The Dark Horse (17 page)

33

It was getting dark. Sigurd hadn’t spoken a word since Mouse had left. He sat hunched up in his cage, listening to one of his people sobbing. He had failed them all, not just the few left rotting in the cages, but the others, too. Thorbjorn. The others who had died in the first attack. Even Sif had deserved better. He thought about his mother, and he cried more silent tears.

Sigurd had failed them all, but what was worse was that he had given up. All that filled his mind was Mouse and what she had done.

He saw someone coming over to them from the tents. The tallest horseman he had seen so far. He strode over to the cages and walked up and down, looking at each in turn.

“Who is Sigurd?” he said when he had studied them all.

No one said anything, but the man seemed to have worked it out himself.

He came over and stood in front of Sigurd’s cage.

“You are Sigurd, called Lawspeaker?” he asked. His accent was thick and strange, but Sigurd understood him well enough.

“I am Sigurd Olafsson, Lawspeaker of the Storn,” said Sigurd with as much courage as he could muster.

“Very well,” said the man, “I am Ketil, and these are my people. We are happy today because our long search is over. We have been reunited with our princess, Kara. Tonight we will celebrate. But there is something first.”

Sigurd detected a threatening note in Ketil’s voice.

“Kara has asked that we spare your lives. I have accepted her wishes, since she is our princess.”

“Then what will happen to us?” asked Hemm.

“Do your people normally insult their Lawspeaker in this way?” Ketil asked Sigurd.

Sigurd looked at Hemm.

“He has a right to speak,” said Sigurd. “He wants to know what will happen to us. And I do, too.”

“You belong to us now. In return for your lives you will serve us, until you die.”

“Be your slaves?” asked Sigurd. He stared at Ketil for a long time, but the man did not so much as twitch. “And if we refuse?”

“Then you will be put to death.”

The Storn held their breath. They watched their boy leader intently. Their fate hung by a thread.

“So, you will be ours,” Ketil said, and turned to leave, a smirk on his face.

“No,” said Sigurd.

Ketil stopped and looked at Sigurd.

“No?” he said.

But Sigurd ignored him. He turned to his people.

“People of Storn, listen to me, your Lawspeaker, for the last time. I have led you badly. I could not protect you from the famine, nor from these people. We have been scattered and destroyed, and the tribe may soon be extinct. But I would rather it was extinct than that it survived, half alive, as slaves to these killers.”

Ketil watched with interest as he spoke but made no effort to stop him.

“And so, hear my last words as Lawspeaker. I end my life as Lawspeaker. I end the life of the tribe. The Storn are no more, but they will never be slaves. You are free to choose your own destiny, but I for one will go to my death proudly.”

He stopped and stared at his kin. They looked at him with a mixture of fear and wonder on their faces. There was absolute silence, and then someone spoke.

“I go with you, Lawspeaker.”

Detlef, the Song-giver’s son.

“I go with Sigurd,” he said again. “My father is gone, his music is dead. I want nothing more. Let the tribe die with pride.”

Silent looks passed between the Storn.

And then they all pointed at Sigurd.

“We go with our Lawspeaker,” they said.

34

Strange.

For in that moment, the moment in which I believed that all was lost, that there was nothing left—no hope, nor fear, nor joy, nor pain—something came to me.

Pride. And as each of my people decided to die, with me, our pride grew stronger. And as it grew stronger it became something else—it became strength. And as Ketil cursed us all and strode away it became something even greater—power.

I realized I had been wrong. There
was
hope after all.

Ketil walked back to the tents, and as he did so Detlef began to sing one of his father’s favorite songs. It was a joyful song we all knew well, and we joined in, and though we still faced death, I believe it was at that moment that we were reborn.

35

Mouse. Kara. Whoever she was, she had heard about the decision the Storn had made. She came straight to Sigurd, who fell silent. The others did not cease their singing, but if anything, sang with more heart than ever. They wanted to show her that they had something after all.

“Why, Sigurd, why?” she said. “You are choosing to die!”

Sigurd could not judge her mood. He did not trust her anymore. He had been wrong about who she was all these years. He could not judge her intentions, nor her thoughts. Why did she care now whether they lived or died?

“What life will it be to act as slaves,” he asked, “to these animals!”

That made her angry. “They are not animals!”

“No,” said Sigurd. “Even a wolf could not be so vicious.”

That stopped her. She fought with thoughts in her head.

“They are my people,” she said at last. “I belong with them just as you belong to the Storn.”

