

“It sounded like ‘o Gonklin.’ They came as foot soldiers, like the old Roman legions, but with a troop of cavalry mounted on large, hairy horses. As shaggy as the ponies from Shet Land or Ice Land, yet as large as those the Foreigners ride. The skraelings ran, and Leif’s people saw that there was no fighting such a force. They were taken to the king of the o Gonklins, who moved them to a city farther west, on the shore of a great inland sea, and that’s why the Green Landers never found them again.”

“That makes a better saga than the one they sing in Galway,” Kevin admitted.

“The o Gonklins were pushing their empire into the plains and so had little interest in the Green Land Danes. They kept a watch on the northern shores and captured any Green Lander vessel that came near thereafter, settling their crews in the new Danish towns on the Inland Sea. That’s why the Green Landers gave up sailing those waters. No one ever came back.”

“In Galway Town,” Kevin said, “they say there is a maelstrom west of the Green Land that swallows ships whole.”

David shrugged. “There is probably more to the story. I think the Danes helped The o Gonklin capture the Grass Lands; and Thorfinn said something about giant hairy cattle and giant hairy elephants, but maybe Olaf misunderstood.”

“Is it everything in their land that is giant and hairy, saving only the men?” Donnchad asked, and the others laughed.

“So now their king is wondering where these Danes were after coming from?” guessed Gillapadraig.

“Once he had pacified the marchlands—Thorfinn called it Thousand Lakes Land—the king thought to look east and sent these emissaries. At least, that was the story I was told. The o Flaherty said that their ship made landfall out in o Malley’s Country. Savages the Picts may be, but they know how to separate a man from his head. Yet the Red Foreigners, few as they are, drove them off. The survivors then made their coasting until they found the mouth of Lough Corrib. That’s where they found Olaf.”

“And why was he not taking them to Galway Town?”

“Olaf is out-law there and, anxious for his neck, he guided them upriver to The o Flaherty’s stronghold instead.”

Gillapadraig pursed his lips. “An embassy, is it,” he said.

David looked at him. “That’s what I thought. Sure, who sends an embassy out with no care to which king he is sending it?”

* * *

O Flaherty took David stag-hunting the following day, in company with the sons of Rory and the eagle-chief of the o Gonklins, who bore the outlandish name of Tatamaigh. As all were chiefs of some consequence, they were accompanied by their men-of-trust to the number prescribed by the cain-law, by gillies to wait upon their needs, and by huntsmen and skinners and kennels of hounds, so that the party, withal, resembled a small war band and required a fleet of boats to set them on the western shore of the lough.

They rode the soft emerald hills of Oughterard, across meadows and peat-land, with great silent hounds loping before. Beaters started the red deer and chased them from the forest into the aire-lords’ embrace, to be welcomed by the kiss of arrow and javelin. The sun was to their backs and the wind off the distant southern sea, so that a mist hung over all the land, filling up the valleys like milk. Oughterard lay in Moycullen, The o Flaherty’s tuath-lands, and rolled westward in gentle hills toward the farther, rougher peaks of Connemara.

They had brought down three deer—one by each chief, as was fitting—when the beaters started a boar.

The first sign David had of it was the shriek of one of the beaters as he was tusked, followed by the baying of the deer-hounds as, gray and growling, they encircled the beast. The hunters raced their ponies toward the brush at the forest’s edge, followed by the other beaters and footmen.

The boar was all bristles and red eyes. Caught in a ring of snapping hounds, it turned first this way, then that, then fell to tearing with his tusks at a pair of saplings behind him. The saplings grew too close together to permit the boar passage, and a good thing, too, for taking refuge behind them was the gilly of the Red Foreigners. The man’s robe was torn and a part of it hung askew. His curious headgear had come off as well, tangled a bit on the boar’s right foreleg and leading like a path to his sanctuary. His eyes bulged with terror and his hair, now unencumbered with wrapping, fell black and matted to his shoulders.

The eagle-chief reined in some distance away and paced his mount in jerky circles. His retinue spread out to protect him, but none came closer.

All this David saw with only part of his attention. He waited until the boar, alternating between attacks on the gilly and fending off hunters and hounds, had made another of its quarter turns. Then he hurled his javelin into the beast’s neck. The boar gave forth the most horrid grunts and cries. Turlough, riding up, fleshed his spear as well, while Little Hugh leapt from his pony and approached on foot, holding a boar-spear in front of him. He made barking cries at the creature, trying to goad it into attack.

Turlough went white. Behind him, David saw The o Flaherty’s archers with arrows nocked, waiting for their king’s guest to get out of the way. He gave Turlough a glance, then buried a second javelin into the boar’s left eye.

The pig squealed and thrashed and toppled onto its side, kicking. For a moment, it seemed that it might rise up once more; then it shrugged and collapsed. Little Hugh, seeing his chance, dashed forward and struck with the spear from the blind side, but by then the blow was no more than a death-grace.

When the boar had twitched at last into stillness, the trapped gilly stepped out of his shelter, edging around the carcass without taking his moon-eyes from it, then scurried behind David’s pony, which started a bit at the motion.

Turlough rode to David’s side. “Well struck,” he said, offering his hand. When David took it, he added in a whisper, “And my thanks for saving my fool brother’s neck. He’s young, and young men are rash.”

“As well, that; for where else do old men learn wisdom save from the rash deeds of their youth.”

Turlough laughed. The o Flaherty, who had also ridden up, studied the boar. “He is nearly as large as the one I slew for the banquet.”

David said, “That creature will grow larger with every telling, I’m thinking.” Turlough laughed again, and The o Flaherty slapped David on his back. “As big as the Dun Cow!” he cried.

“You’re after finding some fine allies,” David said as Turlough and The o Flaherty turned away.

His words reined them back. “And your meaning…?” asked Turlough.

David signaled with the finger-ogham to indicate Tatamaigh and his retinue. “What sort of chief does not trouble himself to protect his own gilly?”

“As for that,” The o Flaherty said, “boars are unknown in their country and his people feared to draw near.”