West of the Moon

by Katherine Langrish

  Hilde went cold. It was Peer’s face.

  It was Peer’s ghost.

  Chapter 63

  Death in the Snow

  PEER BLINKED. HE’D expected surprise, but not this. Every person in the room stood in stiff, arrested positions, gaping in terror. He stepped forwards, and they all stepped back. Tjørvi let go of Harald. Floki jumped to his feet. “It wasn’t us!” he yelled. “You can’t blame us, it wasn’t us. It was him! Take Harald, not us, it wasn’t us…”

  Peer looked at Hilde. Her hand had flown to her mouth and she was gazing at him in apparent horror, her eyes huge. He swallowed. “Hilde. It’s me. I’m back.”

  Hilde clutched Astrid for support. “Peer?” It was a breath of a word, her lips barely moving. “Peer?”

  Loki nosed his way around the door. He saw Hilde, flattened his ears, and threw himself at her with a yelp of joy. Hilde shrieked. “It is you! It’s Loki! Oh, Peer!”

  She fell on her knees and gathered Loki into her arms, pressing her face against his fur. He wriggled ecstatically, licked her face, tore himself away to dash around the room greeting people, and returned to Hilde again. But by this time, Hilde was on her feet, locked into Peer’s arms, her face buried in his shoulder.

  Peer thought he could stand there for ever, happiness blazing through him like a pillar of fire.

  She looked up. “What’s on your face? Blood? Are you hurt?”

  He’d forgotten how he must look. No wonder they’d been staring. “Warpaint,” he answered, rubbing at it. “I’ll explain later.” He looked around, realising for the first time something was going on. Why was Floki crying? “Where’s Gunnar? I’ve got a message for you all.”

  Hilde drew a deep, deep breath. “Gunnar’s dead.” By now the rest of the room was coming to life. No one could think Loki was a ghost. The men looked at Peer with delight and disbelief. Tjørvi was beaming, Arne shaking his head.

  “Gunnar’s dead?” Peer exclaimed.

  “Magnus is dead, too-oo-oo.” It was a dog-like howl of misery from Floki. Peer’s scalp crawled. The men began yelling, “That’s right!”

  “Harald killed him! Stabbed him to death in front of us…”

  “Just now, before you came in. Look, he’s there on the floor.”

  Shock punched through Peer. Magnus sprawled on his back at the other end of the hearth, staring at nothing. His hands curled half open. His big toe stuck through a hole in one of his socks.

  “What message, Barelegs?”

  Peer swung round.

  Harald had picked up his sword. He was standing on the other side of the hearth, staring across the flames at Peer. His head jerked, and his mouth twitched. The fire danced in his eyes.

  “Why did you let him go?” Halfdan yelled at Tjørvi.

  “Why didn’t you get rid of his sword?” Tjørvi shouted. Peer ignored them. He knew better than to take his eyes off Harald.

  He spoke loudly. “I’ve been living with the Skraelings. They sheltered me, took me in. But you killed two of them, Harald. Their names were Kiunik and Tia’m. Their people have found out, and they want your blood.”

  He raised his voice over the growing murmur. “They’ll not hurt the girls. The rest of you could try and surrender. There’s a war band out there, fifty of them, with bows and spears and axes. If you surrender, I’ll do what I can to help you. But they’re angry. They’ve got a right to be, their kinsmen were murdered…”

  Harald’s voice lifted over the hubbub. “Traitor! You led them here!”

  Peer laughed at him. “Led them? I couldn’t have found my way without them. They know these woods, Harald – we’re the strangers.”

  Harald threw his head back. “Hooo-ooo! Skraelings! Hear him, lads? Are we a match for them? Are we men?”

  “Peer,” Tjørvi bellowed. “If we surrender, will they harm us?”

  “I don’t know.” He had to be honest. “They don’t like cowards. But there’s so many, if you fight you’ll die anyway…”

  “They don’t like cowards?” Tjørvi said bleakly. “Who does? All right, if we’ve got to die, let’s take a few of them with us.”

  “No!” Peer yelled.

  But the others were nodding. “Aye!”

  “Die like men!”

  “Like heroes!”

  “I don’t want to die,” sobbed Floki.

  Harald kicked him. “Get up, Floki, you son of a pig. Find yourself a weapon and act like a Norseman.” He faced the men, sword uplifted. “Who’s your leader?”

