Fell Winter Page 6

  On the way to the bay, they passed three brothels—the Cathouse, the Pleasure Palace, and the Lion’s Den—all advertised with graphic pictures of nude women. There was only one brothel in Oskir, and, if they were not illegal there, they had been absent in White Wolf Keep.

  Along the seashore, elevated high above the buildings was a stone castle with a green garden. Hilda pointed to it and said, “That’s Riverhall Keep, built more for pleasure than defense.”

  “Who lives there?” Brand asked.

  “Harald Riverhall, Baron of Andarr’s Port. The king does not grant him the title of ‘earl’ because he fears it will make him ambitious. But from what I’ve heard, Harald is the least ambitious man in Badelgard.”

  “Have you been here before?” Brand said.

  “When I left the horse chiefs, I came here and stayed a few months. I soon grew tired of these people’s soft ways, their luxury and unwillingness to take up swords,” Hilda said. “And the House Riverhall—what is supposed to a noble warrior house—is the worst of the lot. They are the most luxuriant, decadent vermin on the face of the earth.” She paused and then felt Gunnar’s cheek with the back of her hand. “Now we have to get this man some rest. Let’s take him to the Sunset Inn and set him in a nice bed.”

  “The White Wolf said to take him to a holy place,” Brand said.

  “A night’s rest in bed can do much more than any valkyrie or goddess can,” Hilda said. “I take that back; it will do much more.”

  “I disagree. I think—”

  “Don’t think, boy,” Hilda said. “How long have you been on this earth?”

  “Well… I have lived through twenty-six winters.”

  “This winter will be my fortieth,” Hilda said. “I’ve survived longer than anyone I knew as a child, and I will survive for many more years. Valkyries and goddesses did nothing for me. Only my own strength and resourcefulness did.”

  Brand said nothing. He obeyed, and realized that this woman had subdued him more than Gunnar ever had. He supposed that Hilda had been through more than Gunnar, and in spite of the pressures men forced upon her as a woman. She had survived to a ripe age, and Brand had not yet.

  They got to the inn. Hilda had a little coin from her thieving adventures, enough for two nights at the inn. After that, their plans were uncertain. They carried Gunnar into their room and set him on the bed, wrapping him in warm sheets. They’d need to get him some nourishment.

  In their private chamber, Brand dripped the mead down Gunnar’s throat little by little. He hummed to his master to calm his nerves. Then, as he swallowed the last bit of mead, Gunnar gasped and spoke.

  “I have seen the Great Witch. I have seen her unmasked, beneath her cloak,” he rasped, eyes closed. “She is cold as a winter rain… graceful as a queen… blue-eyed, fair-haired… beautiful as death.” He paused for a second. “Her children have eaten my legs… the wolves took me away, but I don’t want to stray from my mother. I don’t want to go away from her.”

  “Master!” Brand said. “She isn’t your mother. She’s an evil Ulfr.”

  Gunnar gasped for air again. “The shadow is growing on me. I can see the twilit sky… night is coming for me… she will take me.”

  “I won’t let her take you!” Brand snapped.

  Hilda looked at Brand sternly. “Don’t shout.”

  Gunnar reached toward the ceiling. “The shadow is falling over me, Brand… there isn’t hope for me.”

  “No!” Brand said. “There is hope for you.” He shook Gunnar. “Wake up.” He opened his eyelids in an attempt to startle him. The pupils were now dark red and the whites, silver. They stared into space, seeing yet not seeing.

  “It will be too late for me soon, Brand,” Gunnar wheezed. “It will be too late. I will join the darklings.”

  Hilda stood up from her bed, a grave expression on her face. She laid her fingers round the hilt of her sword. “We must kill him.”

  “No!” Brand said.

  Hilda looked at Brand sternly. “It would be merciful to kill him now. The witch has claimed him. If we do not kill him, we will be making a horrid mistake; he will arise as part of her evil, as one of her children. He will not be Gunnar; he will be the witch’s servant.”

  “I won’t let you!” Brand said. “I’ve let you tell me what to do for most of my journey, woman, but—”

  Hilda drew her sword an inch out of the scabbard. “What does my womanhood have to do with anything?” she said. “Troll-Cutter has drunk the blood of many men. It has slain earls’ men, bandit chiefs, boy-children, and singing dandies.” She paused. “So listen to me, boy. If we do not kill Gunnar, he will kill us. That fact does not change if the one who told you is a woman.”

