Snow-Walker

by Catherine Fisher

  “I mean the creature is coming here, lord. It’s coming directly toward the Jarlshold.”

  Nine

  I was little equipped to act as bodyguard.

  Hakon Empty-hand paused in the doorway of the shieling. Outside, the moon shone through a vivid purple aurora, silvering the trees that crowded close about the field. He stared anxiously into the dark, crowded aisles of the forest.

  “Inga! Don’t run off!”

  She came around the corner of the building and glared at him. “I wasn’t.”

  “Where’s your brother?”

  “Here.” Kilmund had another lamb on his shoulders; he was staggering under its weight. The ewe followed, bleating in alarm. “This one was at the other end of the field.”

  Hakon eased it awkwardly off the little boy’s back; it ran into the dark byre and gazed around at the straw. Carefully they pushed the ewe in after it.

  Hakon shut the door and nudged the latch home with his good hand, the left one.

  “That’s all we can do. Now let’s get home.”

  He was worried—the darkness had fallen before they’d finished and the news had made him uneasy. Gripping Inga’s arm, he said, “Stay close to me now.”

  Crossing the pasture, the little boy kicked and danced. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of the troll, Hakon.”

  “He is!” Inga cried.

  “I’m not.” Kilmund kicked a small rock in the grass. “Father says those things are skalds’ lies and only thralls believe them.”

  “Well, I’m only a thrall,” Hakon growled, “so keep quiet and come on.”

  By now they were in the forest, and the light was dimmer. Ever since the group of men had ridden by that morning, Hakon had been uneasy. Perhaps he should have taken the children home straight away. But it had been too easy to imagine the master, ranting because the work hadn’t been done. “Can’t even round up a few lambs, boy, without scurrying back for orders!”

  Skuli Skulisson was a good farmer but a hard man; not a man with imagination. Not really a man who knew about fear. Hakon did. He peered into the green gloom of the wood. Those men had believed their tale of the troll. They’d been riding to the Jarlshold, sweating, afraid. And they’d had good swords, and two hands to use them.

  “Do we have to go so fast?” Inga asked him. “My side hurts.”

  He stopped and looked down at her. “Much?”

  “It hurts,” she said tearfully. “Carry me, Hakon.”

  Hurriedly he kneeled and gathered her up. She was light, a bundle of frail bones. With his good hand he gripped Kilmund’s shoulder. “Come on now. Hurry.”

  It was well into the wood, in the clearing by the stream, that he heard the noise. Not stopping, he turned his head quickly, ignoring the children’s high voices. Something rustled; in the dark tangle of undergrowth to his left he sensed the slightest stir of its presence. It might be anything, but he walked faster, pushing the boy on. Two miles to the farm. A knife on his belt and a rusty sword, but he’d never been good with his left hand and he was thin and hadn’t the weight behind the thrust. Already Inga felt heavier, making his arm ache.

  In the windy unease of the wood there were many noises—leaves pattering, the rising roar of high branches, the crisp rustle of nettle and thorn whipping against his legs. He stumbled over a stone and gasped, and Inga squealed, “Don’t drop me!”

  “I won’t. Be quiet now.”

  He longed to shift her weight but he needed his good hand free. Quickly he put her down and drew the sword. It was old, notched, not much use. A thrall’s sword.

  “What’s that for?” Kilmund’s eyes were wide.

  “Nothing. A game.”

  “What sort of game?”

  Leaves gusted into his face as he crouched beside the children. “Hunting. We’re going to run, fast and silent. As fast as we can.”

  “I don’t want to,” the boy said stubbornly.

  Hakon gripped the sword tight. “We’re late. And if you’re late, your father will have me beaten. And you too, probably, if I tell him you were idling. You don’t want that, do you?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Then run. Now!”

  They hurried through the straining wood, branches cracking under their feet, but it wasn’t fast enough, and Hakon, behind his snatched breathing, knew that the peculiar movement was still out there, somewhere in the dark. It kept level with them; once or twice among the trees he thought he saw a pale glimmer, a shadow in the tanglewood.

