by John Gwynne
‘What are you doing here?’ Riv asked her.
Aphra stopped her searching and looked at Riv.
‘Have you seen Fia?’
‘Aye. She was leaving as I arrived. She didn’t look very happy.’
‘Where did she go? Did she speak to you?’
‘No, she passed me on the stairwell. Didn’t say a word to me.’
Aphra studied her a moment. ‘If you see her, tell her I was looking for her, and that I need to speak to her.’
‘What about?’
‘None of your business.’
Riv’s scowl followed Aphra through the door as her sister turned on her heel and left.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
DREM
Drem sat in the seat of their wain, the reins held loosely in one hand, his da beside him. The sky was a pale winter’s blue, making Drem think of ice, and a cold wind swept down from the Bonefells, Drem’s nose and ears feeling like ice.
‘Get on,’ Drem said, a flick of his whip adding some motivation to the two ponies pulling the wain as they reached the slope that led up to Kergard’s walls, their snorted breaths great clouds of vapour in the cold air. The wain was loaded full with the pelts they had hunted, six moons’ worth of their life being sold to Ulf the tanner, for which Drem was thankful.
Da negotiated enough coin to see us through winter and longer, and I don’t have to spend half a moon with my nose plugged, a cloth wrapped around my face and my hands stained orange.
New holds had been built beyond the timber walls of Kergard, sprawling on both sides of the track with no apparent plan or design, a snarl of timber, wattle and daub and thatch, fences, pigs, goats, chickens, dogs, a cacophony of noise as Drem and Olin rode by.
‘Looks different,’ Drem remarked.
‘Aye, and smells different,’ Olin said, frowning at the advancement of civilization all around him.
The smell didn’t improve much once they’d rumbled through the open gates, Olin nodding to the man on guard duty. Kergard wasn’t ruled by a lord or king, the Desolation was free of such rulers and authority, free even of the Ben-Elim for the time being, as it was newly settled land. A group of Kergard’s founders had worked together in the building of the village and had decided on a democratic council with no one man to lead or rule them. They’d called themselves the Assembly, and over the years some had died or left Kergard, while some of the new settlers had been invited to join the Assembly, but the core of the Assembly was still the same as it had been some twenty years ago. Ulf the tanner was one of them. Between them they organized a tithe from those who lived within the village’s walls, and that tithe paid for roads, building repairs, labour and, amongst other things, for a small unit of guards. It was the Wild, after all, and crops, herds and homes often needed defending from the predators that lurked and roamed within the dark and storm-racked north. Most of the guardsmen were older men, retired trappers and huntsmen, whose days of roaming the Bonefell’s were behind them.
Drem guided the ponies through busy streets of hard-packed earth, more people about than he had ever seen in Kergard before. They made their way through the village and towards the eastern fringes, where Ulf’s tanning yard was situated. Drem could smell the place before sighting it, the sharp tang of his lime-water vats and the sickly stench of fat-scraped hides lying thick as smoke in the air.
Ulf met them with a grin and a bag of silver, and set two of his sons to unloading the wain of its pelts while Olin and Ulf chatted, mostly about mead and sore heads.
A woman entered the yard as they were talking, tall and stern-faced, an otter pelt cloak about her shoulders. Two men walked a step behind her, both muscled and scarred, belts brimming with axe and knife.
‘Hildith.’ Drem nodded a greeting. She ran Kergard’s mead-hall, had helped build it with her own hands and was one of the original members of the Assembly.
‘Still alive, then,’ Hildith said to Drem and Olin.
‘Aye,’ Drem said.
Just, as he thought of the white bear.
‘Forgive me, but I cannot stand here in conversation,’ Hildith said, pulling a sour face. ‘The smell is too much. I’ve come for my new boots and cloak, Ulf.’
Ulf ran to fetch them and Olin led Drem back to their wain, now unloaded.
‘Come see me at the mead-hall and tell me your trappers’ tales,’ Hildith called after them.
Olin raised a hand.
‘A good deal,’ Drem said to his da as he drove the wain out of the tanner’s yard, wheels bouncing now the load was lighter. They turned into a wide street, where clouds of steam were hissing from the roof of Calder the smith.
