The question seemed to make the man uneasy. “What kind of sled did the lady have in mind?”
“I have in mind to take every sled you have.”
The wagon maker cleared his throat. Then he looked to Kodran and Kalf, who had accompanied Asla. Neither smiled.
“That will be rather expensive,” Sigvald finally said, vacillating.
“I have a chest full of silver on my wagon. My husband is Duke Alfadas, so I am not a needy woman. The silver will be yours if you can prepare the sleds by midnight. As many as possible need to have wooden cabs on them, strong enough to stand up to a storm.” Asla nodded toward Kalf. “This man will stay here and advise you on what the sleds will need. Get me more than five, and I’ll rent them from you for a thousand silver coins each. Once we’re safe, you’ll get the sleds back and can keep the silver. But we leave at midnight, not a minute later! And you’ll come with us to repair any damage along the way.”
“My sleds are solid! There won’t be any damage.”
Asla raised her eyebrows. “Then tell me: to whom am I supposed to pay the money for the wagons? If you stay here, you won’t survive to get it. There is a band of trolls marching on Honnigsvald, and the ramparts of this town won’t stop them.”
The wagon maker smiled. “Trolls. Dear lady, there are no trolls in this land. There are only plunderers.”
Asla had faced this kind of derision at least a dozen times that day. She was sick of it.
“Ask Kalf what your plunderers look like. He’s met them. But maybe you should think a little further. Do you think I’d pay a fortune to flee a big town if there were really just a few robbers coming down the fjord?” With that, Asla turned on her heel and left.
RETURN TO THE ICE
Listen to me!” Asla raised her hands imploringly. She was standing on a barrel at the end of the fish market. The square in front of her was filled with people. Although it was already late at night, there was little rest for the inhabitants of Honnigsvald. Refugees were still coming in from the ice.
Sigvald, in the end, had taken her words seriously. He had come at midnight with nine sleds, which now stood at the north end of the market square, ready to depart.
“We’ve built cabins so the children will be safe from the cold. Come with me. I am going to Gonthabu. King Horsa will be able to protect us. If you stay in Honnigsvald, you will have no chance! The trolls will break through the town walls as if they’re made of sticks.” Asla tensed her shoulders. She had donned the chain mail tunic in which Gundar had died. Now it was starting to weigh heavily on her and seemed not to be helping at all—she had hoped that Luth might be just a little closer if she herself wore his gift to the priest, and had prayed to the god that her words would be able to persuade the people. But few of those gathered were even listening to what she had to say.
A troop of armed men led by a gaunt, bald-headed man pushed their way through the crowd. His name was Godlip, and he was the jarl of Honnigsvald. His men dragged Asla down from the barrel.
“For all my respect for your husband, woman, I will no longer have you stirring up strife. You are banned from the town. Take anyone who wants to follow you and go, but don’t try to set foot in Honnigsvald again.” The jarl climbed up onto the barrel himself. “Don’t listen to this demented creature! Look at her, wearing mail like a soldier. And she wants to lead you over the ice? In midwinter? Gonthabu is days away. Who here thinks they’ll make it alive? But Honnigsvald is overcrowded, so I’m not going to stop you if you want to go. We may have only a few soldiers, but we have no shortage of volunteers, and I sent a messenger to the king this morning. If we can hold out for a little while, the king will come to us, and no one has to die on the ice.” The jarl garnered murmurs of agreement. He pointed at Asla. “You, woman, are banished. There’s no place for you here anymore. You’ve dragged the name of this town through the mud—now leave!”
Asla wanted to fight back, but Erek took her arm and pulled her away with him. “Forget these blowhards,” he said angrily. “We know you’re right. We’ve already lost too much time.”
They pushed their way through a chorus of boos and catcalls to the big wagon. Ulric was sitting on the driver’s seat. “Why was that man so mad at you, Mother?”
“Because he’s stupid!” Erek replied for her. “Leave your mother in peace now.”
“But we have to get Halgard! She’s not here.”
“I just saw her on the wagon that Kalf’s driving,” said Asla. “Don’t worry about her.”
