Snow-Walker

Sixteen

Too many eyes are open by day.

Brochael woke Jessa before dawn. As she struggled up she saw Thorkil sitting and talking with Wulfgar. He laughed and waved to her.

“He doesn’t seem to remember anything about last night,” Brochael said quietly. “Best not to speak of it at all.”

“How can he not remember?”

“Who knows. But don’t mention it.”

She nodded. “Is Kari well?”

“Well enough. He’ll carry the scar, that’s all.”

Later, as she rolled her blanket, Thorkil came over. He grinned at her, and she saw that the restraint and silence that had grown on him lately was gone. He was easy, pleased with himself. The old Thorkil.

“Feeling better?” she said, suddenly glad to see him.

He shrugged, surprised. “A bit tired.” He did not mention the missing arm ring, but she saw his fingers restlessly rubbing at the white wrinkled scar that twisted about his wrist. It had not faded in the night; she wondered now if it ever would. They’ll both carry scars, she thought.

All morning they moved swiftly on through the trees, downhill, with Wulfgar scouting ahead and Brochael, like a great shadow at Kari’s shoulder, keeping guard at the back. The forest was quiet, in an end-of-winter hush, brushed at its edges by a dusting of green, the tight furled buds barely splitting, the new growth of pines and firs soft and fresh among the dark needles.

When the forest ended they saw a low green valley before them, with a swift river running through it.

“This is the Skolka,” Brochael said. “Beyond it, up in those rocks, is the Jarl’s Gate, the pass down into the Mjornir district, where the Jarlshold is.”

Jessa looked up at the narrow peaks. “I can’t see any pass.”

“It’s narrow,” Wulfgar said. “Barely a thread between the rocks. A few weeks ago it would still have been blocked with snow.”

“And how do we cross the river?” Thorkil wondered.

Brochael looked at Wulfgar. “There’s a ford—”

“Guarded. She’s not such a fool as that.”

“She’s not a fool at all,” the skald muttered to Jessa, with a lopsided grin.

“You and I will have to find a place to cross,” Brochael decided. “The rest of you can wait, and rest.”

“I’ll come,” Thorkil said.

Brochael’s eyes flickered doubtfully to Kari, but the boy nodded. There was nothing to worry about now, Jessa thought. They could trust him again.

“All right,” Brochael said. “But stay close.”

When they were gone, Jessa and Kari lay in the edges of the forest, listening to Skapti’s tale of his journey. The sun became almost warm; one or two early flies buzzed in the leaves. Kari fed the ravens scraps of dried meat, one perched on each side as he lay against the tree.

When the skald had finished, Jessa said, “You might have told me—at Wormshold.”

“Not my secret. Besides”—he winked at Kari—“we had to find out if you were safe to trust.”

“How did you know all about it?”

Skapti shrugged. “I knew Brochael years ago. When she sent him to Thrasirshall we all heard of it. No one thought we would see him again. There was much fighting at the time.... But later, one time when I was traveling near Trond, I decided to see him.”

“You went to Thrasirshall on your own?” Jessa was astonished.

The skald grinned. “Oh, I was scared enough. When I saw the place, I thought my heart would stop. But I knew Brochael would starve unless he had food brought in. I might add, he was glad to see me. Tired of eating rat, I suppose.”

Jessa giggled.

“I didn’t see this creature”—he tapped Kari with his foot—“until later, but a skald knows that many things that seem true are not, and all about lying. I don’t think I really believed her stories, even then. We arranged a supply line for food; some of the Wulfings’ men brought it, when they could get through the snow. All secret. I was there quite often after that.” He grinned. “I remember the time this one first heard music.”

Kari nodded slowly. “So do I....”

When the others came back they were wet and hungry.

“There’s a place,” Brochael said, swallowing a great chunk of oatcake, “a little way upstream. Plenty of rocks, though the current is swift and deep in places.” He spat out a piece of cheese. “Rancid! Food is something else we need.”

“There’s a house over there,” Jessa said. They looked in the direction she pointed at the thin trail of smoke rising into the sky.

“Too dangerous,” the skald muttered.

“Unless we steal, as Odin stole the mead of Wisdom.”

“I don’t steal from my own people,” Wulfgar said sharply.

Skapti laughed, rubbing his long nose. “Then just ask, my lord. When they know it’s the next Jarl at the door, they’ll give.”

Wulfgar laughed at Jessa. “Do you see the impudence I have to put up with?”

The crossing place Brochael had found was sheltered, with a few trees. The bank shelved down, but the bed of the stream was choked with rocks, the swift brown water roaring over and through them. That would be easy. But between the last rock and the farther shore was at least six feet of empty, swirling water.

