Snow-Walker

Eight

A wayfarer should not walk unarmed,

But have his weapons to hand:

He knows not when he may need a spear,

Or what menace meet on the road.

It was a hard thing to pray for. Jessa swung onto her weary horse and gathered up the reins, moving out hurriedly after Thorkil. Looking back, she saw that Steinar and Thorgard Blund were still listening to the thin man, Thrand. His voice was a quiet echo under the cliff. Steinar laughed and turned, catching her eye. He put his huge hands up to his horse and hauled himself up.

Jessa and Thorkil rode close together. Neither spoke. The path ran along the edge of a vast pine wood, its branches still and heavy with snow. In there it was dim and gloomy, the trees receding into endless aisles, only a few birds piping in the hush. Once a pine marten streaked across the track.

Helgi was guessing the way now, and they all knew it. The sun became a cold globe, sliding down into mists and vapors; twilight turned the world black and gray. The snow lost its glare and shimmered blue; crystals of ice hardened on the tree trunks.

Without turning his head, Helgi muttered, “Thorkil. Can you use that knife of yours?”

“What knife?”

“The sharp one you’ve been keeping under your coat.”

Thorkil grinned. “It’s not the only thing that’s sharp. Yes, I can use it.”

Jessa glanced back. Three wraiths on shadow horses flickered through the trees. “Listen, Helgi—”

“Don’t worry. It may not come to that. It wouldn’t help us if it does.” His eyes moved anxiously over the dark fells. “I’d be glad to see that hellhole now, troll or no troll.”

Silence, except for the swish of snow. Jessa loosened the blade in her belt, warm under her coat. Night fell on them, like a great bird; the stars glittered through the trees. She thought of the peddler, his urgent voice saying, “Wait for me.” But where was he? He had abandoned them.

Then the voice came from behind.

“Captain!”

With a clink of harness, Helgi drew his horse to a halt. He sat still a moment, his back rigid. Then he turned around.

The three horsemen waited in a line. Their swords gleamed in the starlight. Ice glinted on their clothes and beards.

“We’ve come far enough,” Steinar said. “We’re going back.”

“Go on. I should have brought braver men.”

The man laughed. “What’s courage against trolls and monsters? Come back with us, man.”

“What will you tell the Jarl?” Helgi asked, his voice clear across the frost. “And what will you say to her?”

Steinar glanced at Thrand.

“My father was a poet,” the thin man remarked. “I can feel a story coming to me, too. It concerns two children who fell overboard in a storm.”

With a slither of sound Helgi drew his sword. “Not while I’m alive.”

Suddenly the pack mule jerked. A black shape flapped down through the branches, dusting snow into Jessa’s hair, and another followed it; two enormous, glossy ravens that clung and settled on the bouncing branches.

Helgi laughed grimly, his hand tight on his horse’s mane. “Look at that. The High One has two birds like that. He sends them out to see everything that happens in the world. My job is to take these two to Thrasirshall and keep them safe on the way. If you’re coming, come. Otherwise go back. But don’t think I’ll keep your cowardice quiet.”

Steinar’s harness creaked as he moved forward. “It’s a waste, lad. Though I suppose the wolves won’t think so.”

The ravens karked. Snow swirled in the darkness. “Better ride, Jessa,” Helgi growled, but she was ready; she dug her heels in and the horse leaped forward into a sky that tore itself apart in front of her. The aurora crackled into a great arch of green fire and scarlet flame; Jessa thundered into it over the hard snow, could feel the eerie light tingling on her face. Branches loomed at her and she ducked, lying low and breathless on the warm, sweating skin of the horse. Voices yelled; Thorkil shouted; something whistled over her head and thudded into the snow.

She kicked hard; the horse burst through the edge of the wood, leaped a black stream hanging rigid on its stones, and began to flounder up the white sides of the fell. The sky crackled and spat light; her horse was green, then gold, then scarlet. Behind her Thorkil galloped, coat flapping, his face shimmering with colors. Up and up through the deep snow, kicking the horse, urging it, swearing at it, and then, at last, the top!

She came over the lip of the white hill through the stars and an arch of flame. A great wind roared in her ears; the horse stood, snorting clouds of breath.

“Go on!” Thorkil was yelling. “Don’t stop now!” His own horse fought and floundered up the slope.

But Jessa did not move. She sat, looking ahead, her hair whipping out in the gale.

“There’s nowhere left to go,” she called grimly.

Beside her, he gazed breathlessly down into the valley.

At Thrasirshall.

It was huge even from here: a mass of black, broken towers hung with ice. The aurora flickered silently over it, tingeing glassy walls, dark window slits. A thin moon balanced on the hills behind, its light piercing the shattered roofs, stretching the hall’s long shadow over the blue unbroken snow.

