DREM
Drem woke to his da’s boot kicking the wooden leg of his bed.
‘It’s still dark,’ Drem mumbled.
‘Things to do,’ Olin answered, giving the bed leg another kick for good measure, then turning and leaving Drem’s room. For a moment Drem thought about rolling over; the change in routine unsettled him. He liked to see the grey of dawn before he rose.
‘Drem,’ his da’s voice called, insistent.
With a groan, he hauled himself out of bed. It was a painful experience, and not just because the net of sleep still had a few hooks in him. He was battered and bruised all over from his fight in Kergard.
Fight! Beating, more like.
Five nights had passed since the skirmish at Kergard’s market. His da had helped Drem to the wain and, with Fritha climbing in as well, they’d returned home as quickly as possible. Before they left town, Calder the smith, one of the original members of Kergard’s Assembly, had told them that the trappers Drem had fought with were new to Kergard, having arrived that day. Apparently they were all kin, and were looking to find work and a roof at the new mine on the shore of the Starstone Lake.
‘A lot like them coming up from the south,’ Calder had said with a grimace. ‘They don’t like what the Kadoshim are up to, or the Ben-Elim’s rules; fair enough,’ Calder said, ‘but they’ll not come up here and act like there are no rules at all.’
Drem pulled his breeches and boots on, wincing as muscles complained and bruises throbbed. His nose was swollen from where he’d been headbutted, and he was still blowing thick clots of blood from it.
This’d better be good, he grumbled to himself as he went in search of his da.
Drem found him sitting on the steps of their cabin, looking out onto the courtyard as dawn leached into the world. His da had been quiet, impenetrably so since the fight. He’d been troubled and withdrawn before that, thinking on the lump of black rock that he’d buried in the paddock, but since the fight Drem had felt as if he was living on his own.
‘You all right, Da?’ Drem said as he sat down beside him, shivering as a cold wind clawed his skin. His da just pointed into the distance, into the darkness. Drem frowned. There was a light, flickering small and bright in the ink-black of night.
‘What?’ Drem whispered. ‘Is that a fire? In the Bonefells?’
‘Would have to be a big fire,’ his da said, a frown turning his face into a place of deep-shadowed valleys.
‘Don’t like the look of that,’ Drem muttered. Absently, he pressed fingers to his neck, found the soothing rhythm of his pulse.
‘And look, there,’ Olin said, twisting to point to the southwest. There was another pinprick of light, smaller and fainter than the first.
They turned back and watched the closer flame in silence as dawn pushed back the night, shadows solidifying, then slowly dissolving as darkness retreated before light, the fire up in the Bonefells dimming with the coming of the sun in a grey, cloud-bloated sky.
Looks like snow, Drem thought, his breath misting.
‘All my life I’ve tried to protect you,’ his da said, breaking the silence. ‘Ever since your mam . . .’ A muscle in his jaw twitched and he pinched his nose. ‘I swore to keep you from harm. To keep you from war, from the evil that men do. Not just men – other things.’
Aye, you’ve watched over me every step. But what is it you’re so scared of? What is it you’re protecting me from? What does ‘other things’ mean?
‘The Kadoshim?’ Drem whispered.
Olin shrugged. ‘Aye. And their kin.’ A silence settled between them again, Drem’s da clearly thinking on the past. Drem wanted to prompt him to speak, but feared to rush him, knew that his da could easily go the other way. He liked to hear him talking like this, so he took a long, steady breath and concentrated on controlling his frustration.
‘That’s why we have travelled, kept moving, just you and me, Drem,’ his da said with a sigh. He reached out a hand and patted his son’s knee. ‘And it’s worked, so far. For sixteen years I’ve kept us moving, running ahead of the tide. But it’s remorseless.’
‘What tide, Da? Running from what?’
‘I’ve told you,’ Olin said, waving his hand vaguely towards the south.
‘Never straight, you haven’t. More in riddles than facts.’
