Snow-Walker

by Catherine Fisher

  “There is fear there. Yours. Your cousin’s. Gudrun’s.”

  “Hers?”

  The woman chuckled. “Oh, hers above all. Her eyes are always this way. Nine years ago Brochael Gunnarsson landed here. There was one with him, so muffled in coats and furs against the ice that no one could see him. So it has always been. But I have felt her thought stretching out like a hand, touching, jerking back. Oh yes, there is something in the hall, something alive, and she fears it, as she fears her mirror.”

  Jessa touched one of the stones. It was cool and smooth. “What do you mean, her mirror?”

  “Gudrun never looks in a glass.” The shamanka turned and spat into the fire. “The runes have said her own reflection will destroy her. There are no mirrors in the Jarlshold.”

  And then with a rustle of feathers the old woman reached out and caught Jessa’s wrist—a tight, cold grip. “One thing: she will have not let you go without some link, some tie to bind you to her. Find it. Break it. Whatever it costs you.

  “As for Kari Ragnarsson … sometimes, in the darkest part of the night, I have thought that I felt … something. A cold, strange touch on my mind.” She shrugged and sat back, gazing at Jessa. “But I do not know what he is. When you find out, you might come and tell me.”

  The road was an ancient one, built by giants. No one used it now—after only a few miles it dwindled into a frozen track wandering through the boulders and scree of the fjordshore. The six horses and the pack mule picked their way along it, sometimes sinking fetlock-deep in the icy bog. Jessa was stiff from jerking forward to keep her balance.

  They were already four hours out from Trond, the wind howling at them down ravines in the steep rock face. They had started before dawn, but even now it was barely light enough to make out the track as it began to turn inland, toward the hills. Muffled in cloaks and coats, only their eyes visible, the riders had spread out in a straggling line, urging on their slithering, nervous horses. Helgi went first, with Thorkil and Jessa close behind him. Then came the three men who had drawn the marked stones out of Helgi’s glove at Trond, when the oarsmen had argued about who was to go farther. Thorgard Blund and his cousin, the thin man called Thrand, and the big, loudmouthed Steinar, called Hairyhand. Jessa wondered how they felt now; there had been some bitter words back there. Now the three kept together, watchful and resentful.

  The track climbed up, moving slowly above the snowline. Now the horses strode in one another’s hoof holes across a great snowfield, dazzlingly white, broken only by streams that gurgled under their seamed, frozen lids. These were invisible, and treacherous; once Thorkil’s horse lurched forward into one, almost throwing him. After that they kept direction only by the sun, but the sky slowly clouded over. By late afternoon they had lost the track altogether.

  Finally Helgi stopped and swore. The narrow valley down which they had come was closed by a sheer rock face, glistening with icicles and glassy twists of frozen water. He turned. “We’ll have to go back. This isn’t it.”

  Jessa saw Steinar glance at his colleagues. “What about a rest?” he growled. “The horses need it.”

  Helgi looked at Jessa. She tugged the frosted scarf from her mouth. “I’m in no hurry.”

  They found an overhang of cliff and sat under it; Helgi fed the horses, then he joined Jessa and Thorkil. They ate slowly, listening to the bleak wind in the hollow rocks. The other three sat apart, talking in gruff, quiet voices. Helgi watched them. Finally they called him over, and when he came they stood up. Steinar was bigger and heavier than the younger man. He put his hand on Helgi’s shoulder. Talk became hurried, noisy, almost an argument.

  “I don’t like the look of that,” Thorkil muttered.

  Jessa raised her eyes from a daydream. Helgi was shaking his head angrily. He snapped something sharp and final.

  “They’re scared,” Thorkil said. “They don’t want to go on.”

  “I don’t blame them.”

  They watched the bitter, hissed argument. These were soldiers, Jessa thought, trained how to fight, to deal with things, but how could they deal with this? The horror of whatever was in Thrasirshall had caught hold of them; it was wearing at their nerves.

  “Do you think he’ll make them go on?”

  “He’ll try. But it’s three to one.”

  “Three to three.”

  Thorkil flashed her a brief grin. “You’re right. But remember, if we were … out of the way, they wouldn’t have to go on at all. They’ve probably been thinking about that.”