“And do you owe the Storn nothing? The people who took you in, who rescued you from wolves?”

“I never wanted rescuing!” she shouted. “You took me from them! You burnt us and killed us and took me away!”

Sigurd looked at the stranger in front of him.

“Who are you? How did you ever live with wolves if these are your people?”

Mouse grew quieter again. She seemed to be weighing up what she would tell Sigurd.

“I was born to these people, whom you call Dark Horse. That is not our own name. I am their princess. Ketil is my father’s brother and leads the tribe now. When I was still a small child, I was abducted by a band of outlaws. They fled with me, intending to claim ransom, but they were in turn attacked by another tribe. I was taken by that tribe, a year passed, maybe more, but one day I escaped. I was far from home, very far, and I did not know where I was. I wandered through hills for many months. And then I found the wolves. Or they found me. I do not know why, but they found me sleeping wild on the hill and treated me as one of their own kind. They raised me.

“Then began my time of forgetting. All that I have just told you was not known to me anymore.”

“Then how . . . ?” began Sigurd.

“How do I know all this? The tribe had not given me up entirely. At least, they began to believe I might be alive, because of Ulf. The one you saw earlier. He is our wise man. He felt my presence in a dream.

“So they began to search for me. They sent a man.”

“Ragnald?”

“And with him the box . . .”

She paused.

“What was it?” asked Sigurd.

“A box of memories. My memories.”

“But if you remembered everything, then why did you run away with us to the hills?”

“The box was strong magic, but it was only a start. Things began to come back. Who I was . . . Then in the cave . . .”

“The drawings? Your drawings?”

“Yes. I made those drawings when I was new to the wolf caves, before I forgot everything,” she said. “The wolf father was attacked by a young male. They were fighting for control of the pack. Just like Olaf and Horn. The older wolf lost. I made the drawings with his blood, to try and remember what had happened to me. When I saw them again, I remembered the tents and the horses and the cold wind of the dark lands to the north where we used to ride. It all came back to me.”

Memories drawn in blood.

Sigurd was silent.

“So I had to find them,” she said.

“But you didn’t have to betray us,” said Sigurd.

Mouse said nothing.

“Your people are killers, Mouse. Look at what they did to us! How can you live with them?”

But she did not get the chance to answer, because suddenly two of the Dark Horse found her.

“Inside,” one of them said. “You are missed.”

He spoke briskly, obviously uneasy that their princess was speaking to the prisoners.

“Sigurd . . . ,” said Mouse, but they led her away.

Night fell. The Dark Horse began their feasting.

36

We sat in the darkness. It was a cold night, but we had been given no fire to keep us warm. No one slept, and not just because of the cold. It’s hard to sleep when you know you will die in the morning.

“Did I do the right thing?” I wondered. I didn’t realize I’d said it aloud until Hemm answered me.

“Yes, Lawspeaker,” he said. “If only we’d shown this courage a little earlier.”

“When they attacked the first time?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “Months ago, maybe years . . . we lost our way with Horn. . . .”

We fell silent again. Then from out of my mind came words I had spoken. Words that, when spoken, had been about Ragnald, but that now had a more bitter meaning.

“Have we had one of the Dark Horse in our midst and not realized it?”

Detlef sang another song for us. He chose a sad song, a lament that was sung in honor of fallen heroes. I thought about Thorbjorn again. He was truly a man worth remembering. Faithful and honest.

Detlef sang on.

And then, in the darkness, there came a voice.

“Why sing sad songs?” it said. “We are not yet dead.”

I turned as well as I could in the cramped cage and peered into the darkness.

“Who’s there?” I whispered. The voice had come from the side of the cages that faced the forest.

“It’s me,” said the voice.

Then I recognized it.

“Sif?” I gasped.

“Yes, and Grinling and Bran. There are many of us.”

Too many questions struggled to be the first to my lips.

“Why?” was the one I asked, stupidly, for it was the one I already knew the answer to.

“To save the Storn,” she said.

I was aware then of others creeping quietly up to the cages. Dimly I saw the glint of a sword.

“How many are we?” I asked.

“I have twenty warriors here. The weak and the injured are in hiding in the forest. We have Gudrun! She is caring for them. Your mother is there, too, Sigurd.”

“Freya!” I cried.

I could feel my strength awakening.

“I wish we were more,” said Sif, “but we have some weapons.”

“They are drunk and fattened,” I told her. “There is no better chance for us. Get us out!”

“Yes, Lawspeaker,” she said.

I could have laughed.