Snow-Walker Page 4

  “These.”

  The peddler glanced at them quickly and made a soundless whistle. “Well. You have very good eyes. As for Wulfgar, people are saying he’s fled south. They may be right.”

  “That’s not what I think.” She watched Thorkil weighing a sword in his hand. Then she said, “Others might want to escape. This might be a good time.”

  The peddler dropped the brooch and picked up another; his eyes swept the crowd with a swift glance. “I had heard where they were sending you. But the snake woman has eyes that see too far.”

  She stared at him angrily. “If you won’t help, I’ll try anyway. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life starving in Thrasirshall with … whatever’s there. I can pay you, if that’s what you want.” He put the brooch down and turned to her.

  “I thought you were braver,” he said.

  “Only about some things.”

  “Then listen.” His voice was suddenly sharp and urgent. “Don’t do anything. Trust me. You must wait until you hear from me, no matter how long it takes. Don’t try to escape. Promise!”

  “But—”

  “Promise! I won’t let you down.”

  She gave a sigh of bewilderment. “All right. But we leave here soon!”

  “It won’t be here. Don’t worry. When you see me again, you’ll understand everything.”

  As she stared at him she saw the man Steinar push nearer.

  “I’m afraid not,” she said loudly. “It’s too expensive.”

  “Ah, lady,” the peddler said at once, scratching his cheek, “please yourself. Next time I’ll bring you better goods. Trust me.”

  With a wink he turned away into the crowd.

  Thorkil touched her arm. “There you are. Steinar’s coming. He’s had too much to drink, by the look of him.”

  “Rubbish.” The man was behind them; his breath stank of beer. One heavy hairy hand clamped down on Thorkil’s shoulder. “Back to the ship.”

  Helgi was waiting for them rather anxiously. He gave Steinar a few sharp words, but the man just shrugged and sprawled into his place among the oarsmen. Thrand came late, cursed by everyone.

  The men rowed out into the current. The wind was freshening and the sea seemed much rougher; white flecks topped the waves.

  Looking back, Jessa saw no sign of the peddler. She leaned her chin on her hands thoughtfully. She had promised to wait, and she would, but she couldn’t help feeling they’d missed their chance. Now every day took them nearer to Thrasirshall. But there had been something in the man’s look that had comforted her, some hidden spark of knowledge and, yes, laughter. He’d been laughing at her. He knew something that she didn’t, that was why.

  Six

  Short are the sails of a ship,

  Dangerous the dark…

  By late afternoon the storm was on them. Icy rain pelted down, hurled like glinting spears into eyes and faces. Jessa was already drenched, although she and Thorkil sat in the bottom of the boat with a sheet of sailcloth around them. When the water began to lap their ankles, they had to move and help bail. The ship rose and fell, toppling into enormous troughs, buffeted by waves that curled high over the deck. Through the spasms of rain and hail, Jessa could barely see the oarsmen clenched over their oars, or Helgi, hanging half out of the prow, dripping with spray, yelling when they swerved too near the rocks. The iron gray cliffs hung over them; the boat crashed and rose through the floundering seas, every spar and timber straining and shrieking. Sick and numb, Jessa flung water over the side. Time had gone; she had been doing this forever. Cold nailed her feet to the deck; every bone ached; the world rose and fell and floundered around her.

  As darkness fell, the rain froze into masses of ice on the timbers, so that they had to hack it off with knives and fling it overboard. Once Helgi gave a great yell; the helmsman jerked the rudder and the ship skimmed a bank of shingle, grating horribly, flinging them all down. Then the wind came about and hauled the ship into a trough, and out, swinging her around. Staggering up, Jessa saw that they had cleared the headland; the rain drove now from an empty sky.

  Night thickened quickly. Shields and baggage and casks of beer were flung out into the black hollows. Jessa’s eyes were stinging with the salt and hail that bounced from the deck; her arms ached, frozen to her sleeves, and however hard she bailed, the water still rose, lapping the ankles of the oarsmen, who spat out curses and sardonic remarks.

