Snow-Walker

Seven

Men tread Hel’s road.

They rode north, along the fjordshore. The path was broad, well used; it ran through the fringes of the woods and out over the wide grazing land of the Jarlsholders.

All through that first day the sun warmed the riders, and quiet warbles of birdsong filled the branches about them. Bees and maybugs and long, glinting dragonflies hummed over the shallows of the still water; occasionally a fish snapped upward, sending a plop of tiny ripples racing to the shore.

Twice they passed fishermen out on the blue water in their flimsy craft, who paused over their nets and watched the cavalcade pass, curious. On the fellsides goats and the long-haired sheep lifted their heads and stared unmoving. This was rich pastureland, owned by men who were respected, Wulfgar’s firmest supporters. And it was still midsummer here, the air tinged with the scents of the innumerable flowers, so that the horses waded in clouds of blown seed and spindrift, and the crushed scents of water-mint and warm thyme.

If it could all be this easy, Jessa thought, struggling out of her coat and laying it across the horse in front of her. She laughed at Skapti; daydreaming, he had almost jerked from his horse as it stumbled.

Far ahead Wulfgar rode with Kari. They were talking, close together. Looking back, she saw Brochael joking with the men; they all roared with laughter. Hakon was just behind her.

“He’s telling them horrible stories,” he muttered. “I don’t think you should listen.”

Jessa grinned. “I expect I told him most of them.”

She laughed at his shocked look, then watched a line of swans skitter down on the rippling water. “It’s easy to forget, out here.”

“Forget?”

“Signi. And the rest.”

He nodded, brushing the swinging leaves away from his face. “I can’t understand … how can her soul be gone?”

“Kari says so. He knows about these things.”

“And what’s to stop Gudrun doing that to us—to any of us?”

She looked at him. “Only Kari, I suppose.”

Uneasy, he said, “It makes me feel useless. I’m only a swordsman, not even a very good one. Sorcery makes me shiver. Why did Wulfgar send me?”

For a moment she said nothing. Then she shook her head. “Kari needs us, just as we need him. Maybe more. Wulfgar knows that.” Seeing his worried look, she laughed. “Anyway, maybe the Jarl wanted to get rid of you for a while.”

He laughed with her quietly.

Late in the afternoon, with the long blue twilight barely beginning, the fjord had narrowed to a thin strip of water, the meadows on the other side drawn close. They stayed that night at a hold called Audsstead, the woman Aud riding out with her sons to meet them. Jessa went to bed early, yawning, leaving the talk and laughter in the great hall.

Next day the land began to change. They rode uphill now, and inland. The slopes were steeper, the grass short and sheep-nibbled, studded with boulders that broke the turf as if they were the land’s bones, under its green skin. Here and there the slopes were boggy; the horses’ hooves sank deep into soft peat, masses of lichen and bright moss matting the treacherous ground.

At last they stopped to eat, high above the fjord. Looking down, Jessa thought the sliver of water was a flooded crack in the land, as if the hills floated above reflections of sky and pale, passing clouds.

Brochael nudged her arm. “All well?”

“Just daydreaming.” She snuggled up against him. “How long before we reach the road?”

He shrugged. “We’re on it, Jessa, more or less. Only a path is left here, no masonry. We go over this hill ahead and down into a place called Thorirsdale. Beyond that, in the forest somewhere, the road divides. That’s as far as Wulfgar will come. From then on, we’re on our own.

She was silent for a moment. “Will we get there today?”

“Tomorrow. Tonight we’ll stay at Thorirstead. I know Ulf. He used to beat me at wrestling, when we were boys.”

Amazed, Jessa looked up at him. “You mean he’s bigger than you?”

“He’s a giant. He likes to boast he’s the descendant of those who built the road. I, for one, believe him.”

“I hope not!” Looking around she said, “Where’s Kari?”

“Off with the ravens.”

There was the hint of something odd in his voice but she had no time to pin it down; Wulfgar was telling everyone to mount up. He came and stood looking down at them.

“Comfortable?”

Jessa grinned. “Very.”

He smiled, but briefly, and she knew the thought of Signi was weighing on him, and the dread of what he might find when he went back. She scrambled up, wishing she hadn’t said anything.

