“I have news,” Ivar said, to anyone who might listen. “Who may I speak to?”
“What sort of news?” asked a man with an armful of firewood. He was about Ivar’s father’s age, perhaps a little older.
“Of the lights,” Ivar replied, quieter.
The man’s eyes flashed with curiosity. “We saw them,” he said gruffly. “No need to tell us what we already know.”
“I doubt you know this,” Ivar told him. “Unless you also know what the lights mean.”
He swung down from the horse. “Who can I speak to?”
The man glanced around again, then jerked his head towards his own door. “Inside. I’ll go and fetch a few other elders. You’d better have something important to say – people round here don’t like to be disturbed.”
Ivar tied the horse outside and entered the warmth of the house. It was empty of anyone else and sparsely furnished with an old wooden chair, a bed in one corner, and a few stools and cooking supplies. Against one wall sat a basket of knitting, covered in dust and seemingly having not been touched in years. He pulled up one of the stools closer to the fire and stretched out his hands toward the flames. They were numb from the cold, though he’d been cold for so much of the day that he’d hardly noticed it.
A few minutes later, the man returned with two other men and a woman. He offered no introduction for them, but grunted his own name – “Areld” – before taking a seat across the fire. “Now, what is it you’ve got to tell us?” he asked.
Ivar met the gazes of the newcomers in turn. They stared at him, distrust burning hot in their eyes. The woman, perhaps the most severe of all, made no attempt to conceal her suspicions about his presence.
“You all saw the lights, I understand,” Ivar began, poking at the fire with a stick. “You know of the plague. But shortly after they shone, myself and another villager encountered two Ør in the woods.” It was blunt, perhaps too much so, but the sooner he delivered the news, the sooner he could leave.
There were a few sharp intakes of breath, and eyes narrowed even further. Ivar looked away from them and continued to poke the fire, waiting for the news to sink in and the questions to start.
“Impossible,” one of the men whispered.
Ivar shook his head. “It’s the truth. We believe they were scouts and that more are coming. And I can assure you…” He paused, then shook his head at the memory. “I can assure you that they are every bit as terrible as we always imagined. More so.”
“Goddess spare us,” the woman breathed, a hand pressed against her mouth.
That reminded him. “But I also bring better news,” Ivar continued, laying aside the stick. “Someone from our village departed today for the mountains. We found runes. Runes that told us we might speak to the Goddess there, in the Kalls. It’s a dangerous journey, but it offers us hope.”
Silence. Eyes bore into his, though he couldn’t read their expressions.
“In the meantime,” Ivar went on, “we here in the villages are preparing, training, making weapons, for as long as we are able to. We don’t know when they will come, but they will likely come from the sea nearer to Neska. That’s where we found the scouts’ boat. You are all invited to come back to our village and train with us. If the villages unite, we stand a much stronger chance.”
“We’ll all be slaughtered,” the woman said quietly, shaking her head. “No one stands a chance against the Ør. Surely we’ve all been raised with the same stories.”
“We have,” Ivar answered. “But the Ør took Löska without warning. With even a little time to prepare and a strong will, we can at least stand a chance. If we discount ourselves from the beginning then we only welcome our end. Skane is stronger than Löska. We’ve grown. We’ve learned. We’re ready.”
The woman shook her head again, slowly, like she pitied Ivar. “Madness,” she whispered. “Utter madness.”
Ivar took this as his signal to leave. Standing, he said, “Think it over and discuss it amongst yourselves. Bormur has already agreed to join with us. We hope to have you as well. Just remember that time is short.”
He made to move towards the door, but Areld stood in his way. “I think you’d best be staying here tonight,” he said in a tone that gave Ivar the distinct impression that he had no choice. The others nodded, glancing at each other. “Here, in fact. You can have my bed.”
Ivar stared at each of them in turn. Something had changed in their demeanour, something that he couldn’t quite understand, but that flooded his mind with warnings. The others sent knowing looks to one another, seeming to speak a language with their eyes that Ivar couldn’t comprehend.
