CHAPTER EIGHTEEN GUÐVARR

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

GUDVARR

G uevarr shifted in his saddle, his arse aching, and lifted himself up, but within a dozen heartbeats he felt the insides of his thighs start to burn. A few more moments were all he could bear, so he returned his backside to the saddle, sighed as the ache returned, then rubbed at his nose, where snot had frozen and left his skin raw and chaffed. He pulled his cloak tighter about him.

I hate travelling. I wish I was back in Darl , he thought.

Then he remembered Lik-Rifa and her room full of serpents and frost-spiders and thought again.

They were riding through open woodland, the sun sinking into the west, the last fractured rays of the day filtering through the canopy. His aunt Jarl Sigrún rode beside him, her drengrs spread in a double column behind them. That was not so bad, but up ahead of Sigrún there loped about a score of skraeling, and others ran through the woodland on their flanks, led by their ill-mannered matriarch, Krúsa, and up above him he heard scuttling and saw the many-limbed movement of frost-spiders. Tennúr whirled and flitted all around them.

No, not better off here, surrounded by vaesen. I wish I was back in Fellur village , he thought. Where I was respected. And, more importantly, where I was safe.

They had left Darl five days ago, set out south, heading towards Liga, but then tennúr-scouts had found tracks of a large group travelling west. They had changed course, found the new tracks and within a day of following them had come upon a homestead, where a disgruntled goat farmer had told them that úlfhéenar wearing thrall-collars had raided her flock and stolen a dozen goats, and so they knew they were on the right trail. For three days now they had been heading steadily west, and hopefully gaining upon Estrid and her crew.

"How long, do you think?" Guevarr said to Jarl Sigrún.

"How long until what?" she answered with a frown.

"Until we catch Estrid and Skalk," Guevarr said.

"Soon, I hope," Sigrún said with a shrug.

Guevarr thought about that, the realisation that battle would most likely be at the end of this chase settling upon him. And no ordinary battle, against drengrs , or preferably farmers, which was what he was accustomed to back in Fellur village and more to his liking. No, this battle would be against a weapon-trained princess, at least one Galdurman, probably more, against trained drengrs and maybe a score of half-beast wolf men and women. He gulped, remembering his experience against one úlfhéenar , Orka at the Grimholt. That was not something he wanted to go riding heedlessly into.

I'd rather be riding away from it.

"I hope it is not soon," Guevarr muttered.

"If it is not soon, then we will have to cross the River Sl?gen, which will take us into Jarl St?rr's land, where we will have enemies all about us," Sigrún said with a scowl at him. "That will be worse than catching up with Estrid this side of the river."

Guevarr thought about that.

"You're right," he said. "We should ride faster."

"That is a decision for Krúsa to make."

"I do not like being ordered about by a skraeling," Guevarr muttered.

"This world is full of things we do not like," Sigrún said back to him. "But I, for one, do not want to put myself on the wrong side of Lik- Rifa. Do you?"

Guevarr shivered. Fair point.

They rode into a glade, the path widening, a single ash tree at its centre. Skraeling were gathered together in a knot, muttering among themselves and pointing, obviously uneasy, causing Guevarr and Sigrún to rein in, skidding to a halt.

Krúsa was standing before the tree, staring up at it with a frown.

"What is it?" Sigrún said, riding over to the skraeling and dismounting.

"Ash trees," Krúsa grunted. "We do not like them."

"Why not?" Guevarr asked, riding closer, Sigrún's drengrs spilling into the glade behind him. He slipped from his saddle and stood beside Krúsa.

"Because of the Froa," Krúsa said, staring suspiciously up at the tree.

"You don't like other vaesen?" Guevarr said. "I thought you were all on the same side."

"No," Krúsa said, spitting on the ground. "Skraeling, tennúr, frost-spiders, trolls, night-hags, hyrndur, we are Lik-Rifa's children. We are on same side. But Froa were made by Snaka. We are not friends with Froa."

"Oh," said Guevarr. "Did Snaka make other things?"

"Yes," Krúsa said. "Faunir. N?cken. All the beasts you farm. You ."

Guevarr did not like the thought of being created at the whim of a god's mind. A plaything. One creation among many. He felt superior to all of them.

"Are Froa … dangerous?" Guevarr asked.

"Of course," Krúsa said. "Froa powerful."

Guevarr looked up at the ash tree, its bark gnarled and knotted, the boughs thick and dense, impenetrable leaves. A breeze blew through the glade, shadows shifting and leaves rustling, almost like a voice.

Be gone be gone be gone it seemed to say to him.

"Then shouldn't we be moving along?" Guevarr said. "Why are we just standing here?"

"Not all ash trees have Froa now. And they only hurt you if they feel threatened."

"Then why are we standing so close?" Guevarr said, taking a step back. "All the more reason to move along, and quickly."

Krúsa grinned at him, revealing yellowed fangs and tusks.

"Be brave, little man."

"Brave! I'll have you know that I am exceptionally brave," Guevarr spluttered.

The limbs of trees around the glade rustled and creaked and Guevarr looked up to see frost-spiders moving among them. He saw one pass onto one of the ash tree's boughs and scuttle along it.

"No," Krúsa shouted.

There was a silence in the glade, then branches shook in the ash tree. A hissing screech rang out, leaves drifting gently down. All gazed up at the tree, and the frost-spider fell from above, crashed to the ground on its back, legs curled.

Guevarr took a step and tentatively leaned over it.

"It's dead," he pronounced.

"Back," Krúsa shouted as something dropped like a stone from the branches above.

Guevarr stumbled back, reaching for his sword. A rounded form crouched on the ground, as if carved from wood, slowly stood, unfurling into a woman, long flowing hair like new roots twisting down her back, skin grey as ash and rough as bark with a dark grain like veins running through it, her body covered with moss and leaves and patches of yellow lichen.

"You dare set foot in my boughs and my glade, dragon's spawn," the woman hissed, sounding like the wind rustling through leaves.

"A mistake, lady," Krúsa said, hands up and backing away.

"Your last," the Froa snarled and reached her hands out. " Vínvieur systur minnar, snara og kyrkja ," she roared loud as a storm wind, trees around the glade shaking and vines bursting from the ground all about them, lashing out like whips. A skraeling fell screaming, red weals down his face, and more vines were bursting from the ground, snaring him, dragging him into the earth. One of Sigrún's drengrs cried out, vines wrapped around one ankle and wrist. He struggled, tried to draw the axe at his belt but more vines were climbing him, binding his arm to his side, swirling higher, threading around his throat and squeezing. Sigrún cried out and ran to him, drawing her sword and slicing at the vines. Some of them burst, but more vines were slithering across the ground, reaching for Sigrún. Guevarr ran to her, not hard for him to do as he was already moving, and grabbed Sigrún's wrist, dragged her away from the drengr even as he collapsed, face purple, eyes bulging. Guevarr stumbled to their horses, pushed Sigrún to hers and helped her mount, then hurled himself at his own horse, slid into the saddle and was dragging on his reins, kicking wildly and the horse was running.

"Away," Krúsa was crying out, pushing skraeling away from the Froa and her ash tree, running for the path that led out of the glade. Guevarr steered his horse that way, almost trampled a handful of skraeling, and then he was galloping along a narrow path. He glanced back, saw Sigrún and drengrs following, caught a glimpse of Krúsa and more skraeling flitting through the woodland, heard the Froa-spirit cry out, the whole forest seeming to shake and tremble and Guevarr put his head down and let his horse run.

"I wish I were back in Fellur village, I wish I were back in Fellur village," Guevarr repeated to himself over and over as he galloped down the path.