Peaceweaver

by Rebecca Barnhouse

  On the forest floor, pine needles and leaf mold covered the ground and muted the sound of the horses’ hooves. A lone squirrel skittered up a trunk and disappeared. The quiet seemed ominous. No birds called from the tree limbs that loomed overhead. Hild thought she might have preferred to hear wolves howling or the grunts of bears than to feel creatures were watching her silently, just out of sight.

  Directly in front of her, the two younger Geatish warriors rode side by side behind Thialfi, the Geat with the damaged arm. They carried themselves with the ease of young men accustomed to the saddle, their backs straight and tall, their blond hair tied back and emerging from under their helmets. One was taller and more broadly built than the other, his hair darker blond, but they wore their cloaks identically, thrown back over their shoulders. She regarded the cloth critically; it was well made, if unadorned. Whoever had woven it was skilled, which surprised her. It must not be Geatish work—she wondered if the seaweed-eaters stole cloaks and tunics during raiding parties, not just gold and weapons and slaves the way the Shylfings did. It seemed like the kind of foolishness they might resort to.

  Behind her, Unwen moaned. Hild knew the slave must be hurting, but there was nothing she could do. Yet she, too, was relieved when they rode into a clearing and Mord called a halt.

  As she began to dismount, one of the Geats, the smaller of the two who’d been riding in front of her, stepped to her side and offered his hand to help her. Angrily, she brushed it away. As if she needed help getting off a horse!

  The Geat stepped away, bowing briefly to her as he did, a hank of his white-blond hair flopping into his eyes.

  She gave him a curt nod, then slid from Fire-eyes’s back. As her feet touched the ground, she stumbled and inwardly cursed herself, certain the Geat was still watching.

  Not that it mattered. The Geats would all be dead—or slaves—soon. And she would be … Well, she supposed she would be dead, too.

  Another Geat was helping Unwen from her pony. Hild turned her head away and leaned against Fire-eyes’s flank. After so many days of being cooped up inside, of having so little activity, the long ride had left her shaky.

  As she rested her head against the horse, something odd caught her eye—a flap of leather that she didn’t recognize, a part of the saddle that seemed out of place to her. She reached for it and then stopped.

  From the angle where she stood, she could just make out the edge of a blade hidden under the leather flap.

  She wasn’t weaponless after all. Arinbjörn had armed her.

  THIRTEEN

  THEY DIDN’T REST LONG. BEFORE HILD’S BODY FELT READY, she was in Fire-eyes’s saddle again. She could hardly keep her fingers from reaching for the sword hilt. Her father’s lessons, the time she’d spent practicing with Arinbjörn—she was grateful for them now. Before, they had been nothing but pastimes, amusements. Now they might mean her survival.

  Nearby, one of the Geats helped Unwen onto her pony. It wasn’t just herself she was responsible for, Hild thought. She could protect Unwen, too, when her uncle’s army came to do its deadly work.

  She drew alongside the slave. “Sit back a little more,” she said. “And don’t hold the reins so tightly.”

  Unwen relaxed her grip on the reins for a moment but immediately clenched her hands around them again, scrunching her shoulders up to her ears and sitting forward as if the pony were about to break into a gallop.

  Hild reached over and touched the other woman’s shoulder. “Sit back,” she said again. “The pony isn’t going anywhere—it’s just going to follow the horses.”

  Unwen lowered her shoulders but Hild could see how taut her body was. She leaned down, took the pony’s reins from Unwen’s hands, and held them loosely in her own. The pony didn’t change its pace but ambled along beside Fire-eyes.

  “Oh, my lady,” Unwen said, looking up to catch Hild’s eyes. She pursed her lips as if she was about to say something else.

  Hild waited, but Unwen took hold of the reins again and looked away just as the jingling of a bridle announced that Brynjolf, who had been riding in the rear, was catching up to them.

  “By Balder’s pretty toes, looks like you’ll be sore tonight!” he said, grinning so broadly at Unwen that Hild could see his chipped front tooth. She remembered when he’d gotten the chip, falling off his horse during the midsummer races a few years earlier. He’d grinned when he’d broken it, too, even though it must have hurt. And that silly saying about Balder’s toes—it had been on all the boys’ tongues recently. Hild and Beyla had teased Brynjolf mercilessly about it.

