Daikaijuzine

The vision was stronger this time.

Fedya Babin had tossed the runes three times a day, three days in a row, and read the prophecy the Gods gave him. This was the last of the nine readings, and as the old, worn stones came to a stop he could already see that the promised fate would be the same.

And with the rune prophecy came the vision, a tendril of the future winding through his brain: ships, faintly seen, though their high dragon-headed prows marked them as Viking craft. A battle with the dark-haired Islanders, who attacked — and attacked again. He saw the Islander’s King fall and knew the foreigner had won.

Chaos.

Fedya, still kneeling by the runes, looked up at his master. King Hardrada scowled, but the red-haired foreigner beside the king grinned expectantly, his eyes bright with inner fire. Everyone knew Earl Tostig was a madman to come to them with this plan —

And yet the sacred runes did not lie, not three times a day, three days in a row.

"Well?" King Hardrada demanded.

"The island will fall and a foreign master rule." Fedya’s fingers moved over the ancient stones, still trembling from the fire of the vision. "Here — the invaders come by dragon ships, and here the great man conquers and rules."

"See," Tostig said. "I told you we would win! This is no time to hold back! We must hurry to slay my brother, and take back my land. Hurry to win –"

"Quiet," Hardrada said. Earl Tostig glared as he fell silent. He wasn’t used to being ordered; a bad ally on such a dangerous quest.  "What about the Bastard in the south?"

"The winds of fate are against him," Tostig said, daring to speak again. "His allies aren’t anxious to make the crossing, and the season is late."

Any man could see that much truth, but only Fedya could give the Viking leader more. He had told the rune prophesy nine times now, and it had always been the same answer.

And still Hardrada hesitated, staring at Fedya for a long silent moment. "You are telling me the truth, aren’t you, Seer?"

"I would never lie about a prophecy, Master. Not even to you."

The king backhanded him for that reply, and sent him sprawling. He’d been lucky: Hardrada was a berserker and could break bones with a single blow. Instead, Fedya only lay dazed on the floor, while visions of the future collided with images of now. He was unsure what was real. Closing his eyes didn’t help: he saw death, and the fall of the foreign king, and his heart pounded at the loss, as though that stranger should mean something to him. Fedya wanted no part of this invasion. He’d seen too many of the berserker Viking’s wars.

"Take the seer away," the King said. "Get him ready for the journey."

Earl Tostig laughed with delight.

Fedya had spent many years ensconced on Solund Island, away from the Christian Clergy, but still within Hardrada’s reach. He had come into the Viking’s care in Constantinople while Hardrada still served the Byzantines. He’d prophesized wars and victories all across the continent, and Hardrada had never let him far out of reach when they started to come true. Fedya had thought he would die on this cold, wet island, as far west as his own visions would ever take him.

But today he sat huddled in a dark cloak, his back pressed against the ship’s prow with the intricately carved dragon’s head towering menacingly overhead. Dawn painted the whitecaps with pink. Blood color, Fedya thought, watching the line of ships behind them as they pulled out of the fjord and headed for the sea.

Earl Tostig stepped toward the ship’s edge, barely avoiding the rowers as they fought the ship across the waves. Fedya watched, wishing Tostig would fall overboard and drown, even though he knew the man wouldn’t die that way. Knew it without knowing more, though he suspected Tostig’s death was entwined with the upcoming battles.

The wind caught the square sail and men who had been rowing gave grunts of relief and shipped the oars. Fedya heard Odin’s name whispered in old prayers. These men weren’t as devout as their Christian priests might like. With the land still in sight they were already reverting to their older gods. He did not hear Christ called upon, not here on the open sea.

Fedya was ill for most of the trip, and remembered little except the gray on gray world of the wide ocean. They had an unexceptional crossing. The king had brought one of his wives and two of his daughters for part of the journey, and paused at Orkney Island for what was doubtless an extravagant feast. Fedya, locked in a cell below the keep, was grateful just to be off the ship.

"Tell me my future."

Fedya sat up slowly from the cold bench. Someone stood in the doorway, and for a moment he wasn’t certain — but then he saw the flickering of fire through the red hair. Tostig.

"Tell me," the man said and took a step closer.

Fedya’s hands brushed against his belt and the rune stones he always kept close. But he knew better than to cast for this madman, even without the knowledge of what Hardrada would do if he found out.