  At last, exhausted, she sank back on her heels, clinging to the rail. The storm roared around her; she heard strange wailings in the sea, voices on the wind, screaming, whispering spells, spinning the boat with their breath. Closing her eyes she saw Wulfgar standing in the hall; the hangings of the Jarlshold flapped; something walked and padded on strange feet through corridors and locked rooms, a creature with Gudrun’s eyes that held out a thin silver arm ring, pressing it into her hands. She could feel it; she had it out of the bag where it had been hidden. It seemed to her that she turned to the sea, opened her numb fingers, and let the weight of it, the enormous weight, slide swiftly over the side. Then she lay down among the wet baggage. She was asleep when Helgi saw the harbor fire at Ost.

  In the morning, she wondered what was real and what was dream. Ost was a filthy place; a squalid mess of huts and muddy pens, the people shifty-eyed and half starved. Behind the settlement the mountains with their ice white cliffs plunged straight down into the fjord; the pastures were icebound most of the year, the animals lean and hollow-eyed. The chieftain was a small greasy man who called Helgi “sir” and Thorkil and herself “lord” and “lady,” his greedy eyes always on their cloaks and amulets. Helgi stayed with them all the time, and the oarsmen kept together, starting no fights and wearing their weapons conspicuously. The Jarl’s hold on the land was weakening as they traveled north; they were coming to wild country full of outlaws and hunted men.

  As the ship was being repaired, Jessa rummaged through her bag.

  “What are you looking for?” She hadn’t heard Thorkil climb aboard behind her. He looked tired, and the fine stitchery of his coat was already soiled and stained.

  She closed the bag up. “The arm ring. Gudrun’s. It’s not here.”

  “Do you mean it’s been stolen?”

  “No.” Jessa shrugged and half laughed. “I think I threw it over the side after all. Last night. I suppose I must have been half asleep.”

  He glared at her angrily. “Jessa, that was silver! We could have found a use for it!”

  She shrugged. “I’m glad to get rid of it. I hardly thought I’d ever see you wearing her favors, either. Are you going to sell yours, then?”

  His fingers ran over the smooth silver head.

  “Not yet.”

  “You’re keeping it?”

  “For now. It does no harm, does it?”

  “I suppose not,” she said uneasily. But she didn’t tell him about the peddler, as she had meant to.

  They were glad to leave Ost, but as they entered the fjord and turned inland, the menace of Thrasirshall was creeping nearer. And still the peddler had not appeared. Jessa tried not to think about him. What if he had been in Gudrun’s pay and had tricked her? She was furious with herself.

  All morning they rowed on the still water, watching the jagged cliffs rise up on each side, scraped sheer by the retreating glacier.

  Thorkil sat silent, fingering his arm ring. The men too were morose and watchful; they only spoke in mutters. Helgi stood in the prow, his hand rubbing the great dragon’s neck, rarely turning his head. Silent and ominous, the narrow craft slid into the harbor of Trond at noon.

  The place seemed deserted. A few boats were dragged up on the shingle. Wisps of smoke drifted from the small turf houses, their roofs green with grass. Helgi climbed out and waited. Finally he called out. No one answered. Jessa could hear the faint lap of the tidal water against the boat; skuas and gulls screamed in the crags.

  Then a dog barked, and a tall man stepped up onto a rock above them, a long fishing spear g
linting in his hand.

  “What’s your business?” he asked, after a long stare.

  “Messengers,” Helgi said curtly. “From the Jarl Ragnar.”

  “To us?”

  Helgi hesitated. Then he said, “To Thrasirshall.”

  It must have been a great shock, but the man barely showed it. “Can you prove that?”

  Helgi took the Jarl’s token from his pocket—a ring, in silver, marked with one rune—and flung it up. The man caught it and looked at it carefully. Then his eyes moved over the ship. Jessa heard the whisper of a sword slowly unsheathing behind her.

  “Keep that still!” Helgi hissed without turning.

  Quickly the man scrambled down the rocks, soil and pebbles slithering away under his feet. He was a tall, gray man, with a weathered face. “I’m not alone. There are many of us, as you’ll guess, so I advise you, friend with the sword, to hold your hand. Your token, master.”