  There was a confused murmur.

  “Harald?”

  “No, no…”

  “Yes – Harald – we need him…”

  “Harald Silkenhair!”

  “Who’s with me?” Harald shouted. “We are! We all are!”

  “I DON’T BELIEVE IT!” screamed Hilde. “Harald just killed Magnus, and now you want him to lead you?”

  “Who else can do it?” Halfdan snarled. “We need a leader – a war leader. We can sort out the stuff about Magnus later.”

  “There won’t be any later!” Peer shouted. “Not for you,” said Harald, and he sprang at Peer, over the fire.

  For an endless second Peer saw him coming, his golden hair floating out, underlit by the firelight, his mouth opening in a war cry.

  “Run!” Astrid screamed.

  Peer ducked under Harald’s sword stroke and bolted for the door. Here I go again, he had time to think. Would it always, always come down to this: He’s got a sword, and I haven’t?

  The wind bit his face. Loose snow smoked along the ground. The thin moon was touching the crest of the hill. The forested slope was a dark wall under it. He ran for the trees and the safety of Sinumkw’s men. It was further than it looked… His foot plunged into a hole under the snow and he pitched forwards, hitting the rock-hard ground with an impact that drove the breath from his lungs.

  He writhed on to his back, pulling up his knees, trying to suck in air, while tingling stars popped and blistered in front of his eyes. A bare foot crunched into the snow beside his head. Harald had run out into the snow after him without boots. Unable to breathe or speak, Peer twisted to see a sword-point inches from his nose. It looked enormous, dwindling upwards to Harald’s fist, and finally his far-off face, dark against the sky.

  “If you’ve never killed anyone, Barelegs…”

  Peer wheezed. A thread of air wound into his lungs. Nothing like enough. He doubled up. If he could get one breath, one, before Harald killed him.

  “… you won’t know…” Harald paused. “You won’t know how good life truly tastes. You can’t know at all.”

  The sword point pulled back from his face. “And now for a good death,” whispered Harald. He sounded happy. Peer set his teeth and waited for the blow.

  With a whirr and a thump, something struck Harald and spun him round. He staggered, clawing at his right shoulder where a slim shaft bristled. He ripped at it. Blood ran down his arm and dripped dark into the snow. Harald threw back his head, opened his mouth and howled at the stars.

  “Ahooooooooooooooh!”

  It was a cry to melt your bones, a fluid shriek that rose and fell and trailed off into unending loneliness. Peer cringed into the snow, while all the hairs on his neck rose. Still the expected blow did not fall. Harald stepped away.

  Icy air rushed into Peer’s lungs. He pushed himself up, coughing.

  Another arrow hissed past his shoulder, burying itself in the snow. A string of dark figures detached from the edge of the wood and rushed out over the white flats, whooping. In the pale snowlight, Peer couldn’t see faces, but he knew that Kwimu and Sinumkw were leading them. Harald raced barefoot to meet them, his pale hair streaming, throwing his sword into the air and catching it. He howled again, and the hillside echoed: “Ahoooooooooooooh! Hoo, hoo, hoo!”

  “Come on, lads!” Tjørvi, Arne and Halfdan pounded out of the house, waving axes.

  “Arne! Halfdan!” Peer shouted in despair.

  “Peer!�
� With a rush of skirts, Hilde threw herself down in the snow alongside him, panting and actually laughing. He turned on her in fury. “What are you doing? You could get killed!”

  “I don’t care.” Her eyes were bright. “I’m not losing you twice.”

  He flung an arm over her shoulders and kissed her. She kissed him back. Her mouth was cold, then warm. The wind hurled snow into their faces, as fine as salt. They clung to each other.

  Harald began a series of sharp yipping barks, climbing to another fearsome howl. Peer half rose. Hilde dragged him down. “Stay with me!”

  They heard the echo from the woods. How could the hillside twist the sound like that, to fling it back clearer, longer, louder?

  That’s not an echo. It’s an answer.

  He jumped up, heedless of flying arrows. “Sinumkw! Kwimu! Up there on the ridge! Behind you!”

  It didn’t matter that he was using his own language. His urgent voice and pointing arm did it all. Black on the crest of the ridge, something impossibly tall stalked long-legged against the moonglow, a flickering shape behind the trees, now visible, now gone. It raised long, angular arms above its head and screamed, a scream to shred your nerves and tear the top of your head off and rip open your brain. Then it jumped below the skyline. The trees shook as it crashed downhill.

