Snow-Walker

Five

Better gear than good sense

A traveler cannot carry.

The ship lay low in the water, rocking slightly. In the darkness it was a black shadowy mass, its dragon prow stark against the stars. Men, muffled into shapelessness by heavy cloaks, tossed the last few bundles aboard.

Jessa turned. From here the Jarlshold was a low huddle of buildings under the hill, the hall rising taller than the rest, its serpent-head gables spitting out at her.

“Did you sleep?” Thorkil asked, yawning.

“Yes.” She did not tell him about the dreams, though; the dream of walking down those endless corridors full of closed doors, the dream of Gudrun. Or that she had woken and opened a corner of the shutter at midnight, gazing out into the slow, silent snowfall, while Mord’s youngest daughter had sighed and snuggled beside her.

Now Mord was coming over, with the young man called Helgi, who was to be captain of the ship.

“Well…” Mord kissed her clumsily and thumped Thorkil on the back. “At least Wulfgar got away. They won’t find him now. The weather looks good for you....” For a moment he stared out over the water. Then he said, “Words are no use, so I won’t waste them. I will try and get Ragnar to revoke the exile, but he may not live long, and Gudrun will certainly not change things. You must face it. We all must.”

“We know that,” Jessa said quietly. “Don’t worry. We’ll manage.”

He gazed down at her. “I almost think you will.”

Releasing his gloved hand, she turned to the ship. As an oarsman lifted her over she saw the frosted scum of the water splinter and remake itself on the beach, and felt the splashes on her face harden and crack. The ship swayed as Thorkil sat down beside her, clumsy in his furred coat. The helmsman raised the call, and on each side sixteen oars swiveled up, white with their fur of frost. Then they dipped. At the first slap of wood in water, the ship shuddered and grated slowly off the shingle. The wharvesmen stepped back as she rocked and settled. Mord shouted, “Good luck!”

“He’s relieved to see us go,” Thorkil muttered.

“That’s unfair. He’s very bitter about it. Good-bye!” she yelled, leaping up, and Thorkil scrambled up into the stern and clung to the dragon’s neck. “Don’t forget us, Mord! We’ll be back!”

He seemed almost too far off to hear. But he nodded bleakly. Then he turned away.

All the cold morning the ship coasted slowly down the Tarvafjord toward the open sea, carried by the icy, ebbing tide. There was little wind and the oarsmen had to row, their backs bending and knees rising in the long, silent rhythms. Fog rose from the water and froze, leaving delicate crystals of ice on spars and planks. The ship was heavy; cluttered with sea chests and baggage, casks of beer, and cargoes for the distant settlements. All around them the fog drifted, blanking out land and sky, and the only sound it did not swallow was the soft dip and splash of the oars.

Jessa and Thorkil sat huddled up in coats and blankets, slowly getting colder and stiffer. Now there seemed to be nothing to say, and nothing to do but stare out at the drifting gray air and dream and remember. Their fingers ached with cold; Jessa thought Thorkil would have been glad even to row, but no one offered him the chance. She had already noticed how the crew watched them curiously, but rarely spoke.

Gradually the fog rose. By midmorning they could see the shore, a low rocky line, and behind it hillsides dark with trees, the snow lying among them. Once they passed a little village swathed in the smoke of its fires, but no one ran out from the houses. Only a few goats watched them glide by.

“Where are they all?” Thorkil muttered.

“Hiding.”

“From us?”

“From the Jarl. It’s his ship, remember.”

At midday the sun was still low, barely above the hills. Helgi told the helmsman to put in at the next flat stretch of shore.

Slowly the ship turned and grazed smoothly into the shallows. As Jessa climbed out, she groaned with the stiffness of her legs; the very bones of her face ached. She and Thorkil raced each other up the beach.

The oarsmen lit a fire and handed around meat and bread, throwing scraps on the wet shingle for the gulls to scream and fight over. Jessa noticed how Helgi kept close. Sudden running would be no use at all.

“How long will the journey take?” she asked, stretching out her legs and rubbing them.

Helgi laughed. “Three days—longer, if the weather turns. Tonight we travel down to the sea, tomorrow up the coast to Ost, then up the Yngvir River to a village called Trond. After that—over the ice.”

