Beyong the Gap

enamored of it.

Audun Gilli looked this way and that with curiosity both avid and wary. Probably wondering where his next snootful will come from, Count Hamnet thought.

Before he could say anything—if he was going to—Trasamund burst into song. The Bizogot language was related to the Raumsdalian, but only distantly. To Hamnet Thyssen's ear, the tongue the mammoth-herders used was rolling and guttural and raucous. Any time a Bizogot spoke his own language, he sounded full of himself. He couldn't help it; the language itself made him sound that way.

'How much of the Bizogot tongue do you know?' Ulric Skakki asked Hamnet.

'Enough to get by,' the noble answered. 'They'll never think I'm a native, but one look at me and they'll know I'm not, so that doesn't matter. How about you?'

'I'm in the same sleigh,' Ulric answered.

Trasamund was in full flow, going on about the Breath of God, about mammoth dung and musk-ox meat, about hunting lions in the snow, about God's curtains (which was what the Bizogots called the northern lights), about fighting enemy clans and leading away their sobbing women after a victory, and about everything else that went into a northern nomad—all in long rhymed stanzas with perfect scansion. Hamnet Thyssen didn't admire the way of life the jarl extolled, but he admired the way Trasamund extolled the life.

So, evidently, did Ulric Skakki. 'How does he do that?' Ulric said. 'He's no bard, but it just pours out of him.'

Count Hamnet couldn't answer, because he didn't know, either. But Eyvind Torfinn said, 'He has little blocks of poetry that he uses to make his big poem.'

Ulric Skakki scratched his head. 'Sorry, your Splendor, but I don't follow that.'

'Well, listen to him when he's talking about mammoths,' Eyvind said. 'If he needs four syllables in front of them to pad out his line, they're always heavy-bodied mammoths. Always. That's the four-syllable epithet for mammoths. But if he only needs two syllables, then they're great-tusked mammoths. They're towering mammoths if he needs three, and black mammoths if he needs one. Those are the only epithets you'll ever hear attached to mammoths. He has others for lions and for fire and for snow and for God and for the rest of the things that go into a Bizogot's life. You see? Building blocks.'

'By God,' Hamnet Thyssen said. 'By God!' He sketched a salute to Earl Eyvind. 'I thank you, your Splendor. That's been under my nose for years, and I never saw it.'

'Nor I,' Ulric Skakki said.

'Wizards in the Empire will do the same thing,' Audun drilli said. 'It makes spells easier to memorize.'

'Do you understand the Bizogot language?' Hamnet asked.

'No, not past a few curses,' Audun answered. 'Maybe I will learn more.' He shrugged. 'Or maybe not.'

Trasamunds enormous wave encompassed the whole great sweep of land ahead. 'We ride!' he roared.

Ride they did. Shrubs dotted the plain. Hamnet needed a while to see that some were oaks and birches. Up here, with the cold and the wind above and the frozen ground below, they couldn't grow into proper trees. Farther north still, near the edge of the Glacier, they got no bigger than violets or daisies down in warmer climes.

A bird glided across the sky above them. A hawk, Hamnet Thyssen thought. But after a moment he realized he was wrong. It was an owl, a snowy owl. They often hunted by day. Everything up in the Bizogot country seemed confused.

'There are folk in the south who say seeing an owl by daylight is the worst of bad omens,' Audun Gilli remarked.

'Let them come to the north country, the free country, the great country, and they will see they are mistaken,' Trasamund boomed. Even speaking Raumsdalian, he sounded as if he were declaiming his song of praise.

In a low voice, Ulric Skakki said, 'They might think coming to this God-frozen place was the worst of bad omens, and if they saw an owl by daylight that would only prove it.'

'I shouldn't wonder,' Hamnet replied, also quietly. To his way of thinking, the closer to the Glacier a stretch of land was, the madder a man had to be to want to live on it. The way the Bizogots behaved did little harm to his theory. He asked, 'What's the weather like beyond the Glacier?'

