Snow-Walker

Eighteen

The warriors slept whose task it was to hold

the horned building—all except one.

“Don’t go skulking off again, thief-thrall.” Skuli’s breath stank; he swayed as he stood. All evening, Hakon knew, he’d been flat on his back among the dogs and the straw.

He dragged a blanket into a corner by the fire and lay there, listening to the group gambling in one corner, the sleepy talk of the house carls about the fire. This was the man who owned him; this drunken, potbellied fool. He thought of wild, impossible things—running away, hiding out here, appealing to the Jarl—but all the while he knew he was dreaming. A runaway thrall was hunted down—everyone saw to that. None of them wanted their own thralls trying it. And what would Wulfgar want with a one-handed man? Best to go back to the sheep and learn how to forget.

He thought about them all at the high table that night, their fine clothes, their easy ways, their freedom. Going where they wanted, saying what they thought. They would all be on the hunt tomorrow, even Jessa, and he’d be left here.

Then he remembered the thing in the wood and felt a shiver of pride. He’d been the only one even to glimpse it, that pale shadow in the snow, the flicker of strange, colorless eyes that had stared into his. It had been hungry, raging with hunger. It was only now, quite suddenly, that he realized that.

And surely it would be difficult to find. The hold was full of men, they’d been riding in all day, but out there the fells were endless and the forests black. Somewhere in those snowfields the creature was waiting. Maybe waiting until now, until it was dark. He shivered, pulling the rough blanket closer. His right hand lay outside the folds, but he left it there. He could never feel anything with that, even the cold.

Deep in the night, something woke him. Opening his eyes, he saw the hall was black; the last fire had burned low, it was a red smolder in the shadows. Sleeping shapes breathed and snored about it.

Lying still, he listened, and fear prickled on his skin. Outside the hall, something was moving. It shuffled and scraped; tiny unnerving sounds in the night’s silence. He lay rigid and unbreathing from noise to noise. A scrape against the wall; the bang of something heavy. Then footsteps, slow footsteps near the door.

He sat up quickly.

The windows were safely shuttered, the door barred. Men slept around them, their swords close at hand. The fire stirred peacefully. But Hakon knew it was out there. It was prowling the hold.

He wished someone else would hear it and wake up, but no one did. Guthlac, Wulfgar’s steward, slept near the fire, wrapped in a warm fleece. Hakon decided to wake him.

But then a noise at the door made him jerk his head; with a whisper of terror he stared across the hall. It seemed to him suddenly that the great wooden structure was not as solid as it had been, that the bar across it was somehow less distinct. He gripped the blanket tight, stared harder through the dark. Was he imagining it? No. There was a faintness there, a fading, and suddenly he knew that the door was going, dissolving in some sorcerous mist. He turned to shout, to jump up.

And found he couldn’t move.

Just couldn’t. Hand or body. And couldn’t speak. For a moment of terrible, sickening fear he thought the paralysis had shot from his hand through his whole body and would be there forever.

And then he saw Kari.

The boy was watching him, standing in the shadows just at the foot of the stairs. He was a pale ghost against the drift and blackness of the tapestries; Hakon could see the silveriness of his hair; his thin, turned face.

“I’m sorry,” Kari murmured, “but I don’t want the others woken.”

Helpless and furious, Hakon watched him walk across the dark spaces of the hall, across a long circle of moonlight that stretched from the ring window, high up. Two black shadows swooped after him; with a crawling of his skin Hakon saw that they were ravens, two huge birds that flapped and rustled their great glossy wings.

What was he doing? Hakon struggled to move even one finger, but it was impossible. His body was held rigid.

Kari came up close to the door. Now there was almost nothing left of it, a mist, a blur of darkness, and beyond that something else that moved, white and indistinct.

The Snow-walker stopped. Before him a shape pushed itself through the nebulous web of sorcery, resolved itself into a great clawed limb, its pale fur clotted with water and stains of blood and earth. It was so close to Kari that it almost touched him as it stretched, groping blindly into the warmth of the hall.

Unbreathing, Hakon watched.

Gently Kari lifted a hand and reached out. He touched the very tip of the creature’s claw and it was still, as if it felt him. A thin knotted bracelet hung on his wrist; Hakon saw it glisten, as if it was made of some iridescent skin.

Beyond the mist of the door the creature shifted. He could almost see it now, pale against the shadowy night, wreathed with mist and crystals of ice.

