Fell Winter Read online

  Gunnar shook his head. “No, my king.”

  Sven’s cunning green eyes turned to Brand. “And you?”

  “No,” Brand lied.

  “It is no matter,” Sven said. From the folds of his sable-lined robe, he pulled a sealed vellum scroll. “My dear friend Henrik is the marcher lord, and an important man to our proud nation’s defense. He needs men… and—if I judge your profession correctly boy—those men need skalds. If you will bring this letter to him and promise to serve him for as long as he needs you, I will absolve you of your crimes.”

  “How long will that be?” Brand asked.

  “A year, at most,” Sven said.

  “And if we refuse?” Gunnar said.

  Sven laughed. “If you do not deliver it, I will put you back on the Hangman’s List. I will find the best torturers in the country and I will give you a slow, slow death. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” Gunnar grunted.

  Sven’s expression darkened. “If you do not obey me, then—believe me—I will find out and haunt you to your grave.”

  Both Gunnar and Brand believed him.

  Having no horses, the duo hiked for two days across mountainous, heavily-wooded terrain. They would hike two more before they got to Frostfall, the northernmost region of all Badelgard, where it snowed even in summer and, in winter, was unnavigable.

  That night, in the scarce warmth of the campfire, Gunnar raged at untrustworthiness of Sven. Sven was not trustworthy, neither as a High King nor as a man. “We should open the letter,” Gunnar said. “You can read it.”

  “Open the letter?” Brand laughed incredulously. “If we break the seal, we will be committing a crime. Sven’s friend will behead us.”

  Gunnar scratched his beard in thought. “I do not trust Sven’s intentions.”

  “That makes two of us,” Brand said. “But we can’t risk it, milord.”

  “You’re right. We cannot risk it.” Gunnar took the scroll and broke the seal.

  “Why did you do that, Gunnar?” Brand asked.

  He shot Brand a stern look and handed him the scroll. “Read.”

  “My dear friend,” Brand read, “Because of my great affection toward you and for the benefit of our eternal friendship, I grant you permission to sacrifice these two lowborns. –Sven.”

  Gunnar grunted. “Next time, listen to me when I do not trust a person’s intentions.”

  “Yes, friend,” Brand said, gazing into the fire with concern. “What shall we do now? Shall we leave Badelgard?”

  “I cannot imagine leaving the most honorable of nations,” Gunnar said. He snatched the letter, crumpled it up, and threw it into the flame. “We are in the Trowheim region and—though it is heavily wooded—surely there is a safe town here.”

  “There is no safe town,” Brand said. “Blackhelm Keep is not far away, but the earl does not harbor outlaws.”

  “We do not change our course, then. We go to Frostfall,” Gunnar said. “There are caves in the sides of the mountains. My friend Ivarr—Green Dragon guard him—was a deserter from the king’s army. His battalion was attacked by White Wolves and he was the only smart one; he ran away. They wanted to execute him as a coward, but he ran away and hid in the Frostfall caves for many years.”

  “What happened to him?”

  Gunnar frowned. “Eventually he couldn’t take the silence and loneliness, and the cold of Frostfall. He left and made for Oskir. I had the chance to get drunk with him one last time before the king’s men got to them. He had his thumbnails ripped out… then they sent him off to the gallows, and had him hanged.”

  Brand shivered.

  By sunset of the next day, the great green pines of Trowheim were behind them. They entered the high country: the rocky Ice Shelf which jutted from the mountains as a plateau. It was a pure sheet of ice. There were no elks, deer, or hares to eat, and thus no wolves. Eons ago, trolls walked this plateau and conspired with the Ulfr before the proud sons and daughters of Badelgard drove both races to extinction.

  A thick layer of ice covered every inch of the Shelf and the winds blew from every direction, knifing into every exposed part of Brand’s body, despite the fact that he wore a heavy fur coat. In the darkness, having no wood for a fire, Gunnar and Brand huddled together against the wailing winds. The night lasted what seemed like an age. By morning, neither had slept more than an hour and both were frozen to the innermost sinew. Stiffly, they continued across the Ice Shelf, occasionally slipping, with Gunnar in the lead and providing direction.