“Where’s Kari?” he asked Brochael.

“About.”

“We’d better find him.”

“There’s no need.” Brochael heaved his bag up onto the horse and fiddled with the saddle straps. “He’ll come. He’ll know we’re waiting.”

Wulfgar shook his head as Kari came over the brow of the hill just then and waved at them, the birds wheeling joyously around his head.

“Sometimes I wonder if there’s anything he can’t do.”

“He can’t steal souls,” Brochael muttered. “At least, not yet.”

When they rode over the hilltop they saw before them the green plenty of Thorirsdale, a wide valley, its tiny silver streams gushing down noisily. This end was pastureland, and they could see the smoke from the farmstead rising near the narrow river. Beyond that the land rose again to deep woods, dark against the sky.

As they rose into the valley the light lessened; the shoulders of the hills rose about them. Down here the air was warm and hushed, the last of the evening birdsong fading over the fields. By the time they neared the hold, the purple half-light had begun, and the weak sun was lost behind the hills.

There was a long low building which looked like the farmhouse, roofed in green turf to keep in the warmth. Smoke rose from a hearth hole near its center; Jessa smelled its sharpness. Other buildings clustered around it, barns and byres, all very quiet and dark under the rising moon.

The horses’ hooves crunched down the narrow track.

“Perhaps they’re all asleep,” Jessa said.

“Not Ulf,” Brochael muttered.

A dog barked ahead, then another. After a moment a slot opened in the dark house; light and smoke and cooking smells streamed out. The great bulk of a man clogged the doorway; then he strode out, others behind him.

“Who have I to welcome at this time of night?”

He glanced out at the riders through the eerie night mist, taking them in quickly, their numbers and strength; a tall, heavy man, his hair shaved close, a long sword held easily in his hand.

Wulfgar dismounted. “Me, Ulf Thorirsson.”

“Jarl!” The holder turned, surprised. “What’s happened?” he asked quickly, seeing Wulfgar’s face. “What’s wrong?”

“Plenty,” Wulfgar said grimly. “But it’ll keep until we’re inside.”

Ulf nodded, passing his sword back to a thrall. “My house is honored. In now, all of you. My men will see to the animals.” He swept around and collided with Brochael, who had been standing close behind him. Halfway off her horse, Jessa giggled at the look on his face, half amazement, half delight.

“Brochael?” he breathed.

“Come for a rematch, Ulf.” Brochael folded his arms and looked his old friend up and down. “You’ve been overeating. Running to fat.”

Ulf grinned. “There’s been no one here to challenge me.”

“Until now.”

They gripped hands, and Ulf slapped Brochael with a palm that would have made most men crumple. “It’s good to see you,” he said warmly.

The hall was small, and heavy with smoke. Food was cooked here over the central hearth. The women of the farm were thrown into cold terror by the sight of the Jarl and all his war band descending on them out of the night, until Ulf ’s wife, a tall, gaunt woman called Helga, gave quiet, efficient orders.

The high table was cleared; Wulfgar sat in the center, his friends on each side of him, Kari next to Jessa. She knew he was uneasy. Once the excitement of their arrival had died down the people of the hold were only interested in him. They stared frankly, like animals, until he looked up, and then their eyes slid away.

“Center of attention,” Jessa whispered.

He nodded, silent.

She trimmed the meat with her knife. “You must be getting used to it.”

“You never do.” He picked listlessly at his food. “It’s not the way they look, but what they feel. Fear. Gudrun’s shadow.”

There was no denying that, she thought. In the silence that followed, she began to listen to Wulfgar. He was explaining what had happened at the Jarlshold, and Ulf was listening gravely. Brochael had been right; this man was enormous, a head higher than anyone else, even Skapti, his neck thick as a sapling. The coarse wool of his shirt strained over his broad back. Jessa saw that the chair he sat in was huge and old, its legs carved like wolves, their backs arched to bear his weight.

“Will it spread?” Ulf said urgently. “If the whole of the Jarlshold falls into the witch spell, what’s to stop it spreading out here?”

Wulfgar looked at Kari.

