Snow-Walker

by Catherine Fisher

  “Hakon will be jealous,” Kari said at last.

  Jessa stared in surprise. “Will he?”

  He almost smiled. Then he said, “When Brochael went down like that, Jessa, I felt as if it was me, as if it had struck me, right through the heart.”

  She nodded. She knew that already.

  Later, when Kari was asleep, she said to Skapti, “Who were they, do you think?”

  He shrugged. “Outlaws. Kinless men.”

  She looked at Brochael, restless and flushed in the fire’s heat. “He will be all right?”

  The skald ran a thumb down his stubbly chin. “I’m no expert, Jessa. I’d say so, if we can keep the wound clean. He’s a strong man. But we need a place to rest up, and I don’t know if it’s safe enough here.”

  “I can make sure of that.” Moongarm squatted beside them in the dimness. “I’ll go and prowl around. Make sure we’ve not been followed.”

  Skapti shook his lank hair. “It’s too dangerous. We can’t afford to lose you too.”

  “So you need me now?”

  “We need everyone”—Skapti stared at him levelly—“if we’re all going to get out of here alive.”

  “I’ll be safe enough. No one will see me.”

  He turned away into the shadows; Skapti muttered, “Fool.”

  He started to get up, but Jessa put her hand on his. “Let him go.”

  He looked at her.

  “Let him go. I think he knows what he’s doing. I think he knows this wood better than we do.”

  They stayed in the clearing by the rocks for a day and a night. Moongarm came back soon after daylight, saying he had searched the forest around the camp as far as he could; there were no signs of the outlaws. The body they had left behind still lay there.

  “Let the wolves have it,” Hakon muttered.

  Moongarm gave him a searching look. “They already have.”

  Brochael slept for a few hours, then ate the food Kari brought him. He was cheerful and joked about the pain. Skapti had told him what had happened, but he said nothing until Kari did.

  “Death comes to us all. That’s fate.”

  “Not his death. It wasn’t a fair fight.”

  Brochael snorted. “You think it would have been, if you’d fought him with a sword?”

  “It wouldn’t have been fair to you then,” Jessa said.

  Kari glanced at her irritably. “Thank you for reminding me.”

  “We use one another’s strengths,” Brochael said. “A sword for some of us. Jessa has her brains, Skapti his lore.”

  “And I have sorcery.”

  “Many would envy you,” Brochael said quietly.

  “Not if they knew.”

  On the second day, they left, traveling slowly. Brochael did not complain, though Jessa guessed the wound must be hurting him. But he laughed at her sympathy.

  “Don’t worry about me, little valkyrie. I’ve had a hard life.”

  By midday the trees had begun to thin; finally Skapti pushed through a thicket and stopped. His voice came back to them strangely unmuffled.

  “Look at this!”

  Jessa broke through the cover quickly, and grinned as the cold clear air struck her face and lifted her hair; behind her Hakon gave a whoop of delight.

  At last the forest had ended. They were on a high fellside, and below them spread a new country of lakes and open slopes, white with untrodden snow. Mountains rose to the north and east, huge and astonishingly near, their tips scarlet with the smoldering sunset.

  Brochael and Kari emerged behind them, leaves in their hair. Kari looked tired and Brochael gruff-tempered, but their faces cleared at the sight of the wide, bare country.

  “Thank the gods for that,” Brochael roared. “Another day of trees and I would have run mad!”

  A flock of birds scattered at his shout.

  “You’re mad already,” Skapti said mildly. Then he whistled. “Have you seen what you’re standing under?”

  He reached into a hollybush and pushed branches aside carefully, and they saw that a great archway rose over them, almost completely masked by growth. The same strange runes ran around it, and on the top, glaring down at them between the red berries, was the stern, helmed face that had guarded the hall.

  “Galar,” said Jessa. “I wonder if he’s the one who’s buried.”

  “If it is, I’m glad he can’t get up.” Hakon looked at Skapti. “This must mark the end of his land.”

  “The end of the wood. The wood is his.”

  “So where now?”

  Brochael grimaced. “Down. Before night.”

