Snow-Walker (41 page)

They were silent, despite the scorn in his tone, imagining the great figure of Galar pacing through his hall. Then behind them, in the firelight, Kari said, “Brochael. Hakon's missing.”

They all turned instinctively. “The fool!” Brochael said. “What was he thinking of? Has he gone outside?”

“No. The birds would say.” Kari looked preoccupied. Abruptly he said, “I think there's someone else here—out there in the hall.”

They gazed apprehensively at the black archway. Then Brochael walked up to it, and even his great bulk was tiny in its shadows.

“Hakon?” he breathed.

A small, strangled murmur came out of the darkness. Then Hakon's voice, sounding strained. “I'm all right, Brochael, but there's someone with me.”

“Who?”

Only silence answered.

“Get me some light,” Brochael snapped.

Carefully Skapti went and pulled a smoldering branch from the fire; he lit the candle with it. Light glimmered on the wild eyes of the horses as they backed and snorted.

“Leave the boy alone,” said Brochael hotly. “If he's hurt…”

“Listen!” Hakon sounded breathless. “He's got a sword at my throat. He says he's alone and wants no trouble, but if you attack, he'll kill me.”

“We should all get outside,” Skapti muttered. “That earthquake…”

“I know! But Hakon first. Come on.”

They stepped out behind him, through the arch.

The candlelight was weak; eventually it showed them Hakon, crouched among a pile of stones with his knees up under him and his head dragged back; a blade glimmered under his chin. In the faint light, someone else stood behind him, gray and shapeless. Dust was spiraling everywhere, and what looked like snow drifted through the roof gaps.

“Let him go!” Brochael snarled.

Hakon was dragged, clumsily, upright. The shadowy figure was tall and lean. But no giant.

“If I do,” a low voice said, “then we meet as friends?”

“For our part.” Skapti was dangerously quiet.

They waited. Then Hakon stumbled forward and stepped away quickly, as if he had been released, and they heard the long shiver of steel returning to its sheath.

The man gave Hakon his sword back and lifted his hands. “No weapons.”

Reluctantly Skapti put his sword away and Jessa her knife. Brochael let the ax swing from its strap around his wrist. Kari did not move.

“Come to the fire,” Brochael said gruffly. Turning, he muttered, “And let's have a look at you.”

The man came behind them gradually, into the light. He was tall and hooded, and as he pushed the hood back they saw that his hair was gray and long, swept back to the nape of his neck. He had bright, amber-colored eyes and a fine gray stubble of beard. He would be about forty, Jessa thought, quite old; a strong, lean man, in colorless clothes. He wore no amulets, no brooches, no metal of any kind except his sword in its battered leather scabbard.

“Are you really alone?” Skapti asked.

“I am now.” The man spoke huskily; his front teeth were sharply pointed, as if they had been filed.

Brochael glanced at Kari, who nodded, almost imperceptibly. The stranger gazed warily around at them. His glance caught on Kari just for an instant, and a flicker passed over his face but he said nothing. Jessa had noticed it, though; she knew Kari would have too.

“I'm a traveler through this wood, as you are,” the stranger said, taking the food that Skapti held out to him. “I came from the west; I've been searching many weeks for the giants' road. When I found it, I followed it. It led me here.” He looked round wryly. “I watched you come. I needed to be sure you were indeed men.”

“What were you afraid we might be?” Kari asked unexpectedly.

The gray man gave him a shrewd glance. “Anything, lord. Trolls, werebeasts. Even Snow-walkers.”

There was a tense silence. Jessa fingered her knife hilt.

Kari nodded. “You know I am one of that people.”

“I see that.”

“You've known others?”

“I've had dealings with them.” The man's voice was almost a growl. He said no more; no one pressed him.

Instead Skapti said, “We're traveling to the country of the Snow-walkers. Do you know where that is?”

“Over the edge of the world. No one can get there.” But even as he said it, Jessa saw the considering look in his eyes.

“You haven't told us your name,” she said.

He looked away. “I have no name. Not now. I'm an outlaw, without kin.”

“But we have to call you something.”

He looked at her strangely. “Do you? Then I choose a name. A name out of this wood. I choose Moongarm.”

