Snow-Walker

Thirteen

Along the wide highroads the chiefs of the

clans came from far and near to see the foe’s footprints.

Jessa opened her eyes and lay stiff. Not again, she thought. But the hold was silent. Across the dark room the brazier threw a dim light into the rafters. She lay there a moment, trying to find the small noise that had woken her; then she turned over and curled up, comfortably warm.

Outside, something shuffled and slid in the wind.

She thought about Vidar. Tomorrow she would tell Kari all about it—about the thief in the inn and the man who had opened the door. As she remembered, the cold point of an invisible knife touched her throat. She rolled over angrily. Yes, Kari would be able to help. They could certainly try that house again.

Below the window something scraped along the wall. She thought of Wulfgar’s men, watching the fences and gateways, their swords sharp in the frost. Then she thought about Kari. He had grown, somehow. He was more silent, though he’d never said much, and there was a new aura about him, a hidden tingle of power, an invisible coat. It reminded her of something, and sleepily she searched caves and hollows for the memory until the shock of it made her open her eyes in the dark. Gudrun. Of course.

Then she sat up. For a moment she thought she had heard a low sound outside, almost a moan, an eerie murmur.

Pushing the bedclothes aside she went to the window and tugged open the shutter. Moonlight flooded her face; a cold wind blew her hair back, and putting out her head she looked down. The stone wall of the hold glittered with frost; at its foot a pool in the dark mud glinted.

No one was about.

The houses were dark masses of shadow, the sky overcast, dragging cloud over the moon. For a moment she waited there, listening, but the wind was too cold, and soon she latched the window, slammed the shutters, and leaped back into bed, shivering, her feet like ice. It took her a long time to get back to sleep.

In the morning she was halfway into her coat when the door thumped wide. Skapti called, “Jessa!” and was gone, racing along the wooden floorboards. Grabbing her boots she ran after him, into Kari’s room.

Brochael, bare chested and tousled with sleep, had the ax in his hands already. “What’s wrong?”

Hurtling in behind him, Jessa heard the skald say, “Your creature. It’s been here.”

Kari jumped down from the windowsill, the ravens rising outside.

“Not ours!” Brochael snapped.

“Listen!” Skapti’s hiss silenced him. “There are tracks, all over the hold. Big, spread prints. And one man is missing.”

Brochael flashed a glance at Kari. They all did.

He shook his pale hair quickly. “I don’t know anything.”

“We still need you.” Skapti turned. “Wulfgar’s going after it now, while the trail is fresh. He’s furious.”

Lacing up her boot, Jessa said, “I’m coming too.”

Brochael gave a quick snort and grabbed his shirt and coat. “There’s nothing to eat, I suppose?”

“No time.” Skapti was already halfway down the stairs.

Brochael scowled after him. “If I was as thin as a worn-out bowstring, I don’t suppose I’d care either!”

The courtyard was chaotic. Ponies were waiting, men were running, shouting. Wulfgar, on his black Skarnir horse, swung around and looked down at Kari. They could see how upset he was.

“Your warning was barely in time,” he snapped. “Look.”

But Jessa was already crouching over the prints in the mud. They were close under the wall, large and splayed, five toed. As Kari kneeled beside her and touched the spoor lightly, she whispered, “I think I heard it.”

He looked at her.

“In the night. I was half asleep. I heard a sort of … whimper.”

His colorless eyes looked through her for a second.

“Hunger,” he said.

“What?”

“Hunger, Jessa.”

Puzzled, she wondered if he was talking about himself, or Brochael, or … but there was no time to ask. Wulfgar was bitterly impatient, and when they were all on horseback, he led them out at a gallop, their hooves ringing on the cobbled track.

The morning was cold; the grass and mud stiff with frost. The prints were set hard, leading into the marshy land behind the hold, but once in there the horses sank fetlock-deep into the soft mud, stumbling over tussocks of wiry grass. Finding the trail here was impossible, the riders spread out in a wide fan and moved quickly up to firmer ground, the dogs running and snuffling in all directions.

Jessa stayed close to Kari, but neither of them spoke. He was unused to riding, but the pony seemed to understand him; Jessa noticed how it moved and paused when he wanted it to, without rein or spur.

A shout from the left brought them all galloping over; one of the men pointed to the prints. Half full of water, the marks were still soft, recent. Something heavy had been dragged here; the grass was flattened, its stems broken, the mud scored smooth.

Brochael leaped down and tugged something from the mud. He wiped it on his sleeve and saw it was a sword hilt, snapped clean in half. There were dark stains on the leather grip.

Grimly Wulfgar stared down at it. Then he looked ahead. Before them the ground ran uphill to the edges of the forest; boulder-littered turf with a small stream leaping down over the stones.

“Up there.”

The dogs slithered and slunk around the rocks. Jessa knew they were behaving strangely. Most of them would have been racing into the wood by now, barking and yelping.

“They’re scared,” she said to Brochael.

He leaned over and looked at them. “You’re right. They’ve got the scent and they don’t like it.”

The trail led high into the hills, winding along the bank of the stream. At the end of the valley they climbed higher, and all the way up, the horses were nervous.

At the fringe of a dark rank of trees they stopped.

“Spread out,” Wulfgar ordered. “But stay within sight of those on either side.”

