Catherine Fisher: Snow-Walker

The oarsmen lit a fire and handed around meat and bread, throwing scraps on the wet shingle for the gulls to scream and fight over. Jessa noticed how Helgi kept close. Sudden running would be no use at all.

“How long will the journey take?” she asked, stretching out her legs and rubbing them.

Helgi laughed. “Three days—longer, if the weather turns. Tonight we travel down to the sea, tomorrow up the coast to Ost, then up the Yngvir River to a village called Trond. After that—over the ice.”

Thorkil pulled a face. “Why not go by land?”

“Because the hills are full of snow and wolves. You’re anxious to arrive, are you?”

Thorkil was silenced. Looking at him, Jessa noticed the glint of silver on his arm. “Why are you wearing that?” she asked, surprised. It was the arm ring that Gudrun had given him.

He looked down at it and touched the snake’s smooth head. “I don’t know. I hadn’t really meant to. I just put it on.... It’s valuable, after all. Where’s yours?”

“In the baggage, but I’ve a good mind to throw it over the side. It’s bad luck. I don’t know how you can wear it.”

Thorkil scowled. “I will if I want. It’s mine.”

Jessa shook her head. “It’s hers,” she said, thinking how vain he was.

“Well, don’t throw yours in the sea.” Helgi laughed. “Throw it to me instead. The sea is rich enough.”

“I might.”

Thorkil looked up suddenly. “Your men. Are they coming with us all the way?”

“To the very door,” Helgi said grimly. Behind him the oarsmen’s talk faltered, as if they had listened for his answer.

The ship reached the coast late that evening, the watchman of Tarva challenging them suddenly out of the darkness, his voice ringing across the black water. Jolted awake, Jessa heard the helmsman yell an answer, and saw the lights of the settlement ripple under the bows as the ship edged in among the low wharves.

They spent that night in the house of a merchant named Savik, who knew Helgi well, warm in his hall with three oarsmen sprawling and dicing near the only doorway. Where the rest went to, Jessa did not ask. She managed a brief word with Thorkil at the table.

“No chances yet.”

He threw her a troubled look. “You heard what he said. We won’t have any chances.”

“Yes, but keep your eyes open. You never know.”

“I suppose we could always jump overboard,” he said savagely.

Later she slept fitfully. In her sleep she felt the rocking of the boat, as if it still carried her down the long, icy fjord, and there at the end of it, floating on the sea, was a great, dark building, the winds howling in its empty passages like wolves.

In the morning they left early, as the wind was good, and as soon as they reached open water the sail was dropped with a flapping of furled canvas and the slap of ropes—a single rectangular sheet woven of strong striped cloth. The wind plumped it out into a straining arc; the ship shuddered and plunged through the spray. Jessa climbed up into the prow and watched the white seabirds wheel overhead and scream in the cliffs and crannies. Seals bobbed their heads out and watched her with dark, intelligent eyes; in bays their sluggish shining bodies lay like great pebbles on the shingle.

She turned to the oarsmen squatting in the bottom of the boat out of the wind; some sleeping, others gaming with dice for brooches or metal rings—Thorkil with them, and losing badly it seemed.

After a while Helgi clambered over and sat beside her.

“Do you feel well? No sickness?”

“Not yet.”

He grinned. “Yes, it may well come. But we have to put off some cargo at Wormshold this afternoon—that will give you a chance to go ashore. It’s a big, busy settlement, under the Worm’s Head.”

“Worm’s Head?”

“Yes. Never seen it? I’ll show you.” He took out a knife and scratched a few lines into the wooden prow. “It’s a spit of land, look, that juts out into the sea. Like this. It looks like a dragon’s head, very rough and rocky—a great hazard. There are small islets here, and skerries at the tip. The Flames, we call them. The currents are fierce around them. That dragon’s eaten many a good ship. But you’ll see it soon.”

And she did, as the ship flew through the morning. At first a gray smudge on the sea; then a rocky shape, growing as they sped toward it into a huge dragon’s head and neck of stone, stretched out chin-deep in the gray waves, its mouth wide in a snarl, dark hollows and caves marking nostrils and eyes. The wind howled as they sailed in under it, the swell crashing and sucking and booming deep in the gashed, treacherous rocks.

Wormshold was squeezed into a small haven in the dragon’s neck. As soon as Jessa saw it, she knew this would be their chance, perhaps their only chance. It was a busy trading place, full of ships, merchants, fishermen, peddlers, skalds, thieves, and traveling fraudsters of every kind. Booths and trestle tables full of merchandise crowded the waterfront; the stink of fish and meat and spices hung over the boats.

Here they could be lost, quickly and easily; she had coins sewn into the hems of her skirts; help could be bought. She tried to catch Thorkil’s eyes, but he seemed silent and depressed.

“It’ll never work,” he said.

“What’s the matter with you! We can try, can’t we!” He nodded, unconvinced.

They wandered stiffly about, glad to walk and run, even though two of Helgi’s men, the one called Thrand and the big noisy one, Steinar, trailed around behind them. Jessa felt excitement pulse through her. Only two. It might have been much worse.

They stared at the goods for sale. Strange stuff, most of it, from the warmer lands to the south: wrinkled fruits, fabrics in bales and bolts, shawls, belts, buckles, fine woolen cloaks flapping in the sea wind. Rows of stiff hides creaked and swung; there were furs, colored beads, bangles, and trinkets of amber and whalebone and jet. One booth sold only rings, hundreds of them strung in rows; rings for fingers, neck, arms, of all metals, chased or plain or intricately engraved.

With a word to Steinar, Thrand stepped into the crowd, pushing his way to a man sharpening knives. Jessa saw him pull his own out and hand it over. So that left one.

She bought some sweetmeats from a farmwife and she and Thorkil ate them, watching a blacksmith hammer out a spearhead and plunge it with a hiss into a bucket of water. As Thorkil fingered the hanging weapons enviously, someone jolted gently against Jessa’s shoulder.

“A thousand apologies,” murmured a low voice.

A thin, lanky man stood beside her, his coat patched and ragged. He winked slyly. Astonished, she stared at him, then glanced carefully around. Steinar was a good way back, trying to buy ale.

“You travel fast down the whale’s road,” the peddler said quietly, examining a brooch on a stall.

“So do you.” Jessa gasped. “Where is Wulfgar? Is he with you?”

“That outlaw?” He grinned at her. “That prince of the torn coat? What makes you think I would know?”

She took the fragments of herbs out of her pocket and rubbed them thoughtfully between her fingers, until their faint scent reached him.

“These.”

The peddler glanced at them quickly and made a soundless whistle. “Well. You have very good eyes. As for Wulfgar, people are saying he’s fled south. They may be right.”

“That’s not what I think.” She watched Thorkil weighing a sword in his hand. Then she said, “Others might want to escape. This might be a good time.”

The peddler dropped the brooch and picked up another; his eyes swept the crowd with a swift glance. “I had heard where they were sending you. But the snake woman has eyes that see too far.”