Peaceweaver (16 page)

“It came out of the night with thunder and fire,” Thialfi said, “the thunder of a thousand storms. Before I even knew what was happening, the hall was in flames and the cursed creature was gone.”

“You didn’t see it?” Hild tried to keep the disappointment from her voice.

“Not that time,” Thialfi said. “I felt it, though.”

“Did the ground rumble?”

“Did it?” Thialfi rubbed his beard, his eyelids lowered, in the manner of a man searching his memory. He looked up again and shook his head. “Maybe it did. I don’t recall.”

“But you said you felt it,” Hild reminded him.

“Yes, my lady, and I pray to the Hammerer that you never have to endure such terror.” He reached for something he wore on a leather thong around his neck—an amulet that had been tucked under his shirt. Immediately Hild thought of the fire-blackened ornament she’d seen the previous night. Had it been burned by dragon fire? The pendant Thialfi held was unburned metal, a small hammer symbol. The one she’d seen must have belonged to one of the other Geats.

“I’d heard the stories, just like everybody else,” Thialfi said, “about how simply being near a dragon is so terrifying it can freeze your marrow.”

Marrow
took her a moment to interpret, but the longer she listened to him, the easier he was to understand.

He caught Hild’s eye again. “I suppose I believed it, but it takes more than belief to understand what terror truly is.”

Brynjolf snorted with derision and Thialfi started to
address him, then seemed to think better of it. “Like I said, my lady, I hope it never happens to you.”

The smaller of the two Geats riding directly in front of them turned to Thialfi. “Did our father”—he gestured toward the other rider—“feel it? That terror?”

They were brothers, then, Hild thought. She should have guessed from the similarities in their features.

“I can’t say what your father felt, Wulf. But he sought out the dragon and he looked his death straight in the eye.”

Wulf inclined his head to Thialfi. “So the king told us,” he said, and turned to the front again.

The dragon killed their father? The story suddenly took on a reality it hadn’t possessed before. And if Wulf and his brother were still seeking details about their father’s death … “How long ago?” Hild asked in a low voice.

Thialfi thought for a moment. “The moon was beginning to wane,” he said. “A month, maybe.”

A month? The ashy cloud of sulfurous smoke that had darkened the skies over the lake loomed in her memory. Ari Frothi had said it was dragon smoke. Could it have been from the very same creature?

Thialfi leaned toward Hild, so close that she had to keep herself from flinching backward. “They were out on patrol,” he said softly. “They didn’t know about their father until they returned.”

Hild looked from Thialfi to the young warriors. She
closed her eyes briefly, remembering her own father’s death and how she’d sensed it days before the news came.

“Killing the dragon robbed old King Beowulf of his life,” Thialfi said, “but our fate would have been far worse if it hadn’t been for our new king.”

Ahead of them, the Geatish brothers had positioned themselves so they could hear, and Brynjolf brought his horse even closer. “King Beowulf claimed the dragon fight for himself. But when it proved too great a challenge, when he needed our help, we failed him. Even his most seasoned warriors fled. Even Dayraven.”

“
Dayraven
ran from a fight?” Wulf asked, turning in his saddle, disbelief in his voice.

Thialfi nodded, his face sober. “Nor had he returned to the stronghold before we left.”

“Who is this Dayraven?” Brynjolf asked, but the men ignored him, lost in the news of their own tribe.

“I can’t believe he ran,” Wulf said.

The other Geat, the larger brother with the honey-colored hair, turned to Thialfi. “I heard he accused our new king of trying to kill King Beowulf. Is it true?”

There was a moment of silence, punctuated by the sound of hooves clopping over rock, before Thialfi said, “Yes, Dayraven made the accusation.” He turned to Hild. “It was the first time our new king saved our old king’s life, but in the confusion, I think Dayraven misunderstood his intentions.”

“The first time?” Hild asked.

Thialfi nodded. “When we were on our way to fight the dragon, he saved him from falling over a cliff.”

