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BEYOND THE BITTER SEA: A novel by J.G. Knott—Life is like a river, changing course when least expected. Slowly drifting down the Euphrates River on a reed​.
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And it is without humanity Joseph Sale has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act to be identified as the author of this work. This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Seldom do we come together to meet one another on these wretched marches, these poor northern parts. Let us clasp hand in hand, fingers in fingers, so that we may sing fine things Poem 1, The Kalevala. The man looked out from the door of his house towards the Cracked Lands to the north and saw riders in full armour streaming like a black, rotten river over the verdant plains he knew as his home.

This day had been a long time coming. Kaleva had never had a king or needed one, but in the past the old singer Vainamoinen had been there to set things right. People came.

People listened. But it was more than that. It was the old man who had cured the Lappish people of the sickness with his music, and the old man who had stopped the Sampo falling into the hands of the Hag. In the winter it was only the fire that stopped the Lappish people freezing and guided travellers when the dark settled in.

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There was no music and no old man Vainamoinen to deliver them now. After that, Joukahainen had counted the days until someone started to think the lands looked ripe enough to pluck. The sun was setting behind the dark line of riders. People had already started to run from their homes. Mothers clutched babes to their chests or dragged screaming children by the hand behind them.

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Other women and men grabbed pitchforks or scythes or any tools they could find to defend themselves. Lapland was not a place accustomed to war; it was the least defensible of all the five districts of Kaleva and had never had to guard its borders before. Joukahainen, however, was ready. He ducked indoors and seized his crossbow which rested by the door frame. He picked up a satchel of iron bolts and belted it around his waist and then slotted one into place on the niche of the crossbow. He glanced to take bearings like a hawk sighting its path of descent and saw that the dark host was around eight-hundred strides away though gaining momentum with the charge.

He sniffed twice and tasted a bitter, strong wind. Feet rooted like tree-trunks, he stood leaning into the gale blowing from the south. With two fingers, he smoothly drew back the string until it was taut. A mechanism clicked and he raised the weapon, closing one eye and looking down its length. The weapon was light enough to aim at speed but weighty enough to shoot steady. He breathed, swallowed, pulled at the trigger as though plucking a guitar string. The bolt whistled and flew and one of the riders lurched and toppled from his steed.


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The rider behind him kicked at his mount and it leapt over the body. This time he heard an answering scream and a smile curled his lips. Let the bastards suffer, he thought. The riders swept down into the town with grey swords drawn. The silver glint told Joukahainen they did not carry iron but steel. Their armour was painted black — the colour of the north. The elks had red eyes and foam-flecked lips which told him they were from the Demon Fields. Unlike most animals of their ilk they were unafraid of the smell of war and grown to like the taste of meat.

It made Joukahainen sick at heart to think how they had tamed so many. He kept his finger rested on the silver trigger. One Lappish farmer ran in front of the host and thrust out at a warrior with his pitchfork. The rider brought his sword down on the neck of the farmer and he tumbled to the ground and washed it red. The riders circled Joukahainen. He wondered whether they were tamed at all or merely afraid of their masters.

The warriors seemed wary enough of its shot because they pulled on the reins of their elks and the beasts stamped backwards a few paces. No one took a blade to him. One of the riders dismounted and undid the clasp of his helmet.

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Stupid, thought Joukahainen, and over-confident. He suppressed a smile, like pushing down a blooming weed in his garden. He was taken aback by how perfect it looked, as clear as crystal frost forming on blades of grass that marked the first weeks of winter. What had he expected? Something ugly and calloused? The eyes glittered.

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Joukahainen smiled. As if it was that easy: the crossbow was more a part of him than his own hand. Hand it over.

He raised the crossbow straight at the head of the beautiful warrior and pulled the trigger. The bolt screamed out of the shaft like a fish cutting through water. Joukahainen blinked. He looked down. The crossbow sat in his palms as it always had done: the string slack and trigger loose. He looked up and saw the bolt soaring off into the sky.

The warrior still stood before him, hair fluttering on the wind like a ghostly halo. A moon-sickle smile curled thin lips. Slowly, he reached into the gap between the plate of black steel and his tunic. He pulled out a glowing fragment of a gold disc that was attached to a necklace of string.

When the disc was whole the etched lines on its surface would have formed a whirlpool that thickened at its centre but this was only a piece. It gleamed as though light constantly shone on it. The warrior closed his fingers over the talisman and then replaced it behind the armour. Joukahainen shivered uncontrollably.

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There had been six fingers on the hand that clutched the piece of the Sampo. Now he knew exactly who this warrior was. Fifteen years ago Vainamoinen had been asked to bless a fatherless child born with eleven fingers. The old singer had abandoned Kaleva never to be seen again — no one seemed to know why. Some said he was afraid of the boy. Some said the boy was a sign sent by the great god Ukko giving Vainamoinen some warning or message. That almost makes us friends. Joukahainen looked up at the sky. He offered a silent, deep prayer.

Then he looked back at Kaleria: a perfect sculpture save for the unnatural hand. He looked into his eyes and saw coldness that reminded him again of winter, but this time not its beauty. Snowfoot grunted and pulled again at the oars.

Beneath their tiny craft the moonlit lake shone brighter than the surface of a polished shield. The water gurgled each time Snowfoot bent and heaved.