Peaceweaver (24 page)

She heard Mord giving orders, but she didn’t listen; she just focused on not falling off the nervous horse as they moved out, guards before her, behind her, on either side of her.

She let her head drop to her chest and trusted Fire-eyes to know his own business. All she had to do was stay on his back.

The landscape passed in a haze of pain and exhaustion. She heard water splashing as they forded the river, and felt
the slope of the land pushing her backward in the saddle as they began the climb into the rocks on the other bank. She wished she’d thought to ask for something to eat before they started, but changed her mind when the thought of food made her gorge rise.

Her eyes closed and she swayed back and forth with Fire-eyes’s stride. Occasionally she felt hands gently nudging her back to the middle of the saddle, and she thought she might have heard someone saying her name, but none of it roused her from her stupor.

The sun was gone when they finally stopped. Hands she didn’t bother to look at helped her down from the horse and led her to a blanket, where she fell into a sleep so deep she might have been dead.

“My lady,” an urgent voice whispered, and Hild opened her eyes a slit to see the gray light of dawn in a rocky landscape devoid of trees.

“The horses are ready. We must go.” She closed her eyes again and allowed the two men on either side of her to lead her to her horse and get her into the saddle. When one of them handed her the reins, she let them slip from her fingers. Fire-eyes was on his own again. She slumped back into her trance, waking up enough to refuse the dried fish Thialfi offered her. At first she felt hungry, but then she felt as if she would retch. She put her hand over her mouth and closed her eyes.

When they stopped, the sun had just begun its downward
climb. Hild looked around her as Mord helped her from the horse. Why were they stopping during the daylight? The monster could still be out there, following them.

Mord must have understood what she was thinking. “We’ve ridden the horses hard, and this is a good place to rest,” he said. “A hideout of the Geats’ that’s easy to defend.”

It took all her strength to nod. They were in Geatish territory now—but she was too tired to care. Mord led her to a rock outcropping that made a natural roof, and she saw a stack of firewood that had been left by the previous visitors.

“You must eat something, my lady,” Mord said, but Hild shook her head. Her stomach felt tight and peculiar, as if she’d been ill for a long time, but at least the pain in her side had dulled.

“Just sleep,” she whispered.

When the scent of roasting meat woke her, she realized she was ravenous. She sat up, blinking in the firelight, and saw Thialfi kneeling beside a fire, looking at her. When he saw her sitting up, he smiled, then turned to reach for something—a bowl.

“Broth,” he said as he handed it to her. “Drink it slowly, my lady.”

She tried to do as he said, but she couldn’t get it down fast enough. “Is there more?”

He smiled again and shook his head. “Not broth, but I think we could find you some meat, if you wanted it.”

She nodded enthusiastically, then looked around as she heard a chuckle. Wulf was sitting near her, grinning broadly, and across from him, Hadding stood up, a skewer in his hands. “Here, my lady, take mine.” He beamed as he gave her the roasted bird.

She didn’t have time to thank him, because she was too busy chewing, unconcerned by the fluff and feathers that still clung to the bird, sucking on her fingers when she burned them in her haste.

Eating exhausted her and she had barely swallowed the last bite before her lids closed again. She felt someone settling a blanket over her, but she was too comfortable and too sleepy to see who it was.

It was morning when she woke again, and cold. She sat up and looked around at the campsite. The larger of the Geatish brothers, the one whose name she still didn’t know, saw her and gave a small bow, which the others must have noticed, because one by one they inclined their heads or offered her smiles.

She stood unsteadily and made her way closer to the fire. The Geat backed away, giving her the best spot—a stone that made a comfortable seat just close enough to the flames that she could warm her fingers and toes without singeing them.

“Here you are, my lady,” he said, and Hild looked up to see him presenting her with another bowl of broth.

She took it gratefully, thanking him as he backed away,
and tried her best not to slurp it down. As she drained the bowl, he took it and handed her a sloshing skin of water, then moved away again.

“You needn’t be afraid of me,” she said. “I don’t bite.”

He colored and looked down, then busied himself with something on the other side of the fire that she couldn’t see.

She already knew he was quiet; he must be shy, too.

She turned at the sound of footsteps—Mord was coming up a steep path into the camp. He stopped to talk to Gizzur, who left the way Mord had come. They must be keeping a heavy post of guards.

Mord lowered himself to the fire a little way from Hild and stretched out his hands to warm them. He looked at something on the ground, then looked up at Hild.

“What is it?” she asked, unable to read his expression. If she didn’t know better, she would have said he was embarrassed.

“My lady,” he said, and then looked down again and cleared his throat.

The Geat rose from his position across the fire and hurried away.

Hild heard movement behind her—Hadding had joined the Geat, the two of them almost racing each other down the path away from the campsite.

She looked back at Mord.

“My lady,” he started again, looking into the flames. “We, uh, we can stay here for another day.”

She waited.

“There’s a tarn not far from here, a little pool with good, fresh water,” he said brightly, pointing and looking off as if he could see the tarn from where he sat.

“We’ll have plenty to drink, then,” Hild said, thinking that they sounded for all the world as if they were sitting in comfort in her uncle’s hall, making pleasant conversation. Why was Mord avoiding her eyes?

His expression grew troubled and he looked back at the fire. The red-brown hair of his beard, she saw, wasn’t entirely hiding the red of his face. He was blushing.

“What is it?” she asked again.

“Well, we thought …,” he said, and then stopped, his cheeks now flaming.

“Thought what, Mord?” She didn’t have the strength for games. What was he getting at?

“It’s just that you, uh, might want to, well, wash, my lady,” he said, rising to his feet. “We could bring water here and heat it for you,” he called over his shoulder as he fled from the fire.