Ulric stood up to jump down. “I’ll go and get her.”
“You stay here,” said Erek, pulling him back down on the seat. “Listen to your mother. You’d only get lost in the crowd.”
“I’ll see to Halgard.” Asla smiled tiredly at her son. “We won’t leave anyone behind.” With that, she set off toward the end of the caravan, but she had hardly gone a dozen steps before she found herself surrounded by Godlip’s men. “We’re here to see to it that you leave town, woman,” said their leader gruffly. “Now!” He grabbed hold of her and dragged her along with him.
Asla waved to Kalf. “Drive! Get everyone moving.” Her thoughts raced. Had she thought of everything? They’d bought food, blankets, and furs; coal for the braziers in the cabs built onto the wagons; and even strong spirits, medicine, and bandages. Asla had to smile. What would Alfadas say? Everything he’d collected on his campaigns in recent years, all his treasures, had gone into the caravan. In a single afternoon, she had made him a poor man.
Godlip’s soldiers cleared a path for them, making sure they got out of town quickly. Only a few had listened to Asla and joined those leaving, and it was a convoy of fourteen sleds that moved out onto the ice, heading south. Livestock was driven along beside the wagons, and many of those fleeing on foot pulled small, hand-drawn sleds.
Asla sat on the driver’s seat beside Kalf and peered along the column of people ahead. More than four hundred had put their faith in her, she estimated. If only she had more wagons!
They rounded a tongue of land on which a scanty grove of birch trees grew. Beyond it, the fjord stretched southward, framed by steep rocky outcrops. Faerylight meandered across the starry sky, dousing the winter landscape in mysterious green shadows.
Asla rubbed her hands together for warmth. She felt most of all like leaning against Kalf. It felt good to be close to him. Whatever happened, he was a boulder of calm and confidence. But she would have to make do with sitting beside him on the driver’s seat. As a married woman, she could go no closer.
A scream abruptly tore through the peace of the night.
“Trolls!” A man that Asla did not know pointed back toward the birch grove. Five giant figures came running out onto the ice, heading straight for the column of wagons.
Kalf stood and reached for the whip attached to the side of the seat. Their wagon was far back in the column. Just ahead of them, Erek steered the big wagon that Alfadas had brought to the village.
The men and women walking beside the sleds began to run. Someone handed a small child up to Asla. She held the child in her arms and looked back. The trolls were rapidly gaining ground.
Kalf cracked the whip over the heads of the horses, but it didn’t help. As hard as the horses pulled, the trolls were closing in. Asla could clearly make out their faces now and could see that they carried light spears. A man fell on the ice, and a troll stabbed him in the back in passing.
The column had broken up, and the lighter sleds were pulling clear. Asla heard her father curse and beat at the horses. Many of the refugees tried desperately to hold on to the sleds. Asla saw a young woman fall beneath the runners of a wagon. She was left behind on the ice, her legs crushed.
The trolls hurled their spears. The night was filled with panting, the cracking of whips, the shouts of the wagon drivers, and the scraping of runners on the ice. Those on foot had no breath to spare to cry out.
The trolls’ attack ended as suddenly as it had begun. They gave up the chase, t
hen gathered the dead and injured from the ice and retreated.
“Hunters,” said Kalf. “We must be like a herd of reindeer to them. They kill only as many as they can eat. For now, at least.”
Asla looked at the fisherman in surprise. His words had come as coldly as if it really had just been a few reindeer that were killed.
“Those were people who’d put their trust in me,” she cried. “Not animals to be slaughtered!”
Kalf laid one hand on her arm. “I know. But we have to understand them if we want to escape them.”
“Stop!” Asla climbed down from the driver’s seat. She went back to check on those who had not been fast enough. “Get the wagons together again,” she ordered Kalf, more sharply than she really wanted to.
It took more than an hour to reassemble the convoy. Asla helped where she could and listened patiently to the protests of those who complained bitterly that the wagons had abandoned them. Blood trotted beside her, and if anyone in their anger grew too loud, the big black dog silenced them with a glare and a low growl.