  She wished he would look at her, but she knew how difficult his position was. Even if he wanted to be friendly with her, this was his first time to ride out with the men. The warriors would be judging him, and they would have plenty to judge. With his helmet tucked under his arm and his dagger in his hand, Brynjolf trotted past Unwen, then maneuvered his horse around the Geats and up to where Mord was leading the party.

  Hild cringed, knowing exactly what would happen next. Mord’s voice rose in anger, allowing all of them, maybe even the scouts, who were riding somewhere nearby, to hear him berating Brynjolf for leaving the women unprotected.

  Unprotected? She smiled grimly. Mord didn’t know about her blade. Could she pull it out without cutting the horse—or herself? And if she could, would she be able to defend herself on horseback? The Shylfings preferred to fight on foot, but if she stayed on Fire-eyes’s back, she would gain both height and power. Could she do it?

  As Brynjolf made his way back through the other riders, an abashed grin on his face, Hild imagined him coming at her with a sword and tried to determine how long it would take her to unsheathe her own weapon. Once she did, her height—and the length of her arm—could give her an advantage if someone as short as Brynjolf ever attacked her. So would the element of surprise: nobody expected her to be armed, nor would they expect her to fight from Fire-eyes’s back.

  She wished she could tell Brynjolf about the sword and have him practice with her. She wished …

  She stopped herself. Wishing was pointless.

  The day went on forever. The trail wound past an endless succession of trees, with nothing to distract her except the dread of what lurked unseen in the forest. Every tree appeared to be watching her, hiding behind it a slavering wolf—or worse. She tried not to think of the creatures she had heard about in Ari Frothi’s lays. In the safe confines of her uncle’s stronghold, she had enjoyed the frisson of fear those tales had caused. But now she recalled the warrior whose mangled body had been brought through the East Gate when she was a little girl. “Trolls,” she remembered people saying before her sisters had rushed her away from the scene.

  Still, she’d always been far more afraid of enemy warriors than the creatures of mountain, lake, and forest, and with good reason. It was only one winter past that Helmings had surprised the kingdom. The women and children had been rushed into Gyldenseld to wait out the violence, hoping no one would torch the hall, and Hild had held a weeping Faxi on her lap, trying to comfort him, wishing her nephew’s warmth would comfort her. They had been lucky that time. Not a single Shylfing had died and the wounds had been minor, but Faxi still woke from nightmares.

  Now, however, an enemy she could see, a human enemy, seemed preferable to the unseen creatures that might be watching her from behind the trees.

  The day never brightened. The same solid gray that had surrounded them when they left the stronghold followed the company, making it hard to tell whether time was passing. Finally, though, Hild grew certain that the light was fading and the Between Time was upon them. The evening song of a solitary bird confirmed it. Soon, she knew, Mord would call a halt.

  She tensed at the sound of hooves, but it was only Hadding, back from scouting out the trail. He conferred with Mord, pointing, and Mord turned his horse in the direction Hadding indicated. The rest of them followed. As they rode, the trail narrowed and branches and underbrush began to grab at their cloaks.
They splashed through a fast-running stream. Just beyond it, the woods opened out again. Mord stopped and dismounted, the signal for the others to, as well. Before she did, Hild gazed around her and saw a ring of fire-blackened stones surrounded by felled logs. It was a campsite stocked with fuel for hunting and raiding parties. Gizzur was already taking kindling from a pile near a tree to build a fire.

  As Hild lowered her aching body to the ground, she realized Brynjolf was standing near her—but not too near. “Your horse, my lady?” he said, not looking at her as he reached for Fire-eyes’s reins. She searched his face, the splash of freckles across his cheeks, his nose the same snub shape as his sister’s. His jaw clenched, but he stood unmoving.

  A wave of sorrow rushed over her and she dropped her eyes. So this was how it would be: they would treat each other formally. She knew Brynjolf had no other choice, and for his sake, she would be distant, too, but it grieved her. Without looking at him again, she handed him the reins and stood with her head bowed as he led the horse away.