Brochael took off his pack, coat, and shirt and tied a heavy, hempen rope around his waist. Thorkil wound the end around a rock and braced it. The big man laughed. “It’ll take more than you. If I go in I’ll want you all on there.” With a glance at Kari he began to cross the rocks swiftly, with easy steps. Despite his size he was light-footed. On the last one he paused. Wulfgar and Thorkil gripped the rope. Slowly Brochael lowered himself into the icy water. It rose high against his chest. He waded forward, and the current caught him; he staggered, fought for balance, arms wide.

Slowly he steadied, the brown water racing past him, his skin tinged with blue, as if bruised with cold. He forced his bulk through the stream, gripped the other bank, and heaved himself up, the water running from him.

“Well stepped!” the skald yelled, flinging over Brochael’s clothes.

Shaking with cold, Brochael dressed, then he whipped the rope up from the water and tightened it, a dripping, taut line over the river. They threw the baggage over, then Kari crossed, gripping the rope tight with both hands, the birds cawing anxiously over his head. He had to drag himself, hand over hand, the current tearing at him, Brochael leaning out so far to help that he almost overbalanced. Jessa saw the raw blue scar on Kari’s chest as he was pulled out. He flung his cloak on and crouched, coughing, on the bank.

Skapti crossed next, then Thorkil. As he was halfway over, the ravens croaked and rose up, circling. Kari looked up. “They’re here!”

At the end of the forest something was moving; as Jessa turned she saw a man step out, the weapon in his hand gleaming in the sun. He turned at once and shouted.

“Hurry up!” Brochael roared, leaning over and hauling Thorkil out. “Jessa! Quick!”

With a slither of steel Wulfgar had his sword out. He turned to face the wood; already a line of men was running toward him. Jessa pulled off her coat and flung it over, scrambling from rock to rock. She tugged her boots off, threw them to Thorkil, and jumped straight into the stream.

The icy water drove the breath right out of her; she grabbed the taut rope and hung there, gasping, feeling the flow of the river against her body, filling her nose and mouth. Hand over hand, she pulled herself through the stream; her feet dragged again and again off the stones, her clothes heavy with the icy water. She heard a splash behind her; a shout. Wulfgar was on the rocks. Her hands were sore on the rope; she slipped, and grabbed tight. Then Brochael’s arm gripped her. She reached up to the bank and hauled herself out, coughing and shivering. Someone flung a coat around her. She pushed the wet hair from her eyes.

Two men had outrun the others. Swords out, they were hacking at Wulfgar. Dodging, he kicked one in the ribs; the man gasped, and slipped backward. Wulfgar leaped across the rocks; with an enormous splash he was in the water.

Brochael whirled around. “Run. Get up to the pass!”

Already Wulfgar was halfway across, the water roaring over his clenched hands and the tight, thrumming rope. Gudrun’s man slipped and slithered on the rocks, ducking stones that Skapti hurled at him. His knife flashed. With a sharp slash he brought it down on the rope, slicing through it. In an instant Wulfgar was downstream, whirled away in the roaring brown flood, battered against the rocks, clutching at the roots of trees and the brown soil.

Brochael raced after him, flung himself at full length, and grabbed. Wulfgar sank and surged up, gasping. Their hands met, gripped tight; Brochael was jerked forward.

“Hold me!” he yelled, and Thorkil and Skapti threw themselves over him, clawing at his feet, and at the stems of bushes and thorns. Stones were falling on them like hail; on the far bank Gudrun’s men clambered swiftly over the rocks.

“Pull!” Brochael roared. “Pull!” Tugging on his belt and feet and shoulders, they dragged at him; hauling his own weight and Wulfgar’s painfully in, inch by inch. A stone hit Thorkil on the chest; he gasped, but hung on.

Then a man screamed. Looking up, Jessa saw the ravens hurtle down, stabbing at the men’s faces, fluttering and beating them with their heavy black wings, shrieking high karks of anger. The men ducked, covered their eyes. One had blood running from his forehead.

Jessa grabbed at Thorkil and heaved. Slowly Brochael was squirming and wriggling back, and then Wulfgar grabbed the skald’s hand, and with a great rush of water they dragged him out, blue with cold and shivering uncontrollably. He collapsed onto his knees, coughing and retching, but Brochael hauled him up. “You can drown later. Come on!”

Then he turned his head.

Jessa realized with a sudden chill that the clamor of the birds had stopped.

Kari was standing at the bank of the stream, one raven on a rock above him, the other at his feet, silently wiping its beak in the grass. On the other side of the river, Gudrun’s men were gazing at him. They stared, silent and fascinated.

“Ah,” said the skald softly. “Look at that. Gudrun’s wordhoard works against her.”

The men stood silent; one touched an amulet that swung from his coat. Then their leader whirled on them. “Move! Get down to the ford!”

The men turned. “You’d better hurry,” the man said grimly. “No outlaw reaches the Jarlshold, not while I hold the passes.” He was a tall man; his eyes blue. He wore the silver snake ring around his arm. He ran after his men. Wulfgar coughed and spat, watching him go.

“No outlaw will,” he remarked.