‘Never mind that, now,’ his da said, a clear end to that line of conversation. Olin fell silent, eyes distant.
Has he committed a crime, been hunted for something?
Olin shook his head, sucked in a deep breath and looked at Drem. ‘You don’t like to fight, I saw that in you the other day.’
‘I’m sorry, Da,’ Drem said. ‘I wish I was as brave and—’
‘You are brave,’ his da interrupted, a fierceness in his voice. ‘I asked Fritha what happened. She told me what you did. You, against eight men. Trying to protect the weak, the outnumbered. It reminds me of an oath I once heard . . .’ He was silent again. ‘Knowing what kind of man you’ve become, makes me prouder than I can tell you.’ He put a hand over his heart, his lips twisted, but no words came out.
Drem wanted to say something in response, but his da’s speech had hit him like a hammer, stolen his words and set a lump growing in his throat that words couldn’t get past, anyway.
‘I wish your mam was here to see you now.’
I wish that, too.
They sat in silence awhile, Drem feeling happier than he could remember.
‘You’re a good learner, Drem,’ his da said. ‘You listen; you think things through. Like talking sense to people, showing some kindness, and some manners.’
‘Aye, well, I’ve seen you do it,’ Drem said. ‘Seen it work.’
‘It does, most of the time. But not all of the time. Like the other day. Sometimes the only answer is blood and steel.’ He sucked in a long, deep breath, back straightening, as if setting his mind to a task. ‘I’ve taught you how to use your fists, if you’ve needed to, some spear-work, and how to use a knife and axe to defend yourself. But it’s time for something more, now. In case that tide that I’ve kept us running from catches up with us. I’ve thought we could find peace, you and me. That I could keep us separate from the darkness of this world.’ He sighed, rubbing his eyes. ‘Looking back on it, I should have taught you a long time ago.’
‘What do you mean, Da?’
‘This,’ his da said. He stood up and strode down the creaking timber steps into their courtyard, the ground frozen hard. Drem followed him and his da turned and threw something to him, Drem instinctively catching it.
It was a wooden sword, long and heavy, and Drem saw his da was holding one, too.
His da had taught him some rudiments with a sword, but it was not a weapon that a trapper required in the same way as axe, knife and spear, so it felt awkward and strange in Drem’s hand.
What is it that I need to fight with a sword? Why won’t he just tell me?
‘Time to learn some real swordcraft,’ Olin said, setting his feet and raising his own wooden sword two-handed over his head. ‘This is called stooping falcon. It is the first form of the sword dance. A good position for strike and defence. Now, set your feet like mine.’
The sound of hooves, a rumble like distant thunder. Drem’s da paused, holding up a hand, head turning, and Drem lowered his practice sword, sweat dripping from his nose. He felt as if every muscle in his body was burning, or weeping. Or begging for mercy. Or all three.
His da strode towards their cabin, held a hand out and Drem threw him his practice sword, then followed. They reached the wooden porch, Olin leaned the swords against a wall and was resting a hand upon the short axe at his belt when riders appeared, cantering on their path and into the courtyard. Ten or twelve men, Ulf the tanner and Calder the smith at their head.
Is this about the fight?
Then Drem saw Fritha amongst them. She was dressed like the rest of them, furs and skins, fur-trimmed boots and woollen breeches. She nodded a greeting to him.
Olin just waited for them to speak.
‘Did you see that fire, up in the Bonefells?’ Ulf said.
‘I did,’ Olin replied.
‘We’re going to have a closer look,’ Calder said. ‘Thought you might want to come along.’
Drem shared a look with his da.
‘Good of you to ask,’ Olin said. ‘We’ve missed the Bonefells.’
‘Ha, what did I tell you?’ Ulf barked a laugh, slapping Calder across his slab of a shoulder. ‘Go saddle a horse, then – we’ve a lot of ground to travel and not a lot of day to do it in. Don’t fancy spending a night out in them hills.’
Mountains, Drem corrected silently, his new strategy to keep his da happy, though he agreed with the principle wholeheartedly. He ran to saddle their horses.