  “My lady,” Unwen said beside her, and the urgency in her voice made Hild turn. “Perhaps you should show me how to unsaddle a horse.” The expression in the slave’s eyes mirrored her tone.

  Instantly, Hild remembered the hidden blade. Unwen must know about it, too. Without speaking, they hurried after Brynjolf.

  The confusion was evident on his face when they approached him. “My slave will do this,” Hild said, now glad for the formality between them, which would keep her from having to explain.

  Brynjolf started to speak, then shut his mouth and bowed. He took a step back but hovered, ready to help them. She had to get rid of him.

  “I’ll need some water. Would you fetch it for me, please?” she said. He nodded and turned toward the stream, stumbling in his hurry to get away. Hild felt a twinge of sympathy. This couldn’t be easy for him.

  The moment he was away, she whispered, “Now, quick,” and reached for the sword hilt.

  “Here, my lady,” Unwen said, holding out the blanket that had been rolled up behind Hild’s saddle. Hild laid the sword in it and stood shielding Unwen’s body until she had wrapped the blanket around it. Then Unwen put it on the ground, and together, they unsaddled the horse.

  By now, Gizzur had a fire blazing in the pit. A look of complicity passed between Hild and Unwen. Hild walked over to the fire and leaned down to warm her face and hands. She could sense Unwen’s movements behind her as the slave made beds for the two of them, unpacking bags and placing them over the blanket with the sword in it. Both the Shylfings and the Geats were busy, none of them watching Unwen with suspicion, but Hild couldn’t ease her tension.

  Finally, the slave joined her beside the fire and Hild let out her breath.

  “Here’s water, my lady,” Brynjolf said, coming toward them with a bowl in his hands.

  “I’ll take that,” Unwen said, stepping forward. “Come, my lady, we’ll go someplace private for you to wash.” She looked at Hild with a pleading expression, urging her to do something, although Hild wasn’t sure what.

  “Yes, I’d like to wash,” she said, keeping her eyes on Unwen’s.

  The slave nodded. “Come, then.” She started for the woods and Hild followed.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Mord strode forward, glaring at the two of them.

  “Just a little way into the woods, sir. My lady needs privacy,” Unwen said, her voice light. “We won’t be long.”

  Hild stood silent, as pleasant an expression on her face as she could muster. She felt bone tired and wished she knew what Unwen intended. She wanted to glance back at the sword to make sure it was hidden under the blanket, but she didn’t dare.

  Mord stared at them for a long minute. “No farther than twenty paces,” he said.

  “Of course not, sir,” Unwen said, and gave him a smile that couldn’t have come easily to her. Hild couldn’t remember ever seeing the slave smile before. Even when Unwen laughed, her habit was to give her lips a sardonic twist.

  Mord turned back to the horses, and Hild followed Unwen toward the woods. Again, they were stopped, this time by Thialfi, the Geat with the damaged arm.

  “My lady,” he said in his drawling accent. He bowed, and when he raised his head, she saw the perplexed glance he threw at Mord. Then he focused on her again, and she had to struggle to understand his words. “My lady, you should have a guard.” He drew out the you for the space of at least three words. “These woods, this time of night—” He shook his head. “It’s not safe, my lady.”

  Hild looked toward the dark trees and tried not to think of what might be hiding in them. Reminding herself that there would be seven warriors close by, their weapons at the ready, she inclined her head toward the Geat. “I thank you, but I feel quite safe,” she lied. “Now, Unwen?” She walked past the man, who stood watching her.

  Unwen followed, water sloshing out of the bowl. “Oh, dear, my lady,” she said. “Look at what I’ve done, spilling the water that way.” She shook her head. “Shall we go back to the stream and you can wash there?”

  Hild understood immediately. If they could only get a little distance away, the noise of the stream water might cover their voices. She followed Unwen to a place where trees crowded around the stream.

  They looked back at the campsite. The Geat was watching them. So was Mord.

  “This won’t do,” Unwen said. She pulled off her cloak and held it up to shield Hild from the men’s view. “Now, my lady.”

