Catherine Fisher - Snow-Walker

“Come on.” Brochael caught his arm. “If her men catch us here, that’s just what we’ll all be doing.”

Kari pulled a dark, ragged scarf up around his face. Then Brochael led them across the courtyard and under the broken archway, out into the snow.

All that long afternoon they walked, one in the footsteps of the other, up the long slopes of the mountain. The wind whistled against them, as if it would push them back; the snow underfoot was soft under the top layer of thin, crunchy ice. They crossed the glacier carefully, slithering on the flat snow swirls, watching for cracks and crevasses, moving swiftly on the scree and tumbled stones. Once over, they climbed again, along the sheer side of the fell, heading south, floundering through the soft, wetter snow. By the time they reached the top, the sky was dark purple, with a few stars scattered across it, faint as dust. Far off in the north, a pale aurora flickered over the mountain peaks.

Jessa was wet through and breathless. She paused, looking back at the long blue scar they had torn through the snow.

Brochael looked too. “It’s a dry night,” he muttered. “That will still be there tomorrow—maybe even the day after. They’ll see it.”

She looked at him. “They’ll be here tomorrow?”

“Bound to be. They’ll ride hard.” He turned and trudged on after Kari and Thorkil. “When Gudrun wants a thing done, Jessa, it’s done.”

By about midnight they had come back down to the treeline. Brochael let them sleep for a while in a thick pine wood, where the trees clustered so closely there was no snow; they lay on a centuries-thick quilt of needles and leaf mold, richly scented and full of tiny, scurrying beetles. Too tired to notice, Jessa slept.

The ravens woke her, croaking in the trees above her, sending down showers of dry powdery snow. She sat up. Brochael and Kari were out at the trees’ edge, talking. She saw Brochael mark something on the ground with a stick. Thorkil lay nearby, still asleep, his fur hood up over his face, one arm thrown out carelessly. She shivered; it was barely light and bitterly cold.

Brochael turned. “About time. Come and have something to eat.”

It was the same cooked meat, and some black, hard bread. She chewed it slowly, looking out over the still, white country wrapped in its fogs and mists, the forests marching over slope and hillside like a motionless and silent army. Kari stared out too, as if his eyes feasted on this different place. She caught the same vivid excitement in him as when he had first seen Thorkil and herself; his fingers clenched in their gloves, his eyes paler than ever in the early light. Finally Brochael stirred and flung a handful of rotten cones at Thorkil.

“Get up, lad. This is no place to sleep late.” He turned to Jessa. “Get your things. Time’s wasting.”

It took them a while to wake Thorkil; he seemed deep in dreams and hardly knew where he was for a moment or two. Brochael grinned down at him.

“Perhaps the young lord could get off his bed now? And take his scented bath?”

Thorkil smiled back, but Jessa thought he was still quiet and tired.

Once they had begun to walk, none of them spoke very much; it was easier to trudge in silence through the empty land and the wide, bitter sky.

Suddenly, at about midday, Kari stopped. Then, slowly, he looked back. Jessa looked too.

Smoke was rising over the skyline far off—a great black column of it, the underside lit with a faint red glow. Silent, the four of them watched it. It could only be Thrasirshall. They’d been quick, Jessa thought, quicker than she’d dreamed. Gudrun must have chosen them well, men who wouldn’t fear the place and its hidden creature—perhaps she’d even told them something of the truth. They’d have searched, then burned, and even now they would be galloping down the fellside. She turned, straight into Brochael.

His face was grim. “Yes, you’re right. Kari! Come on!”

He pushed them into the trees and along the hilltop. The snow was thinner here, and in the tangle of undergrowth their tracks would be harder to see. Jessa knew he was worried; he urged them on tirelessly all afternoon. Kari walked swiftly, and she wasn’t tired herself. Oddly enough it was Thorkil who held them back. More than once she had to call the others to wait for him.

When he caught up, his breath came in gasps and he clutched his side.

“Can’t we rest?” he said at last.

“What’s the matter with you?” Brochael snarled. “Are you ill?”

“I don’t know!” He seemed puzzled, and in pain. “I can’t seem to get my breath … perhaps it’s the cold. Just a few minutes, Brochael.”

But Brochael shoved him on. “We haven’t got that long. A spear in the back will be a harder pain to put up with.”

But after a while Thorkil stopped again. He collapsed onto his knees, dragging in air. Jessa crouched beside him.

“He’s really in trouble. We’ll have to wait.”

Brochael stormed and cursed. Then he turned and marched off through the trees.

“Where’s he gone?” Jessa asked.

“To look back.” Kari kneeled beside her. He took his thin hand from its glove and gripped Thorkil’s shoulder.

“Look at me,” he said.

Shuddering, Thorkil looked up. Their eyes met. They were still for a moment, a long silence, and then Thorkil began to breathe easily and freely. At the same time Kari shivered, as if something had chilled him. He put his glove back on and pushed the lank hair from his eyes.

“What was it?” Jessa said to him.

“Nothing.” His pale eyes searched through the trees. “Nothing. He’ll be all right.”

With a floundering of branches Brochael was coming back. “No sign of them yet,” he snapped. “The forest ends ahead, then the land is open moor. We’ll have to cross it before tonight.” He looked at Thorkil. “Can you manage?”

“Yes.” Jessa helped him up; he straightened slowly. “It’s easier now.... I don’t know what caused it.”

“Never mind! Just move.”

They pushed their way out through the trees, the wet, heavy snow sliding from the branches onto their shoulders. Beyond, the land was a dim slope, frozen into stiff hillocks and littered with boulders under the snow. It was treacherous, but they scrambled down. Far overhead the two birds circled; they swooped down, cawing and karking over Kari’s head as he slipped and stumbled at Jessa’s side. Below, Brochael was close to Thorkil, both of them sliding on the loose scree that lay invisible under the snow. Horses would find this hard to manage. That would help surely.

By the time they had crossed the great moor, the short day was darkening. They were tired; their ankles ached with the bruising of the stones. Before them lay a small lake, frozen white, but at its edge the land made an overhang where rock outcropped. The bitter wind brought tears to their eyes. Jessa’s ears ached and her toes were an agony.

Brochael pushed his way through the scrub and under the overhang and they followed, squatting in a breathless row against the rock.

In the shelter and the quiet they coughed and spat and caught breath. Jessa felt Brochael’s warmth at her side. She tugged her boots off and rubbed her wet feet. After a while a faint glow touched her face and fingers.

“Well,” Brochael said at last. “Here is as good as anywhere.”

“You mean we’ll stay?” Thorkil said doubtfully.

“We can’t outrun them. We must hide.” He looked at Kari. “Will the birds warn us?”

The boy nodded, tugging pine needles from his silvery hair.

“Then we sleep,” Brochael said. “All of us. While we can.”

“It’s too cold,” Thorkil objected. “We’ll freeze—or we will later.”

Brochael gave him an irritated glance. “I don’t think you’ll find that, if you’re as tired as you should be. You were the one who wanted to stop.”