  The silver ring was dropped into Helgi’s hand. Steinar slammed his sword back in its sheath.

  “Now,” the man said, “what do you want from us?” There was a change in his voice; Helgi heard it too, and gave a wry smile. “Your hospitality, chieftain, for a few nights. Also safe haven for the ship and the men left with her. Most important, sleds, dogs, and if you have them, horses for those of us going on to the hall. This will all be paid for on our return.”

  “Your return!” The man raised an eyebrow. “Master, you’ll pay for it before you go. No one takes that road and returns.”

  Suddenly he turned and shouted. Men seemed to spring up, a silent crop from the rocks. There were some young lads, but most were older like their leader; hard, coarse-looking men, but strong, and probably handy, Jessa thought, with those axs and spears. They came down and stared at the strangers, especially Jessa and Thorkil. A few women leaned in the doors of the houses.

  “Come with me.” The tall man led Jessa, Thorkil, and Helgi to a small hall, warm and dark inside, with a good fire blazing in the hearth.

  “Now,” he said, sitting down. “Dogs and sleds we have aplenty, but the way you wish to take is far too treacherous for sleds. You’ll need horses. And those are precious, this far north.”

  “But you have them?”

  “For the right price.” As he spoke, a few other men came in. Warmed wine was served out by a thin woman with untidy hair. Jessa sipped hers thankfully.

  “My name is Sigmund—they call me Graycloak,” the man added.

  “You are the chieftain?”

  The man looked at him over his cup. “Indeed no. We have no chieftains here, master; no one man better than the others. I am elected to speak. We still do that here.”

  Helgi frowned. “The Jarl—”

  “Did I mention the Jarl?” Sigmund said at once, looking around with pretended surprise. The other men laughed.

  Helgi looked uneasy. “What price, then, for these horses?”

  “First, my duty as a host. This young lady must be looked after.”

  He called one of the girls over and spoke to her quietly. Then she came up to Jessa. “Come with me,” she said with a shy smile.

  As she followed, Jessa saw Helgi’s anxious look and grinned at him. Then the door closed between them.

  Warm water was wonderful after so long without it, and clean clothes made her feel ten times better. The girl looked on curiously, fingering a brooch.

  “This is nice. Did you get it at the Jarlshold?”

  “No.”

  “Is the Jarlshold splendid? And the Snow-walker, Gudrun, is she as evil as they say?”

  “Yes, she is,” Jessa said absently as she laced her boots. “She’s also very powerful. I’d be careful what you say, even here.”

  “Oh, we are protected from her here.”

  Jessa looked up. “Protected?”

  “Yes.” The girl came and sat on a bright tapestry stool next to her. Her fingers picked absently at the stitches. “We knew you were coming.”

  Jessa was astonished. Then she thought of the peddler.

  “How did you know?”

  “Through the runes. And my father has given me a message for you. If you are really prisoners of those men, you and the boy, then you must tell me. We will release you.”

  Jessa’s mind was working quickly. “Has the peddler arranged this?”

  The girl looked puzzled. “What peddler?”

  “Never mind.... How could you release us?”

  “The crew would be killed. No one would be surprised if they never went back. Longships are often lost in storms. And no news ever comes out of Thrasirshall. The Jarl would never know if you’d got there or not.”

  It was all so sudden. Jessa thought for a while. The peddler could never have gotten here before them. And if these people knew “by the runes,” that meant sorcery.

  “How do we know it’s not a trap?” she said at last. “Why help us?”

  The girl shrugged. “Because of your father.”

  Jessa got up and wandered over to the fire. So that was it. They were Wulfings’ men. She thought about the promise she had made the peddler—that stupid promise!—and then about the black, monstrous building somewhere far out there in the snow. Not to have to go there, all that long journey. But he had seemed so sure. And Gudrun—would she really be fooled?

  “What do you mean, that you’re protected here?” She turned quickly. “What protects you? Is it sorcery?”

  The girl’s black eyes looked up at her. “The shamanka does it. When Gudrun looks at us here, she sees only mist. The shamanka knew you were coming.”