Thorkil pulled a face. “Why not go by land?”

“Because the hills are full of snow and wolves. You’re anxious to arrive, are you?”

Thorkil was silenced. Looking at him, Jessa noticed the glint of silver on his arm. “Why are you wearing that?” she asked, surprised. It was the arm ring that Gudrun had given him.

He looked down at it and touched the snake’s smooth head. “I don’t know. I hadn’t really meant to. I just put it on.... It’s valuable, after all. Where’s yours?”

“In the baggage, but I’ve a good mind to throw it over the side. It’s bad luck. I don’t know how you can wear it.”

Thorkil scowled. “I will if I want. It’s mine.”

Jessa shook her head. “It’s hers,” she said, thinking how vain he was.

“Well, don’t throw yours in the sea.” Helgi laughed. “Throw it to me instead. The sea is rich enough.”

“I might.”

Thorkil looked up suddenly. “Your men. Are they coming with us all the way?”

“To the very door,” Helgi said grimly. Behind him the oarsmen’s talk faltered, as if they had listened for his answer.

The ship reached the coast late that evening, the watchman of Tarva challenging them suddenly out of the darkness, his voice ringing across the black water. Jolted awake, Jessa heard the helmsman yell an answer, and saw the lights of the settlement ripple under the bows as the ship edged in among the low wharves.

They spent that night in the house of a merchant named Savik, who knew Helgi well, warm in his hall with three oarsmen sprawling and dicing near the only doorway. Where the rest went to, Jessa did not ask. She managed a brief word with Thorkil at the table.

“No chances yet.”

He threw her a troubled look. “You heard what he said. We won’t have any chances.”

“Yes, but keep your eyes open. You never know.”

“I suppose we could always jump overboard,” he said savagely.

Later she slept fitfully. In her sleep she felt the rocking of the boat, as if it still carried her down the long, icy fjord, and there at the end of it, floating on the sea, was a great, dark building, the winds howling in its empty passages like wolves.

In the morning they left early, as the wind was good, and as soon as they reached open water the sail was dropped with a flapping of furled canvas and the slap of ropes—a single rectangular sheet woven of strong striped cloth. The wind plumped it out into a straining arc; the ship shuddered and plunged through the spray. Jessa climbed up into the prow and watched the white seabirds wheel overhead and scream in the cliffs and crannies. Seals bobbed their heads out and watched her with dark, intelligent eyes; in bays their sluggish shining bodies lay like great pebbles on the shingle.

She turned to the oarsmen squatting in the bottom of the boat out of the wind; some sleeping, others gaming with dice for brooches or metal rings—Thorkil with them, and losing badly it seemed.

After a while Helgi clambered over and sat beside her.

“Do you feel well? No sickness?”

“Not yet.”

He grinned. “Yes, it may well come. But we have to put off some cargo at Wormshold this afternoon—that will give you a chance to go ashore. It’s a big, busy settlement, under the Worm’s Head.”

“Worm’s Head?”

“Yes. Never seen it? I’ll show you.” He took out a knife and scratched a few lines into the wooden prow. “It’s a spit of land, look, that juts out into the sea. Like this. It looks like a dragon’s head, very rough and rocky—a great hazard. There are small islets here, and skerries at the tip. The Flames, we call them. The currents are fierce around them. That dragon’s eaten many a good ship. But you’ll see it soon.”

And she did, as the ship flew through the morning. At first a gray smudge on the sea; then a rocky shape, growing as they sped toward it into a huge dragon’s head and neck of stone, stretched out chin-deep in the gray waves, its mouth wide in a snarl, dark hollows and caves marking nostrils and eyes. The wind howled as they sailed in under it, the swell crashing and sucking and booming deep in the gashed, treacherous rocks.

Wormshold was squeezed into a small haven in the dragon’s neck. As soon as Jessa saw it, she knew this would be their chance, perhaps their only chance. It was a busy trading place, full of ships, merchants, fishermen, peddlers, skalds, thieves, and traveling fraudsters of every kind. Booths and trestle tables full of merchandise crowded the waterfront; the stink of fish and meat and spices hung over the boats.

