He paused, and Wulfgar said, “But you didn’t see it?”
“No. Just the footprints. But since then, there have been other times.” He drank, as if parched, and the man beside him leaned forward, the one called Thorbjorn, a great black-bearded man.
“It was at my farm too. Two goats vanished; there’s no trace of them. The dogs howling in their chains. Karl here lost reindeer, sheep, a dog. None of us dare go out, master! Our children can hide indoors but men have to tend the flocks; spring is coming....”
“I understand that,” Wulfgar said quietly, “but you say it thinks?”
Thorolf raised his head. “Yes.”
Jessa stepped closer to the fire. The cold at her back made her shiver; Skapti eased aside for her.
“We set a trap,” the farmer explained, “at Karlsstead. We dug a pit in the floor of a byre and covered it with loose sticks and straw. A goat was tethered at the back. For a bear, that would have been unlikely to fail, don’t you think?”
Several men nodded.
“If you were careful,” Vidar murmured.
“We were careful.”
“So what happened?” Jessa urged.
Thorolf looked at her as if he had only just noticed her. “For two nights, nothing. Then on the third, a night of silent snowfall, Karl’s youngest daughter opened the corner of the shutter and looked out. She says she saw a shape moving in the drift, glimmering. A big, pale shadow.”
“It still could have been a bear.”
“It could. But in the morning the goat was gone. Neither hair nor bone of it remained. The covering over the trap was still in place. Instead the planks from the back had been torn wide. And, masters, the child said the shape carried something squirming under its arm.”
They were all silent. Wind creaked through the rafters high up in the hall; the fires crackled loudly. What sort of bear carried its prey away like that? Jessa wondered. Wulfgar glanced at Vidar, his face edged with firelight.
“What do you think?”
“A bear can be cunning,” the gray man said slowly, fingering the scar at his lip.
“But like that?”
“If not a bear, then what?”
No one answered. No one wanted to put words on it.
“Has it been about in daylight?” Wulfgar asked. He glanced at Skapti. “They say there are things—trolls, snow beasts, mere dwellers....”
The skald shrugged thin shoulders. “In sagas, yes. Things that throw a shadow on the heart.”
“Jarl,” Thorolf interrupted, “whatever it is, we need help. One man is dead already.”
Wulfgar nodded. He brooded for a moment, then said, “Men will ride back with you. Tomorrow is the Freyrscoming. After that, I’ll come myself.”
“You don’t understand.” The farmer put the cup down and gripped his big fingers desperately together. “I haven’t explained myself well. I knew I wouldn’t.... I said the creature thinks. It plots. It’s journeying with a purpose, not just scavenging here and there. We plotted its progress through our lands; it moves on, always south. Hard terrain doesn’t stop it.” He looked up. “We rode here swiftly, on horseback, without stopping. The thing walks, hunts, sleeps maybe, but it won’t be too far behind us.”
Wulfgar stared at him. “What do you mean, behind you?”
“I mean the creature is coming here, lord. It’s coming directly toward the Jarlshold.”
Nine
I was little equipped to act as bodyguard.
Hakon Empty-hand paused in the doorway of the shieling. Outside, the moon shone through a vivid purple aurora, silvering the trees that crowded close about the field. He stared anxiously into the dark, crowded aisles of the forest.
“Inga! Don’t run off!”
She came around the corner of the building and glared at him. “I wasn’t.”
“Where’s your brother?”
“Here.” Kilmund had another lamb on his shoulders; he was staggering under its weight. The ewe followed, bleating in alarm. “This one was at the other end of the field.”
Hakon eased it awkwardly off the little boy’s back; it ran into the dark byre and gazed around at the straw. Carefully they pushed the ewe in after it.
Hakon shut the door and nudged the latch home with his good hand, the left one.
“That’s all we can do. Now let’s get home.”
He was worried—the darkness had fallen before they’d finished and the news had made him uneasy. Gripping Inga’s arm, he said, “Stay close to me now.”
Crossing the pasture, the little boy kicked and danced. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of the troll, Hakon.”
“He is!” Inga cried.
“I’m not.” Kilmund kicked a small rock in the grass. “Father says those things are skalds’ lies and only thralls believe them.”
“Well, I’m only a thrall,” Hakon growled, “so keep quiet and come on.”
By now they were in the forest, and the light was dimmer. Ever since the group of men had ridden by that morning, Hakon had been uneasy. Perhaps he should have taken the children home straight away. But it had been too easy to imagine the master, ranting because the work hadn’t been done. “Can’t even round up a few lambs, boy, without scurrying back for orders!”
Skuli Skulisson was a good farmer but a hard man; not a man with imagination. Not really a man who knew about fear. Hakon did. He peered into the green gloom of the wood. Those men had believed their tale of the troll. They’d been riding to the Jarlshold, sweating, afraid. And they’d had good swords, and two hands to use them.
“Do we have to go so fast?” Inga asked him. “My side hurts.”
He stopped and looked down at her. “Much?”
“It hurts,” she said tearfully. “Carry me, Hakon.”
Hurriedly he kneeled and gathered her up. She was light, a bundle of frail bones. With his good hand he gripped Kilmund’s shoulder. “Come on now. Hurry.”
It was well into the wood, in the clearing by the stream, that he heard the noise. Not stopping, he turned his head quickly, ignoring the children’s high voices. Something rustled; in the dark tangle of undergrowth to his left he sensed the slightest stir of its presence. It might be anything, but he walked faster, pushing the boy on. Two miles to the farm. A knife on his belt and a rusty sword, but he’d never been good with his left hand and he was thin and hadn’t the weight behind the thrust. Already Inga felt heavier, making his arm ache.
In the windy unease of the wood there were many noises—leaves pattering, the rising roar of high branches, the crisp rustle of nettle and thorn whipping against his legs. He stumbled over a stone and gasped, and Inga squealed, “Don’t drop me!”
“I won’t. Be quiet now.”
He longed to shift her weight but he needed his good hand free. Quickly he put her down and drew the sword. It was old, notched, not much use. A thrall’s sword.
“What’s that for?” Kilmund’s eyes were wide.
“Nothing. A game.”
“What sort of game?”
Leaves gusted into his face as he crouched beside the children. “Hunting. We’re going to run, fast and silent. As fast as we can.”
“I don’t want to,” the boy said stubbornly.
Hakon gripped the sword tight. “We’re late. And if you’re late, your father will have me beaten. And you too, probably, if I tell him you were idling. You don’t want that, do you?”
“No.”
“Good. Then run. Now!”
They hurried through the straining wood, branches cracking under their feet, but it wasn’t fast enough, and Hakon, behind his snatched breathing, knew that the peculiar movement was still out there, somewhere in the dark. It kept level with them; once or twice among the trees he thought he saw a pale glimmer, a shadow in the tanglewood.