"No," he told this man, knowing it was dangerous to deny him. "I do not See for just anyone."

"I’m not just anyone," Tostig said, his voice rising. "I will be King  –"

"Will you? Then you do not need my prophecy, do you?"

He would never have said such a thing to Hardrada, but only because he knew he would pay for it with blows and broken bones. Tostig, if he were lucky, would kill him.

But not today. A guard arrived at the door, carrying a bright torch in his hands. Fedya lifted a hand to shield his eyes.

"Sir, no one is allowed to see this one," the guard said. "The King’s orders."

Tostig stood a moment longer, than turned and fled the room. The door closed behind him, and Fedya sat on the bench, his fingers brushing against the pouch. When he closed his eyes, he saw the Earl dead on the battlefield.

It was not a vision he wished to share with the man.

Days passed before Hardrada came for him again. He left the women on the island and took the ruler’s two sons instead. The fine young men would show their mettle (and perhaps win the daughters) in the battle.

The princes spent their time listening to Hardrada’s tales, and probably thought the man boasted and embellished. Fedya, who had been with the King since far too long, knew that the bloody tales were all true. The raids, the lies, the killing. At fifty years of age, Hardrada should have been dead a dozen times over. Instead he went again to kill —

And be killed?

That unbidden thought sent an unexpected chill through Fedya. He wouldn’t mourn the death of the berserker king, but he had not foreseen it. He knew the rune stones hadn’t lied. And yet… he had a feel for something not quite right.

They finally made landfall on a dismal and unremarkable day, coming ashore near an ill-fated little fishing village. King Hardrada, the great Viking, climbed the cliff so that he could send a bonfire from the heights down on the thatch roofs of a village below. Scarbur burnt to the ground, the Vikings killing all who tried to escape. Another great Viking victory.

Tostig left them the next day, going inland on his own business. Hardrada watched the earl ride away with obvious misgivings.

"Fedya –" he began.

"He’ll be back before the battle," Fedya said as they headed back to the dragon ships. "I’ve seen it."

Perhaps it was the look in Fedya’s face that stopped the king from asking more.

In the foggy morning light, they caught a glimpse of the enemy fleet, the phantom ships retreating up some nameless river before them. Dangerous — they might set a trap.

The next day Hardrada’s ships reached a split in the river. They could clearly see thee enemy sailing up the narrow channel to the right, where it wouldn’t be wise to take the larger Viking ships. The left channel was wider — but if they sailed in that direction, the enemy ships would come back and block their retreat.

"Moor the ships. Make certain we’re able to pull free of the shallows," King Hardrada ordered. Fedya could see fire in his eyes as the huge man looked toward the land and the nearby village.

As they were going ashore, Tostig galloped into the camp with a shout that almost won him an ignoble death as Vikings reached for swords.He laughed. A madman still, and having him back felt like a harbinger of calamity to Fedya.

Fedya rode with Hardrada to battle. So did Tostig, his blood red hair making him look like some war demon come to life. Fedya’s fingers brushed against the pouch and knew that Tostig would survive this battle. A shame. He could tell that even Hardrada was ready to be rid of the man.

It was a swift and merciless fight. The villagers were no match for Vikings.

"Hostages," Hardrada had told the deputation of weary and wounded who came to beg peace. "Five hundred hostages, or else we ravage all the land as far as you can see. Do you understand?"

They did.

Fedya went back to the ship, sickened by the butchery, but Hardrada feasted for the next three days, celebrating his great victory over the hapless villagers.

The forth morning felt cool, the world finally quiet as they rode to claim the hostages. At least Stamford Bridge wasn’t far away, an easy landmark they could all find. Fedya didn’t look forward to seeing the prisoners, ready to be handed over to their new Viking master. He remembered that moment too well for himself.

"Your seer is too quiet," Tostig said, eyes narrowed as he looked at Fedya. "Why did you bring him?"

"Never leave a weapon where an enemy might pick it up. That fleet is still on the river."

"He’s useless," Tostig said and glared.

"Shall we have a prophecy from him now?" Hardrada asked, impatience in his voice. "Shall we sit in the mud so he can cast his stones and tell us to go to the bridge and get the damned prisoners?"

For a moment Tostig glared at Hardrada before urging his horse ahead, though not too far from the rest of the troops.