  Helgi flung Steinar’s hand from him and turned away. He marched past Jessa and caught the horse’s bridle.

  “Ride close to me,” he muttered. “And pray we find the place soon.”

  Eight

  A wayfarer should not walk unarmed,

  But have his weapons to hand:

  He knows not when he may need a spear,

  Or what menace meet on the road.

  It was a hard thing to pray for. Jessa swung onto her weary horse and gathered up the reins, moving out hurriedly after Thorkil. Looking back, she saw that Steinar and Thorgard Blund were still listening to the thin man, Thrand. His voice was a quiet echo under the cliff. Steinar laughed and turned, catching her eye. He put his huge hands up to his horse and hauled himself up.

  Jessa and Thorkil rode close together. Neither spoke. The path ran along the edge of a vast pine wood, its branches still and heavy with snow. In there it was dim and gloomy, the trees receding into endless aisles, only a few birds piping in the hush. Once a pine marten streaked across the track.

  Helgi was guessing the way now, and they all knew it. The sun became a cold globe, sliding down into mists and vapors; twilight turned the world black and gray. The snow lost its glare and shimmered blue; crystals of ice hardened on the tree trunks.

  Without turning his head, Helgi muttered, “Thorkil. Can you use that knife of yours?”

  “What knife?”

  “The sharp one you’ve been keeping under your coat.”

  Thorkil grinned. “It’s not the only thing that’s sharp. Yes, I can use it.”

  Jessa glanced back. Three wraiths on shadow horses flickered through the trees. “Listen, Helgi—”

  “Don’t worry. It may not come to that. It wouldn’t help us if it does.” His eyes moved anxiously over the dark fells. “I’d be glad to see that hellhole now, troll or no troll.”

  Silence, except for the swish of snow. Jessa loosened the blade in her belt, warm under her coat. Night fell on them, like a great bird; the stars glittered through the trees. She thought of the peddler, his urgent voice saying, “Wait for me.” But where was he? He had abandoned them.

  Then the voice came from behind.

  “Captain!”

  With a clink of harness, Helgi drew his horse to a halt. He sat still a moment, his back rigid. Then he turned around.

  The three horsemen waited in a line. Their swords gleamed in the starlight. Ice glinted on their clothes and beards.

  “We’ve come far enough,” Steinar said. “We’re going back.”

  “Go on. I should have brought braver men.”

  The man laughed. “What’s courage against trolls and monsters? Come back with us, man.”

  “What will you tell the Jarl?” Helgi asked, his voice clear across the frost. “And what will you say to her?”

  Steinar glanced at Thrand.

  “My father was a poet,” the thin man remarked. “I can feel a story coming to me, too. It concerns two children who fell overboard in a storm.”

  With a slither of sound Helgi drew his sword. “Not while I’m alive.”

  Suddenly the pack mule jerked. A black shape flapped down through the branches, dusting snow into Jessa’s hair, and another followed it; two enormous, glossy ravens that clung and settled on the bouncing branches.

  Helgi laughed grimly, his hand tight on his horse’s mane. “Look at that. The High One has two birds like that. He sends them out to see everything that happens in th
e world. My job is to take these two to Thrasirshall and keep them safe on the way. If you’re coming, come. Otherwise go back. But don’t think I’ll keep your cowardice quiet.”

  Steinar’s harness creaked as he moved forward. “It’s a waste, lad. Though I suppose the wolves won’t think so.”

  The ravens karked. Snow swirled in the darkness. “Better ride, Jessa,” Helgi growled, but she was ready; she dug her heels in and the horse leaped forward into a sky that tore itself apart in front of her. The aurora crackled into a great arch of green fire and scarlet flame; Jessa thundered into it over the hard snow, could feel the eerie light tingling on her face. Branches loomed at her and she ducked, lying low and breathless on the warm, sweating skin of the horse. Voices yelled; Thorkil shouted; something whistled over her head and thudded into the snow.