  Brand said nothing. His eyes watered as he realized Hilda was right.

  Hilda glanced at him, seeing this affirmation, then eyed her sword. “Take him outside. There is a public garden where only criminals and fools walk at night. We will dispatch him there.”

  “I will not watch.”

  Brand awoke in tears. Hilda had told him that the death was painless. He had sobbed late into the night. Soon the pillow grew wet, and his eyes had dried up. A gaping emptiness filled him; he would not be able to sing tonight, nor play his lute. He had been through seven winters with Gunnar. He had been the man’s skald; and now he was dead. He would compose a song to honor him, but not today. Today, he would only mourn.

  Hilda sat across from him on another bed. She was frowning and empathy touched her double-scarred face. “I am sorry, Brand,” she said softly. “I can only imagine your pain. And I’m sorry for calling you a dandy and a child.” She moved over to Brand’s bed and laid a hand around his shoulder, then hugged him tight. “I will never replace him for you. But I will do my best to ease your pain. I can go get you some fresh food from the market. There is pickled herring, salmon and lobster… sweet cakes, honey loaves… tea… anything you can imagine, the market has it.”

  “No,” Brand said. His face was raw and dry. “I’ll go with you.”

  Outside, the bright clothing of the populace blinded Brand. Even in Oskir, the citizens wore dull reds and blues at their finest. The people of the port wore reds as luminous as rubies, greens colorful as summer grass, and oranges bright as flame. In the sunlight, Brand noticed that even the houses and shops of Andarr’s Port were painted in pastel yellows, greens and blues, so totally unlike the grayness of White Wolf Keep or Oskir.

  Yet even this visual feast could not distract him from Gunnar. He had been a good man. A great friend. And the Ulfr witch had claimed him.

  Nor did what he came next help him any more: just outside the marketplace, a dozen men and women sat in chairs and watched a tied-up man on a chopping block. An executioner dressed in black stood there with a headsman’s sword, and a judge stood behind a lectern as he read from a slip of parchment.

  “Ingald son of Ingvald, chicken thief, is hereby sentenced to die by command of the honorable Lord Harald Riverhall.”

  “Shield your eyes, boy,” Hilda whispered.

  Brand hesitated and saw it all. The executioner slashed down hard and broke part way through Ivan’s neck. Blood exploded from the wound. Only after another hard slash did the bloody head fly off the neck and roll onto the ground. The viewers cheered.

  “A morbid entertainment,” Brand mused.

  “Aye,” answered Hilda. “And if death is the punishment for chicken thieves, what would the punishment be for something more severe?”

  They exchanged glances and there was nervousness in her eyes.

  The marketplace had spice stalls, beer kegs, wine bottles, and exotic animals from the south; elven jewelry, elven knives, and costly reams of spidersilk from the north; scented woods and moose antlers from the west; and things Brand had never seen before.

  Nailed to a large wooden post in the center of the market was the Hangman’s List, recently updated. Brand strayed from Hilda—who was looking at the elven knives longingly—and gave it
a careful look. At the bottom, he found his name:

  BRAND, SON OF GUTLAFF

  (Crime: Breaking the king’s seal. Prescribed Punishment: Torture, followed by beheading.)

  GUNNAR WHORESON, BASTARD OF MAGNUS BLACKHELM

  (Crime: Breaking the king’s seal. Prescribed Punishment: Torture, followed by beheading.)

  He searched and found Hilda’s name further up:

  HILDA SUMMERLEAF (Crime: Fleeing the earl’s service . Murder . Theft . Lying to an earl . Cross-dressing Prescribed Punishment: Beheading.)

  Hilda was of a noble house; Brand knew this, but the listing brought it to the fore of his mind. Brand could not say the same; nor could Gunnar—gods rest his soul. As a member of a warrior house, Hilda would not be tortured even as a murderess and thief. Though Hilda had gone against her father’s wishes, and fled her execution—not to mention her other crimes—she would always be of noble warrior blood and torture, for her, would remain unthinkable. Brand, the son of a swineherd—though given musical talent by the goodness of Vana—would always be a swineherd’s son.

