Peaceweaver

by Rebecca Barnhouse

  “Killing the dragon robbed old King Beowulf of his life,” Thialfi said, “but our fate would have been far worse if it hadn’t been for our new king.”

  Ahead of them, the Geatish brothers had positioned themselves so they could hear, and Brynjolf brought his horse even closer. “King Beowulf claimed the dragon fight for himself. But when it proved too great a challenge, when he needed our help, we failed him. Even his most seasoned warriors fled. Even Dayraven.”

  “Dayraven ran from a fight?” Wulf asked, turning in his saddle, disbelief in his voice.

  Thialfi nodded, his face sober. “Nor had he returned to the stronghold before we left.”

  “Who is this Dayraven?” Brynjolf asked, but the men ignored him, lost in the news of their own tribe.

  “I can’t believe he ran,” Wulf said.

  The other Geat, the larger brother with the honey-colored hair, turned to Thialfi. “I heard he accused our new king of trying to kill King Beowulf. Is it true?”

  There was a moment of silence, punctuated by the sound of hooves clopping over rock, before Thialfi said, “Yes, Dayraven made the accusation.” He turned to Hild. “It was the first time our new king saved our old king’s life, but in the confusion, I think Dayraven misunderstood his intentions.”

  “The first time?” Hild asked.

  Thialfi nodded. “When we were on our way to fight the dragon, he saved him from falling over a cliff.”

  There was obviously more to the story, and Hild waited while Thialfi hesitated, as if he was considering his words.

  “Later, when the monster showed itself, whatever the terror was that kept the other warriors from coming to King Beowulf’s aid, it didn’t stop our new king.” He paused. “It stopped me, my lady.” His voice dropped. “When my king needed me, I ran.” He looked away, his story guttering out.

  Hild watched him, feeling a curious mixture of emotions. He might be a seaweed-eater, but the pain and honesty in his expression tugged at her.

  “I ran,” he repeated, this time meeting her eyes, “but our new king didn’t. He saved our kingdom.”

  They rode on in silence for a moment, Hild trying to picture what their new king, who stood firm against such terror, might look like. He must be a powerful warrior, she thought, strong-limbed and confident.

  “Whoa,” Thialfi said, and Hild looked up just in time to rein in her horse before it overtook Wulf’s. The men at the front of the party had stopped, but they hadn’t dismounted.

  Ahead of them, the trail continued through the trees, but a rocky outcropping rose on the right. They started up again after a few moments, but instead of following the marked path, the men in the lead turned, disappearing into what Hild saw, when she neared it, was a narrow cleft in the rocks.

  “Wait, my lady,” Thialfi said, and gestured at his companions. One of the brothers dropped back to ride behind her, with Thialfi, while the other stayed just ahead of her. She followed him as they made their cautious way forward, turning off the path and into a canyon of rock and brush, the way wide enough for only a single horse at a time. Above, branches reached out from fissures in the stone, making an arch above her. It was a tunnel of rock and wood, closing in around her. The horses’ hooves echoed too loudly in the silence, and she flinched at the touch of a twig against her neck. Fire-eyes seemed to feel just as hemmed in as she did, judging from how he increased his speed when the way finally widened.

  They emerged into a glade and paused to wait until everyone had come through. As Brynjolf, the last of the company, rode into view, Mord spurred his horse out of the open area and onto a narrow path. Again, they had to ride single file. Underbrush grabbed at Hild, and she had to duck one low-hanging branch after another. Where were the notches on the trees, the ones that marked the way? She saw none. When a bramble tore at her cloak, she bloodied her fingers freeing the wool.

  “Halt!” Thialfi called from behind her.

  Hild turned to look at him.

  “Beg pardon, my lady,” he said, and tried to push past her with his horse. But the path wasn’t wide enough and he had to dismount and thread his way to the front on foot. Hild looked back to see Unwen and Brynjolf, their horses waiting patiently behind her.

  Ahead, she could hear voices, Mord’s and Thialfi’s. She thought she heard Thialfi saying the word dangerous, but with his accent, it was hard to tell. She definitely heard him say, “Not the right way.”

