Snow-Walker (48 page)

“We can't just go,” Jessa murmured.

“We can and we are.”

Skapti shouldered Moongarm's pack. “I'll take this.”

“Leave it here.”

The skald shook his head. “It's not heavy. He may catch us up.”

“I hope so,” Jessa said.

“I don't. We're well rid of him.”

“He may be hurt, Brochael!”

Brochael snorted. “That one!”

The woman looked at him then. “There are all sorts of pain, Brochael. Maybe there are some you do not recognize.”

He turned away.

They said good-bye, and the skraeling woman watched them go, the wind lifting the ends of her black hair. She folded her arms and called, “If you come back, I'll be pleased.”

“We'll come back,” Jessa said.

The woman shook her head. “You walk into the whiteness now. Into dreams. Only wraiths and sorcerers can live there.”

She turned and went back into the low house.

Jessa turned away. “We never even asked her name,” she said.

All day there was no sign of Moongarm.

The travelers walked through a perpetual twilight; for the first time the sun never rose above the horizon. Over them the icy stars swung in a great wheel, the polar star bright overhead. They walked on ice, immense tilted slabs of it, smashed here and there into jagged spars and shards that jutted up and had to be climbed and scrambled over.

A light snow fell on them, dusted them white with its touch. They saw nothing. No animals, no trace of anything alive in the long, pale blue shadows of the ice cap.

“He's staying behind,” Hakon joked. “He's wise.”

After long hours they were frozen with cold; they ate the skraeling woman's food, and it put some heart back into them. Kari made a white rune fire spark and crackle on the bare ice, but it had no warmth; there was nothing here to burn. They seemed to have lost all idea of time; the perpetual twilight confused them, as if time was something they were walking away from, leaving behind.

They tried to sleep there but the cold was too bitter.

“We'll carry on,” Brochael mumbled, scraping ice from his beard. “If we stay here we'll freeze. Come on.”

They staggered up and walked, almost uncaring. The wind rose, roaring from somewhere ahead over the empty miles and crashing against them. They were no longer a group; each one dwindled deep within himself, daydreamed and imagined and sang silent songs. Speech died; their lips were too numb to shape words. At last, bone weary, they dug a snow hole and risked a short sleep there, out of the wind, but even that was dangerous. Blue and shivering, Jessa could hardly lift the food to her mouth.

Later, as they trudged on, she imagined that they were walking into the great white spaces at the top of the map, walking into blank parchment that no skald had ever written on, that held no words to make itself known.

Stumbling, ears throbbing, the skin under her scarves seared with the wind, she thought of Signi in that room, lying still on the bed with its silken hangings. She felt those furs and blankets now; she was walking over them, up to Signi's mind, and they were warm, and all she had to do was lie down among them, like Signi, and sleep and sleep. But some nagging part of herself wouldn't let her; it ordered her, angrily, to shut up and keep walking.

Then Brochael murmured something in awe.

Jessa stumbled, opened her eyes. Sleet stung her face like grit. And through her blurred eyes she saw, rising in a great arch against the dark sky, a bridge, glinting white. It was breathtaking; already it towered high above them, and she saw it glittered as if made of millions of crystals fused to a solid mass. Rainbows glinted deep within it; it shone against the snow squalls.

The sight of it brought them back to themselves; they stood still, their breath ragged in the wind.

Then Skapti said, “This will be my best song yet.”

“If you ever get to sing it,” Hakon muttered.

The skald wiped snow from his eyes. “You're getting cynical, Hakon. Like me.”

They approached slowly, bent against the wind that tore at them. The ravens flew above, dim shapes against the stars, knocked sideways, squawking.

The ice here at the edge of the world was pitted with great cracks; they had to help one another over, scrambling and climbing, and all the time the scream of the wind increased; it raged in the terrible gap ahead of them, sending storms of snow and cloud churning high against the stars.

With an effort they gathered together, steadying one another. They had reached the foot of the bridge.