  “Better not stare at that too long,” Hilda said from behind him. “People will get suspicious.”

  Brand turned around. He regarded Hilda coldly, that undeservedly lucky woman. What did it matter that Brand’s father took care of pigs, and Hilda’s father was the patriarch of some unimportant noble house?

  Bells rang from the High Temple of Vana—death bells, mourning bells. The people in the marketplace looked around in confusion. There were two loud trumpet peals, and then a group of horsemen in purple, gold-threaded robes shoved their way through the market crowd and up to the high central lectern.

  Brand followed Hilda to the lectern, gazing at her long blonde hair and her fair neck with anger. She had killed Gunnar. He had let her do it. Gunnar, his only friend in a dark world that had no respect for swineherds’ sons, was dead. And that woman—that vile, joyless, noble woman—had done the deed.

  A man walked up onto the lectern. A golden coronet rested on his short black hair. His face was handsome and his beard was thinly trimmed. This had to be Harald, scion of the House of Riverhall. Judging by the coronet, it could only be Harald. It could only be the baron: the hedonist, the connoisseur—no, the glutton—of whores, and frequenter of brothels. Soft, luxuriant, Hilda had called him.

  Better than a joyless thief.

  When the crowd was gathered at the lectern, he spoke. “The High King is dead.” There were a few cheers, but they died down after Harald’s expression turned stern. “Sven’s only surviving son, Osvald, is not yet of age. In the interim, Lord Sigmund Blackhelm, eldest son of Magnus Blackhelm, has assumed the High Throne at Oskir.”

  “Boo!” someone cried.

  “As baron of Andarr’s Port, I honor this change of leadership. Life will continue on as it always has,” said Harald. “I will serve King Sigmund as his loyal subject until Osvald Oster comes of age.”

  King Sven had been healthy when Brand and Gunnar left him, as he had been throughout his reign. The only thing different was the Idol of the Great Mother they had given him.

  Brand’s stomach turned.

  “There is one more bit of news I must share with you,” Harald shouted. “Tonight, I hear there will be a powerful storm. There are dark clouds forming over the sea and the air is changed. Stay inside and near the fire.” He looked around and opened his mouth, as if hesitating. “That is all,” he finally said, and then abruptly stepped down from the lectern and left with his purple-garbed retinue.

  Hilda turned around to face Brand. “He didn’t want to tell us about the darklings… they’ve spread south. Ol’ Harald didn’t want to rile them up or tell them that his guard post outside the city was savaged by the darklings and now there is blood everywhere. Typical Riverhall behavior! Always wanting to be popular and well-liked, never wanting to bear bad news.”

  “You certainly learn things fast.”

  “I’ve made many friends over my career. And those friends have many friends of their own.” Hilda smiled. “My friend Sigvar tells me the darklings slew a tributary in Riverhall Forest, a mile outside the city. Said it was carrying a tribute of gold to the Dragonmount Temple; they never use the main roads for tributaries. Thirty heavily armed, heavily armored soldiers clawed, gutted, and torn to shreds by darklings. Looks like the men exploded, Sigvar says. We better hurry; some others have caught wind of it.”

  “The darklings don’t come out by day, I suppose,” Brand said quietly, still thinking of Gunnar. “We still have a few hours ere nightfall.”

  He would prove himself as strong as her.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Thick snowflakes began to fall when they reached Riverhall Forest. Some leaves still clung to the thin white aspens, but most had been shed for the winter. Now, a carpet of gold lay over the forest. This wood—a place of meditation for the noble line, as Hilda explained—grew a quarter mile north of the main road.

  Inside the wood were marble statues faded gray by the rain, snow, and wind. There was a statue of a woman just inside the wood: “Astrid Riverhall, Mother of Our Line,” an inscription read. In her stone hands she clasped a bowl filled to the brim with water.

  Brand shrugged off a spear of envy at these people’s enchanted lives, though now they were long dead.

  They found the wrecked caravan minutes later; Riverhall Forest was small. Blood, guts, and severed limbs filled the ground surrounding a small wagon. Yet they were not alone. A young man stood beside it, scooping gold coins from a cracked-open chest into a burlap sack. A short scabbard hung from his belt.