  Then Mord’s voice rose in anger. “I know my own kingdom’s forest.”

  Hild looked at the thick stands of oak and ash that surrounded them. She might not be able to hear all the men’s words, but their intent was clear. Mord had led them off the established track and Thialfi didn’t like it. It wasn’t long before he returned, the set of his jaw announcing who had lost the argument. The same bramble that had grabbed Hild’s cloak snagged Thialfi’s, and he yanked at it viciously with his good hand as he passed her.

  The horse in front of her started forward again and Hild followed, paying close attention to the branches and rocks and fallen limbs that threatened to knock her from the saddle or lame her horse. While one part of her mind kept watch, another part ruminated on the situation. Could she use the tension between Mord and Thialfi to her advantage when they got to the river? Their anger seemed to have infected the other warriors, as well. Hild heard muttered oaths when branches lashed at men’s skin or thorns caught on their clothing. They splashed through a stream, and the cheerful sound of water over rocks made the company’s grim mood all the more oppressive.

  Finally, when the light was beginning to fade, they came to a small clearing and Mord called a halt. Before he even dismounted, he began barking orders that didn’t need to be given: where to hobble their horses, where to put their bedrolls. “Get a fire going,” he said to Gizzur, who was already gathering kindling. Mord must still be rankling from Thialfi’s challenge, Hild decided.

  In such close quarters, she wasn’t sure how she and Unwen would ever hide Arinbjörn’s blade. She watched the men carefully as she and the slave unsaddled Fire-eyes and the pony, but they were all watching Mord, trying to keep out of his way. “Now,” she whispered to Unwen, and together they got the sword off the horse and under the blanket.

  As Unwen prepared the beds, hiding the blade between them, Hild sank onto a rock near the fire. She felt shaky with fatigue, even though she’d done nothing but sit on a horse all day. The warmth of the new flames lulled her into a doze and her head fell forward. She startled awake when Unwen put a bowl in her hands. Around her, the men were working or eating in the shadows, Brynjolf currying Mord’s horse, Gizzur sitting before the fire, the straps from his leather cap dangling in front of him as he sewed a tear in his meticulously neat tunic. Had the same bramble that caught her cloak torn his tunic? Someone was cooking meat; she could smell it on the night air. In the dark at the camp’s periphery, she could just make out the silhouettes of two men who leaned toward each other in conversation. The Geatish brothers, she thought.

  The contents of the bowl in front of her—hard bread and dried goat meat again—made her think longingly of Unwen’s famous cod and barley stew. She sighed and pulled her cloak more tightly around her shoulders.

  When a figure approached, she looked up to see Thialfi. “My lady,” he said, and held out a stick with a roasted bird on the end of it.

  “My thanks,” she said, and reached for it. It was as if he had heard her thoughts. She brought the bird to her lips and blew on it to cool it.

  A noise made her jerk it away, almost dropping it. Something was crashing through the woods away from the campsite. The sound faded, but where the brothers were standing, she could see a hint of sword gleaming in the firelight. “What was it?” she whispered.

  Thialfi crouched beside her. “Men do not belong in these woods,” he said in a low voice, looking intently into the dark.

  She followed his gaze but could make out nothing but warriors’ shadows.

  “Do your people not fear night
walkers, my lady?” When she didn’t answer, he said, “There are fens not far from here. When the wind is right, you can smell them.”

  Hild sniffed, but if there was any whiff of rotting vegetation in the air, it was overpowered by the scent of wood smoke.

  “Not even the wisest of men know the depths of the pools in those fens.” Thialfi watched the darkness, his eyes seeming to track something.

  Hild squinted in the same direction, but whatever he saw was invisible to her.

  His voice a whisper, his gaze still on the woods, Thialfi added, “They say that night wonders have been seen there, fire on the waters, and creatures who do not welcome our presence.” He looked back at her. “It’s not a pleasant place.”

  Hild shuddered. In the safe enclave where she’d grown up, tales of nightwalkers had been mostly that—stories to frighten children. Now, with the dark pressing around them and two of the Geats mourning their father, killed by a dragon, such creatures took on a reality she had never felt when she’d sat in the firelit hall listening to Ari Frothi or Bragi chanting lays about them. “Do you think we’ll see any of them?” she whispered.

