Snow-Walker (24 page)

“I'd hoped you'd say that. We could follow him....”

Kari laughed then, something he rarely did, so that Brochael looked back, curious.

“Jessa,” he marveled, “do you think that I could slip about the hold unnoticed? The witch's son, the sorcerer, the master of ravens? None of them trust me, you saw that. They can't take their eyes off me. The Snow-walker's son.” He shrugged bitterly, a little proudly. “Besides, I don't need to follow him.”

She dragged hair from her face. “I know you don't.”

“Then tonight, we'll see what we can see. If your thief is in the hold, we'll know. I'll show him to you.”

“Thanks.” She nodded quickly. But the echo of Gudrun was in his voice, and though she hated herself for it, just for a moment, she feared him.

Crouched between two pines on the ridge of the forest the creature watched them go.

Even from here it could see the different shapes of them, her voice whispering each description in its ear.
The dark one; the tall one; the big, bearded one; the one with long hair; the one with the scarred face. And the small, silvery one. My son,
her voice murmured.

The creature lurched down to a pool in a hollow, smashing the thin linkings of ice with its claws. Peat brown water lapped at the soil.

Her face looked up at it as it drank, narrow and pale; silvery hair braided about it, her eyes colorless and bright as glass.
My enemies,
she said.
Especially the last one, Kari. He and I are the same, and yet opposites. Once I cursed him that no one would trust him, not even his dearest friends, and he hasn't forgotten that.
She smiled, a sad, bitter smile.
That's the sorrow of power, and its delight.

The rune beast lapped at the brackish water, barely understanding. Water dripped from its raised face, soaking its pelt and the clots of old blood. It felt as if it had been drinking her, taking her coldness into itself. She reached out as if to touch it, and the pool rippled, wave-blown.
There are plans working here,
she whispered,
and not only mine.

Confused, the rune beast tried to summon questions; the patterns of sound slid through its mind and were lost, and she laughed. The creature swung its slow head at the sound.

And each one thinks he plans for himself and is unseen. But I see.

Her reflection dissolved and shimmered; only her voice, like a cold echo of its own hunger, tickled the creature's ear so that it scrabbled and scratched.
Leave thinking to me. I am your thoughts. You've done well already. Now take as many as you can. Feast yourself. Take the dark one if you want, the Jarl, the arrogant one. But leave my son alone.

The beast swayed dizzily.

I'd see him betrayed by his friends first. I want him to feel that. Then he'll act. He won't be able to help it.

When she had gone from its mind, it crouched, its small pale eyes gazing deep into the trees, breathing the wet, earthy scents of the forest, the far-off taint of blood and men and horses. Weariness surged in its brain, a dark unthinking pain that masked even the hunger.

The rune thing stumbled far down into the forest, over roots and rocks, fumbling through the tangle of branches; down black aisles of stark trees to the fresh mound of turned earth. Trampling over that, it climbed into a deep split between two rocks and curled there, heaving its huge bulk around in search of comfort. It was growing daily; its body would hardly fit here now; its skin was scratched and smeared and sodden with the forest's damp. Deep among mosses and lichen and unfurling bracken, eyes closed, it waited for sleep.

When a small bird landed on a stone and picked at its fur, the creature did not move. Deep in dreams, the voice whispered to it all the long afternoon.

“I've called you here to discuss what to do,” Wulfgar said.

They sat in his room, Jessa and Kari by the fire, Brochael on the bench, Skapti and Vidar opposite. Wulfgar turned from the window and leaned his back against it.

“Then come and sit down,” Skapti muttered. “We can't talk with you prowling.”

Wulfgar came over, but without his usual amusement. He sat on a chair and leaned back grimly.

“First, what do we know about it? Gudrun sent it.” He glanced at Kari. “That's certain.”

The boy nodded.

“Second. It kills. Apparently to eat.” For a moment he was silent as they all thought of Halldor; then he pulled his thoughts back and snapped, “It's big, has no weapons but its hands, may or may not be intelligent. And it's coming here. Why?”

Some eyes and most thoughts slid to Kari.

“Because there is something here that draws it,” he said simply. “I don't know yet what it is.”

“A person?” Vidar asked smoothly.