Kari took his hand away. Still he stood there, not speaking, not moving.

Hakon squirmed, fought for control over his lips, the muscles of his throat. He had to shout! He had to warn them all! But nothing would come and Kari did not even spare him a glance.

“Not yet,” Kari murmured, almost under his breath, “not yet. I don’t know what to do with you yet.”

The thing outside made a strange, uneasy moan. Kari waited, the birds motionless at his feet, the great claw reaching for him. Then, silently, the door began to re-form, to shimmer back into existence, and the thing outside squirmed and dragged its arm back heavily, as if the air had become thicker, and it snarled and stepped away into the dark.

The door was there, solid, reassuring.

Kari turned after a moment. He looked pale, unsteady. He came over to Hakon and crouched down to him, and he was white with weariness, as if some great struggle had failed.

“You’ll tell no one what you saw.”

Instantly Hakon knew he was free. He grabbed the amulet at his neck. “What were you doing?” he snarled. “Trying to let it in! It could have killed us all!”

In the dimness Kari gave him a bleak smile. “As I said, tell no one. You’ll find you won’t be able to anyway, even if you try. For a few days. That should be enough.”

He reached out then, but Hakon flung him off. “Don’t touch me! That’s what she did!”

Sprawled, surprised, Kari shook his head. “I don’t need to touch you,” he said.

And sleep came down on Hakon like a blanket: heavy, smothering, without dreams.

In the morning he sat on the empty bench outside and watched the men arm themselves, harness their horses, gather dogs and spears and skis. Jessa came over and looked down at him. “Going home?”

Home! he thought bitterly, but only shook his head.

“Skuli’s going on the hunt. I have to stay here.”

She nodded, as if she understood how he felt. Her hair was braided tight; she wore two knives in her belt, long sharp weapons, newly bought.

“Where’s your friend?” he said warily.

“Skapti?”

“Kari.”

She gave him a sudden, considering look. “I don’t know. Why?”

He breathed deeply. “Jessa…” But it was no use. As soon as he began to speak, the same choking, cold web stifled the words in his throat. He’d already tried to tell some of the men, twice, what had happened.

“What’s the matter?” She was watching him curiously.

He shook his head. “I can’t … say. I can’t.”

“Are you all right?”

He shrugged hopelessly. Beware of Kari, he thought. Be careful of him. He’s a traitor. “Yes, I’m all right.”

He glanced down at the pale withered skin of his right hand. “Sorcery,” he said thickly. “It maims you.”

For a moment she wondered, then Skuli called him wrathfully, and he got up and walked away. There was nothing he could do to warn her, he knew that. Rune power had him in its grip.

“Good luck on the hunt!” he called back. “Be careful.”

She smiled, puzzled still. “I intend to.”

As he strode after Skuli, she watched, thoughtful. What had that been about? What had he wanted to say? He wanted to join the hunt, to be one of them, but it wasn’t that. She knew that without him saying it.

She turned to see Wulfgar standing by his horse. “Are we all here?”

“Almost.” Skapti glanced around.

She put her foot into his clasped hands and leaped lightly onto the pony, gathering its reins, slapping its smooth neck. “Kari and Brochael aren’t here.”

“One of us is.” Brochael was standing in the hall door, his tawny beard aflame with the red sun.

“Come on then!” Skapti called.

Brochael did not move. His face was grim. Then he went over to Wulfgar and looked up at him.

“We’re not coming.”

A stir went through the listening men. Brochael ignored it. Dropping his voice, he said, “Kari won’t come. I don’t really know why, but I have to stay with him. I don’t understand what this is all about, Wulfgar. But it’s not cowardice, you know that.”

“Not on your part,” Vidar put in.

Brochael swung angrily. “Nor on his! It’s … he says it’s not the thing to do.”

The Jarl shrugged coldly. “Kari must do as he wants.”

Vidar gave him a quick, warning look. “Remember what I said.”

Wulfgar gave him a blazing glare. “I do! I can’t forget it.”

But everyone else was looking at the doorway. Kari stood there in the wan light; his dark coat wrapped him. He didn’t smile, or even look at Jessa. His pale eyes were fixed on Vidar. Then he said, “I’ll stay, Wulfgar. I have some hunting of my own to do.”

Then he turned and went back inside. With a pained, puzzled glance at Jessa, Brochael stalked after him.

The darkness of the hall swallowed them both.