  They reached the drop-off in the twilit hours of late afternoon. They carefully climbed down the hard, icy rock and set foot on the grassland that made up Frostfall. It was not much warmer here, though the wind was less severe. Even now, in mid-autumn, patches of snow lay across the grassland. Many miles west lay the lowlands, the sea, and the large town of Andarr’s Port. To the north was White Wolf Keep, home of Sven’s brother, and a few leagues past that were the borderlands. To the east—where Gunnar planned to go, were the hundreds of caves, obscured by a dense pine forest full of game.

  They reached those caves in the middle of the night.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Brand awoke to a hard kick and a sword point pressed against his neck. The blurred figure of a bandit towered above him.

  “Who are you?” Brand gasped.

  As his vision cleared, he realized that it was not the heavy-set figure of a man before him, but the lithe shape of a woman.

  “You shouldn’t sleep with your guard down,” she said in a cheerful voice. “You’re lucky you’re not carrying anything, or it’d be off with your head.”

  “What is your name?” As Brand’s eyes further adjusted to the light, he noticed that Gunnar was relaxed, sitting against the cave wall, and sharpening his axe.

  The bandit was dressed in men’s clothing: crudely-cut leather leggings, a leather jerkin and thin woolen gloves. Yet her facial features were clearly feminine, and a set of thick, strawberry-blonde hair flowed down her back.

  One thing about her struck Brand as strange: running down her cheeks were twin white scars. They would be the great pride of any fighting man, and could only have been gained through battle, or the purposeful cutting of a blade.

  “I am Hilda,” the woman said confidently. “I come from the village of Skotja near the King’s Drawbridge. I am hiding from the law like you and your skald.”

  “What crime did you commit?”

  She ignored the question and looked toward Gunnar. She pointed to a pile of logs on the cave floor. “I got some firewood from the forest. Make yourself useful and get a fire going.”

  “I do not take commands from a woman,” Gunnar said.

  “Men,” Hilda said. “You’re all the same. I had high hopes for you, since your skald is such a nice boy.” She kicked Gunnar in the gut and blocked an axe-strike. “Get working.”

  She is a tough woman, Brand thought. The scars running across her cheeks are not the only scars she bears.

  In his own time, Gunnar did gather some kindling from the forest and start a fire with Hilda’s tinderbox. Together, the three of them sat around the crackling flames and reveled in the warmth.

  “Now that I’ve done as you asked, like a servant, perhaps you can tell me your story,” Gunnar said. “Why are you hiding in these caves, Hilda?”

  “My crimes are too numerous to mention,” Hilda said. “I have stolen; I have killed. But perhaps, above all, the reason why the earls’ men hunt me with such a vengeance is because I do not accept my ‘place’ as a woman. I do not let men stuff me in a little dress and tell me what to do. I wear the clothing of men, I make my own decisions, and I fight my own battles.”

  “Your story is worthy of a song,” Brand said.

  Hilda laughed. “I put no stock in songs or fables. But thank you, skald.”

  “And what of those scars on your face? Did you gain them from fighting?” Gunnar said.

  “No,” Hilda said. She shot Gunnar a s
mile, but it was a sad, weary smile. “The story of the scars starts when I was young. My father is highborn. He is of the House Summerleaf. He is very ambitious, and forced me to marry a horse chief from outside Badelgard. He wanted the alliance so he could use the horse peoples’ strength to overthrow the High King. Well, I was just thirteen at the time. I was scared and desperately did not want to marry him. The wedding night was a trauma. I would call it a rape even though I did not struggle against him. He was like an animal, without any kind of tenderness or romance. I was an object to bear his children.”

  The lack of emotion in her voice startled Brand.

  “He was horrible to behold,” she continued, “and he smelled like horse dung. The horse chiefs don’t bathe very often, you see.”

  “And the scars?” Brand said.

  Hilda touched her cheek. “The horse chiefs cut their wives as part of the marriage ceremony—it’s a symbol of total submission. Cowards, thieves, murderers—they care less about criminals than women who refuse to submit to their husbands. A woman who does not submit is considered worse than a murderer. Even then, at that tender age, I did not like the restrictions on my sex.”

