The sirens sounded very close, and I wanted to keep him there until the special operations team arrived. I hoped that enough guns firing in unison would be able to make him drop Melanie Layne and run.
There was another roar from behind me, something that sent icy terror racing down my spine. I turned and looked over my shoulder. A huge figure stood in the grass at the end of the drive, like a bear crossed with a woman.
Tutor, but not Tutor. She was very tall, maybe twice my height or more. Her upper body was wrapped in shaggy brown fur, and her skull and face were twisted—deformed. She met my eye and made a low noise, deep in her throat. She pointed at me with a clawed finger, as if marking me.
Hatton made that strange, barking laugh noise and stepped over me, and snapped his fangs as he did. He looked toward the fields and took a couple of steps and then looked at me and roared. It was a challenge, I thought.
Side by side, Hatton and Tutor ran off through the fields behind the house. The last I saw of Melanie Layne was her unconscious body bouncing on Hatton’s shoulder.
There were cottonwood trees, bent and twisted—each one a unique and twisted sculpture of asymmetry—planted as a shelter-belt along the side of the drive. My gaze locked on the cottonwood spores dancing in the light breeze, and I was mesmerized by how beautiful they looked.
Twenty-two
“I still dream about that night,” I said. “Nightmares. I don’t think it will ever leave me.”
“It has been my experience that all things fade in time.”
“I hope you are right.” I shrugged. “Well, Meuhlnir? Do you still think you know your brother?”
Meuhlnir put his chin down on his chest and pursed his lips. “It may be that you bring up a valid point.”
“I don’t have all the answers here. I only know your brother as a sadistic and indiscriminate murderer. Someone who seems to thrive on the terror and debasement of others, regardless of who those others are.”
Meuhlnir was silent, chin tucked against his chest, his eyes on the brilliant white snow in front of him. “Yes,” he muttered, “and yet, I only know him as a fallen, lost soul.”
“Maybe the truth of it is somewhere in between.”
“It may be.”
“Tell me, Meuhlnir, what was it Luka said when I asked him what he was.”
“Oolfhyethidn. Wolf-warrior. He uses that word as a name sometimes.”
I chuckled, and it tasted sour, bitter. “I should’ve figured that out myself.”
We came out of the woods then. The distance from the proo to the lake via the path was much shorter than the route through the woods I’d taken. The pale winter snow sparkled on the ice covering the lake. My quinzhee was still standing not far from the shore of the lake, but part of the roof had fallen in.
“Your shelter?” asked Meuhlnir, walking over to it.
“Yes,” I said. “I didn’t have the time to make it right, but I survived, so I guess it was good enough.”
Meuhlnir chuckled and stuck his head in through the hole in the roof. “Ingenious,” he said. “A house of snow.”
“On my klith, some people live in brutal winter climates who used to live in houses made from snow and nothing else.”
“A hardy people then. I assume they live close to the poles?”
I nodded. “Yeah, close to the northern pole. Were there no Laplanders in Scandinavia when you visited the Vikings?”
Meuhlnir scratched his beard. “I don’t recall meeting anyone who said he was a Laplander, but there could have been. People don’t often label themselves in the same way that others do, especially when separated by the gulf of time.”
“I think they called themselves the Sami. I think the Laplander reference comes from a word that means the edge of the world or something. They lived above the arctic circle in Scandinavia. They also had igloos and quinzhee for houses in the cold months.”
Meuhlnir shrugged. “We spent most of our time on the coasts where it was warmer.” He held up a hand to shade his eyes and then waved the hand before us like a tour guide. “I don’t see the proo you traveled.”
“Just as well, I don’t have any use for it until I find Jane and Sig.”
Meuhlnir looked at me from the corner of his eye. “I’m sure we can rescue them,” he said.
“Any sign of your proo?”
Meuhlnir peered around at the island, muttering under his breath. “None. If he has co-opted my proo, my brother and I will have words, I can tell you that.” From the sound of his voice, I didn’t expect that the words would be very polite. Meuhlnir made a disgusted noise in the back of his throat, squinting at the area around the lake. “Well, no use standing around grumbling,” he said. “If it’s gone, it’s gone, and there’s nothing to be done about it.”
