Peaceweaver (21 page)

Inside her head, she imagined herself curling into a ball to protect herself. “Lady of the Vanir, Freyja, help me,” she whispered.

Her legs dangled helplessly, hitting against the creature’s knees as it ran. She tried pulling them up, but that took more strength than she wanted to expend.

How long had they been going? It could have been a moment or a lifetime. She forced herself to stay alert, to breathe despite the unbearable stench of the creature’s hide. Trees rushed past. Light flickered through branches, but she couldn’t look up to see where the sun was. If the creature set her down that very moment, she wouldn’t know where she was or how to find her way back to the men. Not that she had to worry about that. The creature’s grasp was so tight that she’d lost all feeling in her arms—it wasn’t about to let her go.

Sharp pain shot through her side where something dug into her. She tried to shift her position, but the creature’s grip was too strong. It couldn’t keep running forever, could it?

A shudder ran through her. Better to keep running than to stop, because who knew what would happen then.

Twigs and branches scratched at her legs as they moved through dense woods. The pain in her side grew harder to bear. If only she could get away from whatever was digging into her side—but she couldn’t. She closed her eyes and slipped into an endless stupor of fear and pain.

She was barely aware when the creature began to slow, but she woke fully when she heard splashing. The creature was holding her differently now, and whatever had been hurting her side was blessedly gone. She had almost grown accustomed to the foul odor and she could open both her eyes now, although her head was turned to the side, limiting her view.

She saw what she thought were giant legs until they resolved into tree trunks, alders, rising out of dark water in the pool the creature was splashing through. Either the sun had gone down or they were in a place that got no sun, but from her position, all she could tell was how little light there was.

Ahead of her she could make out the edge of the pool and, beyond it, the massive roots of a giant oak, coiled like a dragon’s tail, earth packed around them. Below the roots, something dark. She stared until she understood the vision. It was the mouth of an earth cave under the oak roots.

The creature’s grip changed, loosening a little.

Hild tensed, readying herself to flee, but the claws tightened around her again. The creature stooped, then plunged them both into the darkness.

She stifled a scream. Her heart pounded so hard she thought it would burst through her chest. She couldn’t think; she was too afraid. “Oh, Freyja,” she whispered, the words coming out like a moan.

The creature dropped her. The ground hit her with a cold shock. She tried to scramble away, but her body betrayed her. She lay where she’d fallen.
Let me die now
, she begged the goddess, not knowing if she said the words aloud.
Let it be over
.

Snuffling noises reached her ears. She brought her knees to her chest, pulling herself into a ball, and waited to die.

Nothing happened.

She blinked. In the middle of the cave, coals glowed red. In the eerie light, roots dangled like snakes from the earthen roof and walls. She strained her eyes to see what was on the other side of the cave. Something crouched in the shadows, its eyes gleaming.

Hild scuttled backward. She hit a cold earth wall and hunched like a wild animal, watching. The feeling was returning to her arms, sending agonizing prickles to her fingertips. She squeezed her fingers into fists against the pain and kept her eyes on the shape in the shadows.

Something cried out.

She flinched and pushed herself farther into the cave wall.

The cry came again, not as loud this time, and diminished into a noise that made Hild think of one of her nephews whimpering.

The thing on the other side of the fire rose, towering, and moved toward her.

Hild brought her arms up to protect her chest and face.

The creature stopped. It bent down in front of the coals and blew, sending ash flying into the air. Flames leapt up, illuminating the creature and the cave.

Hild stared, incredulous. The creature had a woman’s shape, like a troll-wife from one of Ari Frothi’s stories. Behind it, against the other wall, lay a pile of something, a large heap, indistinct in the murky gloom.

The heap moved.

Hild shrank back, keeping herself from yelping. She tried to watch both the heap and the creature beside the fire, not knowing which threatened her the most.

The heap moved again. A noise came from it, a snarl, followed by a sound like a child’s sniveling.

Hild’s eyes widened. It was another monster. It held its legs and arms to its chest just as she had done moments ago. It was crying.

The female creature raised its head from the fire. It cast a glance at the monster on the ground. Then, with a movement so swift that Hild could barely follow it, it stood and
crossed to Hild, swept her into its arms, carried her to the other side of the fire, and dumped her on the floor—directly in front of the crying monster.

She couldn’t get away. There was no place for her to go. She tried not to weep. She didn’t want to sound like the monster as she died. Her mother’s face filled her mind. Instead of giving her courage, it sent tears streaming down her cheeks, stinging the raw places where the monster’s hide had rubbed her.

The female creature pushed her from behind.

Hild raised her hands to her face and lowered her head to her chest. If she had to die here, why couldn’t it be faster? Horrified, she answered her own question. The monsters would want to play with her first, like a cat with a bird, before they ate her.

“Freyja,” she whispered, and gulped back a sob.

The monster pushed her again, not as hard this time.

Hild raised her head, sudden anger filling her. “Stop it!” she croaked, her voice rough from tears and tension.

This time, the push was more like a nudge.

Bracing herself, curiosity fighting with her fear, Hild turned to see what the female creature was doing, to see what form her death would take.

It moved forward.

Hild jerked away, but she needn’t have bothered. The creature went past her to the monster on the floor and raised its claw. For a terrible moment, Hild thought she was about
to witness one monster killing another. The claw stopped at the monster’s chest.

Hild squinted in the firelight, blinking, fighting her fear and pain in order to concentrate. The monster’s claws clutched at something, but she couldn’t see what.

Then it shifted position and she saw fur, dark and matted. Dried blood? Yes, she was sure there was blood, and then she saw something else.