“Make yourself comfortable,” Areld said, backing towards the door. The others exited behind him. A moment later, he pulled the door shut, and there was a distinct sound of locking. A moment after that, he heard footsteps as his horse was led away.
Turning quickly, on fire with alarm, he examined each of the walls for an opening of any sort, a second door, but there was none. The chimney overhead was little more than a small hole in the wall with a partial covering to keep out the snow. The only way in or out of this house was the door which had just been locked. He stood in the middle of the room and laced his fingers behind his head, thinking. He had no solid proof that they wished to harm him, only that they were keeping him in Areld’s home, perhaps for more questioning. It wouldn’t hurt him to spend the night indoors, anyway.
Lowering himself slowly, he sat cross-legged by the fire and thought of Ósa. Hopefully she was in Is̊avik, warm in someone’s home, by a fire much like this one before heading off on her own tomorrow. How had they taken the news? With any luck, far better than Sjørskall had done. Their unnerving and superstitious glances played on his mind, making the hairs rise on his arms. Ósa was sharp, and strong. If she ran into this kind of trouble, she’d find a way out. There was no doubt about it.
A faint tapping came from the door. He stared at it for a moment, unsure if his ears were deceiving him out of a desire to get free, but then it came again. Standing, he slowly crossed the room, tilting his head to listen.
“Are you there?” came a soft voice, almost certainly a child.
“Yes, who is it?” Ivar whispered back, pressing his ears to the frame of the door.
“I live in the village,” came the reply. “I know they’ve locked you up. I wanted to warn you.”
“Warn me about what?” Ivar asked.
“They’re going to kill you.”
Silence. Ivar sank back on his heels, staring at the wooden door. Terror shrieked through him; his heart pounded. “Why?” he whispered.
“They believe it will help. They say the Goddess knows all. That She sees, from Her place above. Her eyes never leave us. They say that we have settled on an island that was never ours, grown too easy, and it has made Her angry. That She uses the lights to bend the island to Her will. She sends storms to keep us on our guard, to remind us of the dangers lurking behind each sunrise and sunset. And when they glow red, She is angry. It means it is time for Her to remove most of us and let us begin again.”
A pause.
“They say She is unhappy with us. That we have taken and taken and taken from Her island and given nothing in return. We burn its firewood and hunt its animals and draw fish from its sea, and with little thought. That must change. They believe that the time has come to give the Goddess something, after so many years of taking. And a life is the most valuable thing we can offer, when we have so little.”
Life.
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I don’t believe it.”
“Then let me out.”
“I can’t. They’ve locked you in. They’ll kill me if they see me talking to you.” Quickly, as if he’d never been there at all, Ivar heard retreating footsteps as the boy dashed away.
If he didn’t get out before they came back, he might not live to see the morning.
Chapter 14
A hand on my
arm awoke me well before dawn. They’d made me a bed by the fire, a pile of blankets into which my tired body sank. I’d fallen asleep instantly, but I didn’t dream. The night was a wide chasm of darkness.
“You’d best be on your way,” Gregor said when I sat up. He was already dressed, a cup of warm water in his hands. “There isn’t time to be wasted. Once you leave the forest, there’s a large plain between us and the foothills. You have to be off the plain by nightfall or the wind will claim you and your horse. There’s shelter in the foothills, caves and trees to offset the weather. If you leave now, you’ll reach it by sundown.”
“What of the foothills?” I asked. “What should I know of them?” I stood and donned my wraps and boots, my body screaming with aches and pains after so much time on horseback the day before.
Gregor hesitated. “I don’t know,” he answered. “I’ve never been there. But remain on your guard. You seem smart enough to know that. Use all of your senses, and most importantly, don’t be on the plain at nightfall. Don’t think of what awaits you in the foothills. Think of sparing yourself from the slow, aching death of succumbing to the cold where no one can help you. Let that be a fire beneath your feet.”