“Can you use another proo to get to Veethar?”
Meuhlnir sighed. “If I had one handy. No, this development means we will be riding for days.”
“Riding?” I asked.
“Horses.” Meuhlnir grimaced. “People should be more mindful of the work other people have put into something.” His voice rumbled like a pissed-off bear.
“And old men should be more mindful of standing around in the cold and snow,” boomed a voice from the edge of the woods.
A tall man sat on the biggest horse I’d ever seen in my life—it must have stood seven-and-half feet at the shoulder. The horse was a dark bay, and the man had long, flowing red hair and a mid-length beard of the same color. He wore twin axes shoved through his wide leather belt.
“And youngsters should be mindful of old men carrying hammers,” said Meuhlnir with a hint of mildness in his tone.
The rider walked the horse toward them, his eyes roving over the quinzhee. “Nice hut,” he said, “if you like cold walls.”
“It served its purpose,” I said.
The rider’s eyes shifted toward me. They were a piercing blue, bordering on pale gray. His face was impassive as he rode toward us. “Did it, now?” he asked. “How did you let yourself be caught out in a sterk task?”
I sighed. “I guess I should get used to that question, eh? I arrived in the middle of it and not by plan.”
The tall rider’s eyes roved over me from head to toe and then shifted toward Meuhlnir. “Kanka-ee, then?”
“Might as well ask if young men are brash and rude,” said Meuhlnir. “He’s my guest, and you will afford him the guest-right the same as if he was yours.”
“As you will, Father,” said the rider who had now reached us. He slid off the magnificent reddish-brown horse and patted it affectionately on the neck. Then he turned toward me and arched his eyebrow, and I couldn’t repress a smile. “Something?” he asked.
“Nothing,” I said, still smiling. “It’s just that your expression was so much like one Meuhlnir has shown me about nine hundred times since I met him last night.”
“Ah, yes. The quizzical look, I know it well.” He smiled, but the smile faded. “I didn’t know I did it.” He shot Meuhlnir a reproachful look. “My name is Mothi.”
I couldn’t help, but I chuckled.
“Something?” he said again, a strange expression on his face. “Not many men laugh at me.”
“Not at you, Mothi,” I said. “At the strangeness of all of this. What is a Ganka…whatever?”
“Kanka-ee. It means walk-in in the Gamla Toonkumowl,” said Meuhlnir. “Hank, this is my son, Mothi. Mothi, this is Hank Jensen. He’s Norse by descent. His trip has been…” Meuhlnir shrugged.
“It’s been eye-opening,” I said. “Meeting men out of myth and legend. Meeting ‘gods’ and all that.”
Mothi’s face wrinkled. “I see. Not all of us believe that those visits were—”
“I told him,” snapped Meuhlnir. “What brings you from Krimsnes?”
Mothi waved both arms out wide. “The sterk task, of course. I’ve come to see that you, mother and Mother Yowrnsaxa are okay.”
“And this great lout?” Meuhlnir patted the horse
on the muzzle with obvious affection. “How is little Skaytprimir?”
Mothi smiled. “Still snorting when he runs.”
Meuhlnir gave the horse a final pat. “Come to the house, Mothi. We’ve things to discuss and do.”
“I thought as much, for all your ‘why are you here’ nonsense. A son knows.” He grinned.
“A son knows nothing,” said Meuhlnir with a poor attempt at hiding a smile.
“A son knows nothing will please his father more than the son pretending his father is always right.”
“Might as well ask if there are any intelligent young men.”
Mothi let loose a great booming laugh. “Here we go. Now, I know I’m home if I ‘might as well ask.’”
Meuhlnir shrugged. “One does what one can.”
Meuhlnir led us through the woods to the cabin, and as soon as we arrived, Mothi shoved the reins of Skaytprimir to his father and barged through the door. “Mother Sif, Mother Yowrnsaxa, I’ve come to rescue you from Father!” he boomed. His cry was answered with squeals of delight and laughter.