“Maybe.”

“And what will it do when it comes back to the hold? Perhaps tonight? Or tomorrow?”

They were silent. Flames crackled in the room; someone yelled at a dog outside.

Kari said, “Didn't Freyr tell you?” He looked strangely at the priest through his silver fringe of hair, and Vidar shrugged uneasily.

“The god spoke of death.”

“Whose?”

Vidar glanced at Wulfgar and didn't answer.

“Mine,” the Jarl said softly.

Brochael swore softly under his breath, and Skapti drew himself up sharply. “You? It's come for you?”

Wulfgar shrugged.

“Then you can't risk yourself hunting it!”

Angrily the Jarl stood up. “It's killed one of my men. I have a responsibility to his family and to the rest of them. I have no choice but to hunt it. Tomorrow. This afternoon I'll send messengers to all the holdings. We need every man they can spare.”

“But—”

“Don't argue with me, Skapti! I have to go. You know that.”

They all knew it.

Into the silence Vidar said, “I agree. It kills like a beast—we must hunt it like one. Despite the danger.” He glanced at Wulfgar then; a dark flicker of a look that made Jessa uneasy.

Kari stirred beside her. “I don't think hunting it is the answer.”

Wulfgar glared at him. “Why not?”

“Because it's not a thing of flesh and blood.”

“Then what? Fight sorcery with sorcery?”

Slowly Kari nodded. “Perhaps. If I knew what it searches for. But there's one thing about it that I do know, that I can feel right now. It's hungry.”

Wrathfully Wulfgar sat down. “Do you expect me to feel sorry for it? Do you?”

Kari shook his head. His eyes were bright and sharp. “Not just hunger. I mean this.”

And for one piercing second he made them all empty, without heart or thoughts or memories, so that inside each of them was a black, raging nothing that swelled out and engulfed them, and they had no names anymore, no friends, nothing but a searing hunger that tormented like flame.

And then it was gone.

White-faced, Jessa let her fingers slowly stop trembling. She glanced at the others' shocked faces.

“I'm sorry,” Kari said quietly. “But I wanted you to know. That's what you will be hunting. And whatever it hungers for is here.”

Wulfgar stirred, brushing hair from his forehead. He looked sick and shaken but his voice was steady. “Then destroying it would almost be a mercy. I won't change my mind, Kari. Tomorrow, early, we leave.”

He stood up, and everyone else did the same. “Stay here, Vidar,” the Jarl said, “I want to talk to you. Skapti, ask the thrall Hakon to come up, will you?”

Hakon ate the bread slowly. It was the best and softest he had ever tasted, but he didn't want anyone to see that. And the Jarlshall was so huge, all built of stone like the halls of Asgard, the meat spitted and crackling over its fires. And the tapestries! His eyes followed them as they gusted and stirred; great dusty faded hunts, the intricately sewn adventures of the gods, Odin with both his ravens, Hammer-Thor, Loki, Freyr. There was nothing like this at Skulisstead—a dark, greasy house, full of cooking smells and fleas and drying fleeces. This was how lords lived.

Skuli was drinking at the nearest fire. Drinking too much. He'd be here for the afternoon at least, downing the Jarl's hospitality, and then, Hakon thought with a brief smile, he'd probably sleep it off. For him it was a day free of work, and that was so strange he hardly knew what to do with it.

Then the tall man, the poet, came over and beckoned him with a long finger. “Come with me, Odin-favored. The Jarl wants you.”

Following him, Hakon muttered, “Don't mock me, master.”

Skapti grinned. “They say Odin isn't to be trusted. Those birds that saved you belonged to Kari Ragnarsson.”

“The Snow-walker?”

“The same. So you owe him for your rescue.”

Hakon set his mouth in a tight line and said nothing.

Jarl Wulfgar was waiting for him in a small room with a fire. He waved Skapti away and told Hakon to sit down. The skald went out and closed the door reluctantly.

“Now, I want to hear it again. What you saw.”

Hakon nodded. He already liked this dark, lazy, almost dangerous man. After he'd finished, Wulfgar asked a few sharp, relentless questions. Then he sat still.