‘Huh,’ Olin grunted, making Drem frown. His da had been like this since they had found that lump of black rock in the elk pit – distant, quiet, uneasy, no matter how hard he tried to hide it.
It is the starstone that worries him so, if that is what it is. I do not blame him; I am worried, too. Despite his da’s reasons for taking and keeping the lump of black rock, Drem thought it would be better for all if they took it and buried it again, or dumped it in the Starstone Lake.
‘Here,’ Olin said, pointing, and Drem whistled and pulled on the reins. They were at the market square, all manner of tents and stalls selling a variety of goods. Drem followed his da round and listened as Olin bartered and haggled, Drem carrying each purchase back to the wain. It was not long before the cart was groaning with the weight of grain sacks, barrels of salted meat and fish, and a fair few skins of stoppered mead. Olin had also bought a crate of ten chickens and two goats, who were now tethered to the wain.
A group of men were standing close to the cart, seven or eight of them, some trappers by the look of them, clothed in furs and deer-skin, knives and axes hanging from their belts.
One of their number, a man with red wisps for a beard, was prodding the butt-end of a spear at the feet of Drem’s new goats, making them dance. He was finding it much funnier than Drem considered it to be.
Drem loaded a huge round of cheese into the wain, looking at Wispy Beard.
‘They don’t like that,’ Drem said.
‘They must do, or they wouldn’t be dancing,’ Wispy said, laughing so hard at his joke he started coughing and choking. One of the men with him, hooded face in shadow, touched his arm and Wispy raised a hand.
‘All right, I’ll stop then,’ he said, ‘if you think they’re all danced out.’
A ripple of chuckles through his companions.
‘Thank you,’ Drem said, remembering his da’s advice to always be polite.
The hooded man looked at Drem. He appeared to be bald beneath the hood of his cloak; Drem did see a scar running across one cheek, through the edge of the man’s mouth to his jaw, giving him a permanent scowl.
‘We’re new to town,’ the hooded man said. ‘Heard there was a mine nearby, needing men.’
‘Aye, that’ll be up to the north of the lake,’ Drem said. ‘Easy to find.’
‘And somewhere to wet our dry throats while we’re here?’ Wispy asked.
‘Hildith’s mead-hall – that way.’ Drem pointed, then he headed back to the market.
There were new faces everywhere, some amongst the traders, but mostly those who were walking the market streets looking to buy rather than sell. Olin was talking to a stall holder about it when Drem returned.
‘Feels crowded for the north,’ Olin was saying.
‘Aye,’ the trader said, Asger, a short, round man, his forearms so hairy Drem could hardly see the skin beneath. ‘Lots of new faces in Kergard, holds springing up all over. And there’s that mine on the north shore of the lake. A few faces have disappeared, though.’ He leaned closer to Olin, glancing left and right. ‘I don’t mean packed up and moved on. I mean gone. Just vanished. If it was all newcomers I’d put it down to them not respecting a winter in the north. But it’s some of the townsfolk, too, ones that have been here years, like Hakon and his brood. They’re gone. Cattle still in the barn, all their belongings st
ill there.’
He tugged on a bushy beard.
‘I’ve heard wolven howling at night. Maybe a pack’s come down from the Bonefells . . .’
‘Could be,’ Olin said, looking thoughtful.
‘Not complaining about the newcomers,’ Asger continued. ‘It’s good for business. Though sometimes it’s not.’ Asger looked both ways and leaned close again, dropping his voice. ‘Thieving’s becoming a problem. Was a time when I didn’t need to lock my barn doors. Wouldn’t dream of leaving them open, now. It’s those new miners. Not the same as good, honest trappers, if you ask me.’
Drem snorted. He’d met many a trapper that would have happily put a knife in his back to take his furs, a few had tried, though his da had taught them the error of that decision.
‘Though they’ve hired their own trappers to keep them fed and clothed. They’re more like thieves, I reckon.’
Drem would have liked to stay and hear more, but his da loaded him up with a barrel of apples and so he trudged back to the wain. He thought about what Asger had said, about thieving, thought about those men near the wain and resolved to wait there until his da was finished in the market.