  But it was dark well before they reached the bottom of the steep, unstable slope, winding down on the broken path, between rocks and stunted trees to the silent land below. In the end Hakon’s horse slipped suddenly and crashed heavily onto its knees. He fell clear, but the horse did not get up. It struggled bitterly, but the foreleg was broken, everyone could see.

  “It’s finished,” Brochael said grimly. “Get your pack off it, Hakon.”

  When his gear was off, Hakon loaded it onto the pack beast; they led the other horses carefully down the rest of the ravine.

  Brochael stayed behind.

  When he came down into the camp they had made, some time later, the long knife he wore had been scrupulously cleaned. He carried a sack under his arm.

  Stiff and sore, he sat down. “No spare horses now.” Jessa gave him some smoked fish; he chewed it thoughtfully. “At least we’ve got some fresh meat. Tomorrow, we’ll cook it. You, Moongarm…”

  He looked around quickly. “Where is he?”

  The man’s pack was there, but there was no sign of him.

  “Now where’s he lurking?” Brochael growled. “I don’t trust him. Not even when I can see him.”

  “The birds are with him,” Kari said quietly. “He won’t be far.”

  Later, deep in the night, Jessa rolled over and saw Moongarm come into camp and talk to Skapti quietly. The gray man looked sleek somehow. He refused any food and lay down, on his own as usual.

  Jessa caught Skapti’s eye and lifted her eyebrows. The skald shrugged.

  Not far off she could hear wolves snarling and fighting over the carcass of the horse, where it lay under the stars.

  Fifteen

  Fairer than sunlight, I see a hall,

  A hall thatched with gold.

  The village was floating on the water.

  That was Jessa’s first thought as she gazed down at it from the deep snow of the hillside. Then she realized it was built on an island, or on some ingenious structure of high poles out there in the misty lake. A narrow wooden causeway linked it to the bank, built high over the marshlands, leading to a gate, firmly shut. A tall palisade guarded the village from attack. From one or two of the houses smoke drifted into the purple sky, up into the veils of aurora that flickered like ghost light over the brilliant stars.

  It looked safe, snug behind its defenses.

  And very quiet.

  Brochael shifted, pulling the stiff, frosted scarf from his mouth. “Well?” he said gruffly.

  They had been four days now living off horsemeat and herbage and melted snow. The horses limped with the cold; their riders ached with weariness and hunger. Each of them knew the settlement was a godsend.

  Only Moongarm seemed uneasy.

  “Are you coming with us?” Brochael glared at him sourly. “You don’t have to.”

  The gray man turned his strange amber eyes on him. “You know how much you’d miss me, Brochael. Don’t worry, I’ll come.”

  “You would!” Brochael scowled.

  As they picked their way down, Jessa wriggled her toes with relief. She was starving, and stiff with cold. Hakon grinned at her. There was no doubt what he thought.

  Snow fell silently about them, small hard flakes that rolled from hair and shoulders and melted slowly, soaking through cloth. It fell on the dark lake water and glittered, the northern lights catching the brief scatter of cry
stal. On the hillside it lay thick, banked in great drifts, and the horses’ hooves drove deep holes into it, compacting it to ice with careful, crunching steps.

  Long before they reached the marsh they were challenged. A question rang out; Brochael stopped them at once, very still.

  “Travelers!” he roared, his voice ringing in the hard frost. “Looking for a welcome.”

  There was silence. An aurora whispered overhead.

  Then two figures stepped out of the darkness, well muffled, with flat snowshoes strapped under their feet. One carried a long glinting spear; the other, whose eyes alone were visible in the wrappings about his face, had a peculiar weapon—a wand of wood, studded with quartz and crystals and tiny silver bells that tinkled in the cold.

  They looked up warily at the travelers.

  The man with the wand had bright, sharp eyes. He raised his hand.

  “We give our hospitality to anyone, strangers, but especially at this time. Tomorrow is a great feast day for us, so you’ve come at a good time.”

  He came forward and offered his hand to Brochael. Brochael leaned down and gripped it. “Our thanks.”

  The man nodded. “You’ll need to lead those beasts of yours. The causeway is slippery with ice. Follow me.”