Ulric made sure Trasamund wasn't paying any attention to him before he answered, 'It's not much different from this, as a matter of fact.'

'You surprise me,' Hamnet said. 'I would have expected worse.'

'I expected worse myself,' Ulric said. 'But it seems as if the weather that blows down off the Glacier is already about as bad as it can be. Whether that amounts to a disaster or a consolation depends on your point of view, I suppose.'

Hamnet Thyssen was temperamentally inclined to look on the gloomy side of things any which way. Hearing that things in these parts were as bad as they could be gave him a somber sort of satisfaction.

The snowy owl swooped. It rose again with something writhing in its claws. It wouldn't go hungry for a while—or maybe it had nestlings that would feast on the mouse or vole or rabbit it had caught. By the purposeful way it flew, Hamnet Thyssen guessed it was off to share its prey.

He glanced over at Gudrid. To his relief, she didn't notice him doing it. Her eyes were on the owl. They glowed. They sparkled. He supposed it was the pleasure of watching the kill. That was like her, sure enough. The chilly wind painted roses on her cheeks. She looked uncommonly vivacious, uncommonly beautiful. In spite of everything Hamnet knew, his manhood stirred.

Angrily, he looked away.

When the dogs came bounding toward the travelers, Hamnet first took them for a pack of dire wolves. They were as fierce as dire wolves, baying and howling and showing their yellow fangs. They were almost as big as dire wolves; several of them looked big enough to bridle and saddle. And, by the way they loped forward, they were as hungry as their wild cousins, too.

Trasamund stood up in the stirrups and roared curses at them in his own language. Men would have cringed. The dogs took no notice. On they came.

Ulric Skakki proved himself the relentless pragmatist Count Hamnet thought him to be—he strung his bow and nocked an arrow. That seemed like such a good idea, Hamnet imitated it. He didn't think killing a couple of these brutes would scare off the rest. That could work with men, but wouldn't with beasts. But the living might feed on the dead, which would make them less enthusiastic about attacking the travelers.

Off to one side as usual, Audun Gilli muttered to himself. Hamnet Thyssen thought nothing of it; Audun spent too much time muttering to himself, maybe as consolation for drinking less. This muttering, though, proved different.

From the air in front of Trasamund came a growl that might have burst from God's throat if God happened to be a dog. Hard on the heels of the growl followed a snarl like ripping canvas, then another growl, and then some furious barks that almost deafened Hamnet and spooked his horse.

He wouldn't have made a useful archer. How was he supposed to shoot when he had all he could do to keep from getting pitched off the horse and onto his head? Next to him, Ulric Skakki also fought to stay in the saddle.

It turned out not to matter. The onrushing dogs stopped so short, they dragged their bottoms on the ground as they dug in their hind legs. They seemed to decide they had urgent business elsewhere—with their lawyer, perhaps, or at the tailor's. They ran the other way as fast as they'd charged ahead—and much less noisily.

A few more growls and woofs right behind them spurred them on their way. Audun Gilli stopped muttering. The dog the size of God fell silent, too. Hamnet Thyssen was no scholar. He left that to Eyvind Torfinn, who was welcome to it. Scholar or not, Hamnet recognized cause and effect when he saw them.

Once he persuaded his horse that the God-sized dog wouldn't devour it in the next heartbeat, he bowed in the saddle to Audun. 'That was fine wizardry,' he said. 'You know I've had my doubts about you, but you just buried a lot of them.'

'My thanks.' Sweat beaded on Audun's face despite the chill. 'The sounds weren't hard, though getting them loud enough took a little doing. But I think the scent worked even better.'

'Good God!' Ulric Skakki said. Count Hamnet nodded—he couldn't have put it better himself. What would a dog that sounded like that smell like? Not having a dog's nose, he couldn't fully understand the answer. But he had some idea of what it must be, anyhow. A dog that sounded as if it was the size of God smelled .. .