  She looked down in thought. “I was still rebellious. After the wedding night, I tried to run away twice. Both times, they caught me and beat me until I truly realized that I had to submit. These horsemen were too numerous for me to rebel against, and the women had no sympathy on me, either. So I gave up for six years and let him have me… I bore the bedeviled churl three daughters. He was displeased I had not borne him any proper male heirs to the chiefdom and thought I was a ‘witch-woman.’ They thought they’d burn me at the stake, but Harram—my husband—had compassion on me, took his tribesmen and rode off. He took my daughters with him.”

  “What happened after that?”

  “I returned to Skotja. My father was so disappointed in me that he tried to have me killed; by now I was so hardy that I overcame his men and killed them both. I was sentenced to be drawn and quartered. I escaped and rode off west… Now I’m on the Hangman’s List. I heard of these caves and met with some outlaws… they are gone now, though.”

  “Where are they?” asked Brand.

  “They left last week.” Hilda stared into the flames. “The earl, Henrik, has said that any man—including outlaws on the Hangman’s List—can come serve him at White Wolf Keep without fear of penalty, if they pledge loyalty. As a woman, I am excluded.”

  “Are you sure they would not include you?” Gunnar asked.

  “No,” Hilda said. “But in the low chance he delivers me back to my father, my father will beat me and have me killed; and that is a chance I will not take.”

  “Do you want to take revenge on your father?” Brand asked.

  A hint of anger grew in Hilda’s eyes. “Like hell I do.”

  Hilda left shortly after their conversation and returned an hour later with a dead snowshoe hare. By now the fire had died down slightly and both Gunnar and Brand were huddled around it. Even here, below the Shelf, the air was far colder than in Oskir. As Hilda flayed and removed the meat from the dead rabbit, a light rain began.

  “You’ve been through much,” Gunnar said. “I understand if you never want to be in a man’s presence again. But I—and surely, Brand as well—want to pledge service to Lord Henrik. It would be safe. There’d be warmth and food in White Wolf Keep.”

  Brand glanced at the raw rabbit-flesh.

  “If you come with us, I will protect you, “Gunnar said. “I will not touch you in any unfitting way. I will guard you, and—I swear an oath to the Green Dragon—if they try to send you back to your father I will guard you against them and escape with you.”

  “I don’t need your help,” Hilda said. “You both seem to be good men and that is so very rare. I will go with you to White Wolf Keep, but not because of you… not because I trust you. I will go because I was looking for an excuse to go. Every other person here has left, including the women. I was being overcautious.”

  They set out early the next morning. They broke through the dense forest and a steep, rocky ascent began that took Brand’s breath away and made his legs sore. An hour or so later, the ascent stopped and the ground became more level, if uneven. Before them was a rocky brown plain that stretched on as far as they could see.

  “We’ve reached the Frostfall Highlands,” Hilda said. “Elk are here in abundance; so are White Wolves. You’d best pray we never run into those.”

  Hilda went on to explain that the men of Frostfall had both fear and respect for White Wolves: fear because they sometimes attacked humans and because only the strongest of warriors could defeat them in combat; and respect because, in ancient days, their chief Snowpelt had made a temporary alliance with the humans against the Ulfr, who often used their hearts in rituals.

  The sun had not yet set when the tall wooden walls of White Wolf Keep (named, Brand presumed, out of respect) appeared in the horizon. And they had not yet come within a half a mile of it when a dozen armored men on equally-armored horses rode out to meet them, one of whom bore the keep’s standard: a silver wolf against a blue field, flapping in the harsh Frostfall winds.

  “State your business!” said a rider with a large brown moustache and a shaven chin. Around his helmet was a golden band. “What are you doing in Frostfall, the northernmost march?”

  “We come to pledge our utmost loyalty to the marcher lord!” Brand shouted.

  Gunnar grunted in agreement.

  “You are speaking to the marcher lord,” the rider said. “I am Henrik Silverback, earl of Frostfall.”

  Brand sighed at his own stupidity. The golden band—the equivalent of a coronet—should have given it away.

  “Are you outlaws?” Lord Henrik said.