No smoke rose from the roofs; no animals lowed in the byres. It was a silent ruin.

Jessa heard Helgi’s horse snort behind her, and then the other three came to a slow, doubtful stop. She didn’t move, or care. All the danger from behind had gone. It had been sucked down into that black, glittering ruin below them.

After a long silence Thorkil said, “It’s empty. There are no lights, no tracks in the snow. They must be dead long since.”

“Maybe.” Helgi turned his head, the colors of Surt’s blaze flickering on his face. “Well?” he said quietly.

The three men were staring at the hall, their horses fidgeting uneasily. Then Steinar sheathed his sword with a snap. He glanced at the others; Thrand shrugged.

“We should keep together.” They seemed to have lost all will; Jessa saw how their eyes kept straying to the tower.

“Nothing will be said?”

“Nothing.” Helgi’s voice was rich with contempt. Without another word he turned his horse and moved forward. The howl of a wolf broke out in the wood behind them; then another answered, not so far away. The horses flicked their ears nervously.

The riders moved together in a tight knot, down the long white slope of the hill. No one spoke. Behind them the pack mule floundered, its rope slack.

As they came down to the ruin, they could hear the wind moaning through the broken walls. The snow down here had drifted into great banks; they pushed cautiously through it, into the shadow of the walls. At the first archway, its keystone hanging dangerously low, they halted.

“Torches,” Thrand muttered. “The more light the better.”

Helgi nodded. The gaunt stones behind him were coated in ice; frozen in smooth lumps and layers. Nothing moved.

They had brought torches of pitch from the boat. It took an age to make flame, but then the soaked wood flared and crackled, making the horses start in the acrid smoke. “Two will be enough,” Helgi said, bending and picking one up. “I’ll go first. You, Steinar, at the back. Take the other light with you.”

They moved through the arch. Its gates were long gone, rotted to one black post that stuck out of the snow like a burned finger. Torchlight gleamed on frozen stone, on shapeless masses of ice that might once have been carvings. As they came to the inner gate they saw it was blocked; a row of long smooth icicles of enormous thickness hung down to the ground. Helgi and Thrand had to dismount and hack at them with sword and flame; each snapped with a great crack that rang in the ruins.

One by one the horses squeezed through. Now they found themselves in a courtyard, a great square of white. Winds and breezes moaned in the outbuildings, sounding like voices, creaking a timber door somewhere out of sight, gusting snow from the sills of windows in the hall. The silence held them still; the silence and the emptiness. Kari is dead, Jessa thought. Whatever he was.

Helgi turned. “There’s a door there, look. We might be able to get inside.”

He dismounted and waded over, knee-deep in snow. As he held the torch up, the flames lit the door. It was made of ancient wood, studded with nails, and had once been repaired with planks hammered over the weak places, but even these were now green with rot. Helgi kicked it; it shuddered but held. In the darkening air they waited, stiff with fear, but there was no sound or stir from within.

Helgi drew his knife. At the same time, something black screeched from the sky. Helgi yelled with fright and dropped the torch; the horses reared and plunged. In sudden blackness dim shadows flapped overhead.

Jessa shrieked. Someone caught her arm.

“Quiet! Helgi?”

Steinar had pushed forward, torch in hand. In the red light they saw Helgi scramble from his knees, his face white. “I’m all right.”

“What was it?”

He looked up. “Birds. Two of them.”

They were perched on the sill above him; the two ravens from the wood. Their eyes followed every movement.

Steinar gripped the thorshammer at his neck. “This is a place of sorcery, or worse. Let’s get out, man. While we can!”

But Helgi snatched the torch from his hand and turned, holding it up. Then he stopped, stock-still.

Jessa’s fingers clenched on the frozen reins.

Before them, the door was opening.

It was tugged open, jerking and grating against the stones as if the wood was swollen.

Firelight streamed out, as if a slot had opened in a dark lantern. It fell on their faces, glinted in the horses’ eyes. A scatter of snow falling through it turned red as blood.

A man stood there. He was a giant; his head reached the lintel of the door, and though he was wrapped in furs and patched cloaks, they saw his strength. His face was flushed with the fire’s heat; his beard and hair dark red, cut close.

Helgi gripped his knife, looking suddenly small and pale on the cold steps. The big man gave him a glance, then pushed him aside and shouldered his way down among the horses. He went straight to Jessa. She could feel the warmth of the fire glowing from him as he gripped her horse’s mane.

“You’re late, Jessa,” he said. “A good soup is almost spoiled.”