Hild felt her own face growing warm. She looked down at her skirt and raised her hand to her face, her hair. Her clothes were stiff with blood and dirt, and her face must be streaked with them, as well. Her hair was falling out of the slave’s braid she’d made when she’d put it up for Brynjolf’s funeral so long ago, and she could feel twigs and cobwebs and bits of things she’d rather not imagine in it, too.
Hadding’s beard must look positively tidy compared to her hair. No wonder they’d thought her a spirit.

Her appearance was bad enough, but now that she took a whiff of herself, she understood instantly why the men had tried to keep their distance. Even Fire-eyes had objected, and now she knew why. She must still bear the foul odor of the creature from when it carried her to its lair. She smelled terrible.

She turned to see Mord standing at the edge of the campsite, Thialfi beside him. She stood, pulling herself to her full height, and spoke in her most dignified voice. “I wish to bathe.”

The two warriors glanced at her, and the fear in their eyes made her smile. The smile turned into a grin, and the grin into a laugh.

Mord laughed, too, and as he did, Hild heard the laughter of the other men, who had been hiding behind the rocks, awaiting her reaction.

Monsters they were ready for, but telling a lady she smelled bad? That was beyond their experience.

TWENTY-FIVE

T
HE BATH FELT BETTER THAN ANY
H
ILD HAD EVER HAD
in her life. In the pony’s saddlebag she found a clean linen shift and her best gown, the one made of wool dyed a deep red, its neckline embroidered with gold thread. It was no easy task pinning the brooches that held it together on either side of her chest, something she’d never done by herself, but she could hardly ask one of the men for help. When she finally got the brooches fastened, she sat in front of the fire, combing her wet hair with her fingers to dry it and luxuriating in the feel of clean wool socks.

Once she was dressed, the men who weren’t on guard duty returned to the campsite. She pretended not to notice the way their eyes widened when they saw her, but their expressions told her she must have looked even worse than she had realized.

Gizzur approached her and bowed more formally than seemed necessary before he held out a small leather bag.

Hild looked at him, puzzled.

“We found it, my lady, when we were searching for you. Back on the other side of the river.” He laid it in her outstretched hand.

“Thank you, Gizzur,” she said, and was surprised by the way her words made his thin face brighten.

She looked at the bag, a pouch of plain leather. When she opened it, her breath caught in her throat. Her mother’s brooch. The whalebone comb Unwen had used to comb Hild’s hair since she’d been a child. It was Unwen’s bag, the one she’d carried at her belt.

It didn’t mean anything, Hild told herself. Unwen could have dropped it. The leather cord that had tied it closed was still intact; the bag could have come loose and fallen without Unwen ever knowing. She still could have gotten away.

“Gizzur?” she said, and the warrior looked up. “Was there any other sign of her?”

“Not that I saw, my lady.”

Hild turned her attention back to the bag, running her fingers over the leather. That was good, wasn’t it? If the monster had killed Unwen, they would have seen something, wouldn’t they? She picked up the comb, staring at its smooth surface as if it could tell her the slave’s fate, but it revealed no secrets.

“Pardon me, my lady,” someone said, and she raised her
head to see the taller Geatish brother, the shy one, standing in front of her with a dripping ball of cloth in his hands. It took her a moment to realize it was her linen shift, the filthy one she’d been wearing.

“You washed it?” she asked, not meaning to sound quite so surprised. It wasn’t a task a warrior should concern himself with—didn’t these Geats know anything? She rose and tried to take the sodden garment from him, but he held it back.

“Don’t, my lady, you’ll get yourself all wet. Just tell me where to put it to dry it.”

She looked at him, his lean, tanned face, the dark circles under his blue eyes. Like the rest of the men, he must not have slept much since the first monster attack. “I don’t even know your name,” she said.

“It’s Wake, my lady.”

“Wake. Thank you.”

He shrugged. “It’s what I’d want someone to do for my sister.”

“You have a lucky sister, then,” Hild said, smiling despite her disapproval. “You could spread it on those rocks over there, in the sun.” She followed him and supervised while he stretched the shift out in a sunny spot where it would get air. Before she could thank him a second time, he slipped away in the direction of the tarn.

Hild went back to her place by the fire. On the ground beside the stone she’d been sitting on, a blade gleamed in the sunlight. Her sword! How could she have forgotten it?

She looked around to see who had put it there, but Gizzur was sitting alone by the fire, a needle in his hand, his nose wrinkled as if in distaste. She looked more closely. He was mending the tear in her gown where she’d snagged it on the stag’s antlers. Unlike her shift, the gown hadn’t been washed.

“Gizzur,” she said, and he looked up. “That must smell awful.”

He regarded the cloth in his hands, then nodded. “But don’t worry, my lady. Wake said he’d wash it as soon as I’m finished.” He returned to his work, but not before he blushed at her smile of gratitude.

The sound of footsteps came from the path, and Hild turned as first Mord and then Thialfi climbed into view. Seeing her, they approached. She stiffened. The sword lay naked on the ground beside her—she couldn’t deny its existence.

“My lady,” Mord said, and she looked at him, trying to decide what to say about it. But before she could speak, he said, “Will you tell us about the creature?”

She opened her mouth, then shut it. “The creature?” She swallowed her surprise. “Of course.”

The three of them sat down in front of the fire, Hild’s eyes straying to the sword and then back to Mord, but it might as well have been invisible—he neither looked at it nor mentioned it.

“What do you want to know?”

Thialfi leaned forward. “Everything, from the moment we failed you.”

“Failed me?” It was the first time Hild had considered the events from the warriors’ perspective. Of course they would blame themselves. She shook her head. “You didn’t fail me—none of you did.” She looked from Thialfi to Mord and beyond them to Gizzur and then Wake, who had just walked back into the campsite, her cloak dripping in his hands. “However it might seem to you, you did everything you could have.”