  She kicked hard; the horse burst through the edge of the wood, leaped a black stream hanging rigid on its stones, and began to flounder up the white sides of the fell. The sky crackled and spat light; her horse was green, then gold, then scarlet. Behind her Thorkil galloped, coat flapping, his face shimmering with colors. Up and up through the deep snow, kicking the horse, urging it, swearing at it, and then, at last, the top!

  She came over the lip of the white hill through the stars and an arch of flame. A great wind roared in her ears; the horse stood, snorting clouds of breath.

  “Go on!” Thorkil was yelling. “Don’t stop now!” His own horse fought and floundered up the slope.

  But Jessa did not move. She sat, looking ahead, her hair whipping out in the gale.

  “There’s nowhere left to go,” she called grimly.

  Beside her, he gazed breathlessly down into the valley.

  At Thrasirshall.

  It was huge even from here: a mass of black, broken towers hung with ice. The aurora flickered silently over it, tingeing glassy walls, dark window slits. A thin moon balanced on the hills behind, its light piercing the shattered roofs, stretching the hall’s long shadow over the blue unbroken snow.

  No smoke rose from the roofs; no animals lowed in the byres. It was a silent ruin.

  Jessa heard Helgi’s horse snort behind her, and then the other three came to a slow, doubtful stop. She didn’t move, or care. All the danger from behind had gone. It had been sucked down into that black, glittering ruin below them.

  After a long silence Thorkil said, “It’s empty. There are no lights, no tracks in the snow. They must be dead long since.”

  “Maybe.” Helgi turned his head, the colors of Surt’s blaze flickering on his face. “Well?” he said quietly.

  The three men were staring at the hall, their horses fidgeting uneasily. Then Steinar sheathed his sword with a snap. He glanced at the others; Thrand shrugged.

  “We should keep together.” They seemed to have lost all will; Jessa saw how their eyes kept straying to the tower.

  “Nothing will be said?”

  “Nothing.” Helgi’s voice was rich with contempt. Without another word he turned his horse and moved forward. The howl of a wolf broke out in the wood behind them; then another answered, not so far away. The horses flicked their ears nervously.

  The riders moved together in a tight knot, down the long white slope of the hill. No one spoke. Behind them the pack mule floundered, its rope slack.

  As they came down to the ruin, they could hear the wind moaning through the broken walls. The snow down here had drifted into great banks; they pushed cautiously through it, into the shadow of the walls. At the first archway, its keystone hanging dangerously low, they halted.

  “Torches,” Thrand muttered. “The more light the better.”

  Helgi nodded. The gaunt stones behind him were coated in ice; frozen in smooth lumps and layers. Nothing moved.

  They had brought torches of pitch from the boat. It took an age to make flame, but then the soaked wood flared and crackled, making the horses start in the acrid smoke. “Two will be enough,” Helgi said, bending and picking one up. “I’ll go first. You, Steinar, at the back. Take the other light with you.”

  They moved through the arch. Its gates were long gone, rotted to one black post that stuck out of the snow like a burned finger. Torchlight gleamed on frozen stone, on shapeless masses of ice that might once have been carvings. As they came to the inner gate they saw it was blocked; a row of long smooth icicles of enormous thickness hung down to the ground. Helgi and Thrand had to dismount and hack at them with sword and flame; each snapped with a great crack that rang in the ruins.

  One by one the horses squeezed through. Now they found themselves in a courtyard, a great square of white. Winds and breezes moaned in the outbuildings, sounding like voices, creaking a timber door somewhere out of sight, gusting snow from the sills of windows in the hall. The silence held them still; the silence and the emptiness. Kari is dead, Jessa thought. Whatever he was.

  Helgi turned. “There’s a door there, look. We might be able to get inside.”

  He dismounted and waded over, knee-deep in snow. As he held the torch up, the flames lit the door. It was made of ancient wood, studded with nails, and had once been repaired with planks hammered over the weak places, but even these were now green with rot. Helgi kicked it; it shuddered but held. In the darkening air they waited, stiff with fear, but there was no sound or stir from within.

  Helgi drew his knife. At the same time, something black screeched from the sky. Helgi yelled with fright and dropped the torch; the horses reared and plunged. In sudden blackness dim shadows flapped overhead.

