Snow-Walker

Four

Never lift your eyes and look up in battle

Lest the heroes enchant you, who can change warriors

Suddenly into hogs.

It was as if some runemaster had waved a hand and transformed the place. All the fires were lit, roaring in the hearths, and candles and rushlights glimmered on stands and in corners, filling the hall with a haze of smoke and light. Long hangings, woven of red and green cloths, hung over the shutters, and the trestles were scattered with scraps of food and bones that the dogs pulled down and snarled over in the straw. The hot air stank of smoke and spices.

Mord pushed them both forward through the crowd. Jessa glimpsed rich embroidery on sleeves, the glint of gold, furs, heavy pewter cups. The Jarl’s court was rich, rich on other men’s land. She lifted her chin, remembering suddenly her father’s grin, his raised hand. She had been only six when he rode out. His face was fading from her mind.

And there was Ragnar at the high table with the witch next to him, her face pale as a ghost’s with its long eyes, her gaze wandering the room. Grettir sat beside her, watching Thorkil push through the crowd.

Mord found them seats near one of the fires; a few men stood to make room and some of them nodded slightly at Jessa. So the Jarl still had enemies then, even here. Mord seemed uneasy; she caught him making discreet signals to someone across the room. Then a steward shouted for silence.

Noise hushed. Men settled back with full cups to see what would happen—a skald with some poem, Jessa thought, or a lawsuit, considered entertainment just as good. A tall, very thin man across the room caught her eye. He grinned at her and tugged a bundle of herbs tied with green ribbon from a bag at his feet and held it out. A peddler. She shook her head quickly; the man laughed and winked. Then he moved out of sight among the crowd thronging the hearth.

Thorkil nudged her.

A prisoner was coming in between two of the Jarl’s men. He was a tall, dark, elegant man in a dirty leather jerkin, with a gleam of gold at his neck. He looked around with cool interest.

“That’s Wulfgar,” Thorkil said. “They caught him last week up at Hagafell. He’s the last of the Wulfings. If anyone should be Jarl, it’s him.”

As the prisoner came through the crowd, the silence grew. Jessa saw how some men looked away, but others held his eye and wished him well. He must be well liked, she thought, for them to risk even that much, with Gudrun watching.

“Wulfgar Osricsson,” Ragnar began, but the prisoner interrupted him at once.

“They all know my name, Ragnar.” His voice was deliberately lazy. A ripple of amusement stirred in the room.

“You have plotted and warred,” Ragnar went on grimly, “against the peace of this hold—”

“My own,” Wulfgar said lightly.

“And against me.”

“You! A thrall’s son from Hvinir, where all they grow is sulphur and smoke holes.”

“Be careful,” Ragnar snarled.

“Let him speak!” someone yelled from the back of the hall. “He has a right. Let him speak.”

Other voices joined in. The Jarl waved curtly for silence. “He can speak. If he has anything worth hearing.”

The prisoner leaned forward and took an apple from the Jarl’s table and bit into it. A guard moved, but Ragnar waved him back.

“I’ve nothing to say,” Wulfgar said, chewing slowly. “Nothing that would change things. You’re like a dead tree, Ragnar, smothered with a white, strangling ivy. It’s poisoning you, draining you of yourself. Shake her off now, if you still can.”

Jessa, like everyone else, stared at Gudrun. She was sipping her wine and smiling. Ragnar’s face flushed with rage. His reply was hoarse. “That’s enough. Rebellion means death. As you were a landed man it will be quick, with an ax. Tomorrow.”

Men in the smoky hall looked at one another. There was a murmuring that rose to a noise. Gudrun’s eyes moved across their faces as she drank.

“He can’t do that!” Thorkil muttered.

Mord’s hands clamped down on his shoulders and stayed there. “Wait. Keep still.” His fingers dug into the soft coat. “Don’t draw attention to yourself.”

Wulfgar spat an apple pip onto the floor. At once, with an enormous crash, one of the shutters on the windows suddenly collapsed, flung open in a squall of wind that whipped out half the candles at a stroke. In the darkness someone yelled; Wulfgar twisted and hurled himself through the guards into the crowd of confused shadows. Strange blue smoke was billowing from the fires. Jessa coughed, half choked; in the uproar dogs were barking and Ragnar was shouting orders. Then the doors were open; men were running among the dim houses of the hold, letting the bitter wind stream in and slice through the smoke like a knife.

