“I am Nils, Hammar’s son.”
“Nils.” Shakir repeated the name as if to himself. “After you killed the lion, we called your name ‘Golden Giant.'” He paused, pursing his lips. “You are different now. Look different.” Shakir tapped one of his own eyebrows. “Eyes,” he added. “My mother said you took out eyes, held them in hand.” He peered into them intently, and found no life there. “What became? They not like that before.”
“I was in an Orc prison. An Orc pierced them with his knife tip.” He tapped a glass eye with a finger, without flinching. “These were given me in their place. By friends,” he added, then indicated Baver. “Some of his people.”
It was clear that Shakir wanted to say something to that, but couldn’t find Anglic words for it. He turned to Achikh, and in Turkic said, “My mother told me you speak our language. Will you interpret for me? My Anglic is too limited.”
Achikh nodded. “I do not always speak your tongue correctly, but maybe well enough.”
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“Tell the big one, Nils, that I never loved the Orcs. They offered us fighting and looting, and all we wanted to eat, if we joined them. After we joined them, we saw much we thought ill of, but it was not possible to leave then. And there remained the prospect of battles and pillage.”
Achikh passed the message on.
“Also tell him that, as for debts, I believe we are even, he and I, since we met in the forest that second time.
When Achikh had repeated this in Anglic, the Kazakh asked, “How old are you, Northman?”
“I am in my twenty-third summer now,” Nils said, and signed with his fingers.
“Twenty-three summers! If you say so, I can only believe you. But your soul is old, Northman, old, and purified by fire.”
Then he bowed deeply to Nils Järnhann.
The Kazakhs squatted, and ate their noon meal with the travelers. As they ate, Shakir spoke to Nils from time to time, sometimes in Turkic through Achikh, and sometimes in halting Anglic. Gesturing at Baver and speaking in Turkic again, he asked: “Of what people is he who wears trousers that come to his throat? Those who can give eyes to the blind are surely wizards.”
When Achikh had translated, Baver blushed.
“He is a star man,” Nils answered. “His ancestors were ancients who flew to the stars to live, very long ago.”
The Kazakh frowned. “Flew to the stars to liver”
Nils nodded. “They were mighty makers in those days. They made boats that fly endlessly high. They flew out and found a star that is much like the world we live in. They made their home there, and now they have come back to visit. They are peaceful. They do not like to fight, though the Orcs learned that when they must fight, they are dangerous.”
The Kazakhs looked carefully at Baver, then Shakir turned back to Nils. “That is a very strange story. It is hard to believe.”
Nils nodded. “It is uncanny. But I have been on the
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sky ship they came on. I have seen the world many tusen below me. At a glance I have seen from one sea to the next, and all the lands between. And many others of my people have seen the star folk come and go in the small sky boats they use to fly from the ground to their high-soaring ship.”
The Kazakhs sat digesting that for a long minute. When Shakir spoke again, he changed the subject. “And the boy,” he said, “is he your slave?”
“We Northmen no longer have slaves. He is a poet’s apprentice.” (Here Nils had to explain for Achikh, before the Buriat could interpret.)
“Ah! A poet! Tell the boy I apologize!” Shakir said. “Boy! Will you speak poetry to me?”
Hans, who d darkened and scowled at being thought a slave, lost most of his scowl now, and standing, recited in his tonal dialect, almost singing the words, his young baritone rich and firm:
“Gryma Kassi, haren brötte,
strävan sönder, dröd i dammen,
sired emot den unga hjälte.
Han vill dråp den som har gjort d’.