Snow-Walker

Twenty-Three

Solitary and wretched…

Jessa crouched absolutely still.

The cave was a tiny, dark space, the entrance just a slit among rocks. Too narrow for the creature to get in, she was sure. But she knew it was out there. She had heard the slow crack and snap of branches, heard its footsteps, and once a strange snuffle, like a dog makes after meat.

All at once something blurred past, out there in the rain; then, with a suddenness that snatched her breath, the entrance went dark.

She slammed back against the rock wall, knife in hand.

Slowly the creature put its arm into the cave.

She saw a great, heavy limb, pale with wet fur. Its hand was huge, not human, but with five thick stubby fingers, each with a curved claw that slashed across the dark, gripping at nothing.

Flat as she could be, she watched it, fascinated. The beast must be far stronger than she’d imagined. As the hand swung past her cheek she turned her head with a gasp, smelling it close, the wet, forest smell, the fur clotted with moss and rain and blood, the claws split and raw.

It roared, restlessly groping for her. She hardly breathed; her stomach and shoulders ached with taut fear, and still the hand stretched closer, the muscles straining under the thick pelt.

Then it pulled back.

And was gone.

She dared not move. For what seemed like hours she stayed there, waiting, letting her breath out slowly, shivering with aftershock. At last she peeled herself off the wall, and found the back of her jerkin soaked with sweat and running damp. Before her legs gave way she sat down, huddled in the far corner, her arms tight about her knees.

Gods, she thought. What a mess.

Was it still out there? There were no sounds now. Yes, there were, scraps of movement, rustles. Nervously she counted them off, a bird screech, rain splatter, the slither of soil.

Any of them might be the beast.

The cleft entrance showed dimness. It was getting dark. Skapti and the men would be home by now. There’d be panic about Wulfgar, lies about what had happened to her. And here she was, stuck in this hole!

She stabbed both knives savagely into the mud before her and flung her arms back around her knees. She had to be calm. She had to think! There were two choices: Go out, and try to get through to the nearest farm—probably Skulisstead. Or stay the night here, without a coat or water or any way of making a fire.

But that was only one choice really, and she knew it. The forest at night was far too dangerous to risk—wolves, boar, morasses, cliffs—far too easy to get lost in, and the spell beast might be sitting out there with its back against a tree just waiting for her. No, she’d have to stay, at least until daylight. She shook her head bitterly. Nothing to eat, nothing to drink except trickles of rain, and worst of all, the cold. The cold would be bad, but not enough to kill her. There was just room to stand, move her arms, walk a few steps. She’d be in a bad way, but it might have been worse, she told herself. A few weeks earlier, and she’d have frozen.

Laying her head sideways on her knees, she began to think carefully. Vidar had struck Wulfgar down coldly and viciously. It had been planned, the whole thing, probably for a while now. Skapti had never trusted the priest, had he—and he’d been right. And it was easy to see Vidar’s next step. He had to finish Wulfgar, and then get rid of Kari.

Only Kari and Brochael could stop him now.

But even Kari might not know what the priest had done. If only she could have warned Wulfgar! But you did, she told herself sharply. And all it did was make things worse, make the priest notice you. “Stupid,” she said aloud, and instantly a leaf rustle close outside set her heart thudding.

Nothing came near the cleft.

After a while she forced herself back to her thoughts. Kari was in danger, and so was Wulfgar, and everyone would believe she was dead, even Vidar. Yes! Maybe even him. And that might be the one chance, the only chance, that would save her. If he thought she was dead he wouldn’t be searching for her. He wouldn’t be worried. If she could get back to the hold unseen; if she could only get back in time, then everyone would believe her. She grinned, there in the dark. Her safety depended on the thief ’s lies. And his cowardice. Now there was an irony.

Sometime later she jerked awake, gripping the knives hard.

Something had moved and splashed down at the lake. As she sat there she felt the stiffness of cold in her back and arms, the dragging ache. After a while she scrambled up wearily and paced up and down, shivering, in the tiny space. Thorsteeth, she was cold! Bitterly cold. And hungry. Strangely, hugely hungry.

Carefully she crept to the opening. Sleet pattered against her face; she licked it from her lips gratefully. Then she reached out and tore a limp piece of moss from the rock, tugging it free and stepping back quickly into the dark.

Head back, she squeezed the water out of it; it slid down her throat and tasted foul, but did something for her thirst. She squeezed the handful dry, then looked thoughtfully at the green fronds. Reindeer ate it. It couldn’t be poisonous, could it? And she was sore with hunger; it churned like a blackness inside her and around her, as if it was an enormous creature itself.

Reluctantly she nibbled the moss. It tasted wet, coarse, and bitter. She flung it down, thinking bitterly of hot, spicy meats, steaming fish. There were plenty of fish out there in that lake; fungi she knew how to find. But she was stuck in this hell pit, this earth swallow… Skapti would have found a string of good names for it.

She settled back on the earth floor, curled against the cold. For a long time she lay awake; then sleep came, or a kind of half sleep, and she drifted between her aching body and bitter, disjointed dreams about Kari, and Skapti, and endless forests, and Wulfgar, always falling, falling slowly into the moss. And once she thought she dreamed of a white snake, which crawled into the cave and twisted itself around her wrist, so that she woke in horror, flicking it off.

After waking for the fourth or fifth time, she saw daylight outside, gray and blear. She was unbearably cold now; her breath made clouds about her, and the edges of the knives and her hands and face and clothes were frosted with a fur of tiny crystals.

Painfully she staggered up. Now she had to take the risk.

For a moment she massaged the blood back into her legs and fingers. Then, knives in hands, she glided through the narrow crack into the dawn.

The rocks, glinting with frost, were bare. Nothing watched her, even from above, where thin pine saplings sprouted from the crevices. Below, the lake was still, its waters dull as the sky. Nothing moved among the trees; the wood was ominously silent.

After a moment of waiting she noticed the creature’s prints beside her; they led into a tangle of bracken, then out, away into the wood. Had it gone, then?

Finally Jessa crept quietly down to the lake. She was too thirsty to care now. She drank hurriedly, snatching the icy water up in her palms, always watching the forest.

It had gone. Probably its hunger had been too urgent. And for the moment, she didn’t care where it was.

She glanced about, working out her direction, tugging the wet, stray hairs from her face. She had to find a farm, and it might take all day. Picking out something that wriggled in her hair, she sucked cuts and briar tears on her filthy hands.

All day. And by then, she might be too late.