Snow-Walker

Seventeen

Fire is needed by the newcomer

Whose knees are frozen numb;

Meat and clean linen a man needs

Who has fared across the fells.

As they ran toward the hills they were all numb with the cold. Kari kept coughing. Brochael watched him anxiously. Their clothes clung to them; the icy winds coming down from the pass froze the sodden materials and frosted coat and shirt with tiny crystals. In the shelter of some rocks they stopped and crouched.

“We should keep on,” Thorkil said. “They’ll be coming....”

“It’s a good long way to the ford. And we need food, and a fire,” Brochael told him.

“Then we try the homestead we saw.” Skapti stood up. “It was this way.”

As cautiously as they could, they came through the undergrowth and saw before them, as if it squatted among the rocks at the base of the mountain, a small, crooked house built of turves, its roof green and overgrown. Thorns and brambles grew up around the door; the byres looked empty and unused. Smoke drifted from the hearth hole.

“Hardly a palace,” the skald remarked.

Wulfgar shrugged. “I’ll try and put up with it.”

The skald turned to Brochael. “Let me go. Poets wander in strange places.”

“Not alone,” Brochael said. “We don’t know how many live there, or whether they’re Gudrun’s men or not. Jessa, go with him. His daughter, shall we say?”

She gave him a wry smile. “I suppose I look poor enough.”

“I’m honored.” Skapti laughed.

Brochael clapped him on his shoulder. “Now look, if there’s danger, get out. Don’t mention us until you’re sure.”

The skald nodded. He stood up, tall and thin, and Jessa followed him, the almost empty pack slung over her shoulder. They trudged up through the rocks and the soft, wet tussocks of grass.

A bleat in the bushes startled her. She turned and saw two goats, sitting away to her left. Their slitted eyes watched her as she walked, their jaws chewing without pause.

When he reached the door, Skapti winked at her. Then he thumped twice on the soft, rotting wood. He stood as tall as the eaves.

A shuffle inside kept them silent. Then, without warning, the door opened. The man who stood there was so small he scarcely reached to Jessa’s shoulder. He had a narrow face and tiny sly eyes that hardly seemed to open, hooded with heavy lids. A white stubble of beard sprouted from his chin. He looked up at them both warily.

“I’m a skald, stranger,” Skapti said briskly. “This is my daughter, Jessa. We’re seeking a fire and some food.”

The dwarfish man eyed them narrowly. Then, without speaking, he shuffled aside. The skald shrugged and went in, and Jessa followed him. They were both alert for an ambush, but there was none. The room was dark, cluttered, with greasy rags and rushes on the hard mud floor. They sat down by the fire, a smoky blaze that made the room stiflingly hot, but Jessa was glad of it.

The old man handed them each a slice of hard black bread and some cheese. The cheese was very strong, but Jessa ate it quickly. Faint steam rose from her wet clothes.

“Your girl’s damp,” the old man remarked, squatting on a stool.

“The ford,” Skapti said, chewing his bread.

“Ah.” The old man stirred the fire. “That’s odd. I thought you came the other way.”

There was silence for a moment. Jessa, thinking of the others out in the cold, and Gudrun’s swordsmen hurrying to the ford, wished the skald would hurry. The old man glanced at her. “Now your girl’s restless,” he said. She smiled warily.

At last Skapti said, “I hear the Jarl Ragnar is dead.”

The old man looked up. “News travels fast.”

“To those who are interested. You didn’t tell us your name.”

Scratching his shoulder with a long hand, the old man grinned. “You’re the strangers. You speak.”

“My name is Skapti Arnsson. I was the Wulfings’ poet.”

For a moment Jessa thought he had made a mistake, but she knew time was short.

The old man gave him a hard look. “The Wulfings. I thought they were all dead.”

“All but one. Wulfgar. He should be Jarl, by right.”

Suddenly the old man stood. He fetched a small stone bottle, uncorked it, and poured out a hot red liquid into three cups. They drank, and it burned Jessa’s throat and glowed inside her. The old man slammed his cup down and wiped his beard. “That’s what I keep for enemies of the witch. Now, let’s grip like wrestlers and stop the circling. My name is Asgrim; they call me the Dwarf. How many of you are there, and who pursues you?”

Astonished, Skapti stared at him. Then he laughed. “Well, I’m not as sly as is thought, it seems. There are four others. One is Wulfgar.”

“Outside?”

“Not far. Gudrun’s men are behind us. We need to cross the pass, but first we need food and warmth.”

“Then get them in! Girl, go and get them.”

She glanced at Skapti, who shrugged. “Do as he says.” He grinned at the old man. “Six to one is good enough odds.”