“We’ll just drive it out ahead of us,” Vidar muttered, peering into the green dimness.

“Maybe. But I don’t want to corner it. There aren’t enough of us here for that. It’s Halldor we need to find.”

He knew, they all knew, that the man was dead. No one said it. Anger and a cold fear hung over them all, subduing the dogs, unnerving the horses. Riding close to Brochael, Jessa moved her horse among the narrow, silvery trunks of birch, hearing the unnatural silence of the wood, no breeze, no birdsong.

They rode slowly, the horses crushing the new shoots of bracken, tall bare stems curled at the top like shepherds’ crooks, cracking the winter’s fallen twigs. The smell of fungi and cold damp soil rose among the fresh growth; above, the leafless trees let gray light filter down.

On each side of her, riders moved: Skapti far off to the left, and nearer, on the right, Brochael, and beyond him Kari. The big man was keeping them both close to him, and that was wise, Jessa thought, because if the creature came roaring out of the wood, they’d need him and his ax. Her fingers tightened as she glanced nervously around. The ground was uneven. Now the trees were mixed; spruce and fir massed in heavy banks. The light became gloomier, greener. She lost sight of Skapti and called out to him in alarm.

“All right. Here.” He drifted back into sight around a tree, his voice hanging in the silence. Hooves made no sound here, muffled on deep springy cushions of needles, centuries deep.

“We’re going to lose one another,” she muttered to Brochael, but before he answered, a call came from the depths of the wood, from man to man.

Brochael waved to Skapti, then turned his horse. “They’ve found something.”

The men were gathered by a small hollow. Jessa looked down at Wulfgar, who was standing, and saw a fragment of cloth in his hands: a green strip of cloak, slashed and wet. Another was trampled in the mud at his feet.

No one said anything for a moment.

Then Vidar murmured, “I suggest, Jarl, that we go back. There aren’t enough of us here, as you said yourself.”

“No.”

Wulfgar put the cloth in his belt and swung himself up. “Not without the body,” he said with cold fury.

Vidar hesitated. Then he nodded.

They pushed on, following broken branches, a ragged scar torn into the wood. The trees were much thicker, hard to force through. Branches, tangled and low, swept close to the ground, swishing back into the riders’ faces.

Finally Wulfgar stopped. He dismounted and crouched, peering into the utter blackness among the trees. After a while he said, “There’s some sort of cleft in there; a rock wall. We’ll have to go in on foot. Gunnar, tether the dogs and keep them back; they’re no use. Keep two men with you and guard the horses. Jessa, stay here.”

“Wulfgar, you’re not thinking!” Brochael jumped down. “Maybe it’s waiting in there!”

The Jarl gave him a cool look. “That’s never bothered you before.”

“We should be careful.”

“He was one of my men,” Wulfgar said levelly. “My war band. You know what that means.”

Brochael glared. “Of course I do! All I’m saying is take care! We don’t even know what it is!”

Behind him, Kari stirred. “It doesn’t matter. It’s not here.”

They all turned and looked at him on his shadowy horse. Some of the men touched amulets unobtrusively. Suddenly Jessa felt their unease. They didn’t know whether to believe him. Perhaps he felt it too, for the birds dropped from the trees as if to aid him, one clutching his shoulder with its great claws.

It flapped away as Wulfgar asked, “Are you sure?”

“Yes. It was there, not long ago. But now it’s not.” He gave a slight shrug and slid down from his horse. “I’ll go in, if you want.”

“No, we will.” Wulfgar half turned, then glanced back. “You are sure?”

Jessa watched in surprise. It was unlike him to ask twice. Kari spread his fingers. “I can’t feel it.”

“Wulfgar.” Vidar pushed forward urgently. “You must be careful.” He glanced past the Jarl’s shoulder at Kari, a rapid glance, but Jessa saw it. “Remember Freyr’s warning! And what I said to you last night.”

It seemed to her then that Wulfgar was really unsure, as he gazed for a moment into the wood. Then he shook his head. “We’re going in. Will you come with me, old friend?”

The priest sighed and nodded. He drew a long sword, took off his heavy pale coat and tossed it over the horse.

“Stay at the back, Jessa,” Wulfgar warned.

Then he bent low, and they followed him in under the branches.

It didn’t take long.

Stumbling under a swinging branch, Jessa thumped into Brochael’s broad back; he turned, deliberately blocking her view.

“Don’t look, Jessa,” he said gently, holding her shoulder. “They’ve found him.”

“Alive?”

He shook his head.

She had known that, anyway. Behind him the men talked in low, shocked whispers.

“Go back to Kari,” the big man muttered. “We’ll deal with this.”

She turned and pushed through the spiny branches quickly. She felt cold and sick.

Kari hadn’t come. He sat on his own with the two ravens. The men guarding the horses had moved away; they watched him, whispering.

She sat beside him. Neither of them spoke; he pulled a dead leaf from his hair and rolled it in long, frail fingers.

“Did you hear Freyr’s warning?” he asked quietly.

Jessa dragged her mind back to the dark, smoky hall. “Yes. Just before you came, last night.”

“That some pale, evil creature was coming to the hold?”

She looked at him, suddenly wary. “Yes.”

“The thing that killed this man.”

She shrugged. “What else?”

He dropped the leaf. It fluttered down against a mossy rock and lay there, still.