As he turned a corner and the wain came into view he saw a woman in the street, pale yellow hair revealed as the hood of a cloak blew back in the wind. It was Fritha, his new neighbour, a large basket of latticed willow hooked over one arm. She didn’t see Drem, as she looked to someone calling out to her: Wispy Beard, part of the group of trappers and miners that Drem had seen.
‘Need some help with that?’ Wispy said, stepping close to Fritha.
Drem didn’t hear what Fritha said, but Wispy didn’t seem to like it, stepping in front of her, blocking her way. She tried to go around him but he mirrored her, stepped with her. Some of his companions laughed. Drem put his barrel of apples in the wain, looking over his shoulder at Fritha.
Words passed between Wispy and Fritha, unheard but clearly angry in nature. Then Wispy slapped the basket, emptying its contents onto the ground. Red berries.
Berries picked from the woods, to sell in the market? Drem thought.
Fritha crouched down to scoop them back into her basket and Wispy raised a boot to stamp on them.
Before he’d realized he’d done it, Drem was standing over Fritha, Wispy sprawling on the ground. The sneer on his face quickly transformed into a snarl. His companions stepped away from the wall they’d been huddled around, seven of them, all giving Drem dark looks. The cloaked man pushed his hood back, revealing a shaved head and intense blue eyes.
‘Shouldn’t have done that,’ the bald man said.
Probably not, Drem thought. But what choice was there?
Drem didn’t like fighting. He hated it, in fact, thought it was pointless. He’d had one fight in his twenty-one years, when he was thirteen summers old, had broken the lad’s jaw. Sometimes at night he could still feel his knuckles slamming into flesh, the slap of meat, like a hammer hitting a steak, the crunch of jawbone and grind of teeth knocked loose. The memory of it made him feel sad.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said to Wispy on the ground, and offered a hand to help him rise.
‘Walk away,’ Fritha hissed to him, taking a step towards the market.
Wispy gripped his hand and pulled himself up, grinning.
Ah, see. Da was right. Polite and friendly fixes most problems.
Wispy was still grinning when he punched Drem in the gut, doubling him over.
A crunch in the side of Drem’s head, white light exploding in front of his eyes, something cold slamming into his face.
Dirt. Realized he was face-down on the ground.
‘Uh,’ he grunted, pushing up onto one elbow, the world out of focus for a moment. He blinked, saw Wispy was standing over him, still grinning, holding Fritha’s arm.
‘You’ll regret this,’ she snarled and slapped Wispy furiously, raking her nails across his cheek. Wispy howled, spat a curse and put his fist in Fritha’s face; her legs suddenly went wobbly, only the trapper holding her up.
Drem punched Wispy between the legs, hard, saw his eyes bulge with the pain of it, then Drem was somehow on his feet even as Wispy was dropping to his knees, another trapper coming at him, swinging a punch. Drem didn’t like fighting, always avoided it, but he was big, taller than most, and stronger than most, too. He caught the man’s fist in his own, stopped it dead. Felt an anger flare in his belly at these men. At the pointlessness of this conflict. He could understand the white bear chasing him, the drive to survive, to protect its kill.
But this! For what?
He wrapped his fingers around the man’s fist, squeezing and twisting the wrist and arm, felt the crackle of finger bones snapping, the trapper yelling, and he put his knee into the man’s ribs as he bent at the waist to get out of Drem’s grip. More bones breaking, ribs this time, and the trapper collapsed to the ground.
‘Let her go,’ Drem said to the man holding Fritha.
There was a moment’s silence.
Then men were lunging at him from all directions, blows raining down upon him. He blocked a punch to his head, swept it away, threw a punch of his own, felt his knuckles connect with flesh, grunted as a fist slammed into his side, a kick to the back of his knee sending him stumbling forwards. The bald man appeared in front of him, grabbing Drem’s shirt and headbutting him in the face. An explosion of stars and the world spun, the salt taste of blood in his mouth and he was somehow on his knees. There was a lull, men pulling back for a moment, and Drem found he was close to Wispy, who was also struggling back to his feet. They both looked at one another for a long moment.