  The war party turned, scattering and reforming to face the woods.

  “Tjørvi! Arne!” Peer bellowed between his hands. “Look out!”

  The Norsemen flung themselves down. The jenu burst out of the woods in an avalanche of frozen clods and broken branches. It stopped at the base of the slope, one arm hooked around the top of a bending pine, and leaned out, swivelling this way and that as if searching for someone.

  “What is it?” Hilde’s voice rose. “Get back to the house —” Peer stopped. It was all open ground between here and the house. If Hilde ran, the jenu could catch her in a few strides, and he was sure it would chase anything that ran away.

  “Keep down.” He grabbed her arm and towed her towards the war band.

  She struggled. “They’re Skraelings!”

  “No, they’re friends.” It sounded stupid: friends didn’t attack with arrows. He added firmly, “Safety in numbers.”

  He hoped it was true. The war party crouched in a ragged arc, bows and spears at the ready. Peer and Hilde scurried into the band of warriors. Friends… it was true. Muin, and Kopit, and Ki’kwaju – he knew all their names. Kwimu, kneeling with bent bow, flicked Peer a single glance of welcome and turned back to concentrate on the foe.

  They were nearer, now. Peer could see more. The thing had the horrifying proportions of a stick man: long exaggerated arms and legs, with swollen joints and splayed fingers. The naked body reflected the snowlight as it stared about with huge, rolling, almost fish-like eyes. It opened a lipless gash of a mouth and howled like the north wind.

  “Owooooooooooohhh!”

  Harald Silkenhair screamed in answer.

  Hilde gripped Peer’s arm.

  “It’ll see him! Is he mad?” Harald had been standing in the snow, transfixed. Now he was running towards the jenu, his pale hair floating. With a yell he whirled his sword and threw himself at the monster.

  Peer saw the sword carve a dark slash in the creature’s thin thigh. The jenu bellowed. Its raking fingers came down and plucked Harald from the ground. Struggling, Harald swung the sword again, stabbing at the creature’s face. The jenu tore the sword from his hand and threw it away. It brought up a bony knee and snapped him over it like a stick of firewood.

  Hilde clapped her hands over her face. Sinumkw shouted. The warriors loosed their bows. Arrows rushed through the air, and some of them stuck in the jenu’s side. It brushed at them clumsily, as if they were thorns.

  Tjørvi crawled through the snow, worming along on his elbows. He reached Peer and gripped his arm with steely fingers. “What can we do?”

  Peer shook his head.

  The jenu began to cough. It threw Harald into the snow, where he lay like a broken doll. It retched, and finally gobbed something out into its hands, pale and slippery, the size of a newborn baby shaped out of ice. The jenu stared at it for a moment. Then it pushed its heart back into its mouth and gulped. It grabbed Harald and crouched down, growling. It’s going to eat him, Peer thought, sickened. And then it will start on us.

  There was a shrill yell from the direction of the houses. Splashes of bright fire like living gold came jerking and weaving over the grey, frozen ground. Two figures bounded through the snow, waving fiery torches. Loki raced ahead of them, barking.

  The jenu sprang upright, snarling, clutching Harald’s broken body to its chest. Kwimu yelled. Tjørvi and Arne shouted. Ottar screamed.

  Floki came panting up, a blazing torch in each hand. He held one out, and Kwimu snatched it. Astrid ran up, her wild hair the same colour as the flames. Sinumkw leaped at her, seized both her torches and ran at the jenu, whooping. His warriors streamed after him. Peer grabbed Hilde’s hand. Madly, together, everyone charged with Sinumkw, hurling spears and waving torches.

  For a second Peer thought the jenu would fight. It bent over them, hissing, and they choked on its musky stench, sweet and stale. Cradled in its sinewy arms, Harald lolled lifeless, his long hair trailing.

  Then, like a dog protecting its bone, the jenu turned. They saw the nicked ridge of its spine, its thin buttocks and long bony legs scissoring away in ground-swallowing strides, heading for the river. It faded rapidly in the grey light. It leaped across the river and disappeared into the far woods. They heard one last distant shriek of rage and loneliness. And it was gone.