  Thialfi shook his head. “We should have stayed on the trail. Now we won’t be safe until we’ve crossed the river.”

  “The river?” Hild’s voice squeaked. She cleared her throat, trying to disguise her excitement. “How long until we reach it?”

  “Soon. Two days, perhaps.” He looked at her with concern. “I shouldn’t have spoken—please don’t worry yourself, my lady.”

  Hild nodded, reassuring him, her own fears melting into the night.

  Two days until the river! Two days until freedom! She had to tell Unwen. They needed a plan.

  SIXTEEN

  HILD HAD THOUGHT SLEEP WAS ELUSIVE THE PREVIOUS night, but tonight it was impossible. It was colder, the ground was rockier, if that were to be believed, and the woods were alive with strange noises. Far in the distance, a wolf howled and another answered, while closer to camp, branches creaked and nocturnal animals scurried through the underbrush. Hild’s body ached so much from tension and fatigue that the cords in her neck felt like they might snap. Escape plans whirred through her head. She examined one, saw its faults, rejected it, and reached for the next, over and over again, until finally, she fell into a restless sleep.

  A figure loomed over her, huge and menacing. It reached toward her and she flinched away. The movement woke her and she lay blinking in the dark, trying to calm her pounding heart.

  When she turned her head, she could see a low fire still flickering and, beyond it, one of the Geats, the larger brother, whose name she didn’t know, standing stiffly, staring into the night, his hand on his sword hilt. When she shifted to the other side, she could just barely make out someone—Hadding, she thought—slumped against a tree, a sword resting beside him. She could no longer hear wolves howling, but an unpleasant odor permeated the night air, making her nose twitch.

  She closed her eyes again, pushing away the image from her nightmare and replacing it with thoughts of escape. How would she stop the men from following them? Could she scare the horses away and, in the confusion, run? Should she take Fire-eyes with her or leave him behind? No scenario she imagined seemed right.

  At least she had been able to tell Unwen. While the two of them were preparing for bed, Hild had said, “You asked me how long the journey would take. I’m not sure, but Thialfi says we’ll have to ford a river in two days. Surely it can’t be far beyond that.”

  Unwen said, “Yes, my lady, thank you, my lady,” the way a slave should speak to her mistress. But as she spoke, she met Hild’s eye and gave her a nod so slight that anyone who wasn’t watching for it would have missed it.

  Hild pulled the blanket over her face to block out the dank smell and the cold. With two men on guard each night, how would they ever get away? Would daytime be better? She felt trapped in a whirlpool of plans that pulled her deeper and deeper down, as if she had fallen into a black and bottomless bog.

  When she opened her eyes again, it was morning. She blinked at the triangles of sky visible through branches. It was the first bright day she’d seen since she’d left home. The air was so frosty that the end of her nose and the fingers of one hand, which had slipped out from under her blanket, were numb, and she could see her breath. She pulled her hand back under the blanket and rubbed it to warm it, feeling how rough her fingers had become. She could just hear Siri scolding her for not keeping her skin supple with the decoction of bear grease Aunt Var made for them. The lavender her aunt added to it never stopped it from smelling like rancid bear grease to Hild, but now even that odor would have been a welcome reminder of home. She shut her eyes tight, the better to keep her memories deep inside her. Then she opened them wide and threw off her blanket.

  Despite the blue sky, she felt jittery from dreams that had disturbed her sleep, dreams she could only recall in wispy fragments. The smell of smoke—not the ordinary scent from a campfire, but choking fumes whose source she couldn’t identify—had twined through her slumber, and she’d heard a woman speaking to her, the same harsh voice she’d heard before. Who she was and what she was saying, Hild didn’t know, but the voice had offered no comfort. Packing her belongings, Hild dropped things more than once, causing Unwen to regard her with concern when she handed her the blanket-wrapped sword. Hild steadied herself, then gave Unwen a slight nod to signal that she was ready to transfer the blade to her horse.