They stared at him in silence. Jessa remembered Skapti's story of the wolf that would devour the moon. Moongarm. And to be an outlaw meant the man was a murderer at least, or under some curse.

“You choose a grim name,” Brochael said heavily.

“I have a grim humor.”

He held out his hands to the fire; the backs of them were covered with fine gray hairs, the nails blackened and broken. “Will you allow me to travel with you? The forest is no place for a man alone.”

Instantly they all felt uneasy. “We need to speak about that,” Brochael said stonily.

“Then do.” Moongarm stood up. “I'll fetch my goods, out there in the hall.” He walked out with long strides.

Brochael turned. “I say no. An outcast—probably a murderer. He has that look. We'd never be able to trust him.”

“Not only that,” Skapti said, “he's cheerless as the grave.”

“Be serious!”

“Oh I am! But if you don't trust him, Brochael, we should have him with us. Or do you want him out there in the forest following us, as he will; not knowing at every night's camp which tree he's looking down from?”

Jessa nodded. “Skapti's right. We need to keep an eye on him. And there are five of us.”

“Hakon?”

Hakon scowled. “I don't want him. If I'd been on my own, he'd have killed me.”

Somehow they all felt that was true.

Brochael shrugged and looked at Kari. “It's up to you.”

For a moment Kari said nothing. Then, quietly, “I think we should let him stay.”

“But why?”

Unhappily he looked beyond them, his eyes bright and frost pale. “I don't know yet. He has something to do with us. And like Skapti, I would rather know where he is.” A change in his expression warned them and they saw the man come back through the arch, a heavy pack in his arms. He threw it down in a corner.

“Is it to be?”

Brochael rubbed his beard with the back of his hand and breathed out, exasperated. “It seems so. But I'm warning you, Moongarm—”

“I hear you, tawny man.” He smiled then, showing his teeth. “To show faith I'll even take the first watch.”

“You will not,” Brochael snarled. “Besides, we're moving out. That earthquake—”

“Was no earthquake.” Moongarm spread a moth-eaten blanket out in the corner calmly. “I know a little about this hall. Traveler's tales. They say the giant who lived in it still lives; that he was buried alive near here by the gods themselves, centuries ago. He struggles and squirms to be free, and his struggles shake the ground.”

They were silent a moment. Then Skapti said, “A good tale.”

“It's true. Tomorrow, I'll show you the place.”

“Where?” Jessa asked.

“A little north of here.”

She nodded. “And if you came from the west, how do you know about it? How long have you been living in this hall?” Sharply he turned and looked at her. Then he smiled and shook his head, rolled himself in the blanket, and turned his back on them.

As they settled down, Jessa moved nearer to Kari. “Is he safe?”

“For the moment.” He lay on his back, staring up at the black spaces of the roof. “There's a lot he hasn't told us. Did you notice his ears?”

She shook her head.

“Look at them tomorrow.”

“But he's got no horse. He'll slow us down. And we need to hurry, Kari. Anything could be happening back at the hold.” She wriggled into the woven blanket, trying to get warm. “I wonder how Wulfgar is managing.”

“So do I,” Kari said softly.

Later, when he was sure they were all sound asleep, he unfolded from his body and left them, stepping soundlessly past Brochael at the door. It cost him too much strength to do this often, but tonight he was restless. Moongarm worried him. There were scents and tastes and tingles about the man that were alien; he smelled of sorcery and rank, animal things.

Kari could have reached into the man's mind, but he held back, as he always did. That was how Gudrun had started, controlling the men around her. He feared that for himself. And so far the stranger had done nothing except lie. And yes, the flicker of recognition. Kari had felt that, like a feather across his face. And more, a flash of old hatred, instantly snapped off.

Now he walked, silent as a ghost across the empty hall, through an enormous doorway to the base of a stair, each step high as his waist. Quickly he hauled himself up, his spirit body light and frail as a cobweb, and as he climbed, the air grew colder; the steps froze under his fingers.

At the top was a great platform, covered with a thin crust of snow, the parapet cracked and broken. He crossed to the edge and looked out over the forest, high above the trees.