  At the edge of a clearing bright with moonlight they stopped, breathless. He glanced around, his heart thumping. The trees here were closely grouped—old gnarled oaks, their branches and boles green with mosses and lichens that grew even on the rocks, soft cushions, sprawling yellow splashes.

  In the wood, something breathed. Like an echo of himself he heard it, rasping, strange and heavy.

  A branch swished. Stones clattered.

  “What’s that?” Inga whispered.

  In the silence the whole wood murmured and creaked and stirred in the rising gale. Pale cloud dragged across the moon.

  Hakon grabbed her. “Up the tree. Hurry!”

  “I don’t want to!” She began to cry with terror and he shoved her fiercely up into the branches, wishing he could lift her. “Hold tight! Now, Kilmund! Move!”

  But the boy was staring into the breathing darkness. “Is it the troll?”

  “Get up there!” Hakon jerked him off the ground. “Hold your sister. Hold her tight!”

  Above him the branches swayed, dropped leaves on him. Legs and arms moved in a flurry of snow that had begun to fall slowly, like ash drift from a fire. Inga’s cry came down from the dark.

  “Come on, Hakon!”

  “Quiet!”

  He turned, his back against the tree, clutching the sword that felt hot and heavy in his hand. And then, among the undergrowth, among storm-stirred leaves and snow, something shifted, and he knew he was looking at a face, a narrow, inhuman face among splintered branches and shadow. It watched him, its small eyes pale as ice, a big, indistinct shape, and he swore for a moment that the snow drifted through its body.

  Like a man, but bigger. Like a bear, but … not. As it watched him he knew that it thought, that it hungered, and he felt a sudden pulse of terror that he squashed at once, deep down.

  Barely opening his lips he said, “It’s here. Don’t move, Kilmund. Don’t speak. Whatever happens don’t let her make a sound.”

  But it could probably smell them. Best not to think about that. Facing into the dark he knew his own life was lost. Nothing could get him up that tree in time, not with one useless hand. If he turned, it would come, crashing out…

  Odin, he thought, if you love me, do something.

  The branches moved. It was coming; snow blurred it but it was coming out, toward him. And at that instant the moon leaked from its cloud and lit the wood with sudden bars of silver.

  Breathless, Hakon pressed himself back. He saw a gray pelt, a thick, heavy body, eyes lit with savage hunger. His sword glimmered like frost; the air before him was a whirlwind of white, dissolving flakes.

  The creature made a sound, wordless, tense.

  Sweat running, Hakon raised his sword.

  And then, from above, came a screech that made him jerk his glance up; the night fell on him in two black pieces, flapping and screaming. As he ducked, they stabbed at the rune beast’s face, scratching, fluttering, and it clawed them off, roaring, swinging away.

  In an instant Hakon was scrambling up the tree, hauling himself up clumsily, dragged by small invisible fingers, torn, scratched, shaking all over with unstoppable fear. “All right!” he whispered. “It’s all right!”

  Below they heard the roars of furious anger. In a whirlwind of shadows the thing crashed back into the under-growth, slashing and splintering. They heard it howl and stagger through the wood, farther and farther off into the rising gale.

  His arm around Inga, Hakon tried to stop shaking. He
stared into the dark, listening, intent for the distant sounds. Soon only wind shook the wood. Snow gusted about them.

  After a long time the little boy whispered in his ear, “What was it? What scared it away?”

  For a moment Hakon could not speak. Then he managed a word.

  “Birds.”

  “Birds?”

  “Ravens. Two great ravens.”

  “Where did they come from?”

  Dazed, Hakon watched the moonlight glitter on his rusty, useless blade. Then he said, “Odin sent them.”

  Ten

  At the speaking of the wise

  … the hall was silent.

  Jessa shuffled her feet. It was cold, standing out here in the growing dusk. Far off to the west the sky was a deep velvet blue, slowly being marred by a great pile of purple swelling cloud. The first stars glimmered, almost too faint to see unless she stared hard at them.

  Out there on the hill above the fjord the beacon was burning, blazing over the black water, its reflection rippling like a dragon’s tongue, the explosions of wood at its heart loud even from here. Miles away another fire burned, a mere point in the sky.