‘Fancy yourself a bear-hunter, eh?’ Wispy grunted, and Drem saw that his bear claw was hanging loose about his neck.
‘I’m going to take that claw and give you a new red smile with it,’ Wispy snarled.
Then those on their feet were moving in again, more blows, and all Drem’s hard work to reach this position was for nothing as he toppled to the ground, trying to curl up, cover his head with his arms. Distantly he was aware of screaming – Fritha? – wanted to do something about it, but his body wouldn’t cooperate, kicks and punches merging.
Slowly he became aware that the blows had stopped. He opened his eyes, saw boots in a half-circle around him, saw Wispy climbing back to his feet, and the man whose hand he’d crushed and ribs he’d broken dragging himself away. Fritha was leaning against the wain, a purpling bruise spreading across her jaw.
And beyond the boots around Drem there was another trapper on the ground, unconscious, a man standing over him.
Drem’s da.
‘Step away from my boy,’ his da said, voice tight, cold as frost-bitten iron.
‘Stay out of this, old man,’ a voice answered, a new pair of boots stepping over Drem. The bald man.
Old man? Is he talking about my da? The thought shocked Drem, even through the fog of pain that was pulsing through him, but as he looked at his da he saw a man whose hair was mostly grey, deep creases around his eyes and mouth, weathered and worn by living in the wilderness, his body lean and wiry.
He didn’t speak like an old man, though.
‘This is over,’ Olin said. His eyes flickered to Drem, then across the men before him, five of them still standing, by Drem’s counting, and finally back to the bald man. ‘I’ll ask you again. Step away from my son.’
‘I don’t take orders from the likes of you,’ the bald man said, taking a step towards Olin and spitting on the ground.
‘Not ordering, just asking,’ Olin said. ‘I’ll not ask again.’
Drem tried to get up, needed to get up, knew these men were not going to back down, and he didn’t want to see his da beaten to a pulp like him, or worse. But only his fist opened and closed, and one foot scraped the dirt. He dribbled blood and spittle.
‘We’re not finished with him,’ the bald man said, jutting his chin at Drem. ‘So fight us or leave, old man.’
Olin stretched his neck left and right, bones clic
king. ‘I’ll fight you if you wish. But know this: I am old for a reason.’
‘Ha, listen to the o—’ the bald man began, but then he was staggering backwards and choking. Olin had lunged forwards and punched him in the throat, strode after him and followed up with a fist to the chest, and the bald man tripped over Drem and went sprawling. Others rushed at Olin, a burst of violence as punches flew, too fast for Drem to follow. He heard grunts of pain, a loud crack followed by an even louder scream, the thud of a body hitting the dirt. The chaos cleared for a moment, Drem seeing his da duck a punch and step in close, land a blurred combination of blows to the gut and head of Wispy, who it seemed had climbed back to his feet. An uppercut from his da lifted him from the ground and then he was lying in the dirt again beside Drem.
Men backed away from Olin, three left on their feet, panting, spreading in a half-circle. Olin stood with his feet spread, balanced, blood on his knuckles, a thin trickle of blood from a cut below his eye.
How is he still standing?
‘He’s broken my arm!’ someone screamed beyond Drem’s vision.
The bald man appeared again, stepping into Drem’s view, this time with a spear in his fists, the tip levelled at Olin’s chest. Drem heard the sound of steel scraping free of sheaths, the other three pulling blades. Something changed in Olin’s eyes and he shifted his feet, drew the short axe at his belt with his right hand, a knife with his left.
Maybe the bald man saw the same change in Olin’s eyes that Drem saw, because he hesitated a moment; only the sound of the wind, the groaning of men with broken bones, the scraping of dirt as Drem managed to drag himself to one knee.
Then voices were shouting, footsteps drumming, and Drem saw Calder the smith appear, a huge man, bare-armed and bare-chested apart from a thick leather apron, a hammer in his hand. Hildith and her two burly guards were with him. Asger and other traders from the market appeared from the other direction, coming to stand behind Olin.
The bald man stood there a moment, then he was shrugging, stepped back and lowered his spear. He helped one of his comrades stand, the others still on their feet doing the same, moving away, carrying those who couldn’t do it themselves.