“Mothering noises,” grunted Meuhlnir. “No matter how big they get, no matter how old, they will always be a little boy to their mothers. Nothing to be done about it.”
“Nope,” I said. “Might as well ask mothers to fly.”
“Hmph,” grunted Meuhlnir. “Like any other skill, practice is required.” He tied Skaytprimir to a convenient bush near the door. “Now, don’t go pulling up all the plants and trees this time, you great lout of a snorting fool,” he said, petting the horse’s forehead and tugging at his forelock with obvious affection.
“Mothi will have to go get a few more steeds. You don’t mind if I ask Mothi to come with us, do you?”
“Come with us?” I asked in surprise. “You’ve decided to help me?”
“How could I not? You don’t know our ways. You don’t even know how to get out of these woods.”
“That is very generous of you, Meuhlnir. If you are sure?”
Meuhlnir looked me in the eye, his gaze unwavering. “I am sure.”
“To be honest, I am relieved. It seems like a lot to ask. Not to mention—”
“My brother Luka,” finished Meuhlnir.
“And what has that great idiot of an uncle done now?” asked Mothi from the doorway. He waved a big hand in our direction. “Are you two not smart enough to come in out of the cold?”
Meuhlnir made a face and patted the horse. “Skaytprimir was distraught at your abrupt disappearance. He cried.”
Mothi looked at the horse with mock severity. “I’ve spoken to him about his manipulative nature.”
“He’s perfect as he is,” said Sif, peering over Mothi’s shoulder and shoving at him to make way. She gave the horse a great hug. Yowrnsaxa came up beside her and patted the horse on the muzzle. It was as if the horse were part of the family.
I hadn’t even thought about the language barrier since breakfast and found that it was much easier that way after all. I’d understood Mothi easily enough, and now Sif’s speech was clear as well.
“Mothi,” said Meuhlnir. “I—”
Mothi looked pleased. “I know. Horses, right?”
“Might as well ask if the sky lords itself over Father’s Spine Mountains.”
Mothi sucked in a breath. “I’d hate to be Luka when Father catches up to him,” he said with a conspiratorial wink at me.
It was an awkward moment. No one quite knew what to say, or where to look. Meuhlnir broke the silence by clearing his throat. “We will speak more of your uncle on our journey. Leave it for now.”
Mothi looked back and forth between his father’s face and mine. “Okay,” he said with a severe expression. With two running steps and a great leap, he was astride the big horse. He reined the horse around, and they raced off, the horse snorting with every other step. “I’ll be back tomorrow,” shouted Mothi over his shoulder.
Yowrnsaxa chuckled. “That horse still snorts,” she said, and they all laughed.
Twenty-three
The next morning, Mothi was sitting on the hearth when I came downstairs. None of the others seemed to be around, so I sat in one of the chairs.
“Good ride?” I asked him.
He grunted. “I like to ride, but I think we’ll all have our fill of it soon.” A serious expression stole over his face. “Father told me what Luka is doing to you and your family. I don’t know what to say, other than I’m sorry.”
I lifted my hands from the arms of the chair in a shrug. “Luka is quite separate from the rest of you in my mind.”
Mothi shook his head. “Nothing has been as it should be for many, many years. Luka follows a dark path, far from the one any would have guessed at in his youth. That Black Bitch is to blame.”
“That’s what I understand. She hasn’t endeared herself to me, either.”
“The curse…the pain is bad?”
I sighed. “Not in your father’s house, but everywhere else…” I shrugged and gazed into the fire. “I’ll be okay.”
Mothi tilted his head and looked at me for a long moment. “You look like you have a great deal of strength, even so.”
I shook my head. “Not so much anymore. Before this damn disease, I used to train hard, but since…”
Mothi grunted. “Father will get you sorted. He is a vefari of the highest order.”
I nodded. “He has told me he likes lightning…”
Mothi laughed. “That old man and his lightning. I don’t know which he likes better, smiting the ground or making the sky shout.”
“Might as well ask whether a horse snorts because it is running fast or if it is running fast because it snorts.” Meuhlnir walked into the room from the hallway that led to the feasting hall.