  They dismounted into the soft snow.

  “Can’t see much of them,” Hakon muttered.

  “Well, they can’t see much of us.” Jessa winked at him. “They might not like your face when they do. Keep your sword handy.”

  The causeway began in the snow and stretched out over the bog, a narrow, railed walkway, built of split logs caulked and spread with what smelled like resin or pitch, a sharp smell. The horses thudded over noisily. Below them the marsh spread, its stiff stalks and frozen rushes purple in the aurora light, with strange wisps of blue that rose and drifted in the mist. Somewhere waterfowl quacked. The marsh smelled dank, of decay, of a million rotting stems.

  As they walked farther out, black water glinted beneath them. Jessa saw how the snow lay in a thin film across it, already freezing in patches. Tomorrow the lake would be sealed under a frozen lid.

  At the end of the causeway was the gate. The wand man knocked and called; the heavy wooden door swung open. Inside, figures came running out from nearby houses, some to stare, others to help, pulling the horses into a low building lit with lanterns, its empty stalls spread with fresh rushes and shavings.

  “Unload your goods,” the man said, “and bring them with you, whatever you need. These men will see to your horses.”

  He waited for them, after whispering something to a small figure who slipped out at once. A girl, Jessa thought. She slung the bag on her sore shoulders and moved up next to Kari.

  “Are we safe here?” she asked quietly.

  He pushed his hood off and looked at her gravely. “I don’t know, Jessa! I don’t know everything.”

  “Sorry.” She grimaced. “We’ll find out soon enough, I suppose.”

  “No one attacks their guests.” Hakon sounded shocked.

  Skapti shrugged, behind him. “It’s been known.”

  “Only in sagas!”

  “Sagas are real, I’ve told you that. As real as your sword, dream wielder.”

  The stranger led them out of the byre, across the trampled snow. A low, rectangular building was nearby, the door so sunken that the snow was already banked against it. The man stopped and opened it, trudging down a pathway. He beckoned them in.

  The smoke caught Jessa’s throat as she straightened, making her eyes smart; as she coughed, the light of many candles flared and danced around her. Then they steadied. She saw a small, airless room, acrid with smoke. After the clear cold air outside it felt stiflingly warm. The hearth was in the center; a great bronze cauldron hung over it on a triple chain. Above, the thatch was yellow, pale as gold.

  Sitting around the cauldron, staring at her, was a small group of men and women, obviously one family. They were all heavily tattooed. Each of them had some thin blue creature crawling down his or her cheek, a boar or a fox or a fish. A small, elderly man, the man who stood up, had a strange coiling beast of curling dots. Their hair was dark and glossy, their clothes brilliantly colored—woven wool and dyed sealskin in reds and greens and blues, all hung with knots and luckstones and feathers.

  “Welcome,” the chieftain said warmly, his accent strange. “Come to the fire, all of you.”

  For a moment no one moved. Then Brochael dumped his pack against the wall and came forward. The others followed, pulling off coats and wrappings and gloves, scattering snow on the floor and benches.

  “Come close, come,” the old man insisted, waving them in. He said something quietly; a woman and a girl got up and poured out a drink for each of them, handing out small horns of yellow-colored liquid.

  Skapti tasted it and smiled in surprise. “Mead?”

  “We call it honey brew. Sit down now, be comfortable.”

  There were low benches near the hearth; the travelers perched themselves in a thankful row. The man who had brought them in pulled off his own faceguard and coat; now he came and sat near them, laying the quartz-headed wand carefully at his feet. The bells gave a strange, silvery chink. Not a weapon, Jessa thought suddenly. Something magical.

  She looked at him curiously. He had a lean, sharp face, with a ragged fringe of brown hair. A tattoo uncoiled on his cheek, ran down his neck and under his clothes. Two others crawled on the backs of his hands. The silver bells showed that he was someone special, a shaman, she thought firmly, noticing the strange pierced bones that hung from his belt.

