Peaceweaver (17 page)

A figure loomed over her, huge and menacing. It reached toward her and she flinched away. The movement woke her and she lay blinking in the dark, trying to calm her pounding heart.

When she turned her head, she could see a low fire still flickering and, beyond it, one of the Geats, the larger brother, whose name she didn’t know, standing stiffly, staring into the night, his hand on his sword hilt. When she shifted to the other side, she could just barely make out someone—Hadding, she thought—slumped against a tree, a sword resting beside him. She could no longer hear wolves howling, but an unpleasant odor permeated the night air, making her nose twitch.

She closed her eyes again, pushing away the image from her nightmare and replacing it with thoughts of escape. How would she stop the men from following them? Could she scare the horses away and, in the confusion, run? Should she take Fire-eyes with her or leave him behind? No scenario she imagined seemed right.

At least she had been able to tell Unwen. While the two of them were preparing for bed, Hild had said, “You asked me how long the journey would take. I’m not sure, but Thialfi says we’ll have to ford a river in two days. Surely it can’t be far beyond that.”

Unwen said, “Yes, my lady, thank you, my lady,” the way a slave should speak to her mistress. But as she spoke, she met Hild’s eye and gave her a nod so slight that anyone who wasn’t watching for it would have missed it.

Hild pulled the blanket over her face to block out the dank smell and the cold. With two men on guard each night, how would they ever get away? Would daytime be
better? She felt trapped in a whirlpool of plans that pulled her deeper and deeper down, as if she had fallen into a black and bottomless bog.

When she opened her eyes again, it was morning. She blinked at the triangles of sky visible through branches. It was the first bright day she’d seen since she’d left home. The air was so frosty that the end of her nose and the fingers of one hand, which had slipped out from under her blanket, were numb, and she could see her breath. She pulled her hand back under the blanket and rubbed it to warm it, feeling how rough her fingers had become. She could just hear Siri scolding her for not keeping her skin supple with the decoction of bear grease Aunt Var made for them. The lavender her aunt added to it never stopped it from smelling like rancid bear grease to Hild, but now even that odor would have been a welcome reminder of home. She shut her eyes tight, the better to keep her memories deep inside her. Then she opened them wide and threw off her blanket.

Despite the blue sky, she felt jittery from dreams that had disturbed her sleep, dreams she could only recall in wispy fragments. The smell of smoke—not the ordinary scent from a campfire, but choking fumes whose source she couldn’t identify—had twined through her slumber, and she’d heard a woman speaking to her, the same harsh voice she’d heard before. Who she was and what she was saying, Hild didn’t know, but the voice had offered no comfort. Packing her belongings, Hild dropped things more than
once, causing Unwen to regard her with concern when she handed her the blanket-wrapped sword. Hild steadied herself, then gave Unwen a slight nod to signal that she was ready to transfer the blade to her horse.

Fire-eyes picked up on her mood. As they rode out of the camp, he pranced uneasily until she stroked his neck and spoke calming words into his ear. Even then, she could feel his tension. He was ready to bolt at a word. It wasn’t just Fire-eyes. The other horses were equally skittish, and she couldn’t blame them. Without a trail to follow, they had to pick their way over rocks and fallen logs that hid amid the bracken. One lichen-covered rock made Hild look twice to make sure it wasn’t some malevolent dwarf crouching in the woods to watch them pass.

She scoffed at herself. She was letting the seaweed-eaters’ superstitions infect her. Yet the Shylfings, too, were wary and their silence seemed ominous. Even Brynjolf had stopped his chatter. She glanced back to see him bringing up the rear, turning his head first to one side and then the other at noises in the trees. In the helmet and mail shirt he’d inherited from his father and not quite grown into, he looked like the boy he was, not a full-grown warrior. She wondered if he was afraid, riding alone at the back of the company. She wished that she could fall back to ride alongside him, that they could be friends again.