They reached the bridge with little trouble, but instead of hostages, they found King Harold and his army. The Vision! Fedya saw the banners flying; saw the foreign King’s men attack.

The battle was long; the ground covered in blood and even the stream was thick with bodies. Fedya retreated behind the Vikings, back and back —

A great cry went up, a lament and he thought to see the enemy king dead at last, the battle turned —

But it was Hardrada who fell with an arrow through his neck. The Raven Banner toppled, and even though Tostig rushed forward to retrieve it, Fedya knew that the battle was lost.

Hardrada was dead. Fedya felt the stunning revelation of betrayal on a level he’d never known before. The gods had lied to him.

The Vikings retreated. The battle had gone out of them. Fedya tried to slink back to the ships with the rest of the Vikings. It was then that he learned the second lie: Tostig hadn’t fallen in battle. The sun was nearly set when the madman found him.

Earl Tostig saw him and screamed, swinging his sword. It was insanity to attack Fedya when the enemy still pressed in so close. Fedya tried to pull away, but the weapon cut deep into his arm. He stumbled back with the pain lancing through his body as he fell.

A tall dark man stepped over him and killed Tostig with one blow. It seemed as though the death brought silence to the world, a scream of anger cut short. The demon was dead after all.

"You’ve killed Earl Tostig," someone said. Fedya could barely understand the language. "I’ll tell King Harold we found him dead, my Lord. No use you being implicated."

"I’m grateful," the other man said, cleaning his sword on the dead man’s tunic. "We’ve trouble enough. How in God’s name did Tostig talk the Vikings into this madness?"

Fedya said nothing as he tried to wrap a piece of cloth around his bleeding arm. One of the English tied it off for him, an unexpected kindness.

In a moment another man came, a shadow in the darkness. He knelt by Tostig — his brother. King Harold shook his head and sighed.

"Better men than he have died today. I will not mourn him. Who’s this?" he said and pushed at Fedya’s leg.

"I don’t know, Sire. Tostig was trying to kill him, though."

"Was he? See to him. I’ll want to ask him questions."

"They lied," Fedya whispered, but it was not in a language the strangers understood. "Ask nothing of me."

Fever burned him for the next few days; true fever from the wound. He watched as the English King exacted an oath from the Vikings never to invade again, and gave them what ships they could man to go home. It was an act of magnanimity that no one expected.

No Viking asked for the seer who had so miserably failed their leader. Fedya, still feverish from the wound and the visions, remained in the company of King Harold. On a cool fall morning they began a journey that made him think Tostig’s brother was also mad. They rode and rode — half the length of the world it seemed — until they came to a place called Hastings.

Fedya had been a prisoner for years, a foreigner who knew little of the local history. No one had told him that the Normans were descended of Vikings, and that they still sailed in dragon-prowed ships.

Fedya Babin watched until the English King died, and witnessed his rune vision complete at last. William the Bastard became William the Conqueror, and the land fell to a foreign hand.

He stood upon the hillside, and watched the land change hands. Then, forgotten in the wake of such disaster, Fedya walked away from the battle.

He followed an old dream and traveled west until he reached the sea.There he threw the runes into the wild, white-capped ocean. He lived out his days as a hermit in the nearby forest, mistrusting man and god alike. He had seen the visions and had known the truths — and had been as blind to the future as anyone.

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About the Author: Lazette Gifford’s published work includes two chapbooks and half a Double Dog from Yard Dog Press (Honor Bound, Star Bound and Farstep Station). Her story, "Between a Rock and a God’s Place", appeared in the Issue #21 of Andromeda Spaceways Inflight Magazine, and she’s had numerous stories published in ezines and small press anthologies. Her novels include The Dark Staff Series and The Singer and St. Jude Series from Double Dragon Publishing, Muse and Ruins from One More Word Publishing, and the upcoming Mirrors from Zumaya Press. Lazette is the owner of Forward Motion (http://fmwriters.com), a large on-line community for writers, and she is the editor for Vision: A Resource for Writers (http://lazette.net/vision), now in its seventh year of production. She is also the Associate Publisher for Dragon Tooth Fantasy, an imprint of Double Dragon Publishing.

Lazette’s home page: http://lazette.net

Blog: http://zette.blogspot.com/