This is not the best way to recover from a beating, Drem concluded to himself. No matter how he shifted in his saddle, there was always an outcry from various parts of his body. Right now the pain was coming from his thighs, which pulsed their throbbing discomfort with every step his horse made.
His da was up ahead, riding with Ulf and Calder, picking a sloping path through rock and pine. The rest of their group, a mix of townsmen and trappers, rode in a loose column. Some spoke in murmured conversation, but Drem kept silent. He was comfortable with his da, but around other people he mostly felt awkward. Never knew what to say, or what he was supposed to say.
Harness jangled behind and Fritha rode up beside him. A couple of knives at her belt. Her jaw still boasted a bruise, mottled and purple as a berry-stain.
‘Why are you here?’ Drem asked, worried for Fritha, thinking it was too dangerous, the weather threatening winter, the Wild looming close.
‘This is my home, now. Where I come from, we help look after one another. Saw Ulf and Calder, thought an extra spear is never a bad thing.’
‘Fair enough,’ Drem said.
‘I wanted to say thank you,’ she said to him, ‘for what you did.’
He shrugged, felt heat flush his neck, though he couldn’t understand why.
‘Anyone would have done the same,’ he said.
‘I don’t think they would have,’ Fritha said. She reached out a hand and squeezed his arm. Something about it felt agreeable, though he had to fight the urge to pull away. A smile twitched across Fritha’s lips. Drem saw that it made her wince.
‘Try a compress of comfrey and witch-hazel for that,’ he said, nodding at her bruise.
‘Has it helped you?’
‘Aye.’ He thought about it. ‘A little. Not as much as I’d have liked.’
Fritha laughed at that, making her wince again.
‘What do you think that fire is?’ she asked.
‘Don’t know,’ Drem answered. ‘But we’ll find out. And it had better be soon.’ He looked up, the pale glow of daylight shining in fractured beams through the canopy of pine needles above.
‘What’s wrong?’ Fritha asked.
‘It’s almost highsun,’ he said with a shrug. ‘If we don’t find whatever it is we’re searching for soon, we’ll be looking at staying a night out under the stars.’
‘So?’ Fritha said. ‘We’ve furs and blankets. Enough bodies here to keep warm if it gets that cold.’ She paused, looked at him a long moment. He felt his neck flush red again, though he still wasn’t sure why. He saw that shadow of a smile ghost Fritha’s lips.
So speaks a southerner, he thought. No one who’s tasted a winter in the north would say such a thing.
Something brushed against his face, cold. He blinked, saw a snowflake drift lazily down to the ground, others following, like silent feathers.
‘The Bonefells are not the place you want to be sleeping come Crow’s Moon,’ Drem said.
‘Why? Winter is harsh this far north, I imagine. But it’s not upon us yet.’ She looked at the snowflakes floating about her and shrugged. ‘A little snow. It’s not a blizzard, and we’re only half a day’s journey from our holds.’
Not a blizzard yet, he corrected, knowing how quickly winter’s caress could turn into a fist.
‘I wasn’t talking about the snow,’ Drem said. ‘I was talking about what the snow drives south. Those things that travel out of the north to escape the worst of it. We saw a giant bear, a little west of here; must have come south for a reason. Storms and blizzards are coming.’ As if to prove his point, a snowflake landed on his nose. It felt good as it melted, a momentary easing of the pulsing throb where his nose had been broken.
‘A bear.’ Fritha shrugged.
‘And other things. Wolven packs,’ Drem said, shivering at the memory of last winter. ‘And bats.’
‘Bats?’
‘Aye.’
‘I’ve heard tales,’ Fritha said, a seed of doubt creeping into her voice.
‘These are as big as a shield and will suck the blood right out of a person, like they’re a skin of mead.’ Drem said.
‘Thought they were just tall tales,’ Fritha muttered.
‘No. I’ve seen what they can do.’
For the first time Fritha didn’t look so confident. She eyed the trees suspiciously.