The Geatish brothers, ahead of her, must have been a few years older than Brynjolf, a more appropriate age for
warriors. If they felt any fear, their erect posture and measured movements disguised it. They watched the woods so intently that Hild found herself glancing into the trees, too. Something flashed past her line of sight, making her jump, but it was just a bird.

Above her, bare branches met, caging her away from the sky. Below, the ground grew spongy, and once, Fire-eyes’s hooves splashed through a place where Hild had thought the earth would be firm.

By the time Mord finally called a halt, Hild’s body was taut with the strain of constant vigilance. Yet the rest period was no better. Mord and Gizzur walked a little way into the woods, talking quietly to each other, but the others stood silent and watchful, hardly eating. Hild saw Thialfi exchange glances with his companions. They nodded, and while Wulf pulled food from the bag on his horse, his brother took up a position near a boulder, his bow in his hands. The Geats were taking turns eating, two of them always on guard. Against what? A prickly sensation crawled up her back, as if something were watching her. She whirled, but only rocks met her gaze. She wished her sword were in her hand, not hidden on her horse.

“My lady,” Unwen said, and presented Hild with bread and water. She ate mechanically, never looking away from the woods, whose shifting shadows held secrets she couldn’t discern.

It wasn’t long before they mounted again and began the
afternoon’s weary ride. At least the woods thinned a little, making the going easier. There was nothing for Hild to do but think. She needed a plan and she needed it now, but her mind was blank. She imagined herself in the temple to Freyja, making an offering of mead at the altar, as she’d done so many times in the past. “Lady of the Vanir,” she whispered.
Help me see a solution
, she prayed silently.
Let me find an escape
.

She quieted her thoughts, listening for an answer, but nothing happened. Tears of frustration pricked at the corners of her eyes.

Fire-eyes tossed his head and whinnied in protest.

“Sorry,” Hild whispered, loosening her grip on the reins and leaning over the horse’s neck. When she looked up again, she realized the two Geats in front of her were staring back at her. Feeling her face redden, she raised her chin and gazed into the woods, her bearing stately, her expression imperious, as if she were a goddess dismissing mortals, mere flies buzzing around her.

Amid the bare trees, a single oak caught her eye. Its leaves, red as a bloodstained blade, still clung stubbornly to its branches.

Fire-eyes’s gait was steady, despite the rocks, and her two nights of slim sleep dragged at Hild’s lids and sent cobwebs to wrap themselves around her brain. Slowly, her muscles began to relax as her head nodded in time to her horse’s pace. Her eyes closed, fluttered open, then closed
again. Her chin fell to her chest. She thought she could feel someone falling in beside her but she was too drowsy to look.

Behind her lids a scene took shape—a shadowy figure climbing toward her out of darkness, its body swathed in green ribbons. No, the ribbons weren’t woven of cloth; they were seaweedy spirals hanging from a torso covered in dripping fur. The figure stood to its full, terrifying height and reached out its claws. Hild jerked away, her hand going up to protect her face.

“My lady.”

Thialfi held her arm, keeping her from falling off her horse.

She looked at him, blinking. He held her gaze and she used the concern in his eyes to steady herself. They were still riding in the woods. She had just had a dream; that was all. She would need to get more sleep tonight.

She took a shaky breath, then gently disengaged her arm from his, nodding him her thanks.

He moved his horse a little away from her, but she could tell he was keeping a close eye on her.

As she rode, she watched the woods, the late sun barely visible through thickets of bare branches. A squirrel leapt from one tree to the next. In the distance, a cry pierced the sky. A hawk?

She glanced at Thialfi, whose eyes were on the woods, his head cocked. He, too, was listening.

The sound came again, nearer this time.

She looked up to where Mord rode alone. He didn’t seem to be reacting, but she couldn’t see his face.

The cry came directly above her and she looked up in time to see a hawk gliding fast overhead, its breast feathers dusky above, white below. Suddenly, it plunged into the trees. For a moment, she couldn’t see it behind the branches. Then it emerged again, something struggling in its powerful talons.

