Snow-Walker

Nine

I was little equipped to act as bodyguard.

Hakon Empty-hand paused in the doorway of the shieling. Outside, the moon shone through a vivid purple aurora, silvering the trees that crowded close about the field. He stared anxiously into the dark, crowded aisles of the forest.

“Inga! Don’t run off!”

She came around the corner of the building and glared at him. “I wasn’t.”

“Where’s your brother?”

“Here.” Kilmund had another lamb on his shoulders; he was staggering under its weight. The ewe followed, bleating in alarm. “This one was at the other end of the field.”

Hakon eased it awkwardly off the little boy’s back; it ran into the dark byre and gazed around at the straw. Carefully they pushed the ewe in after it.

Hakon shut the door and nudged the latch home with his good hand, the left one.

“That’s all we can do. Now let’s get home.”

He was worried—the darkness had fallen before they’d finished and the news had made him uneasy. Gripping Inga’s arm, he said, “Stay close to me now.”

Crossing the pasture, the little boy kicked and danced. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of the troll, Hakon.”

“He is!” Inga cried.

“I’m not.” Kilmund kicked a small rock in the grass. “Father says those things are skalds’ lies and only thralls believe them.”

“Well, I’m only a thrall,” Hakon growled, “so keep quiet and come on.”

By now they were in the forest, and the light was dimmer. Ever since the group of men had ridden by that morning, Hakon had been uneasy. Perhaps he should have taken the children home straight away. But it had been too easy to imagine the master, ranting because the work hadn’t been done. “Can’t even round up a few lambs, boy, without scurrying back for orders!”

Skuli Skulisson was a good farmer but a hard man; not a man with imagination. Not really a man who knew about fear. Hakon did. He peered into the green gloom of the wood. Those men had believed their tale of the troll. They’d been riding to the Jarlshold, sweating, afraid. And they’d had good swords, and two hands to use them.

“Do we have to go so fast?” Inga asked him. “My side hurts.”

He stopped and looked down at her. “Much?”

“It hurts,” she said tearfully. “Carry me, Hakon.”

Hurriedly he kneeled and gathered her up. She was light, a bundle of frail bones. With his good hand he gripped Kilmund’s shoulder. “Come on now. Hurry.”

It was well into the wood, in the clearing by the stream, that he heard the noise. Not stopping, he turned his head quickly, ignoring the children’s high voices. Something rustled; in the dark tangle of undergrowth to his left he sensed the slightest stir of its presence. It might be anything, but he walked faster, pushing the boy on. Two miles to the farm. A knife on his belt and a rusty sword, but he’d never been good with his left hand and he was thin and hadn’t the weight behind the thrust. Already Inga felt heavier, making his arm ache.

In the windy unease of the wood there were many noises—leaves pattering, the rising roar of high branches, the crisp rustle of nettle and thorn whipping against his legs. He stumbled over a stone and gasped, and Inga squealed, “Don’t drop me!”

“I won’t. Be quiet now.”

He longed to shift her weight but he needed his good hand free. Quickly he put her down and drew the sword. It was old, notched, not much use. A thrall’s sword.

“What’s that for?” Kilmund’s eyes were wide.

“Nothing. A game.”

“What sort of game?”

Leaves gusted into his face as he crouched beside the children. “Hunting. We’re going to run, fast and silent. As fast as we can.”

“I don’t want to,” the boy said stubbornly.

Hakon gripped the sword tight. “We’re late. And if you’re late, your father will have me beaten. And you too, probably, if I tell him you were idling. You don’t want that, do you?”

“No.”

“Good. Then run. Now!”

They hurried through the straining wood, branches cracking under their feet, but it wasn’t fast enough, and Hakon, behind his snatched breathing, knew that the peculiar movement was still out there, somewhere in the dark. It kept level with them; once or twice among the trees he thought he saw a pale glimmer, a shadow in the tanglewood.

At the edge of a clearing bright with moonlight they stopped, breathless. He glanced around, his heart thumping. The trees here were closely grouped—old gnarled oaks, their branches and boles green with mosses and lichens that grew even on the rocks, soft cushions, sprawling yellow splashes.

In the wood, something breathed. Like an echo of himself he heard it, rasping, strange and heavy.

A branch swished. Stones clattered.

“What’s that?” Inga whispered.

In the silence the whole wood murmured and creaked and stirred in the rising gale. Pale cloud dragged across the moon.

Hakon grabbed her. “Up the tree. Hurry!”

“I don’t want to!” She began to cry with terror and he shoved her fiercely up into the branches, wishing he could lift her. “Hold tight! Now, Kilmund! Move!”

But the boy was staring into the breathing darkness. “Is it the troll?”

“Get up there!” Hakon jerked him off the ground. “Hold your sister. Hold her tight!”

Above him the branches swayed, dropped leaves on him. Legs and arms moved in a flurry of snow that had begun to fall slowly, like ash drift from a fire. Inga’s cry came down from the dark.

“Come on, Hakon!”

“Quiet!”

He turned, his back against the tree, clutching the sword that felt hot and heavy in his hand. And then, among the undergrowth, among storm-stirred leaves and snow, something shifted, and he knew he was looking at a face, a narrow, inhuman face among splintered branches and shadow. It watched him, its small eyes pale as ice, a big, indistinct shape, and he swore for a moment that the snow drifted through its body.

Like a man, but bigger. Like a bear, but … not. As it watched him he knew that it thought, that it hungered, and he felt a sudden pulse of terror that he squashed at once, deep down.

Barely opening his lips he said, “It’s here. Don’t move, Kilmund. Don’t speak. Whatever happens don’t let her make a sound.”

But it could probably smell them. Best not to think about that. Facing into the dark he knew his own life was lost. Nothing could get him up that tree in time, not with one useless hand. If he turned, it would come, crashing out…

Odin, he thought, if you love me, do something.

The branches moved. It was coming; snow blurred it but it was coming out, toward him. And at that instant the moon leaked from its cloud and lit the wood with sudden bars of silver.

Breathless, Hakon pressed himself back. He saw a gray pelt, a thick, heavy body, eyes lit with savage hunger. His sword glimmered like frost; the air before him was a whirlwind of white, dissolving flakes.

The creature made a sound, wordless, tense.

Sweat running, Hakon raised his sword.

And then, from above, came a screech that made him jerk his glance up; the night fell on him in two black pieces, flapping and screaming. As he ducked, they stabbed at the rune beast’s face, scratching, fluttering, and it clawed them off, roaring, swinging away.

In an instant Hakon was scrambling up the tree, hauling himself up clumsily, dragged by small invisible fingers, torn, scratched, shaking all over with unstoppable fear. “All right!” he whispered. “It’s all right!”

Below they heard the roars of furious anger. In a whirlwind of shadows the thing crashed back into the under-growth, slashing and splintering. They heard it howl and stagger through the wood, farther and farther off into the rising gale.

His arm around Inga, Hakon tried to stop shaking. He stared into the dark, listening, intent for the distant sounds. Soon only wind shook the wood. Snow gusted about them.

After a long time the little boy whispered in his ear, “What was it? What scared it away?”

For a moment Hakon could not speak. Then he managed a word.

“Birds.”

“Birds?”

“Ravens. Two great ravens.”

“Where did they come from?”

Dazed, Hakon watched the moonlight glitter on his rusty, useless blade. Then he said, “Odin sent them.”