  Ottar ran up, dragging something heavy along with him. “It’s Harald’s sword,” he sobbed. “I’ve got his sword.” He stared over the dim marshes towards the river and the black, watching woods, and let the sword drop into the snow. He looked up at Peer and tears ran down his cheeks. “I hated him. I hated him. But he was brave, wasn’t he, Peer? He was brave.”

  “Yes, he was brave,” said Peer slowly. “But I’m afraid that’s all he was.”

  Chapter 64

  Peace Pipe

  “HOW DID YOU guess the thing could be driven away by fire?” asked Tjørvi in admiration.

  Astrid and Floki looked at each other. “We didn’t,” said Astrid.

  Floki shook his head. “Nah. We just thought, what’s worse? Fighting with the rest of you, or hiding in the house waiting for it to come and get us?”

  “And there weren’t any weapons left,” Astrid added. “So the Nis said —”

  “Aha – the Nis!” Tjørvi interrupted, glancing up. There were no secrets left. The Nis sat openly on a beam overhead, guzzling a bowlful of hot groute. “That was the Nis’s idea, was it? I wish I’d known we had a Nis with us all this time.”

  “Wait,” Ottar interrupted. “Let me tell the others all that.” He turned and began to translate.

  Peer drew Hilde against him. She whispered, “It’s a full house.”

  It was. Sinumkw’s warriors sat cross-legged on the floor by the fire, or sprawled on the sleeping benches. The firelight shone on their oiled black hair and brown faces, still smudged with war paint. Peer smiled as he looked around. Trades and swaps were happening already. Halfdan had a tuft of blue feathers in his hair. Tjørvi was sporting Kopit’s beartooth necklace, and Kopit had slung Tjørvi’s steel knife around his neck. Both looked very happy with their bargains.

  “So the Nis suggested the torches?” Peer tipped his head back. “Well done!”

  The Nis was licking its messy fingers, and a splash of groute dripped into Peer’s hair. “I has lots of good ideas,” it boasted. “Has you heard how we threw the clothes at Harald?”

  “Hilde’s told me.” Peer wished he could have seen Harald struggling to fight a rain of socks and trousers.

  “What name suits me best, Peer Ulfsson?” the Nis enquired. It upended the basin and stuck its entire face inside to lick out the bottom. “‘Nithing the Seafarer’ – or ‘Nithi
ng the Warrior’?”

  “Oh well – erm…”

  “It was brave of you and Floki to come out,” Hilde said to Astrid. “Weren’t you afraid of hurting the baby, running like that?”

  “It was time I did something to help.” Astrid pressed a hand to her stomach. “He’s fine. I can feel him kicking.”

  Sinumkw spoke to her across the fire, his dark eyes gleaming. Astrid raised her brows and turned to Ottar. “What does he say?”

  “He says a brave mother makes a brave son,” said Ottar.

  Astrid’s eyes filled.

  “Don’t cry,” Hilde said softly.

  “I’m not,” Astrid muttered, dashing a hand across her face. “Well, yes I am. I’m thinking of Gunnar. He’ll never see his son now. If it is a boy, I mean. A son like Harald. And I promised I’d save him, and I harmed him instead.”

  “You didn’t harm him,” Hilde protested.

  “Yes, I did. I was so angry when he slapped me. I wanted revenge. I could have warned Harald not to crush the egg, but I didn’t. I’m not a nice person like you. It’s true about troll blood, you see. It always comes out in the end. And my son will inherit it from me. He’ll be the same.”

  “How can you say that?” Hilde began, but there was an outburst of excitement in the roof. The Nis knocked its empty bowl off the beam, just missing Peer’s head, and scrabbled in an angle of the rafters, scattering straw and dust.

  “See, see?” It tossed something light into Astrid’s lap. A tiny hollow egg.

  “I finds it on the floor when I is tidying up,” the Nis chirped. “When Harald Silkenhair makes all that mess and leaves it for the Nis to clear away. And I thinks, a thrush egg! I keeps it, I puts it in my den to look pretty, in my nice nest up in the roof.” It looked down at Astrid with sharp eyes. “It’s empty,” it added.

  Astrid’s hand closed around it. “Harald didn’t smash it after all,” she breathed. “Then – it didn’t matter…”

  “Oh, Astrid,” said Hilde impatiently. “Gunnar died because of what he did – not because of what you did. Do stop going on about your troll blood. Take my advice. Don’t tell your baby anything about it, and he’ll grow up fine.”