Jessa tugged open the door and ran across the grass. Instantly she saw them coming, rising like ghosts from the bushes. “Come on!” she called.

“How many?” Brochael asked as he came up.

“One old man.”

He nodded and tugged her hair.

The old man glanced at Thorkil and Brochael as they ducked under the low door. Then he stabbed a finger at Wulfgar. “You’re the Wulfing, lord?”

“I am.”

“Then remember Asgrim when you’re Jarl. But if they catch you, forget you ever knew me.”

Wulfgar laughed and nodded and pushed past him to the fire. As he moved, the old man saw Kari. Jessa had never seen anyone stand so still. After a while Kari said, “You’ll know me again.”

“Who on the gods’ earth are you?” the old man whispered.

Brochael hauled Kari toward the fire. “Get the wet clothes off—all of you! Hurry.” As he unlaced his own great shirt he grinned at the dwarf. “He’s Kari Ragnarsson. As you’ve guessed.”

Asgrim sat down. His eyes followed Kari with fascination. “He’s her image,” he muttered. “Every hair of his head. Every look of his eyes.”

Kari gave him a quick glance. “That’s enough,” Brochael snapped. “Now, we’d be grateful for something to eat.”

Shaking his head, the old man got up and put more bread and cheese and cups on the table. “Poor fare for lords,” he said, “but it’s all that’s here.”

When they were dressed and warm, they ate hungrily. Wulfgar swallowed a crust and said, “If I can ever repay you, master, I will, and generously. Rings and horses will be yours for this.”

The old man grinned. “I can’t eat promises. Nor do they keep me warm.” He pointed down at the heap of wet clothes on the floor. “I’ll take these, to be going on with.”

He fingered the fine cloth of Thorkil’s shirt, then picked up Brochael’s tattered one. The big man roared. “It’ll go around you twice!”

“All the warmer.” The Dwarf winked at them, and they laughed until Kari said, “Quiet.”

He lifted his eyes from the wine in his cup. “They’re outside.”

“I heard nothing,” the old man began, but Brochael waved him silent.

At the window Skapti eased back a corner of the shutter. It was getting dark outside. The trees were black shadows.

“Can’t see anything.”

“They’re out there,” Kari muttered. “A lot of them.”

In the silence, they heard a strange, quiet rattle and caw from the roof. “Send the birds off,” Brochael snapped. “They may follow.” He turned to Asgrim. “Is there a back door?”

“They’ll see you.”

“We’ve no choice.”

“He could hide us,” Thorkil put in.

“And have that witch torment me for it?”

Skapti laughed. “No hero this, is he? There’ll be no songs about Asgrim, I can see that.”

With a sliver of steel Brochael drew a long knife. “Decide now. And be quick.”

“No.” Wulfgar caught his arm and forced it down. “No. Let him choose freely. I’ll not raise my hand against my host.”

For a moment Brochael glared at him. Then he nodded, and put the knife away. “As you say. But you may have doomed us all.”

“I don’t think so.” Wulfgar turned to the Dwarf. His voice was slow, almost lazy. “Now. Where’s this loyalty to the Wulfings that you boast of?”

The old man scratched his beard and laughed ruefully. “It’s over here, lord, behind this wall.” He led them through the dark room into the cow byre next door, its floor covered with filthy straw and smelling of rats. One wall was boarded with wood; he pulled a plank away to show a large space behind. “My bolt hole. I’ve used it myself before now. You may not all fit.”

Brochael pushed Kari in without a word, and then Jessa. Skapti followed, folding himself up, and then Thorkil and Wulfgar. When Brochael squeezed in too, there was barely room. Hurriedly Asgrim put the plank back; they heard him fling straw against it.

There was a loud thump on the outer door. Then it burst open. Voices came through, loud and threatening.

“Be ready,” Brochael whispered. “We may have to take them by surprise.”

Jessa heard knives drawn in the darkness. Useless, she thought. If he betrays us here, we’re finished. Some light filtered through a knothole in the wood. Brochael leaned forward and blocked it, putting his eye to the hole. “Six … seven,” he mouthed. “More outside.”

“Outlaws,” they heard a voice saying. “Traitors to the Jarl.”

“I’ve not seen them.” Asgrim’s voice sounded near; in the doorway to the byre. “And why should they come here?”

“They’d need food.”

“I don’t have enough for myself, master, without giving to passersby.”

“I see. And so what are these?”

Brochael jerked back from the hole.

“What is it?” Jessa asked. She saw him turn his head in the dimness.

“We left the clothes by the fire,” he breathed. “They’ve found them.”