  The fires burned for the god’s journey. The image of Freyr, keeper of the harvest, lord of boars and horses, was coming to the Jarlshold last of all, as he did every year, on his gilded wagon. All through the last of the winter, the god had traveled, bringing spring with him, dragged from hold to hold, village to village, over the snowdrifts and through the dense forests, rowed on boats to the ends of the narrowest fjords. Every year Freyr visited his farmers and brought them luck, and heart—the promise of plenty. And last of all he came to Wulfgar’s hall.

  She scuffed her feet impatiently against a tussock of grass. Around her the crowd waited—women and thralls, bondsmen, freemen, children, warriors, some laughing and talking, some silent. Skapti came pushing through them.

  “Well?” she said at once.

  “Nothing. The patrols went a day’s journey to the north and east—the last came back a few minutes ago. Nothing. Though they said the woods were strangely silent.” He scratched his ear with a long hand.

  “Do you believe it?” Jessa asked.

  “They believed it, didn’t they? Those men were terrified. As for trolls and mere dwellers, who knows? Something killed the stock, that’s sure.”

  “And the man.”

  He pulled a face. “Wulfgar will have that looked into. Men are mostly killed by other men.”

  She stared at him. “You think that?”

  “I’m a hardheaded poet, little valkyrie, and I think appalling things. But don’t worry, Wulfgar believes in this creature. A bear, he thinks, a big one, driven south by hunger. He’s put men on all the approaches. And he says he’ll ask the god about it.”

  Uneasy, she turned away. But those men had been gripped by terror. And there was still that little rat-thief somewhere about. She clenched her gloves into fists. She couldn’t let that rest. Vidar would have to be followed again, and more closely.

  She could see him now, waiting down there on the shore, a dim figure on the beach. And as the crowd around her murmured and pointed, she saw the boat.

  A longship, blazing with torches. It slid out of the dark mist without a ripple, and shadows moved on its deck among the flare light, as if it truly came from a realm beyond the world—Asgard or Niflheim—a ship of spirits. As it ground into the shingle, the figures on deck and beach became a mass of black and scarlet, confused flickers, lifting something among the smoke and flame crackle. Then in the growing dark they moved up the hill toward her and the muddle became a long line of torchbearers, escorting the wagon of Freyr to the Jarl’s welcome.

  Six men pulled it; as they drew near she saw their masks: boar, horse, the black holes of their eyes. These were men who had given a year to Freyr’s service, to guard his image. When their time was up, others would take their place; there were always eager men. Farmers would send their sons—it would bring them a good harvest.

  And hauled behind them, dragged with thick ropes that had frayed and worn against the wood, came the great gilded wagon, swaying and rattling, with the crowd pushing it and holding children up to touch it and laughing.

  In it sat the god himself. The image was unknowably ancient, centuries old; a crude, wooden shape, seamed and split with time and the rain.

  A young head, its eyes narrow slits roughly hewn and a massive collar of gold around its neck, it rattled past her, and she turned to follow the crowd jostling into the Jarlshall, coughing in the streaming smoke from the pits where the feast meats baked.

  The hall too was smoky with torches, the windows shuttered. The image was dragged between the filthy, billowing tapestries, over the flagstones, right up to the hearth where Wulfgar waited, alone in his carven chair, his picked men ranged behind him.

  Slowly he stood up.

  Still swaying in its gilded seat, the eyes of Freyr stared into the darkness of the hall.

  Wulfgar put his hand out; a woman put a horn into it, a heavy ox horn banded with amber and gold. He lifted it and looked up at the towering head.

  “I greet your image, Freyr. Bring plenty on the hold.” And he drank a little and gave the horn to Vidar. Slowly it was passed from hand to hand, mouth to mouth, everyone sipping at the rich red wine, even the smallest children. Jessa let its bitterness slide over her tongue, heat her throat. Then she pushed to the front and found a bench by the wall and sat there, leaning back in the shadows.

  Vidar Freyrspriest stood by himself now. He wore a light coat threaded with amulets of boars, open at the neck. From a small bowl held by a thrall he took the last pieces of toadstool and swallowed them, his hand shaking. Already he looked strange, his face pale and sweating, his eyes unfocused, the pupils swollen and dark.