  Brand would prove himself brave. “Stop right there!” he shouted, and drew the sword he stole from Hargin. “That’s our gold.”

  The man turned around, and he drew his sword. He was young, perhaps sixteen or seventeen, and had dark whiskers—no beard yet. He had the aquiline nose, the high cheekbones, and the dark hair of Harald Riverhall, but was not Harald. “Is it your gold?” he sneered. “I thought these were a portion of the year’s taxes, being sent as aid to the Dragonpriest, sacred of our lord Skruga.”

  Brand realized two things; firstly, he had made a very poor choice, and, secondly, there was no chance at all that he could defeat this man.

  “Tell me, commoner scum, if you realize who you speak to.”

  Brand said nothing.

  “I am Stenn Riverhall, first in line to the barony, and I will kill you if you take a step closer, you worthless, common-as-dirt vermin.”

  “Don’t talk to him like that!” snapped Hilda. “I may be a woman, but if you continue, I will be your end.”

  Stenn howled with laughter. “A woman—a common woman—thinks she can defeat me?”

  “I am no common woman,” Hilda said. “I am of the line of Summerleaf, and I consider this man, Brand, as my equal.”

  “The Summerleafs are a laughing stock. Piss-poor, and own about as much land as a commoner. Skotja Village, that’s it. Ha!” Stenn grinned. “And if you’re Hilda Summerleaf, you’ve earned yourself quite a notorious spot on the Hangman’s List. I will be proud to be the one who caught the rat.”

  “I, Hilda of the House Summerleaf, challenge you, Stenn of the House Riverhall, to a duel,” Hilda said.

  Stenn’s mocking demeanor turned to a solemn stare. “I accept your challenge, as befits my honor, but I shall set the terms,” he said. “We duel to first blood. If I win, you will come back with me to Riverhall Keep to answer to my uncle Harald. You will also be my slave. And your friend will die.”

  Brand gulped.

  “And if I win,” Hilda said, “then you will absolve both me and my friend of my crimes, and give us safe haven in Andarr’s Port.”

  Stenn was silent for a while, apparently poring over the terms. Finally, he said, “Your demands are steep, but I accept, Hilda Summerleaf.” Then he drew his sword out of its scabbard: a small weapon. Circular, abstract patterns ran along the leaf-shaped blade, and gems were inset periodically along the in
ner groove. It was an elven sword, light yet strong, which only the fantastically wealthy could afford and which Hilda could only ever gawk at in the marketplace.

  Hilda drew her own weapon, a bulky head-cleaver of a sword. Brand took a step forward with his own sword, but Hilda looked back at him and glanced at him sternly. “Stay out of this, Brand. I must duel with honor,” she said.

  I used to be idealistic, like you. I used to believe in honor. Those were Hilda’s own words back at White Wolf Keep. Brand stood back, trembling slightly, watching the fight begin in the golden wood.

  Brand looked on as Stenn struck fast with his elven blade and Hilda just barely blocked with her unwieldy weapon. Hilda swept her sword in a hard cross-cut, but Stenn ducked and the blade swooped over his head. Stenn barreled forward and thrust at her with his own blade, and Hilda dodged out of the way, bringing her sword crashing down in a near miss. Then Stenn twirled around and cut hard, slicing through Hilda’s jerkin. Brand winced as blood began trickling down.

  Hilda felt the wound, then knelt in front of him. Stenn laid the flat of his blade on her shoulder. “You were foolish to challenge me,” Stenn said. “I have been trained by elven swordmasters of the north. I am a master of the Viper and Pincer Crab Forms… and you… you fight like a dying bear.”

  “You have a weapon of light metal and can wave it like a feather—a weapon I could never afford. The cleavers of the northmen are not meant for dueling,” Hilda said, “but I take responsibility for my choice. I was overbold.”

  “Don’t make excuses, or I will kill you now rather than give you my uncle’s justice.” He turned to Brand. “And you. You are common, correct? Not even a piss-poor Summerleaf, are you? Common as dirt?”

  A trembling seized Brand. His stomach turned and he felt the need to relieve himself. Yet he felt himself unable to flee; he was frozen in place.

  “I’m sure the people will have fun seeing you tortured,” Stenn said. “The people like to see criminals get their justice.”