  “Yes!” Hilda shouted with surprising enthusiasm. “We come according to your statement that you seek soldiers. We pledge ourselves utterly in your service.”

  “And what about you?” Lord Henrik said, looking at Gunnar. “Do you also pledge yourself in my service?”

  “Yes.” After a moment’s hesitation, Gunnar dropped to his knees and bowed his head. Hilda and Brand followed a second later.

  Henrik touched Gunnar’s head with the flat of his spearhead. “You will be my soldier.” He glanced at Brand. “Judging by your instruments, you will be my skald.” He turned his eyes to Hilda. “You. You are a scarred woman. You hold a spear. You’d not make a good mistress and, by the looks of you, not a spinner of wool neither. You are not permitted in White Wolf Keep.”

  Gunnar stood up. “I will not go unless you take her.”

  Henrik’s eyes narrowed as he looked at Gunnar. “You are in no position to disobey me.”

  “If you do not take Hilda,” Gunnar said, “then I will serve you half-heartedly. And a half-hearted warrior is the worst kind to have. A half-hearted soldier does not rejoice at your victories; he only serves himself.”

  Henrik’s glare intensified. “It is unfitting for you to speak to an earl in that manner.” He waved, and the riders lowered their spears. “The woman may stay if she minds her business. I’m afraid I can’t afford to lose you; I need all the skilled warriors I can get.”

  Inside the curtain walls of White Wolf Keep was a collection of ramshackle wooden houses seriously in need of repair. Chickens, pigs, and to a lesser extent, cows, wandered the muddy, straw-covered ground and left their dumpings in the open. The people wore dull gray and brown woolen clothing. In all, it was very evident that White Wolf Keep was poor, and for obvious reasons: What resources did they have? No arable land; only pastures to create wealth.

  Even the inner keep was made of wood. As they entered, it became evident that even the earl’s court wore plain, undyed clothing like the populace: garments that no king’s man or woman would be caught dead wearing. In the fire was a whole pig roasting on a spit, yet nothing else seemed to be cooking.

  Brand and Gunnar were given a seat near the marcher lord’s table. Hilda sat on the other side o
f the room with the keep’s women. Brand and Gunnar were each given plain drinking-horns. One taste and it became clear they were serving bitter dark ale; not the heavenly sweet, crisp mead of Oskir.

  As the smell of roasting pig filled the room, Gunnar walked up to Henrik and bowed. “Milord,” he said.

  “What is it?” asked Henrik.

  “A question for you,” Gunnar said. “If you have been recruiting soldiers, where are they?”

  Only a dozen males were in the room; half of those were servants, and the other seemed very old or very young. “They are all at war,” Henrik said, “just as you will be tomorrow. I’ve sent them east—”

  “East? Near the mountains?” Gunnar asked. “Why do you need soldiers there?”

  “I cannot tell you,” answered Henrik. “Too many have run away when I told them, and though I suspect you are a brave man, Gunnar, I do not know just how brave you are. I will only state that the men at the watchtower on the edge of the Darkling Wood in the northeast need help. They need your axe, Gunnar.”

  “Why?” asked Gunnar.

  “It is of dire importance,” Henrik said. “If I left the watchtower unmanned, I would be a poor marcher lord indeed.” He paused. “The girl stays. I am sure she possesses some talent that will be useful to me, such as spinning, and if she does not, we can teach her,” Henrik said. “The scars will frighten men off… but perhaps there is a place for her if there is no man for her.”

  “She is a warrior,” Gunnar said. “She could come with us and fight.”

  “Dragon knows, the men at the watchtower are starved for women, and bad enough for a woman as gruff as Hilda,” Henrik said, “but we of Frostfall would never let even a common whore from a port brothel face the evil there. Nor would we force a woman to fight.”

  “What if she wants to fight?” Gunnar asked.

  “Then by Vana’s harp, she is an aberration indeed,” Henrik said. “She is not going with you, Gunnar, even if she wants to. It is not the Frostfall way.”

  That night Brand played the lute and sang the song of Badelgard’s genesis.

  Our father, Lord Buntringer, climbed the Sky Cliffs with his hands