  Food was set before them and they ate hungrily. Hot roast spicy meats, possibly duck; fish, fresh from the lake; crumbly oatcakes and honey; cheese and beer. It was a feast, and Jessa enjoyed it to the full, despite the stifling smoke. It had been weeks since they’d eaten properly; she noticed how thin and gaunt they all looked, how travel worn. Filthy, long-haired, wild.

  The chieftain watched them. His eyes were light blue, his face beginning to wrinkle. He smiled. “My name is Torvi, father of the people. This is my wife, Yrsa, and my daughter Lenna. The Speaker is our wiseman, our shaman to the dark. His own name may not be known.”

  As he said that, the family made a brief sign, a touching of their lips. Jessa nodded to herself. Knowing his name would give them power over him. Or so these people would believe.

  Skapti gave their own names courteously and the tattooed people gazed at them all. If they recognized what Kari was, they said nothing. Jessa had the feeling they didn’t, which was surprising. Although, a lake people like this had no reason to travel far. They had all they needed here.

  “It’s fitting you came tonight,” the woman was saying. “Tomorrow is the feast of giving; the opening of the darkness. We’d be honored if you would join us.”

  “If the food is as good as this,” Skapti said drily, “I’m sure we will.”

  They all laughed, and there was an awkward silence.

  Then the Speaker leaned forward. “So you’re traveling. From beyond the wood, by the look of you. And where do you travel to, may we know?”

  Skapti shot a look at Brochael, who shrugged.

  “A long way,” the poet said carefully.

  “To my country.” Kari’s voice was unexpected; the shaman turned to him. A strange look passed between them.

  Then the Speaker nodded. “A long way indeed, to the land of the soul thieves.”

  Jessa caught her breath. So he knew, at least.

  Kari nodded but said nothing. He drank from his cup.

  A woman came in and spoke to the chieftain; he turned to Skapti. “A guest hall is ready for you all; Sif will show you the way. Sleep well, sleep late. Rest and eat well. Tomorrow we will talk.”

  “Tomorrow we should leave,” Brochael said uneasily. “We have an urgent errand.”

  The old man shook his head. “I fear the weather will keep you here. But the choice is yours. Do exactly as you wish. We will sell you food and ale and grain,
as much as you want.”

  Awkwardly Brochael stood and nodded. “We appreciate that.”

  The guest hall was a copy of the eating hall, but smaller. Equally smoky, Jessa thought irritably. “It’s a wonder these people can breathe,” she said aloud.

  Hakon fingered the brightly woven hangings and lifted one aside. “Furs!” He flung himself down with a groan of comfort.

  Jessa crawled scornfully into the next booth and dumped her bag. She lay down, just for a moment, to try out the bed.

  In seconds she was asleep.

  Kari lay in the darkness. Slowly the absence of feeling came to him. He saw nothing, heard nothing.

  But there was a tightness about his neck; he put his hands up and felt for it, and touched rope, a great noose of frayed, damp rope. Desperately he pulled at it, but it was coiled and cabled with heavy knots, and something crisp, like feathers, were stuck and threaded into its skeins.

  He spread his hands out into the darkness, fighting down fear. This was no dream, he knew that. It was a vision. But of what? Terror touched him; he tried to sit up, and couldn’t, and then he knew the darkness on top of him was heavy, wet with peat and matted lichens and the seeds and spores of generations. It weighed on him, suffocating him like a dark hand over his mouth and nose, and though he writhed and struggled and flung his head from side to side, she would not let go of him; she was drowning him in soil, her hand forcing him down and down.

  He choked and retched and the darkness broke; it shattered into glints of candle flame and a fire red roof, and Jessa and Moongarm bending over him.

  “Are you all right?” Jessa whispered anxiously. She pulled him up, knowing he wasn’t; he was white, his lips a strange blue; he struggled to breathe, bent over, dragging in long, painful, choking breaths.

  “Shall I call Brochael?”

  He shook his head. After a moment he managed, “No… I’m … all right.”

  “You don’t look it.”

  “I … will be.” He looked at Moongarm.

  “You seemed to be stifling in your sleep,” the gray man said somberly.

  “He woke me,” Jessa whispered. “He was worried. Was it a nightmare?”

  “I hope so.”