“No use,” Runt coughed. “I can’t go on any more. Leave me.”
“N-n-never,” Squeaky answered. She hauled him onward while her gaze roved right and left. Yes, there, a dip in the slope, bushes clustered around, shelter of sorts. “This way. Please. Trust me.”
He collapsed in it. She knelt beside him and felt how chilled he was, saw how lids drooped over eyes rolling back in his head. “You must get warmer, Runt,” she said, wondering if he heard. “Here, Cockeye, you sit close on his left side and I’ll be on his right.”
“But I’m cold an’ tired m’self,” the younger boy objected.
“He gave us everything he had,” Squeaky said. “It’s our turn.”
Cockeye shook his head at the baffling new idea but obeyed. After a time he noticed how the flakes melted on his skin. He scooped some off the ground, cautiously licked it, at length put it in his mouth. “Hey,” he yelped, “this turns into water! We don’t got to stay thirsty, anyhow.”
“Maybe we’ll find something more, if we keep trying,” Squeaky said.
Light increased. The snowfall slackened until it was no more. Runt slept, huddled between his comrades. They looked across a rolling white landscape beneath a leaden sky which, at one point low above the horizon, was somewhat brighter. But they lacked words for what they saw, or understanding of it. When black wings flapped overhead and a hoarse caw drifted down to them, they cowered.
Distance and terrain hid the castle, not that they would have recognized it. Otherwise they felt themselves far indeed, illimitably far, from the Greenleaf World. ,
Abruptly Cockeye straightened. His finger jabbed the air. “Yonder, yonder!” he squealed. “See it?”
The girl squinted against the weird whiteness. Over a ridge a hundred yards away came a form walking, high and gaunt as the marker stone. Four lesser things loped after it, heads near the ground as though they sought what to devour. “A goblin?” she wondered. “No. But—”
“It’s a people!” shouted Cockeye. He bounced up. Runt slumped back. A snore rattled in his gullet. “A people like in the pictures!”
“Get down,” Squeaky told him frantically. “How do you know? We’ve heard about demons and trolls and, and everything horrible.”
Cockeye stood where he was. His glance challenged hers. “I think it’s a people,” he said, “an’ if we don’t fetch it, it’ll go by not knowin’ an’ we’ll die. I … I b’lieve it.”
Squeaky sat mute for a space. The crow jeered at her.
“You may be right,” she said. “I suppose I have to believe too. What else? Can you run and meet … whatever that is?”
“Whoo-ee!” yelled Cockeye. Squeaky held Runt close and watched the short figure bound away over the snow.
Despite his years, Oric the hunter still ranged widely. Scornful of fears that spooked in the homes of men, he quested for deer onto Mimring Heath, alone but for his hounds. Thus it was that he saw a boy speed, stumbling and panting, across the waste toward him. “Hold, Grip,” he ordered. “Down, Greedy. You, Loll and Noll, quiet.” The dogs cut off their baying and stood by his spear.
The boy’s red hair made a single splash of color in the winterscape. When he fell at Oric’s feet, the hunter saw bruises and slashes on his shins, gooseflesh everywhere, for he wore merely a tunic of coarse weave, fouled by hard travel. “Well, well,” Oric said. “What have we here?” He laid down his weapon and hunkered to help the boy rise.
The boy started. He squirmed aside, jerked onto all fours, scuttered off like an animal. His eyes shone enormous in the chalkiness beneath his freckles.
“Ascared, are you?” Oric drawled. “You galloped to me, but when you came nigh, I was too strange, eh? Or is it the hounds? They won’t bite you, younker.”
Smiling, he took a piece of cheese from his pocket and tossed it. The boy retreated farther. Oric rose. “I’ll retrace your steps, slow-like,” he said. The boy yammered. “Sorry, I don’t follow you.” Oric cupped hand to ear. “Repeat?”
“You a people?” he heard. The accent was so peculiar he must think before he knew what was meant. “Y-y-you won’t eat me?”
Knowledge struck into Oric. His vision blurred. “No, kid,” he answered most gently, “I won’t. I’ll bring you home.”
He started along the tracks in the snow. A peek behind showed the boy squatted where the cheese had fallen, ravenously consuming it, before slinking after him.
As he neared the two others, he stuck his spear in the ground, bade the dogs sit, and advanced empty-handed. A girl looked up at him, terrified, but did not leave the half-conscious boy she hugged. “I guess you couldn’t,” Oric murmured, “and me, I’d better prove I’m harmless.”
Under the wild stares he brushed a space clear, gathered wood, with flint and tinder started a fire. Eventually the younger boy ventured close and crouched by the coals. Later the girl half supported, half lugged the older boy there. Oric left food for them. He settled a ways off, unpacked his flute, and played the prettiest tunes he knew.
In due course he went to the bigger lad. Although the companions withdrew, they did not bolt. He laid down his cloak and blanket. “Wrap those around you,” he told them. “Best I can do.” He lifted the slumped body. “We’re going home,” he said to the girl. “You want to carry my spear for me? That thing with the shaft.” He nodded at it. “Careful of the edge. But it’s comforting to have a defense.”
She did as he suggested. At first he moved cautiously, lest she panic and attack him. When she seemed more at ease, he lengthened his stride.
It was a slow journey, with frequent stops. The strength of Oric’s youth was diminished, and Runt—the girl uttered the name—became a heavy burden. Camped at eventide, he had as much as he could do to make a new fire and cook supper. “You and Runt take my bedroll,” he told the girl. He grinned wryly. “I don’t suppose anything can happen that shouldn’t. Uh, Cockeye, you and I’ll bundle up in my cloak to keep warm, if possible.”
The small boy hung back. “Suit yourself,” Oric said. “Whenever you like, you’re welcome.”
The overcast parted. Stars glittered. The children cried out. It grew bitterly cold. Cockeye crept to lie with Oric among the hounds.
By morning Runt could walk, albeit painfully, and progress was easier. They reached farmland about noon, Yorun shortly after sunset. Along the way, the children exclaimed at everything they saw. They kept aside, together. Often alarm sent them scuttling. But they would return to tag after their guide.
Dusk settled blue over the town. Snowclad roofs reached toward the earliest returning stars. Light spilled yellow through window glass. Oric led the children to the house of Guthlach the smith.
At a knock, that man opened the door. Limned against lamp-glow, he stood black and huge, sudden as the blow of a hammer. Cockeye shrieked and scampered back. Runt shoved Squeaky behind him and poised with fingers bent like claws, teeth bared, ready to fight.
“Slow, slow, friend,” Oric urged the smith. “I’ve got company for you who’re easily scared. They’ve been with the goblins, I think.”
“What?” sounded from within. Guthlach’s wife brushed him aside and sped forth. “Our Westmar come back?”
“I fear we’ll never know for sure,” Oric said. “A baker’s dozen of years since you lost him, am I right? But I thought this is a home that’d give fostering.”
“Gladly, gladly,” she wept, knelt in the snow, and held her arms open to the half-seen children.