Kari spoke quietly. “It won’t leave the Jarlshold. I’ve made a binding ring of bone. The dream spell is trapped inside. It won’t spread, as long as the people stay within.”

“What sort of ring?” Ulf asked curiously. He stared down at Kari’s thin face shrewdly, without fear. “Sorcery, is this?”

“You could call it that.”

“And you trust it, Jarl?”

Wulfgar smiled slowly. “I trust it.”

“Then that’s good enough for me. But what about the people in the hold?”

Wulfgar’s expression hardened. “We’ll stay. That’s the choice we’ve had to make.” Then, as if to forget, he reached out a lazy hand for more wine and leaned back. “This is a fine hall, Ulf.”

“My father built it. Now there was a big man, bigger even than me.” He scratched his stubbly beard.

“Indeed he was.” Brochael passed the wine. “They say he once carried a stray reindeer home, two days’ journey. Is that true?”

Ulf nodded proudly. “Thorir Giantblood, they called him.”

“Tell us about the road,” Wulfgar said.

The huge man sat still, the firelight warming his face. Behind him his massive shadow darkened the hung shields.

“There’s not much known about it. All the stories of the giants are almost forgotten; even who they were. Your friend here would know more about that than me.”

Skapti nodded wryly.

“But the road,” Ulf went on, “is real enough. It goes north. They say it runs even to the edge of the world, to a country where the snow falls all night and all day, and where in winter the sun never rises. No one has ever traveled a week’s journey along it, to my knowledge, except Laiki.”

“Laiki?” Wulfgar murmured.

“An old man now.” Ulf stood up and roared, “Thror! Fetch Laiki!” and sat down again. “He went in his younger days. He tells strange tales about it, and they get stranger year by year. I don’t promise, Jarl, that any of them are true.”

The old man came up slowly. He was shriveled, his hair white as wool, long and straggly. A thick fleece coat covered his body, and as he grasped the chair and lowered himself into it they saw his hand had two fingers missing; two stumps were left, long healed.

“Well, Father, we hear you know something of the giant road.” Wulfgar leaned forward and poured him a drink. “My friends will be traveling that way. Can you tell us about it?”

The old man’s weak blue eyes looked at them all. He seemed delighted, Jessa thought, to have such an audience.

“Once, I went that way.”

“Long ago?”

He wheezed out a laugh. “Forty years or more, masters. Forty years. Two other men and I, we set out to find the road’s end. We had learned there was amber up there in the north, and jet. We wanted wealth. Like all young men, we were fools.”

He smiled at Jessa and put a cool hand on hers. “Are you going on this journey?”

“Yes,” she said quietly.

“Not just young men, then.” He shook his head. “The road is paved at first, masters, whole and easy. After a while it becomes fragmented. It leads into a great forest, dark and deep. Ironwood, my friends called it, for a joke, but we were more than a week in that haunted, ghost-ridden place, and all the time we heard the stir and passing of invisible spirits, as if a great army of men whispered about us in the dark. None of us slept. We walked day and night to leave that nightmare behind. The air became colder. One night we came to a great ruined hall, deep in the wood. We were exhausted, and slept, and when we woke, one of my friends had gone. We never found him.”

He gazed around at them soberly.

“After the wood, the ice. We struggled on, but our food was gone and our hearts were failing. Then wolves came. Alric was killed, and the horses that we hadn’t yet eaten ran off. I wandered alone in the empty land, a place of glaciers, wide snow plains where the icy winds roared all night. I was lost there, starved and delirious. I do not remember, masters, how I got back through the wood. Sometimes it seems to me that I saw terrible sights, things I can’t piece together, a great city in a lake, a bridge that rose up to the stars, but I cannot tell if these things were real or a delirium.” He paused, sighing. “All I do know is that I came to myself in a shieling north of here, nursed back to health by a shepherd. For two weeks I had lain there, he said, babbling the nightmares of the wood.”

He held up his hand. “And these fingers were gone. Bitten off, the good man thought. And to this day I do not know what happened to me.”

He looked around at them all. “If your journey is not urgent, masters, take my advice. Turn back. That is no country for mortals.”

They were silent a moment.

Then Brochael shook his head. “Lives depend on it, old man. We’ve no choice.”