There was obviously more to the story, and Hild waited while Thialfi hesitated, as if he was considering his words.

“Later, when the monster showed itself, whatever the terror was that kept the other warriors from coming to King Beowulf’s aid, it didn’t stop our new king.” He paused. “It stopped me, my lady.” His voice dropped. “When my king needed me, I ran.” He looked away, his story guttering out.

Hild watched him, feeling a curious mixture of emotions. He might be a seaweed-eater, but the pain and honesty in his expression tugged at her.

“I ran,” he repeated, this time meeting her eyes, “but our new king didn’t. He saved our kingdom.”

They rode on in silence for a moment, Hild trying to picture what their new king, who stood firm against such terror, might look like. He must be a powerful warrior, she thought, strong-limbed and confident.

“Whoa,” Thialfi said, and Hild looked up just in time to rein in her horse before it overtook Wulf’s. The men at the front of the party had stopped, but they hadn’t dismounted.

Ahead of them, the trail continued through the trees, but a rocky outcropping rose on the right. They started up again after a few moments, but instead of following the
marked path, the men in the lead turned, disappearing into what Hild saw, when she neared it, was a narrow cleft in the rocks.

“Wait, my lady,” Thialfi said, and gestured at his companions. One of the brothers dropped back to ride behind her, with Thialfi, while the other stayed just ahead of her. She followed him as they made their cautious way forward, turning off the path and into a canyon of rock and brush, the way wide enough for only a single horse at a time. Above, branches reached out from fissures in the stone, making an arch above her. It was a tunnel of rock and wood, closing in around her. The horses’ hooves echoed too loudly in the silence, and she flinched at the touch of a twig against her neck. Fire-eyes seemed to feel just as hemmed in as she did, judging from how he increased his speed when the way finally widened.

They emerged into a glade and paused to wait until everyone had come through. As Brynjolf, the last of the company, rode into view, Mord spurred his horse out of the open area and onto a narrow path. Again, they had to ride single file. Underbrush grabbed at Hild, and she had to duck one low-hanging branch after another. Where were the notches on the trees, the ones that marked the way? She saw none. When a bramble tore at her cloak, she bloodied her fingers freeing the wool.

“Halt!” Thialfi called from behind her.

Hild turned to look at him.

“Beg pardon, my lady,” he said, and tried to push past her with his horse. But the path wasn’t wide enough and he had to dismount and thread his way to the front on foot. Hild looked back to see Unwen and Brynjolf, their horses waiting patiently behind her.

Ahead, she could hear voices, Mord’s and Thialfi’s. She thought she heard Thialfi saying the word
dangerous
, but with his accent, it was hard to tell. She definitely heard him say, “Not the right way.”

Then Mord’s voice rose in anger. “I know my own kingdom’s forest.”

Hild looked at the thick stands of oak and ash that surrounded them. She might not be able to hear all the men’s words, but their intent was clear. Mord had led them off the established track and Thialfi didn’t like it. It wasn’t long before he returned, the set of his jaw announcing who had lost the argument. The same bramble that had grabbed Hild’s cloak snagged Thialfi’s, and he yanked at it viciously with his good hand as he passed her.

The horse in front of her started forward again and Hild followed, paying close attention to the branches and rocks and fallen limbs that threatened to knock her from the saddle or lame her horse. While one part of her mind kept watch, another part ruminated on the situation. Could she use the tension between Mord and Thialfi to her advantage when they got to the river? Their anger seemed to have infected the other warriors, as well. Hild heard muttered
oaths when branches lashed at men’s skin or thorns caught on their clothing. They splashed through a stream, and the cheerful sound of water over rocks made the company’s grim mood all the more oppressive.

Finally, when the light was beginning to fade, they came to a small clearing and Mord called a halt. Before he even dismounted, he began barking orders that didn’t need to be given: where to hobble their horses, where to put their bedrolls. “Get a fire going,” he said to Gizzur, who was already gathering kindling. Mord must still be rankling from Thialfi’s challenge, Hild decided.