I nodded, swallowing a knot in my throat. “And my horse?” In my hurry to leave my village, I hadn’t thought to pack her food.
“I’ve prepared you a pack of grain. It’s a rarity, worth a lot, but you’re a good enough cause. We all want to see you succeed.” His words were kind, though the way his face fell as he spoke them said, We don’t think you will.
Outside, the air was biting cold, yet somehow invigorating. It was still, devoid of wind – before dawn was the coldest part of the night, when the sun had been out of the sky for so long that all hints of warmth had been long since chased away. To me, though, it had always felt like a safe time, a time when all the dark things that came out to play at night were retreating to where they’d come from, anticipating the approaching light. The sky was crisp, clear, the stars overhead glistening fiercely. Few sights could be more beautiful than that, I thought. Yet appreciating the beauty of anything right now felt wrong.
Ri was tied to the post, though she’d spent the night in a nearby stable.
“She’s been fed and watered,” Gregor told me, patting her shoulder fondly. “The grain’s in this pack here.” He tapped one that hung with the rest of my bags. “Don’t give her much in the morning or she’ll be full and lazy during the day. Make her bigger meal at night. It’ll give her energy in the morning.”
“I will.” I ran a hand under her mane. Her coat was warm, comforting.
“Don’t run her into the ground on the plain, but don’t stop for anything. Keep a steady pace and you’ll make it to the foothills by nightfall.”
I mounted and stretched my stiff neck, ready for a long day of riding. “What else should I know?” I asked, soaking up the last few minutes of another’s company.
“Stay out of the jōt’s way. Once you reach the mountains, only light a fire if you have cover. You never know what might be attracted to the light. And think of us here once in a while. The Ør are a fierce foe.”
“I could never forget,” I told him, looking back in the direction of my own village. A shot of fear coursed through me, but I quelled it quickly. “If you go, you know my father already, but find Ivar. He’ll help you. He’ll answer your questions.”
“Ivar,” Gregor repeated, nodding. “I’ll remember.”
“Here, take this,” his wife said, emerging from the house. She handed me a leather flask. “It’ll warm your insides this morning,” she said, and gripped my hand in a farewell gesture.
“Best of luck,” Gregor said, patting the horse’s rump. She began to walk.
“And luck to you, as well,” I said. “Go and speak to the people of my village. Everyone must work together.”
“Indeed, I shall!” he shouted back.
I put the village behind me.
The trees lasted for perhaps an hour after our departure from the village. As we passed the last of the trunks, I brought Ri to a brief halt. Before us stretched the most vast expanse of nothingness I’d ever seen in my seventeen years. Even the open sea offered more than this, what with its rolling waves and white crests. Here, white snow spread as far as the eye could see. In the darkness of pre-dawn, the only thing I could make out of the mountains were faint, tiny shards of black silhouetted against the stars. I shivered at the sight. Until this moment, they’d been nothing more than stories and the accompanying pictures created by my mind. Now they were real. They were real, deadly, and my destination.
From here, they seemed impossibly far away, but this was deceptive. As the day went on, they’d grow and grow like the ground itself was pushing them up towards the sky.
I urged Ri on. The snow was deep, nearly up to her chest, and while our progress wasn’t fast, I remembered Gregor’s words about pushing her too hard, and let her make her own pace. We had the entire day ahead of us to reach the foothills. If we kept up this steady rate, I was sure we’d make it in time.
Here in such a vast space, with no village lights or trees to hinder the view, the stars overhead blossomed. Hundreds of thousands of the tiny points of light seemed to emerge from hiding, like candles to guide my way. There was a comfort in the stars. They were reliable, familiar, and even so far from my village, I felt at home. In the northwest sky, the Horned Horse seemed to watch my steps. They were a creatures of legend, never seen in the real world, but I wanted to believe they might have walked somewhere, once upon a time. People said that horned horses were the mounts of the first peoples to ever walk the earth, fierce immortals who, despite their immortality, had somehow disappeared.
