The fire in the hearth burned strong. The wood crackled and hissed, the flames leaping so high that it seemed they might escape out of the fireplace and race up the walls. But the walls were stone and would not burn.
And soon the wood would char, blacken, and the flames would die down to wispy ghosts. Then the cold would return. The winds would slither into the keep and the great hall would descend into darkness.
And somewhere in that dying light the monster would reveal itself, and Hemming’s blade would sing true. All he needed to do was to wait.
20
Toki had wandered far from the camp, following the tracks of a rabbit through the fresh snow. He hoped to find its den. Maybe get more than one rabbit for his effort. He and his cousin Ugnar could use the fresh meat. He was tired of too many days of gruel and flakes of dried meat.
They had come across from the Svergish side, their wagon laden with furs and hammered tin and sealed jars of pickled fish, items they hoped the soldiers garrisoned at Riverton would pay a good price for. If they couldn’t sell their wares, then the hard journey battling through the storm would have been in vain, and they wouldn’t have needed to detour for an extra day to avoid the border keep and the demand for taxes from the soldiers.
But now they were descending into a valley, an easy half day from Riverton.
Toki paused to catch his breath. Despite being at a lower elevation, the air was still freezing, sneaking in the gap between his mittens and the cuffs of his sleeves. He stared at the ridgeline. The high passes were swallowed in storm clouds still. During their march around the keep, the wind had screamed and the snow had come down so thick that every hundred steps or so Toki had been sure that they were lost and would die up there. But Ugnar and his old hound had led them the right way.
Toki imagined the misery of the soldiers charged with guarding the two keeps facing each other across the border. He had heard that soldiers volunteered for the post, but he imagined they were only sent there as punishment.
Toki slapped his hands together to get the blood flowing again. He turned his gaze from the desolate peaks and set off again, trudging after the rabbit tracks.
The tracks ended abruptly on the banks of a frozen river and were replaced by a shallow divot. Toki cursed and was wondering what could have happened when he saw the single hawk feather lying on the snow a few feet away. He had been beaten to the meal. All this trudging for nothing. Ugnar would probably smirk and tell him he had been foolish, but Toki would ignore that. Toki always held out the hope that something better was always just around the next corner.
It was then that Toki saw the man, heavily furred, stumbling through the snow. The figure fell to his knees, and then rose again. Toki paled as he saw the path of bloody snow behind him and began running towards the stranger.
“You! Are you all right? Where did you come from?”
The man looked up, his black beard streaked with gray, his eyes weary, his skin sagging and pale, looking as if it had been drained of blood. An axe was clutched in his fist, the blade dragging a furrow in the snow beside him.
“Skin.” The man’s voice broke with laughter. “What lies beneath our skin.”
Toki hesitated. The man seemed mad, but then Toki realized that the poor fool was likely just disoriented, and perhaps near death after stumbling down from one of the keeps.
“Hold on, fellow,” said Toki as he slid his shoulders beneath the stranger’s arm to prop him up. “Come with me back to our camp. We’ll get you warmed up with fire and wine.”
The man was heavy, his legs collapsing beneath him several times, and Toki struggled before getting him back to his feet. But he could not leave a man out here to die.
Eventually, the camp with its wagon and bright red tent came into view. Toki shouted and waved. Ugnar emerged from the tent, paused for a moment, and began trotting across the snowfield.
His old hound followed at his heels. But then the dog stopped in its tracks, its hackles rising, and began barking ferociously.
The stranger lurched to a halt.
“Don’t you worry about Ugnar’s hound,” said Toki. “Don’t you worry about anything.”
And the stranger’s arm tightened across Toki’s shoulder, maybe more than he thought necessary, so tight that Toki’s skin seemed to burn.
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Acknowledgments
I want to thank John Carpenter’s The Thing for the inspiration and The Thing Minute Podcast for planting the seed for this story. The Thing with swords. Yeah, I can do that.
Also, a big shout out to my stalwart beta readers: Tom Smith and Jeff Bryant. They help me keep the wheels on the bus.
Thanks to my dad for lending his copywriting expertise and reader’s eye.
Finally, I want to thank Dave DeBurgh whose edits brought my prose to the next level.
About the Author
Peter Fugazzotto is a writer of fantasy, horror, and science fiction. His short stories have been published in Heroic Fantasy Quarterly, Grim Dark Magazine, and Far Fetched Fables.
In addition to his writing, he earned a Black Belt in Brazilian Jiu Jitsu, once spent a summer vaccinating against yellow fever in the Amazon, and on his honeymoon stumbled upon a corpse flower in the jungles of Indonesia.
He lives in Northern California with his wife and daughter and an assortment of animals.
www.peterfugazzotto.com
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