The squirrel.

Bird and prey disappeared beyond the trees. As they did, a final long hunting cry hung in the air. The sound unnerved her.

They continued onward as dusk settled around them, but Mord didn’t call a halt. Hild strained to see ahead of her but no camping area with a fire pit or piles of kindling greeted them. Soon she strained to see at all as Mord kept pushing them on into the dark. Trees crowded close and rocks and boulders made the footing difficult.

“We need to stop before we lame a horse,” Thialfi said in a low voice to Hild.

“Is this a good place?” she asked, keeping her voice just as quiet as his.

“As good as any.”

Well. Whatever the men thought of her, she was still the king’s sister-daughter. She still outranked them all. Steadying herself, she sat up tall and called out, “We’ll make camp
here for the night. Gizzur, see to a fire. Unwen, where are you? I need you here.”

She heard a grunt from up ahead, but Mord couldn’t argue. Riding in a trackless wood in the dark was dangerous in more ways than one.

Wulf was at Hild’s side instantly, ready to help her dismount. She started to send him away, then caught herself. If she and Unwen were going to escape, the Geats needed to think she was pleased to marry their king. She took Wulf’s hand.

When her feet touched the ground, she gave the young warrior a slight curtsy of thanks and even graced him with a semblance of a smile.
Don’t overdo it
, she told herself as he bowed and moved away.

In the half-light, boulders hunched like goblins amid ghostly tree trunks. This forest was no place for humans to be in the Between Time, she thought, then laughed at herself. She sounded just like a seaweed-eater.

Leading Fire-eyes, she stumbled over a rock. As she righted herself, a branch scratched at her, and when she skirted it, another rock made her lose her footing. Finally realizing it would be easier to stand still until there was a fire to see by, she stopped and waited until light sprang into the night. Not far away, Gizzur was feeding sticks to the new flames. They cheered her despite the eerie shadows the boulders cast. She looked around to find Unwen, and together they unsaddled Fire-eyes and the pony.

Slowly the camp took shape, Brynjolf picking up firewood, Unwen unrolling blankets, Hadding digging for something in a leather pouch. Hild knelt in front of the fire, warming her hands and face, and watched both Wulf and his brother standing guard, their hands on their weapons. Were they still near the fen?

And where was Mord? She glanced around but saw only boulders crouched in an irregular group like a circle of trolls who had lingered too long in the night, until daylight had surprised them, turning them to stone. It made her think of the grassy place where she and Arinbjörn used to play. The place where she had killed a man. She blinked the memory away. This place wasn’t anything like that. It wasn’t grassy, and it was surrounded by woods. A tree grew out of a cleft in the boulder nearest her, and in the flickering firelight, she could see roots grasping at the stone like ancient, knobby fingers.

She stood, turning to find Unwen and something to eat, but the slave was hidden somewhere in the rocks.

Hild scanned the area again, an idea taking shape in her mind. She couldn’t see Unwen, she couldn’t see Mord, and now that she was paying attention, she realized Brynjolf had disappeared, too.

Thialfi stooped over a leather bag near the fire and Hild approached him.

“Will the way continue as rocky as this when we near the river?” she asked.

He looked up at her. “Yes, my lady. Our journey tomorrow won’t be any easier than today’s.”

She nodded and looked at the huge pile of stones not far from them. Putting a hint of dismay in her voice, she said, “There will be boulders this big?”

“I’m afraid so, my lady. We’ll have to walk the horses at times. But after we ford the river, our path will be much easier.”

“Thank you, Thialfi.” She turned so he wouldn’t see the gleam in her eyes, then mouthed a quick prayer of thanks to Freyja.

The goddess had heard her request. The rocks were the answer. They would help them escape.

Again she looked for Unwen and saw the slave emerging from the shadows, a bowl in her hands. Unwen had become hidden among the stones without even knowing it. How easy it would be when they actually tried to make themselves disappear.

Hild stepped forward to meet her accomplice.

SEVENTEEN