  Hild knelt on the rocks beside the streambed. The water was icy on her hands.

  “Here, my lady, look in my pouch,” Unwen said, her arms spread to hold the cloak. She indicated the little leather bag that hung from her belt.

  Hild shook the water from her hands and opened the flap, reaching into the pouch. Her fingers touched something cold and hard.

  “Hurry, my lady,” Unwen said, casting a glance behind her.

  Hild pulled the object from the pouch and gasped. It was her mother’s blue cloisonné brooch, the one Hild’s father had given her. Hild ran her fingers over the runes that ran around the edges.

  “She gave it to me for you,” Unwen said, keeping her voice low. “Splash water, my lady. Like you’re washing. And put the brooch back into my bag.”

  Hild cupped water in her hands and scrubbed her face with it, hardly noticing how cold it was this time.

  “After you’re there, the king will attack the Geats.”

  “I know. Arinbjörn told me.” Hild splashed again.

  “Your uncle has forgotten honor. Ari Frothi thinks he’ll kill you, too, because he fears your power.”

  That part Hild had already started to work out, even if it was hard to bring herself to believe it. What to do about it, however, she didn’t know.

  “My people live south of here. There’s a river we can follow, Ari Frothi says, if we stay with the men a few more days.” Unwen looked over her shoulder again. “Wash, my lady.”

  Hild stared at her, then put her hands into the water again.

  “Your mother wants me to take you there. Until then, my lady, we must act as if nothing is amiss.”

  Hild nodded. Her mind was on fire. She would escape after all! Hope such as she had never needed before flooded into her. She looked up at Unwen, her eyes shining. “You’ll know when we get there?”

  “I think so, my lady.” She gestured toward the camp with her head. “We should go back.”

  Hild scrambled to her feet, brushing her skirt and pulling her cloak around her. The day’s weariness melted away and she felt full of strength. “Come,” she said, and led Unwen back through the dark woods toward the fire’s light.

  FOURTEEN

  NOTHING IS AMISS, HILD REMINDED HERSELF, TRYING TO curb her spirits. She and Unwen had a plan! The very idea of it made the corners of her mouth twitch. Best not to let Mord see, lest her smile raise his suspicion. She set her face in a neutral expression as she and Unwen returned to the clearing.

  At th
e fire, Hadding bent his substantial frame over the flames, roasting a bird. A pile of feathers lay on the ground beside him and bits of fluff clung to his tunic. He must have wiped his hands on his tunic, too, judging by the dirt and grease that streaked it. He was still wearing his helmet. When he glanced up at her, his eyes hard behind the helmet’s mask, Hild looked away. Yet the smell of sizzling meat made her realize how hungry she was. The day’s riding—and Unwen’s news—had whetted her appetite.

  “Are you feeling refreshed, my lady?” the Geatish leader asked, approaching her.

  Simple as the words were, it took a moment for Hild to untangle them. “Yes, I thank you, Thialfi,” she said. She took a seat on the log near the fire and stretched out her hands, her fingers still tingling with her secret knowledge. Across the flames, the two younger Geats crouched in front of a meal they were making, and suddenly, Hild was ravenous. She stared at the bird Hadding was cooking, at the juices dripping into the flames. Her mouth watered. Hadding pulled the roasting stick out of the fire, poked at the bird with his meaty fingers, blew on it, then crunched into it.

  On the other side of the fire, one of the Geats stood and Hild saw that he, too, was watching Hadding, an odd expression on his face. Anger? Surely he hadn’t expected Hadding to share with him.

  The second Geat stood and the two spoke in low voices as Thialfi joined them.

  Hild tensed. Had the Geats already grasped the treachery her uncle was planning? She watched their faces but their expressions were foreign to her. What were they thinking?

  Thialfi stepped around the fire toward Hadding.

  Hild wished the sword Arinbjörn had given her was sheathed by her side, not hidden in the blankets several paces away. She moved forward on the log, ready to flee if a fight broke out. Was this the moment she and Unwen were waiting for? Would the distraction of a fight allow them time to saddle Fire-eyes and the pony? The river—she didn’t know if they’d be able to find it on their own.