Runes and Red Sails (Queenmaker Book 1)(80)

An aging buck, crowned with a magnificent rack of antlers but unsteady on his feet, was snarled in mud by the bank of the stream and slow to turn from Embla’s pursuit. The buck made a last bid for freedom, surging from the mire and limping across the field. Its panicked eyes darted about and froth gathered about its braying lips.

Embla latched onto the deer’s hindquarters, but her teeth could make little dent in the thick hide. The deer arched its shaggy back and sent the hound flying into the underbrush.

Aelfhild raced to help the others encircle the old beast.

Hooves tramped and flailed at the hunters.

Something in the meadow snagged her foot, sending Aelfhild tumbling. Snags tore at her as she rolled upright and ran on.

Breath came in short gasps.

The reindeer must have known that it was trapped, but the fight was still far from over. Bellowing and grunting, the towering animal swiveled and kicked with its stout legs at the humans that darted in and out as they probed for weakness.

Rolf was the first to get in front of the buck. He slipped in and jabbed with his spear, but found no purchase.

“Watch the head!” someone cried.

Antlers swept the greybeard to the side and Aelfhild heard him yell in pain.

“In front!”

Next came Jarngrim, leaping and thrusting. His spear stuck into the reindeer’s chest. The blunt end of the carved stick caught the ground, snapping under the weight; the reindeer’s bulk drove the point home with deadly force, and its front legs gave out.

“To the side!”

Onund came in beside Kolbrun, driving cruel points into the buck’s flank. The beast collapsed, and a final blow from Eyvind ended its suffering.

Aelfhild watched the life drain from the deer’s wide eyes. Her unused spear trailed along through the dirt. Around her, the Thrym howled in victory.

Embla bounded back up from the bushes to sniff at the steaming carcass.

Rolf groaned.

The thrill of the hunt faded as the crew rushed to his side.

Blood stained the greybeard’s breeches along his right leg where the antlers had driven home. He pressed both hands against the wound.

Kolbrun tore strips of cloth from her cloak, and Aelfhild helped the shield-maiden to bind the wound. They pressed their weight against the bindings, though the blood was only a trickle now.

The others stood by, panting and dripping sweat.

“Can he walk?” asked Jarngrim.

“I am not dead yet, boy,” Rolf growled back. “I can walk fine.”

Eyvind put a hand on the wounded warrior’s shoulder. “Rest now, we will see to the kill.”

Rolf lay back. “Takes more than a deer to put me down,” he muttered.

Soon they had a fire going, and smoking brands to drive away the eager flies. By nightfall they had a feast.

There was no salt and no herbs for seasoning the meat, but Aelfhild had never tasted such splendor. Back in civilization, it would have been judged gamey and tough, but in the wild there were no such lofty standards. Grease stained her cheeks and her belly panged as it swelled beneath the weight of venison.

Grimacing, Rolf made a few test strides with his birchwood crutch.

“Need a few days to rest, old man?” called Onund. He received a warning growl in reply.

Aelfhild leaned back and let her belch waft out toward the stars. She relaxed while she could, for she had an inkling that the scrape would do little to keep Rolf from the crew’s heels.





44

Aelfhild dropped onto her blanket, exhausted.

It had taken Rolf no time at all to recover. He still winced when he thought no one was looking, but seemed to drive them on all the harder for his pains.

The march that day had been long, and she was asleep almost as soon as her head kissed the ground.

She dreamed.

The shifting walls of the grey hallway loomed around her again, just as they had on the night of the hall-burning in Cynestead. Every detail was the same, down to the damp odor of mold and stone dust. She felt the familiar twinge in the palm of her hand as she stepped through the shimmering doorway.

The mass of vines was there to greet her. Tendrils writhed and wriggled, thorns glinted from amongst the snarl. This time, though, the coiled brambles parted layers to reveal the white glint beneath. Bones, a jumble of ribs, splintered femurs, spines, and jawbones, made up the center of the orb. Gauzy roots spread in webwork across the cracks and breaks in the ivory.

She felt no fear. The sight was repulsive, but she was detached from the feeling—more that she knew it ought to disgust her, but emotion was remote and slippery.

Then there were the whispers, countless and on all sides.

Listen.

This time, when she woke, she wasted no time worrying or wondering. The previous warning had saved Ceolwen and Cuthbert both.

She listened.

And heard only the usual nighttime sounds. Bugs scratched and shifted through the brush. The embers of the campfire popped. Ceolwen snored to her left. But it was only Ceolwen that snored. She heard no other breathing.

Rymr hung in the sky overhead, illuminating the camp with his ghostly blue glow. Valr was just rising from the horizon.

The other blankets were empty.

Aelfhild looked all around, but saw no sign of the Thrym. Some bushes on the edge of camp shook, and she caught what might have been a flash of Embla’s tail.

Something was happening. She wrapped her blanket round her shoulders and set off on what she thought was the dog’s trail. There was a voice, faint in the distance, and she followed the thread.