In such close quarters, she wasn’t sure how she and Unwen would ever hide Arinbjörn’s blade. She watched the men carefully as she and the slave unsaddled Fire-eyes and the pony, but they were all watching Mord, trying to keep out of his way. “Now,” she whispered to Unwen, and together they got the sword off the horse and under the blanket.

As Unwen prepared the beds, hiding the blade between them, Hild sank onto a rock near the fire. She felt shaky with fatigue, even though she’d done nothing but sit on a horse all day. The warmth of the new flames lulled her into a doze and her head fell forward. She startled awake when Unwen put a bowl in her hands. Around her, the men were working or eating in the shadows, Brynjolf currying Mord’s horse, Gizzur sitting before the fire, the straps from his leather cap dangling in front of him as he sewed a tear in his
meticulously neat tunic. Had the same bramble that caught her cloak torn his tunic? Someone was cooking meat; she could smell it on the night air. In the dark at the camp’s periphery, she could just make out the silhouettes of two men who leaned toward each other in conversation. The Geatish brothers, she thought.

The contents of the bowl in front of her—hard bread and dried goat meat again—made her think longingly of Unwen’s famous cod and barley stew. She sighed and pulled her cloak more tightly around her shoulders.

When a figure approached, she looked up to see Thialfi. “My lady,” he said, and held out a stick with a roasted bird on the end of it.

“My thanks,” she said, and reached for it. It was as if he had heard her thoughts. She brought the bird to her lips and blew on it to cool it.

A noise made her jerk it away, almost dropping it. Something was crashing through the woods away from the campsite. The sound faded, but where the brothers were standing, she could see a hint of sword gleaming in the firelight. “What was it?” she whispered.

Thialfi crouched beside her. “Men do not belong in these woods,” he said in a low voice, looking intently into the dark.

She followed his gaze but could make out nothing but warriors’ shadows.

“Do your people not fear nightwalkers, my lady?” When
she didn’t answer, he said, “There are fens not far from here. When the wind is right, you can smell them.”

Hild sniffed, but if there was any whiff of rotting vegetation in the air, it was overpowered by the scent of wood smoke.

“Not even the wisest of men know the depths of the pools in those fens.” Thialfi watched the darkness, his eyes seeming to track something.

Hild squinted in the same direction, but whatever he saw was invisible to her.

His voice a whisper, his gaze still on the woods, Thialfi added, “They say that night wonders have been seen there, fire on the waters, and creatures who do not welcome our presence.” He looked back at her. “It’s not a pleasant place.”

Hild shuddered. In the safe enclave where she’d grown up, tales of nightwalkers had been mostly that—stories to frighten children. Now, with the dark pressing around them and two of the Geats mourning their father, killed by a dragon, such creatures took on a reality she had never felt when she’d sat in the firelit hall listening to Ari Frothi or Bragi chanting lays about them. “Do you think we’ll see any of them?” she whispered.

Thialfi shook his head. “We should have stayed on the trail. Now we won’t be safe until we’ve crossed the river.”

“The river?” Hild’s voice squeaked. She cleared her throat, trying to disguise her excitement. “How long until we reach it?”

“Soon. Two days, perhaps.” He looked at her with concern. “I shouldn’t have spoken—please don’t worry yourself, my lady.”

Hild nodded, reassuring him, her own fears melting into the night.

Two days until the river! Two days until freedom! She had to tell Unwen. They needed a plan.

SIXTEEN

H
ILD HAD THOUGHT SLEEP WAS ELUSIVE THE PREVIOUS
night, but tonight it was impossible. It was colder, the ground was rockier, if that were to be believed, and the woods were alive with strange noises. Far in the distance, a wolf howled and another answered, while closer to camp, branches creaked and nocturnal animals scurried through the underbrush. Hild’s body ached so much from tension and fatigue that the cords in her neck felt like they might snap. Escape plans whirred through her head. She examined one, saw its faults, rejected it, and reached for the next, over and over again, until finally, she fell into a restless sleep.