The Liar's Key (The Red Queen's War #2)(51)

Coming closer we saw that the dwelling was a stone-built roundhouse, the roof thatched with dried heather and river-reeds. Apart from a shed a single winter from no longer being a shed, and a drystone wall for stock to shelter behind come the snows, there were no outbuildings, and no other dwellings lay in sight.

A handful of mangy goats bleated at our arrival, one from the roof. An axe stood bedded in a log before the doorless opening. The place seemed deserted.

“See if they left any furs.” I nodded at the door as Tuttugu drew up alongside us. “I’m freezing.” My clothes still felt damp and were doing a poor job of keeping out the wind.

Tuttugu looked up at Snorri who shrugged and walked on over to the doorway.

“Halloo, the house?” Snorri paused as though he heard something, though I couldn’t make out anything but the goat on the roof, bleating as if it were wondering how to get down again.

Snorri stepped up to the entrance. And then stepped back again. The long and gleaming prongs of some kind of farm implement following him out. “I’m alone here and have nothing you might want.” A voice gone rusty with the years. “Also no intention of letting you take it.” By inches a yard of wooden haft emerged, and finally on the other end an old man, tall but stooped, his hair, eyebrows, and short beard all white like snow, but thick, as if a thaw might give us back the younger man.

“More of you, eh?” He narrowed rheumy eyes at Kara. “V?lva?” He lowered his pitchfork.

Kara inclined her head and spoke a few words in the old tongue. It sounded like a threat but the ancient took it well and gestured to his hut. “Come in. I’m Arran Vale, born of Hodd, my grandfather—” He glanced back at us. “But perhaps you’ve travelled too far to have heard of Lotar Vale?”

“You need to leave here, Arran.” Snorri stepped in closer, making his words clear. “Gather only what you need. Hardassa are coming.”

“Hardassa?” Arran repeated as if uncertain of the word, or of his hearing. He tilted his head, peering up at the Norseman.

“Red Vikings,” Snorri said. Old Arran knew those! He turned quickly, vanishing into his home.

“It’s us they’re after! We should take what we need and go!” I glanced back at the distant lip of the valley, half expecting to see Edris’s friends pouring down the slopes.

“That’s exactly what they will do when they spot this place,” Tuttugu said. “Take what they want. Re-provision. Their longship can hold a lot of goats.” Something in his eyes told me his own thoughts were circling the idea of goat stew even now.

“Hurry!” Snorri slapped a hand to the lintel-stone, leaning in.

I looked back again and a lone figure stood on the ridge, little more than a mile away. “Shit.” I’d been expecting it all this time, but that didn’t stop the truth of it from being a cold shock.

Arran re-emerged carrying nothing but his pitchfork and in the other hand a butcher’s knife. Across his back he’d secured a bow that looked as old as him and as likely to snap if bent.

“I’ll stay.” The old man looked to the horizon. “This is my place.”

“What part of Viking horde did you not understand?” I took a pace forward. Bravery of any kind generally makes me uncomfortable. Bravery this stupid just made me angry.

Arran didn’t look my way. “I’d be obliged if you’d take the boy though. He’s young enough to leave.”

“Boy?” Snorri rumbled. “You said you were alone.”

“I misled you.” The faintest smile on the bitter line of the old man’s lips. “My grandson is with the goats in the south vale. The v?lva will know what’s best for him—but don’t bring him back here . . . not after.”

“You’re not even going to slow them down with that . . . fork.”

“Come with us,” Tuttugu said, his face clouded. “Look after your grandson.” He said it like he meant it, even though it was clear the man had no intention of leaving. And if he did it would just slow us down.

“You can’t win.” Snorri, frowning, his voice very deep.

The old man gave a slow nod and a double tap on Snorri’s shoulder with the fist that held the knife. A gesture that reminded me he had not always been old, nor was age what defined him.

“It doesn’t matter if you win—it only matters that you make a stand,” he said. “I am Arran, son of Hodd, son of Lotar Vale, and this is my land.”

“Right . . . You do know that if you just ran away they’d probably ignore you?” I said. Somewhere just behind the conversation Aslaug’s screams scratched to get through. Run! The message bled out into each pause. I didn’t need instruction—running filled my mind, top to bottom. “Well . . .” I glanced once more at the doorway to the roundhouse, imagining it thick with fur cloaks inside. “We should . . . go.” A look at the ridge revealed half a dozen figures now, close enough that I could make out their round shields. I started walking to galvanize the others into action.

“May the gods watch you, Arran Vale.” Kara bowed her head. “I will do my best for your grandson.” She spoke the words as if she were playing a role but in the unguarded moment as she turned away I saw her doubts—her runes and wisdom perhaps as much a facade as my title and reputation. She started to follow me. Dig deep enough into anyone and you’ll find a scared little boy or scared little girl trying to get out. It’s just a question of how deep you have to scratch to find them—that and the question of what it really is that scares the child.