“You leave him alone,” growled Mothi with pretend fierceness. “He is sensitive to your scorn.”
“Hmph,” grunted Meuhlnir. “Sensitive to my corn more likely. That snorting lout got you there and back in good time.”
Mothi snorted. “I guess snorting has its uses, then?”
Meuhlnir chuckled. “Your mouth always was smarter than your head.”
Mothi snorted again and stood next to his father. “Smarter than you, old man. And taller.”
Meuhlnir waved that away. “But I am prettier. All the women say so.”
“Bah. You are an eyesore to the female population. A blemish on the skin of mankind. A blight to the non-blind members of the fairer sex. A monstrosity of—”
“Oh yes, bring the blind into it. As if they can judge my looks.”
Mothi laughed. “They can sure judge your smell.”
Meuhlnir looked around in mock surprise. “But I’ve just bathed!”
“You two idiots still bantering?” called Yowrnsaxa from the top of the stairs. “Always, it’s the same. Mothi comes to visit, and no one else can talk for the next three or four days due to your nonsense.” She was holding a pack and had a shield slung across her back.
Meuhlnir’s face tightened, and he gave Mothi an imploring look.
“Oh, no,” said Mothi. “You’re not dragging me into this. You three have to figure it out for yourselves.” He patted me on the shoulder. “You probably want to be somewhere else. Unless, that is, you like hearing women swear and an old man wheedle and beg.”
“I don’t swear!” said Sif.
“And I don’t beg,” said Meuhlnir.
Yowrnsaxa rolled her eyes. “As if anyone would believe that.”
Mothi pulled me up by the arm without much effort. No small feat, given that I must have weighed close to three hundred pounds. “Come on, Hank, I’ll introduce you to the best horse before Father has a chance to claim him.”
“That’s not fair,” said Meuhlnir with a pout.
Mothi shrugged. “Guest-right,” he said with a wide grin.
As I followed Mothi through the front door, I heard Yowrnsaxa come down the stairs, her gear jingling. “And don’t you think for a minute that you are going off on some
big adventure and leaving Sif and me here to stew and darn your socks. It’s as if you think you have enough common sense to travel without someone along to tell you what to do and when to do it.”
“I am the man of this house,” said Meuhlnir. “I am the one leading this expedition—”
“Oh ho! You are the man of the house, are you?” asked Sif with an edge in her voice. “Don’t you mean you are the slug-about of the house?”
I glanced at Mothi and saw that he had his head down, but a grin stretched across his face. “He always makes the same mistakes with them,” he whispered. “But don’t worry, all is well.”
“You are in charge, are you?” asked Yowrnsaxa. “You decide what your weak little wives will do, eh? It’s as if you think you have the mental capacity to run things around here.”
“Ladies, please. You are taking this all wrong. It’s not that I don’t value your opinions—”
“So now our opinions matter? Good,” said Sif. “I am of the opinion that I am coming with you. If I don’t, who will protect you from the dark? What is your opinion Yowrnsaxa?”
“I’m of the same mind,” said Yowrnsaxa. “And besides, while you are holding his hand and keeping him from being scared of the dark, I can hold his other hand and sing him a lullaby.”
“Well, it’s settled then. Let’s go pick our horses.”
“Wait a minute! You two cannot simply decide—” said Meuhlnir.
“I hope Mothi brought Kutltohper. She is my favorite these days,” said Sif.
Footsteps approached the doorway behind us. Mothi nudged my arm. “This is Slaypnir,” he said in a loud voice. “He’s very fast and very smart. He’s the best around new riders, but he has quite the sense of humor.” He pointed at a magnificent looking blue roan with huge hooves that were covered by shaggy white hair. It was a large horse, obviously from stock that was bred for war. At the withers, the horse stood taller than me.
“A horse with a sense of humor?” I asked.
“Slaypnir means trickster in the Gamla Toonkumowl,” said Mothi.
“What does Skaytprimir mean?”
Mothi chuckled. “He who snorts while he runs.”
“Ah, now I get all those jokes about snorting.”
Blood of the Isir Omnibus Page 20