  Fire-eyes picked up on her mood. As they rode out of the camp, he pranced uneasily until she stroked his neck and spoke calming words into his ear. Even then, she could feel his tension. He was ready to bolt at a word. It wasn’t just Fire-eyes. The other horses were equally skittish, and she couldn’t blame them. Without a trail to follow, they had to pick their way over rocks and fallen logs that hid amid the bracken. One lichen-covered rock made Hild look twice to make sure it wasn’t some malevolent dwarf crouching in the woods to watch them pass.

  She scoffed at herself. She was letting the seaweed-eaters’ superstitions infect her. Yet the Shylfings, too, were wary and their silence seemed ominous. Even Brynjolf had stopped his chatter. She glanced back to see him bringing up the rear, turning his head first to one side and then the other at noises in the trees. In the helmet and mail shirt he’d inherited from his father and not quite grown into, he looked like the boy he was, not a full-grown warrior. She wondered if he was afraid, riding alone at the back of the company. She wished that she could fall back to ride alongside him, that they could be friends again.

  The Geatish brothers, ahead of her, must have been a few years older than Brynjolf, a more appropriate age for warriors. If they felt any fear, their erect posture and measured movements disguised it. They watched the woods so intently that Hild found herself glancing into the trees, too. Something flashed past her line of sight, making her jump, but it was just a bird.

  Above her, bare branches met, caging her away from the sky. Below, the ground grew spongy, and once, Fire-eyes’s hooves splashed through a place where Hild had thought the earth would be firm.

  By the time Mord finally called a halt, Hild’s body was taut with the strain of constant vigilance. Yet the rest period was no better. Mord and Gizzur walked a little way into the woods, talking quietly to each other, but the others stood silent and watchful, hardly eating. Hild saw Thialfi exchange glances with his companions. They nodded, and while Wulf pulled food from the bag on his horse, his brother took up a position near a boulder, his bow in his hands. The Geats were taking turns eating, two of them always on guard. Against what? A prickly sensation crawled up her back, as if something were watching her. She whirled, but only rocks met her gaze. She wished her sword were in her hand, not hidden on her horse.

  “My lady,” Unwen said, and presented Hild with bread and water. She ate mechanically, never looking away from the woods, whose shifting shadows held secrets she couldn’t discern.

  It wasn’t long before they mounted again and began the
afternoon’s weary ride. At least the woods thinned a little, making the going easier. There was nothing for Hild to do but think. She needed a plan and she needed it now, but her mind was blank. She imagined herself in the temple to Freyja, making an offering of mead at the altar, as she’d done so many times in the past. “Lady of the Vanir,” she whispered. Help me see a solution, she prayed silently. Let me find an escape.

  She quieted her thoughts, listening for an answer, but nothing happened. Tears of frustration pricked at the corners of her eyes.

  Fire-eyes tossed his head and whinnied in protest.

  “Sorry,” Hild whispered, loosening her grip on the reins and leaning over the horse’s neck. When she looked up again, she realized the two Geats in front of her were staring back at her. Feeling her face redden, she raised her chin and gazed into the woods, her bearing stately, her expression imperious, as if she were a goddess dismissing mortals, mere flies buzzing around her.

  Amid the bare trees, a single oak caught her eye. Its leaves, red as a bloodstained blade, still clung stubbornly to its branches.

  Fire-eyes’s gait was steady, despite the rocks, and her two nights of slim sleep dragged at Hild’s lids and sent cobwebs to wrap themselves around her brain. Slowly, her muscles began to relax as her head nodded in time to her horse’s pace. Her eyes closed, fluttered open, then closed again. Her chin fell to her chest. She thought she could feel someone falling in beside her but she was too drowsy to look.

  Behind her lids a scene took shape—a shadowy figure climbing toward her out of darkness, its body swathed in green ribbons. No, the ribbons weren’t woven of cloth; they were seaweedy spirals hanging from a torso covered in dripping fur. The figure stood to its full, terrifying height and reached out its claws. Hild jerked away, her hand going up to protect her face.

  “My lady.”

  Thialfi held her arm, keeping her from falling off her horse.