The first silver was gleaming over the mountains when Asla gathered with Yilvina, Kalf, Sigvald, and a few other men at the head of the column to talk about when they could risk a brief stop to rest. She still wore the chain mail tunic. She felt as if she had a burning stick inside her back instead of a spine. She was exhausted and wanted only to withdraw to the cabin on her wagon when a rider appeared on the fjord ahead.
When he reached the convoy, he headed straight for the small gathering. He was a young man, his beard and brows covered in white ice crystals. “Where are you going?” he asked.
“We are running away from trolls, believe it or not,” replied Sigvald sardonically.
“That much is clear,” the rider replied. “But you’re going the wrong way. They are coming from the south, an army, just two days’ march from here. There are two more columns of refugees not far ahead of you. You have to go north! To the south is nothing but death.”
Asla felt as if someone had punched her in the stomach. No! It could not be! The men conferred briefly, then the rider went quickly on his way, hoping to make it unscathed past the trolls camped in the birch grove and bring the news to the jarl of Honnigsvald.
Everyone stared at Asla as if they expected her find a solution on the spot. “Well, what now?” she said tiredly. “Any suggestions?”
Yilvina, silent until now, spoke up. “We have to get off the fjord, into the mountains. Maybe we’ll find a safe place there. The trolls are using the fjord like a military road. They make good progress on the ice, and with all the towns and villages, they don’t need to carry provisions.”
“How are we supposed to get into the mountains with the sleds?” Kalf said. “We would have to leave them behind, and half a day later, we would also have to leave the weakest of us behind.”
“On the fjord, everyone dies,” the elf replied matter-of-factly.
“Let’s have no illusions,” said Sigvald heatedly. “She speaks the truth. But I know a place that could serve as a refuge for us, one we could even defend—Sunhill. It’s a mountain village not far from here. We can reach it from an arm of the fjord and avoid the troll army altogether. Sunhill lies along a pass that is not too steep for the sleds. Besides, the pass is fortified with two well-built wooden palisades. Reindeer migrate through the pass in spring and autumn, and the Sunhillers use the trail like a giant pen for the herds. They cull a few animals, then let the rest of the herd move on. The palisades are kept in good order—the village survives because the palisades are strong.”
It sounded like a godsend. Asla ordered Sigvald to the front of the convoy to lead them to the remote branch of the fjord. Scouts were sent out to watch for other refugees on the ice and for scattered soldiers from Horsa’s army. They would take anyone they could save with them.
When everything had been talked through, she returned to her own big wagon. She pulled herself up tiredly onto the driver’s seat. Her father sat there, hunched over—he must have fallen asleep.
Asla stretched. The winter sun felt warm on her face. No one would say a word if she nodded off at Erek’s side and leaned against his shoulder. She nudged him gently. “Hey, wake up. We’ll be moving again soon.”
Erek didn’t move.
“Wake up.” She shook him by the shoulder, then saw the blood. His hands, his trousers, the reins he held—everything was soaked with blood.
“Wake up!” she pleaded, although she already knew that Erek could not hear her anymore.
Someone pulled her down from the driver’s seat. Kalf! He held her tightly. Yilvina climbed up to Erek and examined him.
Asla resisted Kalf’s embrace, but he was stronger than she was. He held her tightly to his chest.
“A spear pierced his side.” Yilvina looked at Asla. There was no emotion on the elf woman’s face, although she had taken her evening meal at the same table as Erek for weeks. “He pulled the spear out. The wound is deep and did not stop bleeding. He kept the sled on its line, and at some point, when the column was moving more slowly again, he would have fallen asleep. The horses just followed the team ahead of them.”
Asla was too exhausted to cry. She heard the elf’s words and yet still could not comprehend what had happened. Erek had always been there for her. Never had he been more than a few miles away. He’d grown old, but he was not frail. At least, not in her eyes.
“We have to bury him,” she finally said.
“We can’t,” said Kalf softly. “The hunters might still be after us. We can’t stop. Not yet. And carrying a corpse is bad luck. You know that.”
