Snow-Walker

Twenty-Seven

He was my closest counselor,

he was keeper of my thoughts.

Not many of them had been sleeping; there was too much anxiety for that, too much fear of what might be prowling outside. But when they saw Kari, all the men in the hall sat still and stared with astonishment. Some of them, already wrapped in blankets for the night, rolled over to see why the silence had fallen.

Behind him, the others waited, Brochael with the prison keeper’s sword, Jessa under her dark hood.

For a moment Vidar seemed lost for words. Then he yelled, “Take him back!”

No one seemed ready to obey. Kari looked tense, dangerous. He said, “This time no one touches me, Vidar, or the pain will be real, I promise you.”

He walked forward into the firelight, a slight figure in dark clothes, his hair glinting. At his back Brochael seemed huge.

One of the ravens churred quietly in the roof; men glanced up, uneasy.

“What do you want?” Vidar fumed. “How did you get out?”

Kari ignored him. Turning to the men, he said, “Some of you know me—those that are Wulfgar’s men. Here’s someone else you know.”

Jessa tugged off her hood. “So I’m dead, am I, Vidar?” she murmured.

She enjoyed that moment immensely. The flicker of astonishment that opened his face to her told her all she wanted to know. The thief had lied, even to him.

The men were standing now, silent. Some of them picked up weapons.

She raised her voice. “Listen to me, holders. There was no creature on that hunt—we never even saw it. This man,” and she pointed to him with a sudden fury that made her finger shake, “this man stabbed Wulfgar Osricsson in the back. I saw him.”

The hall rang with noise. Among it Vidar stood still, his face set.

“Liar!” he said.

“It’s true. He would have killed me too if he could—or rather that sniveling little wretch over there would have.”

Heads turned toward the thief. Jessa had spotted him at once, hunched up over a bowl of soup by the fire. Now he was gawping at her, then at Vidar. The priest flashed him a look of pure hatred, then whirled back. Facing the men, he raised his hands, palms out.

“You know I would never move against Wulfgar!”

“Not even to be Jarl!” Brochael sneered. “You men!” he roared. “You, Mord Signi, and Guthlac, and the rest of you. You know Jessa. Who would you rather believe? She even saw the knife go in!”

“They’re trying to snare you in rune magic, in some sort of spell!” Vidar hadn’t given up, but the scar stood out against his flushed skin. “Don’t you see, the Snow-walker is moving your minds! He can do that. How do you know that’s Jessa! I saw her dead in the moss—I brought you her coat, slashed to pieces! This is some fetch, some tangle of evil he’s conjured....”

It was then he realized they were not even looking at him. They were staring, all of them, over his shoulder. Slowly he too turned his head.

Wulfgar was standing on the steps behind him.

The Jarl was white-faced, his dark hair tousled. Skapti hung anxiously at his side, as if to steady him should he stagger, but Wulfgar just stood there, letting the blustering echoes drift away into silence.

Jessa felt a great wave of delight and relief surge inside her. The men shouted, whooped, murmured into stillness, but Wulfgar only waited, his eyes on Vidar, unsmiling.

Then, painfully, he came down the steps and faced the priest. Their faces were masks of flame and shadow.

“It seems I made a mistake,” the Jarl said quietly. “I thought there was only one evil thing among us. But all the time there were two. As well as the witch’s sending there was yours, and yours is worse. Lies. Treachery. Making me doubt my own friends. A net of slander spun over my own hold. Ambition. And murder, almost.”

Vidar stumbled back one step. The men closed on him quickly, but Wulfgar stood still.

“And the worst thing is that I thought you were my friend, my adviser. We laughed together, hunted, ate together. I liked you, Vidar. And all the time that was a mask, was it? All that time you were plotting my death, plotting against all of us. Was any of it real? Any of it?”

For a moment the priest went to speak; then his lips closed. Wulfgar gave him a hard, bitter look.

“Not a good answer.”

He turned away deliberately.

Vidar took one step forward quickly; then he screamed in pain, flung down the knife, and crumpled over his blackened hand, moaning and cursing.

On the floor the hilt smoked. The stench of burning rose from it.

Three men grabbed the priest and hauled him up.

Wulfgar, startled, glanced at Kari. “Thank you. From what Skapti tells me, you owed him that.”

Kari nodded. He went over to the priest. “But you’re wrong about one thing, Wulfgar. This man has no power of his own. I think this was Gudrun’s doing too, in a way. Remember what she said to me. No one will trust you, she said. She sent this, just as she sent the other thing.”

He came forward. Vidar clutched his burned hand warily and tried to back away, but the men gripped him.

“Have you ever looked at reflections?” Kari asked him quietly. “I don’t have one—mine is in a far-off place, far to the north, beyond the bears and the icebergs, where the world plunges into nothing. That’s where she is, my reflection. Identical, yes, but opposite. Reflections are opposites. One lifts the right hand, the other the left. Haven’t you noticed that?”

The priest stared at him, his narrow face blank, as if he had exhausted all feeling.

“Why did you do it?” Skapti asked.

Vidar still looked at Kari. Then he said, “Because sorcery is wrong. It corrupts. Because Wulfgar allowed you to come here and I knew that you were dangerous. I believed what I said about you. One day you will destroy us. That’s why Gudrun left you here.”

Kari was silent. Jessa knew he had been wounded; Vidar’s words hung in the air like a dark chill.

Suddenly she spoke out. “You did it for your own ambition,” she said. “No other reason.”

Kari looked at her, a grateful flicker. Tension broke. The men moved, agreeing.

“Well said,” Skapti muttered.

As if in answer, one of the ravens squawked oddly, and Kari glanced up at it.

“Wulfgar, we still have Gudrun to deal with. Her creature is coming. Clear the hall quickly. Get your men out. This is my fight now.”

Lowering himself with a wince of pain into the chair, Wulfgar said, “You heard him. All of you, out.”

“I’m staying,” Jessa said firmly. She went over and kissed Wulfgar gently on the forehead.

“What’s that for?” he asked, smiling.

“For being alive!”

He shrugged. “Thank a hard life. And Skapti—who’d bully anyone back to existence.”

The skald folded his lanky arms. “I’m staying too. If I have to make songs about this creature I need to see it.”

“That’s never stopped you before,” Brochael murmured.

Hakon watched the last of the men hurry out. He wondered if he should go with them, and then remembered he was free—for the moment at least. Skuli had scuttled off already. He’d make up his own mind. And though he was afraid, he wanted to stay.

“As for Vidar,” Wulfgar snapped, “he can stay too. Let him see what this sorcery is.”

By now the hall was almost empty, and dark.

“If this fails,” Kari said, turning to Wulfgar suddenly, “you must all get out and burn the hall with the thing inside. No sword will hurt it, Wulfgar. Promise me you’ll do that.”

“No promises,” the Jarl said lightly.

Kari shook his head ruefully. “You’re a stubborn man.” Then he turned to Brochael. “Go and open the door.”

“What!”

“Open it. Wide. And keep yourself behind it.”

For a moment the big man looked down at him, bitterly anxious. “I hope you know what you’re doing, little prince.”

“So do I,” Kari said wryly.

“It could kill you.”

Kari shook his head. “Haven’t you realized why she sent it here yet, Brochael? Not to kill. To be killed.”

Brochael stared at him. Then he jammed the sword into his belt and turned away without a word. As he walked down the hall his boots rang on the flagstones; he grasped the wooden bar and heaved it aside with a mighty effort, the rumble echoing in the high rafters.

Then, slowly, he dragged the great door wide.

The night was black. Stars glinted.

Snow swirled in, sliding over the door with a faint, uneasy hiss.