Closing his eyes, he moved into the distance with a great effort. He saw the Jarlshold, the dark houses, the watchman coughing outside the hall door.

Things were worse.

He knew that at once. Signi still slept, and of her soul there was no sign. But others were here now, wandering the purple twilight, trapped in the power of his spell ring. Two old men, a woman, a warrior—he knew all their faces, one or two of their names. They had been well enough when he left. The little boy was with them. He watched them walk restlessly between the houses, and the wind of dreams that blew there was stronger; it rattled doors and gusted against the walls of the hall.

He dragged his mind back to the giant hall and opened his eyes.

Jessa was right, as usual.

They would need to hurry.

“Near here,” Moongarm said abruptly, “is the burial place I told you about.”

They looked at him curiously. It was the first time he had spoken since they'd left the giant hall after another, milder ground shake had woken them all. Since then the gray man had walked tirelessly beside the horses. Brochael had grudgingly offered him the pack pony but he had refused, saying the beast disliked him. Jessa had noticed that all the horses did, whickering and rolling their eyes whenever he came too close.

Now, remembering what Kari had said, she looked at his ears. They seemed oddly placed, hidden by his hair. She glanced at Kari but he was gazing into the wood, lost in his thoughts.

The morning was bitterly cold; a thin layer of snow lay where the trees were sparse. It struck her how the weather was changing quickly—too quickly—as they traveled north. At the Jarlshold it had been midsummer. Now they already seemed to be riding into winter, as if they traveled in time as well as distance.

They came to a wide place which had been cleared of trees long ago. Saplings had sprouted up, but the frequent earthquakes had toppled and uprooted them; the whole area was a mass of tumbled rock and earth piled high, without shape, as if it had been shattered and heaved up over and over.

“This is it,” Moongarm said.

Brochael gazed around. “It seems like an ordinary landslip,” he said coldly.

“And that.” The gray man pointed. “What does that seem like?”

To their left, in a patch of sandy soil, something stuck out from the earth. It was big, a hard, shiny thing, curved like a shield, split and broken, blackened with dirt and age. As she stared at it Jessa saw it move, just a fraction.

At once soil slid; stones rattled. The ground began to rumble, a far-off deep tremble. The forest floor quivered, a tree crashing behind them.

“Out!” Brochael yelled, wheeling around; then they were all galloping for the trees, Moongarm racing after them.

The ground bubbled; it heaved and bucked as if something huge was indeed raging and struggling underneath, and only when they were well into the trees did it stop, and they felt safe.

“Did you see that?” Jessa gasped, fighting to control her horse.

“I did indeed.” Skapti looked at her slyly. “What did it look like, Jessa?”

She flicked her hair from her eyes reluctantly. “You know what.”

“Tell me.”

She glared at him, annoyed. “All right, if you're all too scared to put words on it. It looked like a thumbnail. A huge thumbnail sticking up out of the ground. As if the rest of the hand was buried down there. Not even poets could make that up.”

Skapti grinned. “What a poem this will be.”

“The poem can keep.” Brochael turned his horse and glared darkly down at Moongarm. “This is no place for us.”

All that day, and all the next, they rode north through the endless wood, keeping to what remained of the road, and the air became crisp with frost. Already they wore thicker clothes; the packhorse traveled light, all the food almost gone. On the second evening Hakon caught a hare in a snare; they stewed it with mushrooms and puffball, and the juices were hot and sweet, a welcome change from dry meat and salt fish. But there was barely enough.

Even the length of the days had begun to shorten; winter was closing about them, the eternal cold of the north. Snow drifted often between the trees; the nights were bitter, uncomfortable times, spent as close to the fires as was safe.

Moongarm traveled tirelessly, easily keeping up in the tangled undergrowth that slowed them. On more open stretches, where the horses could briefly run, he loped behind, the ravens above him. Jessa was sure they were watching him. Brochael's glance too often followed him suspiciously; Moongarm was well aware of this and seemed not to care. In fact she thought Brochael stayed awake through Moongarm's watches, despite the ravens on the branch overhead. But the stranger did nothing. He walked silently and ate his food to one side.