‘Best be home before nightfall, then,’ she said.
‘That’d be best,’ Drem agreed. ‘I don’t think they’ve come this far south, yet. But I’d rather not put it to the test.’
‘Aye.’
They spilt out of the woodland onto an open strip of land, a few hundred paces ahead the slope levelled off. The snow was starting to fall more heavily, the wind swirling it in sweeping eddies. Drem glimpsed his da at the head of the column, saw him ride over the slope onto level ground, Ulf and Calder with him, saw them rein their mounts in and stop, still as the boulders gouged into the land about them.
Drem joined them, their party spread into a loose line along a ridged plateau. The burned-out remains of a huge bonfire lay before them, black and charred, the wind snatching flakes of ash and mixing them with the snow, a dance of black and white. A thin line of smoke still curled from the fire’s cooling heart, the lingering glow of a dying ember at its root.
Drem’s eyes didn’t linger on the bonfire. A body lay spread across a boulder only a dozen paces from the fire. His belly had been slashed open, a ragged mess of torn flesh, his guts pooled around his boots like blue-coiled rope.
Olin was at the man’s side, Ulf and Calder a few heartbeats behind him. Drem dismounted and went to help, though there wasn’t much he could do. As he drew closer he saw the dead man was old, wisps of white hair frozen to the granite boulder, his face twisted in a grimace of terror and agony. Olin was on one knee beside him, lifting the tatters of his torn clothing to look at the shredded ruin of his abdomen.
‘It’s Old Bodil,’ Calder said, hanging his head.
‘What happened here?’ Fritha asked, looking from the bonfire to the frozen corpse.
‘I reckon Bodil might have met your bear,’ Ulf said to Olin.
Drem looked at the ground, already covered in a thin layer of snow. He scraped some away and stamped on the ground beneath, sending a jolt up through his heel into his leg.
Ground’s frozen solid.
He still would have expected to see some sign of the bear’s presence, the memory of its great bulk vivid in his mind, but the snow was covering all, and there was little point in looking: Old Bodil’s wounds told the tale clearly enough.
‘Made the fire to scare the beast off,’ Calder said, looking from the corpse to the bonfire.
Drem felt himself nodding. That was a tactic that he and his da had used before, against wolven, not bears, but it worked much the same, as long as you kept the fire burning all night.
Didn’t work for Old Bodil, though.
‘We should raise a cairn over him,’ Fritha said.
‘Aye,’ agreed Olin, still checking over Bodil’s wounds.
‘Not if we want to be by our hearths by nightfall,’ Ulf said. ‘Won’t be digging any rocks out of this.’ He dug a heel into the ice-bitten ground.
‘Can’t leave him to be gnawed at,’ Calder muttered.
‘No. A pyre,’ Ulf said. ‘And quick about it.’
It didn’t take them long to gather more dead wood. Drem helped his da, Ulf and a few others carry the frozen corpse to the bonfire. Then flint and tinder were being struck, flames catching in the dry wood despite the falling snow, and soon hungry flames were clawing at the sky, the snow hissing and steaming.
They rode back to their homes in silence, Bodil’s pyre roaring and belching flame and smoke behind them. Drem didn’t like the smell: flesh sizzling and charring.
Fritha tried to talk to him as they rode through the trees, eerily silent as the snow fell thicker, but he was distracted, preoccupied with his thoughts. He had that anxious feeling he had in his belly when he felt something was wrong, tingling in his blood, all the way to his fingertips. An inexplicable dread.
A bonfire to hold back a bear, maybe, but what about the other fire we saw, in the distance, far to the south-west?
It was a question he wanted answered, but something else was foremost in Drem’s mind. He was thinking on the feel of Bodil’s corpse in his hands as he’d carried the dead man to his pyre, and the scar he’d seen on Bodil’s wrist when Ulf had tripped.
No, not a scar. A fresh wound. As if he’d been bound at the wrist and struggled to break free, like an animal in a wire trap.