Runes and Red Sails (Queenmaker Book 1)(79)

“Rest well tonight,” Rolf said, “for we march twice as hard tomorrow.”





Dew sparkled on every stem and frond the next morning, and the dawn light spread across the meadows in wildfire hues.

Embla stood atop the crest of the hill overlooking their camp; the hound’s ears trembled as she tilted her head to and fro. Aelfhild knelt by the dog’s side and strained to hear whatever sound had Embla so fixated.

Every manner of wren and wagtail raised its voice in the cool morning air. It was a striking choir of chirps and whistles, but Aelfhild had never known the dog to be interested in birdcalls.

“What does she hear?” Ceolwen asked. The Thrym all stood with heads cocked to the side as well, listening for any sound.

“Grab your packs,” called Eyvind. “We follow the pup’s lead!”

They followed Embla’s snuffling nose along the stream bed. The water seemed to grow muddier as they went, and soon Aelfhild could hear the noise. It sounded almost like thunder, a muffled rumble pulsing through the earth. As they made their way closer, she could make out the individual strains—grunts, clicks, and hundreds, even thousands, of footfalls upon mossy soil.

Using a stand of willow bushes to screen their movements, the crew fanned out along the edge of a broad meadow cut by the stream. Aelfhild peeked over the leaves and saw reindeer.

A herd, too vast to count, stretched an endless column across the flowering sward. The beasts milled about, munching at shrubs and slurping at the stream.

It explained the mud, and Aelfhild tried not to think overly hard about what it meant to be downstream from such a herd. She had taken a deep drink and washed her face in those same waters upon waking.

Flies and midges swarmed the deer in a swirling blanket of grey and black, and the smell of manure, sweat, and mud was palpable even at some distance.

Hunting was at the heart of both Thrym and Earnfolding culture, be it as a sport for the nobles or as a necessity of survival for the commonfolk. In the northern forests, game was a mainstay of the diet, while furs and animal bone were vital trade goods. But taking down a deer—especially a larger reindeer—required tools, tools they did not have.

Vidar’s bow and quiver were lost in the sea, there were no horses to ride down prey, and they had but a single hound. Fierce though she was, Embla could do little without a pack to aid her.

The animals were calm for now, drifting slowly but steadily northward as they grazed. Occasionally one would raise its great, shaggy head to survey the meadow, ears twitching at the biting gnats, and then bend back down to graze.

“Back,” whispered Eyvind.

The crew ducked down and snuck out of sight of the herd.

“We need more spears.” Eyvind kept his voice low as he drew lines in the dirt with a stick. “There were some birches further down, we need branches from those.”

“Then we flank the herd, or try. We cannot hope to get behind them, but we do what we can. Three from one side,” he pointed with the stick, “four from the other. We may be able to drive a youngling or a weak one from the pack.”

Aelfhild nodded along with the others. The plan was as good a one as they could come up with given the circumstances, and there was little choice but to try. Even a single reindeer would give them all enough strength to march a fortnight.

First came the spears: Rolf hewed down the longest, straightest branches he could find; Jarngrim trimmed them to size; Aelfhild joined the others in whittling down the ends into wicked points. The birch wood was hard, forcing them to grunt and scrape until their beltknives were dull. Most of the spears were stout and about as tall as Aelfhild, but a few they made lighter and shorter for throwing.

Not a single one of the branches was perfectly straight, though, lending the weapons a shabby appearance—more children’s playthings than deadly arms. Eyvind frowned as he hefted one to test the balance, but held back any remarks.

Spear in hand, Aelfhild split off with Onund and Kolbrun. They settled down behind a screen of ferns and waited for the signal.

The sun was high overhead now, and the day had grown rather hot; sweat ran down their faces, soaking shirts and plastering down hair. Not content only to harass the deer, the gnats bit them without mercy.

A sharp whistle rang out across the clearing, two short bursts, and Kolbrun replied with a single whistle.

They set out at a steady creep, staying low in the undergrowth.

Hot sun baked Aelfhild’s neck and back. Her thighs, unaccustomed to the low gait, bunched into knots.

The humans’ movement had not gone unnoticed. Some of the reindeer had ceased grazing and stood with heads held high, eyes and ears turned toward the trespassers. A few of the animals snorted and stamped in anticipation.

She could see little over the matted bracken, but Aelfhild knew they must be drawing close. Sweat coursed down her brow and stung her eyes. Beside her, Kolbrun raised spear to shoulder, and she did the same.

With a yell the others rose from their hiding spots and charged.

Embla cut a growling whorl across the meadow as the deer scattered. The herd split in every direction under the assault, but so great were the animals in number that deer in the center piled against one another, ramming against the backs of their fellows who were slower to flee. The hunters headed for this tangle.

Eyvind and Jarngrim let fly with short spears as they ran, but the warped sticks flew wide and Aelfhild did not see any strike a target.