  “Can I speak to her?”

  The girl thought, then nodded. “Very well. Tonight. I’ll arrange it.”

  “Good. And tell your father”—she paused—“that I thank him, but he must do nothing. Not yet.”

  Again the girl nodded.

  “And you can keep the brooch, too,” Jessa said, “if you like.”

  Seven

  Now is answered what you ask of the runes.

  Jessa woke suddenly, her eyes wide. In the darkness someone was crouching next to her; a hand was gripping her shoulder tight.

  “Come with me,” the girl’s voice whispered in her ear.

  With a sigh Jessa heaved off the warm covers, slipped on her coat and soft leather boots. Then she followed, silently, through the swinging curtain of the booth.

  It was dark in the hall, and smelled of ale and meat. The fire had smoldered low, and some of the oarsmen lying in the corners snored. Carefully the girls slipped between them. One dog raised its head and watched. As they passed Thorkil’s booth, Jessa paused, but the girl shook her head. “Only you. No one else.”

  At the door Helgi’s guard was breathing heavily, slumped against the wall. All at once Jessa realized that the men had been drugged—no trained warrior would sleep as heavily as this. She stepped over him thoughtfully.

  Outside, the world was black. Water lapped against the shingle far off, and up on a hill a breeze rustled stiff branches. The girl led Jessa between the houses to one by itself at the edge of the settlement, and as they walked, their feet splintered the puddles on the open ground. Above them the sky suddenly rippled and broke into light. Looking up, Jessa saw the eerie flicker of the aurora above the trees; a green and gold and blue haze over the stars, its gauzy shape flowing and rippling like a curtain.

  “Surt’s blaze,” the girl remarked. “The poets would say they were feasting in Gianthome.”

  Jessa nodded, caught in the strange light that made the snow glimmer. Then she ducked her head and followed the girl into the low doorway.

  Inside, it was dim and smoky; at the far end she could see someone sitting over the fire. She fumbled forward slowly, and sat on an empty stool. The room was stiflingly warm; around her the walls were hung with thick tapestries, dim woven webs of gods and giants, trolls and strange creatures.

  Opposite her sat an aged woman, her face wizened and yellow. Her thin hair was braided into intricate knots and
plaits; amulets and luckstones were hung and threaded among her clothes. She wore a stiff cloak sewn with birds’ feathers, glossy in the dimness. As Jessa watched, the old woman’s hand, its skin dried tight over the knuckles, drifted among the stones on the table in front of her, moving one, turning another over—small, flat pebbles, each marked with its own black rune.

  “Wait outside, Hana.”

  The curtain flickered as the girl moved through it.

  Jessa waited, watching the hands turn the worn pebbles. Then, without lifting her eyes, the woman said, “It is not that I have her powers. You must know that. I do not know what sort of a creature she is, this Gudrun No-onesdaughter, or what gods she worships, but she is strong. Still”—and a pebble clicked in the dimness—“I have something, some slight skill, gathered over the years. I have spread my mind like a bird’s wing over this kin. Here, we are safe. She cannot see us.”

  “Then if we were to stay here—Thorkil and I…”

  “She would not know of it. But you would not be able to leave. Her mind is the surface of a lake—all the world’s reflections move across it.”

  Jessa edged away from the fire, which was scorching her knees.

  “Yes, but escape … it would mean the men would be killed?”

  “Men!” The old woman looked up, her mouth twisted in a grim smile. “What are men? There are plenty more.”

  Chilled, Jessa was silent a moment. Then she said quietly, “I won’t have them killed. I won’t have that.”

  The pebbles turned. “There is no other way. They cannot go back—she would make them speak.”

  “That’s it, then. We must go on.” She said it as firmly as she could. Only her word was keeping a dagger out of Helgi’s ribs, yes, and the others too. And this wasn’t the way.

  The old woman turned a last pebble and gazed down at it. “So the runes tell me.”

  Jessa edged forward. The room seemed darker; something rustled behind her. The old woman’s amulets clicked as she moved.

  “Do you know,” Jessa whispered, “what lives in Thrasirshall? Is there anything there still alive?”