There was one other listener there—the one they called the priest of Freyr, with the pale coat and the scar down his face. Hakon hadn't noticed him at first; now he saw how the man held that cheek away, in shadow, and he understood that. His own useless hand lay on his knee; he had learned how to make it look normal. Until he tried to pick anything up.

The man listened and said nothing until the Jarl turned to him. “Well?”

“I don't know. Freyr spoke obliquely, as the gods do.”

“But if you don't think it was this creature he was warning me against, then what, Vidar? And even if it threatens my death, I can't let it win.”

“Jarl.” The priest came forward. “You know what I think. May I speak again, of things you won't like?”

Almost angrily, Wulfgar glared at him. “I'm not Gudrun. You can say what you want.”

Vidar nodded and sat down. “Then let me say this. I don't think Freyr meant this creature at all. Perhaps it is just an ice bear, driven south by hunger. I think Freyr was warning us of a nearer danger, an evil, sorcerous threat.”

The Jarl turned his head quickly. “You mean Kari.”

“Yes.”

Wulfgar clenched a fist but Vidar said, “Listen, Wulfgar, hear me out. I know you trust Kari. But you're the Jarl, and my friend, and I can't let any harm come to you. I have to say this.”

Hakon sat silent. They both seemed to have forgotten he was even there. He was just a thrall, after all.

Wulfgar gazed into the fire bitterly. “Kari's my friend, too.”

“Is he?” Vidar pressed him closer. “How much do you really know about him? Really?”

“He drove Gudrun away. Jessa saw it. There was some sorcerous battle of wills. You can't deny he did that for us.”

“No!” Vidar said eagerly. “He did that for himself! Now that she's gone he is the most powerful. He's her son, her image. You saw how he twisted our minds just now—he has her blood, her secret, evil guile. You can't ignore that. And his father was the Jarl before you—perhaps he feels he should have been chosen. He wants to be Jarl himself!”

Wulfgar shook his head, but slowly. “He had his chance.”

“No, he didn't. He was too young then, not ready. What has he been doing up there in Thrasirshall for two years but gathering his powers, weaving runes, knotting the forces of air and darkness together? Now he's ready! And the words of the god mean him. A pale creature, come from the north. Remember that he arrived then, at that moment.”

Barely breathing, Hakon watched the Jarl. He was staring grimly at nothing. “I won't believe this.”

“You must! You must, Wulfgar, and not let what you see as a debt of honor blind you! Kari is strange, ambiguous, dangerous! And the creature may even be his!”

The priest gripped Wulfgar's wrist with his hand; the Jarl stared at him. “His?”

“He does not want us to hunt it. Why not? What other reasons can there be but that he brought it here? To kill you. Then he will take over.”

Wulfgar shrugged him off. “And Brochael? What about him?”

The priest spread his hands. “It would be better not to trust either of them.”

“Not Brochael too…” Raising his head wearily, Wulfgar saw Hakon and glared at him. Then he said, “Get out.”

Hakon went to the door quickly.

“Wait!”

Wulfgar stood up slowly, as if a great burden was on him. “You've been helpful to me, Hakon, and I thank you for that, but you've heard words here you shouldn't have heard. That should not even have been spoken. I want you to forget them.”

It could have been a threat. With Skuli there would have been a blow, to reinforce it. Not just this uneasy sadness.

You won't forget them, Hakon thought. But he nodded and went out of the room.

Halfway down the stairs he realized that he was free. Let the Jarl worry about traitors. He had some time without work!

Slipping through the hall, he saw Skuli loudly voicing some slurred opinion, so he edged through the door into the sunlight and wandered into the hold. Freedom washed over him—no one giving him orders, no backbreaking fetching and carrying! In a dream of delight he explored the Jarlshold, watched the boats unload fish and casks and bales of cloth, climbed aboard merchants' longships and fingered their silks and engraved silver rings. There were swords there he would have given almost anything to own, to be able to use them, to wield them well. As he watched Wulfgar's picked men whetting their blades and laughing on benches in the sunshine, something moved in him like an ache of hunger. He forced himself not to feel it, and with long practice, almost succeeded. None of that was for him. He was a thrall, a possession, something owned. And seared by a cold sorcery.