It was a fantastic, trembling structure, solid ice hanging in pinnacles and icicles of every thickness and length, frozen droplets bright as stars. The roadway itself was smooth as glass and looked slippery. On each side a delicate rail rose up, made of thin spines of ice spun in a fine paling, knotted with glassy balls.

Somewhere under the bridge, hidden in the falling snow, was the gap. The edge must be within feet of them, Jessa thought. Out of it there rose a howling and raging of wind; a stir of snow that twisted and burst.

The bridge rose into the storm and vanished. Of the other side they could see nothing.

“Right.” Brochael gathered them round him and spoke loudly. “I'll go first. Keep your heads down or the wind will blow you clean off. Hands and knees might be best.”

Skapti slapped him on the back, nodding.

Brochael put his hands to the slope and began to pull himself up. At each step he slid back a little, his boots scrabbling for toeholds on the smooth glassy floor.

“It's possible.” He gasped. “Barely.”

“Go on,” Skapti called. “We're behind you.” He pulled Hakon over. “You next, swordsman. Take your time.”

Hakon settled his sword hilt and smiled at Jessa.

“Be careful with your hand,” she said.

“I will. Good luck.”

He stepped up behind Brochael, bent low against the screaming wind. They both climbed slowly, gripping onto anything they could. Under their feet the bridge was a glass hill, treacherous, beautiful. The others watched, the wind flapping their hoods and hair, until Brochael was a fair way up, the snow squalls hiding him now and then.

Dragging his knees up under him he squirmed round and looked down at Hakon. “Keep in the middle!” he roared. “In the middle!”

But Hakon's foot had slipped; he slid sideways with a yell, sending a shower of crystals into the air, and began to slither, slowly, unstoppably, toward the frail ice uprights.

“Hakon!” Jessa screamed.

He scrabbled with his hands, with feet, with fingers, but nothing held. Brochael, scrambling down to him, cursed in the raging wind.

Hakon's foot met the ice pinnacles; for a moment they held him, but as all his weight slid down on them they splintered; one snapped with a great crack, and with nightmare slowness he felt his legs sliding through the gap. Squirming, he grabbed at an icicle and heaved his sword out of the sheath, slamming it down flat on the wet surface. Then he drew himself up, and with all the strength of his terror he stabbed the blade down hard, ramming it into the ice.

It held, and he clung on, the sword grip so close to his face that the tiny red dragons blurred and moved in his wet eyes.

The wind tore at him. Below him was nothing; he hung over the edge of the world, swinging, clinging desperately to the sword that held him.

“Brochael!” he whispered.

“I'm coming. Hold on!”

Birds flew above him; the ravens. The glossy ends of feathers brushed his face, but they were wraiths, they couldn't help. No one could. Numb, he knew he had been here before, long ago, in his dreams. He knew how it ended. And his hand, his weak right hand, was aching to the bone, unclenching on the leather hilt, the fingers opening, loosening.

“Brochael!” he screamed.

Closing his eyes, he felt the gale drag at him. Suddenly the sword slewed sideways; he yelled, grabbed at nothing, at a hand, a sleeve, warm fingers.

“Got you!”

Brochael's whisper was close, his face, huge, taut, the sweat freezing to crystals on his beard. He began to squirm back, and Hakon felt himself move. He was hauled up over the wet ice, swinging, until his knee came up and found the solid edge, and he heaved himself over and collapsed against Brochael, all breath knocked out of him.

For long seconds they lay there, dizzy, the sky glittering above them.

Only Jessa's desperate shouts stirred them.

Brochael waved. At this distance his words were lost, but the others saw he was safe.

“Thorsteeth!” Jessa breathed. She unclenched her gloves, felt the ache loosen between her shoulders. “I thought they were gone.”

“So did I.” Skapti looked white. “You next.”

She scrambled up quickly.

“Keep your head down.”

She struggled up the glassy slope. It was very difficult. The wind forced against her; she crouched low, feeling for every treacherous, sliding step.

“Kari?” Skapti said.

But the boy had turned; he was looking back into the snow. Something moved in the squall, a great gray shape that leaped by him; with a snarl it had Skapti down and was standing over him, paws splayed, slavering at his throat with white teeth.