  The thrall took his arm and led him to the image, and he stood before it, head bowed.

  Talk died away. All the torches were put out. The hall was black, one pale circle of sky high in its east wall. Only the fires burned, and in their leaping light the god seemed to take life; shadows blurred on his face, the dark gashes of his eyes flickered and moved.

  “Sit down,” Wulfgar muttered.

  There was a rustle in the straw. Outside, a dog yelped.

  “Freyr has come,” Wulfgar’s voice said simply, “and we have questions to ask him. Most of you will have heard the rumor the men of Harvenir brought here yesterday. We need to know about this. Vidar Freyrspriest is ready. Freyr will speak through him. He may be able to tell us what this thing that prowls is.”

  There was a hush in the hall. Jessa looked for Skapti and couldn’t see him. It was too dark. Only the nearest faces were lit by the sharp, uneasy red light.

  Wulfgar sat on his chair, leaning forward. He said softly, “Does Freyr hear me?”

  Vidar stepped from the fire. His face was a mask of shadows. He lifted his head, staring blindly into the dark.

  “I hear you.”

  Jessa went cold. His voice was hoarse, a rasp, totally transformed. It was slurred as though he had forgotten the use of words. Not Vidar’s voice.

  No one moved. Wulfgar said, “We welcome you, Freyr. We ask your advice.”

  There was silence. Then words came, breathed harshly, with difficulty.

  “I give no freedom from danger.” The figure by the fire barely stirred. “The gods are bound by weird as you are. By the fate of Asgard.”

  Wulfgar nodded. “We know this. But you have knowledge. There is something prowling in my land. Something out there in the darkness. It kills men and beasts, brings terror and shadows of fear. Do you know of it?”

  The figure that was Vidar, and yet not Vidar, stood below the wagon. Firelight danced on him, black and red, and on the great image above him, and both their eyes were dark gashes; they were fragments of faces, masked with smoke.

  The voice came suddenly, abruptly.

  “Sorcery moves here. It approaches slowly, through the forests, over the snow-bound ridges and the passes
. It is a terrible, driven hunger.”

  “Hunger for what?” Wulfgar whispered.

  “For something here. Something left here. Something that is death.”

  And the figure shuddered and fell on his knees, gripped with sudden convulsions. Wulfgar leaped up and ran to him, propping him up, and as she came close behind, Jessa heard him mutter, “Whose death, Freyr? Whose?”

  Face gray, eyes set, Vidar opened his mouth, struggled for breath. “Yours,” he hissed.

  No one else could have heard. Wulfgar flashed a look at Jessa, but before he could speak, the priest’s back arched in a spasm of pain; he lifted his head and cried out, “Listen! It comes from the north—a pale thing, evil, a creature of runes! Beware of it!”

  Wulfgar shook him. “Vidar!”

  But the priest crumpled and was silent.

  After a shocked moment the Jarl nodded. “I hear your warning, Freyr,” he murmured, “and I thank you for it, believe me.” Raising his voice, he said, “Light the torches. Mord, help me with him. The trance is over.”

  But before anyone could move, the door at the back of the hall slammed open. Every head turned.

  In the dim starlight two figures stood. For a moment they waited there, then pushed forward, the crowd moving apart for them silently, as if in fear.

  One was a big man; his hair and beard were russet. A great bearskin coat hung to his knee, an ax glinting at his side. But it was his companion that everyone stared at, as he dragged off his hood and gazed around at the throng of faces.

  A thin, pale boy, his hair silver-white, his eyes colorless as frost.

  Jessa stared at him in amazement.

  “Kari?” she breathed.

  Eleven

  The black raven

  … shall have much to speak of.

  He was taller, she thought, as they sat in the cleared hall with the torches being lit around them. But still as frail-looking, as brittle as ice.

  Brochael, the big tawny man, was talking and eating at once, Skapti pouring him wine that he gulped down almost without noticing. “So it was a bad time to arrive then? I wondered what you were all doing there in the dark!” He grinned at Jessa, flung an arm around her, and squashed her against him till she punched him. “It’s good to see you again, little lass. Not so little now either. Married yet?”