Here they could be lost, quickly and easily; she had coins sewn into the hems of her skirts; help could be bought. She tried to catch Thorkil’s eyes, but he seemed silent and depressed.

“It’ll never work,” he said.

“What’s the matter with you! We can try, can’t we!” He nodded, unconvinced.

They wandered stiffly about, glad to walk and run, even though two of Helgi’s men, the one called Thrand and the big noisy one, Steinar, trailed around behind them. Jessa felt excitement pulse through her. Only two. It might have been much worse.

They stared at the goods for sale. Strange stuff, most of it, from the warmer lands to the south: wrinkled fruits, fabrics in bales and bolts, shawls, belts, buckles, fine woolen cloaks flapping in the sea wind. Rows of stiff hides creaked and swung; there were furs, colored beads, bangles, and trinkets of amber and whalebone and jet. One booth sold only rings, hundreds of them strung in rows; rings for fingers, neck, arms, of all metals, chased or plain or intricately engraved.

With a word to Steinar, Thrand stepped into the crowd, pushing his way to a man sharpening knives. Jessa saw him pull his own out and hand it over. So that left one.

She bought some sweetmeats from a farmwife and she and Thorkil ate them, watching a blacksmith hammer out a spearhead and plunge it with a hiss into a bucket of water. As Thorkil fingered the hanging weapons enviously, someone jolted gently against Jessa’s shoulder.

“A thousand apologies,” murmured a low voice.

A thin, lanky man stood beside her, his coat patched and ragged. He winked slyly. Astonished, she stared at him, then glanced carefully around. Steinar was a good way back, trying to buy ale.

“You travel fast down the whale’s road,” the peddler said quietly, examining a brooch on a stall.

“So do you.” Jessa gasped. “Where is Wulfgar? Is he with you?”

“That outlaw?” He grinned at her. “That prince of the torn coat? What makes you think I would know?”

She took the fragments of herbs out of her pocket and rubbed them thoughtfully between her fingers, until their faint scent reached him.

“These.”

The peddler glanced at them quickly and made a soundless whistle. “Well. You have very good eyes. As for Wulfgar, people are saying he’s fled south. They may be right.”

“That’s not what I think.” She watched Thorkil weighing a sword in his hand. Then she said, “Others might want to escape. This might be a good time.”

The peddler dropped the brooch and picked up another; his eyes swept the crowd with a swift glance. “I had heard where they were sending you. But the snake woman has eyes that see too far.”

She stared at him angrily. “If you won’t help, I’ll try anyway. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life starving in Thrasirshall with … whatever’s there. I can pay you, if that’s what you want.” He put the brooch down and turned to her.

“I thought you were braver,” he said.

“Only about some things.”

“Then listen.” His voice was suddenly sharp and urgent. “Don’t do anything. Trust me. You must wait until you hear from me, no matter how long it takes. Don’t try to escape. Promise!”

“But—”

“Promise! I won’t let you down.”

She gave a sigh of bewilderment. “All right. But we leave here soon!”

“It won’t be here. Don’t worry. When you see me again, you’ll understand everything.”

As she stared at him she saw the man Steinar push nearer.

“I’m afraid not,” she said loudly. “It’s too expensive.”

“Ah, lady,” the peddler said at once, scratching his cheek, “please yourself. Next time I’ll bring you better goods. Trust me.”

With a wink he turned away into the crowd.

Thorkil touched her arm. “There you are. Steinar’s coming. He’s had too much to drink, by the look of him.”

“Rubbish.” The man was behind them; his breath stank of beer. One heavy hairy hand clamped down on Thorkil’s shoulder. “Back to the ship.”

Helgi was waiting for them rather anxiously. He gave Steinar a few sharp words, but the man just shrugged and sprawled into his place among the oarsmen. Thrand came late, cursed by everyone.

The men rowed out into the current. The wind was freshening and the sea seemed much rougher; white flecks topped the waves.

Looking back, Jessa saw no sign of the peddler. She leaned her chin on her hands thoughtfully. She had promised to wait, and she would, but she couldn’t help feeling they’d missed their chance. Now every day took them nearer to Thrasirshall. But there had been something in the man’s look that had comforted her, some hidden spark of knowledge and, yes, laughter. He’d been laughing at her. He knew something that she didn’t, that was why.