Bera gazed out from the cabin as the flakes swirled and settled,
hiding the track through the woods, obscuring tree line and sky above. She
gazed up into that blanket of white, hearing the cry of geese winging south
somewhere far above. Lucky
birds––escaping from this place.
No escape for her.
The wind cried chill and far off, deeper in
the forest, she heard wolf voices calling out to each other. Bera wiped damp
from her hair and stamped her feet. She should go inside, see to young Jaran.
He’d be hungry again soon. Her son was always hungry. Like his father, Jaran
came from fighting stock—the Jarle’s eldest son was the best warrior on
the island. But where was Hrelgi now? What had come over him, tramping off to
the hall in such a manner, with the promise of winter storm to come? That
temper would ruin them all.
Her husband had left three hours ago, and
night beckoned. Night was no longer safe. Not even for him. It was scarce ten
miles to the hall where Hrelgi’s father held power.
Or tried to…
A short
trip––even in this weather—and Hrelgi was strong and clad in the finest
wool and furs. He should be here with them. Hrelgi’s business with the Jarle
could have waited until morning. Jaran needed his father.
Bera chewed her lip and shivered as the wild
creatures called out from the forest. Not that she was worried about those––for
her or her beloved. They were just beasts. Hrelgi was more than a match for any
creature or man. Stalwart and steadfast—unlike his brother and father, both lesser men
in Bera’s opinion. But she who now resided inside that hall was another matter.
Sheega
Bera repressed a shiver when she thought of
that woman. It was all so strange, uncanny
even. Sheega. The beautiful enigmatic foreigner had appeared like a drow
out of the mist, scarce two weeks before the untimely death of Casla, Jarle
Hrund’s beloved spouse.
Poor Casla had been found floating face down,
drowned in the river. No witnesses, just a body floating out to sea, seen by
fishers leaving at dawn. She’d been a good swimmer, Casla. Strange.
Jarle Hrund should be in mourning. Instead the
old fool was caught like a wasp in amber. Hooked and trapped by those canny
blue eyes and clever, beautiful face. Sheega ruled the hall these days. Word
was, she came from cursed Dunnehine far to the east. Bera could believe it. The
woman was as frightening as the rumors of that strange land.
She’d warned Hrelgi to stay put. “Don’t
provoke that woman. Your father’s folly is not your affair,” she’d yelled at
him as Hrelgi had strode off through the snow, his axe hanging at waist belt
and a short bow slung across his shoulders.
He’d turned once and blown her a kiss, his
fair hair lifting in the wind. “I’ll return before dusk, sweetheart,” he’d told
her, the liar.
Bera glanced up again. Quiet, calm. The wind
had eased back, and an icy chill settled in the crack of willow branches
surrounding her. She knew something was amiss. Call it female intuition, but
every fiber in her body urged Bera to wrap Jaran in swaddling furs and leave
this place. But where to go, and what
about her man? She heard a scream from inside and Bera felt an icy chill
cramp her stomach.
Jaran was crying. That boy never wept. She ran
into the room, blinking as warmth and hearth-light dazzled her. Jaran lay face
down on the floor. He’d fallen from the cot. He wasn’t crying now. He was
gazing up at her with those knowing blue eyes. His gaze shifted to the door,
left ajar from her passage. Bera turned as the wind returned sharply and
blasted the coals across the little room. A man stood there. Tall, stooped. His
face shadowed by a hood, and gloved hands reaching out for the boy.
“I’ve come to take your son.” The man’s voice
was crow-raw as he stooped over mother and child. Bera shrieked and reached for
her hidden knife.
Grabbing its bone handle, she stabbed upward
at his shadowy face. He didn’t blink, but a gloved fist snatched the knife from
her grasp with eerie speed. “You don’t need that,” the stranger said with that
rope-rough voice. “I am not your enemy, woman––but rather one who would help
you.”
“Unlikely words for a specter in the eve of
night,” Bera hissed, and gazing down at Jaran marked how quiet and calm he was.
Unafraid. Curious. A warrior. The
child seemed at ease in the presence of this stranger. Reluctantly, Bera tore
her gaze from Jaran and glared up at the man holding her knife. So hard to see
his face inside that hood.
He flipped the blade deftly through gloved
fingers, then tossed it into the oak mantle, where it quivered twice and
settled. Jaran giggled as though approving.
“We’re short on time, Bera Ormesdottir,” the
raw voice barked, making her jump. “They are coming for the boy—Jaran
will be charcoal embers by dawn if you tarry here.”
“What madness is this?” Bera lashed out with a
fist.
Again, he was quicker, catching her wrist and
lowering her arm, none too gently. He slapped her face with his free hand.
“Give me the boy.”
“My husband will be here soon,” she said.
“He’ll cut out your knave’s heart for striking a Jarle’s daughter.”
The stranger laughed, his cold gray eyes
blazing like winter stars. “Hrelgi cannot help you, girl. She will cast the runes. Soon the hunt will range out, by order of
your father the Jarle, and led by your husband’s brother.”
“How do you know this? What is it that they
hunt?” Bera felt the icy stab of dread again. Hrelgi.
“Hasn’t long to live.” The uncanny stranger
nodded briskly, his sharp eyes pinning her gaze. “I can save you, Bera. But
first I must take this boy.”
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