“So you just want to leave him on the ice?” she asked, her voice breaking. “You’ve known him your whole life, and now you want to leave him behind to feed the trolls!”
“No.” Kalf still held her tightly in his arms. “He once told me that he would like to end his days at the bottom of the fjord like King Osaberg. He felt it was the right grave for a fisherman.”
Asla swallowed. Erek had spoken to her about the same thing. When he was dead, he wanted to go back to the fish that had nourished him throughout his life. She also knew that they could not wait. “Let me go,” she said quietly. “I’ll get the children from the wagon. They should be able to say good-bye to their grandfather.”
Blood trotted beside her as she went to the rear of the sled. Her hands trembling, she opened the hatch. Stuffy air flowed from inside. A handful of charcoal chunks glowed dully in the brazier. Her aunt Svenja was sitting on the platform inside with several children, and the elven queen lay on the floor on a makeshift bed of furs.
Svenja squinted against the bright morning light. “What’s the matter?”
Asla began to say something, but no words came. She saw Kadlin, sleeping peacefully in her aunt’s arms. But Ulric was not there.
“Where’s my son?”
“Isn’t he with Erek?”
Asla’s legs gave way. She had to hold on to the wagon to stay upright. She felt like she was going to vomit. She thought of all the turmoil in Honnigsvald. Ulric had still been sitting on the driver’s seat beside Erek. And then . . . she had not checked on him the whole night. He was . . . Asla looked to the north. Smoke was rising into the sky.
“Where is Halgard?” she asked in despair. “Kalf! Halgard’s in the back of your wagon, isn’t she?”
The fisherman hurried back. Every sled was searched. But neither Halgard nor Ulric could be found.
Blood prodded at her with his nose as if wanting to console her. Asla’s hands gripped the thick skin at the dog’s neck. She brought her face very close to the dog’s ears. She knew that she could not go back, although there was nothing in the world she wanted more. The trolls would catch her, and that would not help Ulric. And she had to think of Kadlin, too.
“Go back,” she whispered to the dog. “Go back and find Ulric. You can find him.”
“I’ll go with him,” said an oddly melodic voice. “I’ll return in two days if all go
es well.”
Asla looked up at Yilvina. For the first time, the elf woman’s face did not seem carved from stone.
NEW CHALLENGES
Boltan wandered along the shore among the milling humans. They avoided him respectfully and ducked low if he even came close to one of them. What pathetic little creatures they were! He did not know which one to choose. Not one of them looked good enough for the prince’s table.
Boltan was feeling especially proud because Orgrim had made him his cook. That made him their second most important man, after the duke himself. It was an important office with many new challenges. He had to keep the lists of those eating and all their provisions up to date. And he had to please his duke’s palate.
Orgrim was in a bad mood. Dumgar was on the march and would soon unite with Orgrim’s troop. Then the ruler of Mordrock would be in charge.
For today, Boltan had nothing in mind but to cheer his commander up. Nothing took your mind off your worries like a delicious meal, after all. A few days earlier, Brud had told him about a special way to prepare jackrabbits. You broke open their abdomen and removed the intestines, stomach, and gallbladder. Then you smothered them with clay until they looked like big gray lumps. You put the lumps in the coals in a fire pit. Sealed inside the clay, the meat would stew in its own juices, and it tasted wonderfully tender when you took it out of the fire and broke open the gray crust. The skin and hair stuck to the clay, and you could start eating right away.
Boltan had found some good clay that morning beneath a fireplace by the shore and had been thinking about trying out Brud’s method of preparing meat ever since. He would take a small human. One of the pups.
He wandered on aimlessly. He wanted something special. Finally, he settled on a young female with white hair. She was a little skinny, but none of the others had hair like hers. She also seemed strangely clumsy, and only when he was standing in front of her did Boltan realize that she could not see. Surely that would not affect how she tasted.
He reached down to her, but another pup jumped up and pushed himself protectively between Boltan and the female. The little human held a sparkling dagger in his hand and behaved as if he wanted to challenge Boltan to single combat, as soldiers sometimes did.
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