Something buried deep in the monster’s chest.

It was her sword.

TWENTY-ONE

T
HE FEMALE CREATURE LOOKED AT
H
ILD THROUGH RED
eyes set deep in its matted, wiry fur. It turned back to the sword hilt, dabbing at it gently while the monster on the floor moaned.

Then the female raised its claw toward Hild.

She flinched. In an instant, she looked around, taking in her position. The fire was behind her, too high to jump. On one side, an earth wall. The wounded monster lay on the ground in front of her; the other crouched beside her. There was no escape.

The claw came closer. Hild held her breath.

It stopped so near her face it was almost touching her.

Hild stared, mesmerized, at the dirt-encrusted talon.

Then it moved back, away from her face. She remembered to breathe, gulping in air.

The claw dropped to the sword hilt. As it did, the monster on the ground roared, twisting its body in agony.

Hild hunched into the wall, screwing her eyes shut in horror.

The sound died away. Cautiously, she cracked open one eye, then the other.

The female creature was holding its claw near the sword hilt, looking at it—and now looking at Hild. Did it know what she had done? Whose sword it was? Hild watched as it stared down at the weapon, then looked back at her, reaching out with its talons. She flattened herself against the wall again, but the claw stopped an arm’s length away.

It was pointing at her. Then it pointed at the sword.

Like a rush of clear water, comprehension flowed through her. It wanted her to remove the weapon from the wounded monster’s chest.

Perhaps it had seen her tending to Mord and Gizzur. Perhaps it believed only the blade’s wielder could draw it free. Perhaps it had motives Hild would never fathom. Whatever the reason, the creature wanted her to heal the wound she had caused.

She’d been brought here to nurse a monster.

She could have laughed, the notion was so far-fetched. She felt momentarily giddy. She wasn’t going to die, not just yet.

Then she looked back at the monster on the ground
and the feeling fled. Didn’t the female creature realize that pulling the sword out was the surest way to a quick death? No, of course it didn’t. That was why she was here: because it believed Hild had the power to heal. And if she was going to stay alive, she had better start believing it, too—or at least start convincing the creatures that she knew what she was doing.

“All right,” she said. “I’ll try.” Keeping her eye on the female creature, moving the way you would to calm a skittish horse, Hild eased herself onto her knees in front of the injured creature. As she did, pain flared in her side and she gasped. She waited until she could stand it, then moved again, this time more carefully.

The closer she got to the wounded creature, the harder it was to breathe. She had thought the female smelled bad, but its stench was nothing compared to this. The fur was matted with dirt and blood. Not just its own blood, she realized. Brynjolf’s blood.

She couldn’t think about that now.

She glanced at the female monster. It crouched beside her, firelight playing on its coarse fur, its face in shadow. It was watching her.

Steeling herself, she reached a trembling hand toward the wound, then darted a look at the female again. It didn’t move.

Hild extended her hand farther. She could see how deeply the blade was buried in the creature’s body, how
complete her work had been. Her fingertips brushed the sword hilt.

The injured creature howled, swinging out at her. She pulled back to the wall again. It was a moment before she could get her breath, a moment before she realized that the female was holding the injured monster’s claws, keeping them from hurting her.

The female monster made a noise, a grunting sound. It made it again, then again, until it was a continuous grunting. What did it mean? What was Hild supposed to do?

Then it leaned toward the injured monster with an intimate motion that made Hild gape. It looked like nothing if not a mother crooning to her injured child. It was singing to the wounded monster, comforting it.

She caught her breath. Were these two mother and son?

Hild’s heart sank. If she couldn’t help the monster, its mother would kill her. But she couldn’t help it. Nothing could.

That didn’t matter, she told herself fiercely. The mother believed she had the power to heal. If it had seen her tending to the men, she would need to do something that looked convincing. Her life depended on it.

She had no herb bag like the one Thialfi had lent her. She glanced around the cave, but no herbs—not even moss—grew here. Bones and piles of what looked like animal droppings littered the cave floor. There was nothing she could use.

The mother made a threatening sound, a low growl in the back of its throat, like a dog preparing to attack. Hild
backed away. As she did, something dangling from the cave’s roof caught in her hair. She looked up and saw a wide web of tiny roots woven to the cave’s roof. She stared at them, then cautiously reached up, her heart beating loudly. Her side throbbing, she rose to her knees and worked the earth with her fingers, digging out the roots, keeping them together like a piece of loosely woven cloth. Bits of dirt showered into her eyes but she blinked them away and kept working at the roots, glancing at the mother monster. Its eyes were on her, but it didn’t move.

Hope surged through her and she tore at the delicate edges, gently bringing the tapestry of matted roots to her lap. Making sure the creature was watching her, Hild looked at the sword hilt, then back to the roots, and then to the fire. She didn’t know whether the monster had seen her mixing ashes with the heal-all, but she wasn’t going to take any chances. She scooped warm ash into her hand and began sprinkling it over the roots.

As the sooty flakes fell onto the roots, she started to chant the heal-all charm but stopped before the second word. Mixing roots she couldn’t identify with ashes was harmless enough, but charms had power. Yet if the creature had watched her earlier, it would expect her to chant something. Hild took a shaky breath and then started again, grabbing at the first lines that came to her panicked mind, from the lay she had asked Aunt Var to sing so often, the scene she’d been making into a banner for her uncle’s hall.
“Her babe in her arms, the elf-bright lady ran,” she sang, her voice ragged and quavering. Surely the monster wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between a lay and an incantation of power. Would it? She swallowed and kept going.