“Moongarm!” Jessa yelled. She stopped, looking back. Above her on the bridge Brochael roared with rage.

The wolf turned its head and looked at Kari, and there was something deep in those eyes that Kari knew, but it was lost, almost lost.

“All right,” Kari said. “Let him up.”

The creature backed, snarling. Skapti scrambled to his feet, shaking.

“He wants me to go with him!” Kari yelled. He moved away, a small dark figure on the snow.

“You can't!”

“Go with the others. I'll be close behind.”

“Kari!” Brochael thundered.

Kari looked up at him; too far to hear, Brochael heard the words clearly, sharp with pain. “Cross the bridge, Brochael. You must get them across the bridge.”

The squall blinded them for a moment; when they could see again, the ice was empty.

“Kari!” Jessa yelled furiously. “Don't do this to us!”

But in all the miles of snow, there was no one to answer her.

They crouched in a snow hole, the blizzard lashing them. Shards of snow stung Kari's face; he tugged the scarves tighter.

The wolf had brought him here, leading him through the snow. Now it dissolved; became gray rags of mist that the wind whirled away. The man's body lay half-buried; Kari scraped snow from the eyes and mouth, and lifted the head.

“Moongarm!”

He was cold, almost lost. Putting his thin fingers on the man's wrist, Kari searched desperately within him for the frail soul, dragging it to the surface. Ravens descended around him.

“He's gone,” one of them said harshly, crouching beside him.

“Not yet.”

The man gasped, his eyes flickered. Slowly the taints and wildness of the wolf were gathered into him; Kari felt them enter and flood the man. For a moment he had the impression of someone gentler, older; now it was gone, submerged. Moongarm's amber eyes watched him, intent. Snow roared between them.

“I have to get back,” Kari said. “The others—”

“No!” He struggled up, his cracked fingernails gripping the boy's shoulder. Kari waited, uncertain. The man was still savage with the beast nature that tormented him, but under that was fear, almost terror.

“Help me.” The words were quiet, nearly lost. “Only you can.”

Kari shook his head. “This power is your own.”

“I don't want it!” Moongarm snarled. “It's taking me over—you can see that, you with your ghost sight.” His face was gray, his hair streaked with ice. He crouched, head bent.

“When it began, I could control it; I could change my shape and my nature as I wished. I was free, Kari! I could become something else, something wild, strong, fierce, without the troubles men have!”

“Without reason either.”

“Yes. But free.”

“You still can.”

“It's destroying me!” He paused, as if struggling for calm, his eyes wild and bright in his tangled hair. “Every time, it takes me longer to come back. Gets harder. And even when I fight my way to man shape, the rage is still there. I'm changing. I think more and more like an animal thinks. Moods sway me, hungers, fears. I can't control them. After the bear died, I was savage; those three men were just enemies, scents; I slavered for them. I didn't know their names, that they were Hakon, or Skapti, or even Brochael the Stubborn. I have to get the wolf out of me, Kari. I have to!”

Kari wiped snow from his face. He was chilled to the bone, desperate to get back to the bridge. “Why now?”

“The bridge. Once we cross it, anything might happen.”

“To me,” Kari said bitterly. The rainbow shimmers of the ice bridge came back to his mind.

“I need your sorcery. Reach in now and take the wolf out of me.” The man's eyes were close; his fingers closed tight as claws on the boy's arm. “Now, Kari! Before it devours me altogether. Before I run mad.”

Kari shivered, trying to think. Then he moved out of himself into Moongarm, walked down the trackways of wolf sight, saw the long loneliness of the man, the flung spears, the barking dogs, the blood on the snow. He tasted endless arctic nights, the itch of fur, irrational terror. Then the wind splashed him with ice. He shook his head.

“I can't. Or if I did, it would kill you. It's too deep in you, Moongarm. You welcomed it in, and it's tangled about you. Why?”

“A woman once offered me a chance of strength and courage. I was a weak man, of no family, no importance. Like a fool I took it.” Numb with cold and hopelessness he stared up at the ravens. “Take it out, Kari.”