Snow-Walker

Twenty

To elude death is not easy.

Wulfgar crumpled into the wet moss; Vidar whirled around in fury.

“Get her!” he roared.

But he found Jessa was already racing toward him, her face twisted with wrath; she hurled herself into him, catching him off balance so that he crashed into the mud.

She turned, crouched. “Wulfgar! Quick!”

Blood seeped through his coat and over her hands.

Then Vidar had grabbed her heel and thin wiry arms snatched her from behind, pinning her elbows back as she kicked and screamed and squirmed. It was useless. The thief held her tight, his wheezing laughter warm against her ear.

Slowly Vidar picked himself up.

She stood still now, breathing hard. She watched him wipe lichen from his scarred face and thin beard, all the time keeping his cold gray eyes on her.

“Traitor!” she said.

He shook his head. “Not so. Wulfgar was that. He was a friend of the sorcerers. Like you are.”

She glanced down quickly. Her heart thudded as she saw Wulfgar was still breathing.

“Not for long,” Vidar said sadly. “The creature will finish him.”

“Creature?”

“That’s what I’ll tell them. That’s what they’ll all believe. And I’m afraid that you too will have been its victim. A few knife slashes will look very convincing. I’m sorry this had to be, Jessa, but you can see I can’t have any witnesses.”

He nodded. Behind her, just for a moment, a hand slackened. In a whirl of panic she tore her arms free and ran, splashing through the bog, dragging the knife from her belt. She raced around the mere, hurtling over tussocks of grass, leaping branches, dodging around rocks, and behind her the thief crashed in pursuit, in the pounding of her breath, the thud of her heart.

She reached the trees and fled in among them, with one glance back. He was close; he ran lithe and low, the long blade gleaming in his hand. She ducked branches, leaves that slapped her face and arms; her coat snagged and she tore it desperately away, hot with fear. Down a slope, around a pile of rocks, and she crumpled there, swallowing breath, the wood swinging crazily around her.

Gasping in air, she flipped over onto her stomach and peered back through the tangle of bracken.

He was coming, slowly now.

“Come on, lady,” he said. “This just makes things harder.”

Silent, her face set, she let him come. Anger was cold in her, a terrible icy fury that she gripped tight, like the corded hilts in her hands. Let him come. She owed him this.

He edged against the rock, tensed, his small eyes darting. She clenched her teeth; she felt wild and reckless and tingling with a bitter power. She hated him, and Vidar, especially Vidar!

He came to the rock and paused. For a moment he looked the other way.

She was out in an instant, the knife slashing down at him, so that he gave a yell of pain and fury and struck back at her, the blade slicing the air with a swift whistle of sound. As she turned he caught her sleeve; with a scream of pure anger she tore the coat right off and raced into the trees.

A stream ran down the fell, a small, noisy torrent. She leaped up from rock to rock, reckless, over the fierce falls of peat brown water, the smooth white creamy foam gathering in pools. Up and up, the roar and crash of the falls filling her ears, and the thief climbed after her, swearing and cursing.

Near the top, under low trees, she climbed deftly up into the branches.

Now keep still. Keep still.

She held herself light, among the larch leaves. He was moving somewhere below; she could hear him. How long would he search? Or would he give up, go back and tell Vidar she was dead? Maybe that, she thought scornfully. A thief was usually a liar as well.

He was slower, clumsier. She’d hurt him.

She glanced at the blade; it was clean. But he’d yelled.

Slowly the rustles of his movements grew distant. Jessa took deeper breaths. For long minutes she waited; minutes that lengthened to an infinite, unguessable time of quiet breathing, listening, watching. Rustles and breezes moved in the clustered trees; the water below roared and churned over the rocks. Noises of the forest closed slowly about her, the breeze through the topmost branches, the birdsong.

It was the birds that convinced her he was gone.

After a while she knew she had to take the chance. He might be near, he might be lurking, but she had to get back to Wulfgar. She had to tell the others about Vidar. The thought of him made her drive her nails into the soft trunk.

Cautiously she slid down the branches, her hands rasping the crumbling bark. Then she waited. No sign of him.

She pushed through to the stream and began to clamber down it again. One foot slid into the water with a splash; she stopped and glanced around quickly.

Still nothing. And yet, if he had any sense, this was where he’d wait. Anxious now, she climbed down the stream, lowering herself carefully, forced to put away weapons and use both hands. Water foamed and roared about her; she slipped again, soaked with spray.

At the bottom of the slope she looked around. Trees stood in all directions—which way had she come? Silence hung behind the race of the water. She could shout, but only the wretch with the knife would hear her. Or had he really gone? With a sudden shiver of alarm she remembered her coat. He had it! Vidar’s words echoed in her head. A few knife slashes. Very convincing.

Now she was really afraid—a chill of terror she hadn’t had time to feel before. She plunged into the wood, heading along the overgrown bank of the stream. It had to run into the mere.

It took her a long, anxious time to find the hollow; as she scrambled eagerly down to it her feet sank into the deep wet mosses.

It was empty.

Cold, uneasy, she ran over to where Wulfgar had fallen. The flattened mosses were still springing back into place. Two dark clots stained their fronds.

She turned, crouched, looked at the trampled ground. Men had been here, lots of them.

She forced herself to think.

Skapti and the others had come. They must have heard her scream. But had Wulfgar still been alive? And what did they think had happened to her, that they didn’t even search?

She stared out at the rippling brown water.

That wretched coat!

Then suddenly she smiled, a hard smile. Wulfgar must be alive. The urgency had been to get him back to the hold. But with Vidar to look after him, how long before … there were lots of ways he could finish it. Poison. The pillow over the face. And the others didn’t even know!

She leaped up and ran through the forest, pushing her way back the route she and Wulfgar had come, scrambling up the sliding scree, leaping through the trees without thought.

At the edge the fell was empty, the horses gone. And far, far away, tiny blurs among the trees of the valley, she saw them galloping. “Skapti!” she screamed. “Skapti!”

But they were too far to hear her.

Sinking down, she let the weariness and the fear and shock of it all flood over her; a cold trembling and sobbing that burst out despite herself. Clenching her fists, she fought for control. She was alone here. Wulfgar would die and no one would know Vidar had killed him.

But after a few minutes she raised her head, dragging a breath of sudden despair into her lungs.

She had remembered. She wasn’t alone.

The creature was out here too.