Just to the south of it, as if to challenge the Horse’s prowess, sat the Wolf. Another creature no one had ever seen, it was painted in the stories that surrounded it, a predator much, much larger than the smaller wolves that roamed Skane. There was a list we learned as children: The Five Greats. They represented the five biggest constellations in the sky. The Goddess, the Giant, the Horned Horse, the Wolf and the Warrior. The Warrior was just coming into view as the year wore on. His sword became more and more visible on the horizon every day.
I tilted my head a little as we rode on. The sky seemed … not quite right, but I couldn’t place what it was. Something in the heavens had changed, yet it was too subtle for me to detect.
I thought, then, of Gregor’s words from last night. Of golden lights shining in this very sky, a meaning I didn’t understand. Never, in all my years in this world, had I heard that story before. The red lights always portended some sort of end, some sort of death. But this strange thought – gold lights – something old reawakening, sent fear like spiders crawling down my spine.
Dawn broke in an explosion of orange. It was faint at first, not more than a glow in the eastern sky that soon blossomed into a fiery orb that was reflected off the snow. The few clouds were cast in a multitude of colours: red, orange, pink. The higher it rose, the less intense the colours became, until at last morning had finally broken. At one point I turned to look behind me, but the trees were out of sight. There was nothing except pure, flat snow in every direction except forward, where the mountains were slowly rising taller and taller.
Loneliness set in. In the woods, even when there were no other people for miles, the trees seemed alive. They stood tall, watching and old, and in their shadow, I felt comfort. Out here, a minuscule figure in such an infinite space, isolation seeped into my very bones.
An hour after midday, the sky changed. Dark, brooding clouds crept in from the south, and before long, they’d blotted out the sun. A chill wind picked up, whipping my curls about my head and into my eyes. I grabbed another wrap from my bag and tied it around my face, leaving only my eyes exposed. Perhaps it was no more than passing flurries, here to drop a centimetre or so of snow and move on.
But the angry sky overhead, roiling like the sea, didn’t bespeak a day of gentle flurries. I’
d seen skies like this too many times before to believe that.
Afraid the storm would slow our progress and we’d be stranded on the plain after sunset, I urged Ri on a little faster. At the rate we were going, it would take us longer to reach the foothills than we had daylight left.
“There’s a storm coming,” I said aloud, as if perhaps she’d understand. Glancing over my shoulder at the onslaught of clouds, I lightly patted her shoulder, Gregor’s words haunting me. “I know you don’t want to be out here any more than I do.”
Maybe there was something in my tone that encouraged Ri, because her steps quickened ever so slightly. It was small comfort, though, knowing just how much distance we still had to cross. Eventually, I didn’t know whether to look at the growing storm behind me or the growing mountains in front. Both of them filled me with dread, and a small part of me wanted to stop and bury myself in the snow and just forget about it all.
Flurries began to fall. They spun and swirled about, taunting me. Now, no matter what direction I looked, the blue sky had vanished.
The storm set in with a vengeance. I held one hand aloft, and could barely make it out through the furious snow, mere centimetres from my face. The sun might as well have slipped behind the horizon again, for it was so dark there was no differentiating day from night. Gregor had warned me about the plain at night, but certainly the plain during a storm such as this was far worse.
I remembered, then, another storm such as this one.
I trudged through the woods behind Father, my short, childlike legs burning with the effort it took to carry myself over the snow. More fell every second, burying us. Yet on we walked, Father determined to see us home. I wanted to stop, wanted to find shelter of some sort and hug my own body until I felt even faintly warm again, but I couldn’t break off from his lead. If I lost myself out here, I’d die within the hour. Carry me, I wanted to say, working to stop tears from building behind my burning eyes. But he would never. He hadn’t held me since I’d learned to walk.
A Shiver of Snow and Sky Page 9