  Jessa shrieked. Someone caught her arm.

  “Quiet! Helgi?”

  Steinar had pushed forward, torch in hand. In the red light they saw Helgi scramble from his knees, his face white. “I’m all right.”

  “What was it?”

  He looked up. “Birds. Two of them.”

  They were perched on the sill above him; the two ravens from the wood. Their eyes followed every movement.

  Steinar gripped the thorshammer at his neck. “This is a place of sorcery, or worse. Let’s get out, man. While we can!”

  But Helgi snatched the torch from his hand and turned, holding it up. Then he stopped, stock-still.

  Jessa’s fingers clenched on the frozen reins.

  Before them, the door was opening.

  It was tugged open, jerking and grating against the stones as if the wood was swollen.

  Firelight streamed out, as if a slot had opened in a dark lantern. It fell on their faces, glinted in the horses’ eyes. A scatter of snow falling through it turned red as blood.

  A man stood there. He was a giant; his head reached the lintel of the door, and though he was wrapped in furs and patched cloaks, they saw his strength. His face was flushed with the fire’s heat; his beard and hair dark red, cut close.

  Helgi gripped his knife, looking suddenly small and pale on the cold steps. The big man gave him a glance, then pushed him aside and shouldered his way down among the horses. He went straight to Jessa. She could feel the warmth of the fire glowing from him as he gripped her horse’s mane.

  “You’re late, Jessa,” he said. “A good soup is almost spoiled.”

  Nine

  Greetings to the host. The guest has arrived.

  In which seat shall he sit?

  The chair was too big for her, and had once been covered with some embroidery; the firelight glimmered on a patch of trees and a threadbare reindeer. She snuggled back and sipped the soup. It was so hot it scorched her tongue.

  They were in a small room, very dark. There was another ragged chair, a table, and in a corner some empty shelves, their shadows jerking in the firelight. By the hearth a stack of cut logs oozed dampness. The window was boarded up, and some torn shreds of green cloth were nailed across it to keep out drafts.

  Jessa’s knees were hot; she edged back. Her coat was dripping into a puddle on the floor.

  On the table lay two fishing spears and a knife, thrust deep into the timber. Thorkil was trying to pull it out, but
couldn’t.

  “That’s another thing,” he said, tapping the empty platter. “Enough food for six. Everything prepared. How did he know?”

  She shook her head.

  Outside, voices approached; the door shuddered open. The big man, Brochael, came in, and Helgi trailed behind him, glancing quickly into the shadows. They had all done that. No one forgot that the creature was here, somewhere.

  “We’re going, Jessa,” Helgi said quickly.

  She stared at him. “Tonight?”

  He shrugged unhappily. “You’ve seen. They won’t stay here. To be frank, neither will I. There’s too much strangeness in this place.” She nodded, wordless.

  “I’m just sorry to have to leave you both here.”

  “Don’t be.” Brochael planted himself in front of the blaze. “They’ll be safer here than in any hold of Gudrun’s.”

  Helgi gave her a wan smile and went to the door. Suddenly Jessa wanted to go with him; she leaped up, spilling the soup, but he caught her eye and she stopped.

  “Good luck,” he said. Then he went and closed the door.

  In the sudden silence they heard the clink of harness, the muffled scrape of a hoof in snow. After that there was only the wind, howling over the sills and under the doors into all the empty rooms and spaces of the hall.

  Brochael sat down. He cleared the table with one sweep of his arm, tugged out the knife and thrust it in his belt, and leaned both elbows on the bare wood. “Now. I already know your names and I’m sure you can guess mine. I am Brochael Gunnarsson, of Hartfell. I knew your fathers, a long time ago. I also know that Ragnar has sent you here into exile.”

  “How do you know?” Jessa demanded. “How could you?”

  Brochael took down a candle and lit it. “I was told,” he said. There was something in his voice that puzzled her, but she was too tired to think about it now.

  She took the letter out of her inner pocket and held it out.

  “Were you told about this?”

  He took it, looked at her a moment, then put the candle down and tugged open the knots that held the sealskin. A square of parchment fell out; he unfolded it on the table, spreading it flat with his big hands.