“Is he away?” Thorkil shouted, on his feet.

“He ought to be. If he was ready.”

“It was all planned. You knew!”

“Hush. Keep your voice down.”

Jessa turned; Gudrun’s chair was empty. Then her eye caught sight of something lying half in the fire, smoldering; it was a small bunch of some herb, tied with a green ribbon. The stifling blue smoke was drifting from it. Jessa looked around, but the peddler was nowhere to be seen. She bent down quickly and pulled the singed bundle out of the ashes, stamped on it, and pushed it into the deep pockets of her coat so no one saw.

“Will he really escape?” Thorkil was asking.

“If he gets out of the hold, there’s every chance. Not many who search will want to find him. He should head south, overseas.”

“And will he?”

Mord gave her a half smile. “I doubt it. He wants to be Jarl.” He sighed. “There are plenty of others who want it.”

Suddenly it seemed the hall was almost empty. Then Mord stood up. “Ah. This is it.”

One of Gudrun’s men was beckoning them across. As they walked over, talk hushed. Jessa saw Thorkil’s back stiffen.

They followed the man through a wooden archway crawling with twisted snakes. Beyond was a room lit by lamplight. Mord had to stoop under the lintel as he went in; Jessa came last, her fingers clenched tight to stop them shaking.

They were all there: Ragnar, Grettir, a few white-haired men with eyes like chips of ice—and Gudrun. Close to, she was almost beautiful. Her eyes were like water in a shallow pool, totally without color. Cold came out of her; Jessa felt it against her face.

Outside in the hold the search was going on; they heard running footsteps, shouts, the barking of hounds. Everywhere would be searched. Here the silence seemed intense, as if after some furious argument. Gudrun stood, watching them come; Ragnar barely turned his head. She knows, Jessa thought in a sudden panic; she knows everything. Gudrun smiled at her, a sweet, cold smile.

“The preparations for the journey are made,” Ragnar snapped. “The ship leaves early, with the tide.” His hands tapped impatiently on the chair arm, a smooth wolfshead, worn by many fingers.

As Gudrun moved to the table, Jessa glimpsed a peculiar glistening wisp of stuff around her wrist; she realized it was snakeskin, knotted and braided. The woman took up a jug and poured a trickle of thin red liquid into four brightly enameled cups. Jessa picked at her glove; Thorkil’s strained look caught her eye. But they would have to drink it—it was the faring cup, always drunk before a journey. One after another, silent, they picked up the cups. Gudrun lifted hers with slim white fingers and sipped, looking at them over the rim all the while. Playing with us, Jessa thought, and drank immediately, feeling the hot sour taste flame in her throat. Thorkil tossed his off and banged the cup down empty. Mord’s lips barely touched the rim.

“And we have these for you both.” She nodded to a thrall; he brought two arm rings, thin delicate silver snakes, and gave them to Jessa and Thorkil. The silver was icy to touch; it had come from her mines where men died in the ice to find it. Jessa wanted to fling hers in the woman’s face, but Mord caught her eye and she was silent, cold and stiff with anger.

Gudrun turned away. “Take them out.”

“Wait!”

Every eye turned to Thorkil; men who had been talking fell silent. “Don’t you mind?” he asked, his fingers clenched on the ring. “That we’ll see? That we’re going there…?” Despite himself he could not finish.

Jessa saw a movement in the corner; it was the old man Grettir. He had turned his head and was watching.

Gudrun stared straight at Thorkil. All she said was “Thrasirshall is the pit where I fling my rubbish.” She stepped close to him; he shivered in the coldness that came out from her.

“I want you to see him. I’ll enjoy thinking of it. I’ll enjoy watching your face, because I will see it, however far away you think me. Even in the snows and the wilderness nothing hides from me.”

She glanced down, and his eyes followed hers. He had gripped the ring so tight the serpent’s mouth had cut him. One drop of blood ran down his fingers.