SNAFU: Hunters

“We ride, my war-brothers…” He tugged on the reins so his horse reared up high, fore-hooves lashing the air. Then he kicked his heels into the beast’s side and set off at a gallop. “We ride!”

* * *

On groaning hinges, the door opened. Its draft flickered the candlelight and stirred dark wisps of hair escaped from the long plait hanging over Hreyth’s mail-clad shoulder.

She glanced up from the table, where was spread a wolf’s pelt with rune-marked bones scattered upon it. They were old, those bones. Time-worn and hand-worn, ivoried with age, shaped and polished. The runes set into them were blood-red, soot-black, and gold.

Egil stood in the doorway, his wide shape filling it. He was not a tall man, nor fat, but big just the same. Slab-thick with muscle, barrel-chested, brawny and strong. His leather coat seemed ever to strain at the seams.

“It’s happened,” he said. His voice was like that of millstones taught to speak – grinding and gritty, crushing the grains of thought into the flour of words.

Dread moved in her heart. Dread, but no surprise. “Where?”

“Along the high-hill river valley between Pedham and Langenvik.”

Her fingers brushed through silver-soft fur as she swept up a handful of rune-bones and poured them, with brittle clicks and clatters, into their bag. The bag she tied at her belt, which held also a sheathed seax – her short but sharp stabbing blade.

“How many?” she asked.

“Fifty.”

“Fifty?” At that, surprise did come, flavoring the dread, enhancing it the way salt enhanced the taste of a broth.

“At least.”

Hreyth touched the ash-wood amulet of Yggdrasil, the World-Tree, hanging around her neck on a cord.

Fifty at least.

She looked at Egil, the craggy outcrop of his nose, the knotted jut of his jaw, the broken expanse of his brow. His skull was bald, scar-gnarled, and misshapen. When he gave over to his battle-rage, there was no warrior more ferocious and feared, and his sword Life-Breaker had sent many men to the corpse-halls.

But his eyes, meeting hers, shared her unease.

“We must be quick,” she said, and reached for her cloak.

* * *

Kjarstan’s boldness and boasting, his promises of war-plunder and wealth as they brought death to their enemies, had carried them well through the first days of their ride. They talked and laughed, joked and sang. Every man of them, they knew, would win glory and fame.

Too long had they sat idle, wintering in their seized hall, feasting and fucking and throwing dice. Too long since they’d felt the crisp wind on their faces, heard the ring of steel and the clash of shield-walls. Too long since they’d slashed and stabbed, hewn and hacked, heard the screams of their enemies, smelled the blood-stink and shit-stink of gutted entrails.

Oh, there was joy in it – joy in war, joy in slaughter and carnage. A joy and a passion and a fire like nothing else. Whatever delights a man might take from riches, from meat and mead, or in the arms of a woman… only when he confronted death could he truly be most alive.

And if he should be struck down? If he should be pierced by sword-blades or spear-points, cut by axes, fall and be killed? A man could hope for no better end! Who would wish to die old and infirm, weak and feeble? To die of sickness, or drowning, or foolish mishap? A man must die well to earn his place at Odin’s table!

Away from the sea, into the high country, they rode. The coastline fell away behind them. Creeks tumbled down rocky clefts. Vales lay open, bleak and muddy, but beginning to green. Twigs budded. New grass grew. Snow lingered in the lee-shadows of ridges, dirty ice-patches un-reached by the sun. Now and then, hares scampered or a scrawny deer stepped. Once, they glimpsed a bear, lean and hungry, but not so hungry as to dare menace men and horses.

They made camp by night, building fires, setting watches, sleeping bundled in blankets and cloaks. Jugs of sour barley-beer they’d brought with them, bread and hard cheese, smoked fish. To those who’d come from Pedham, the few youths and women never before gone far from home, it was both a frightening and exciting adventure.

Soon, they reached the high-hill river valley, long and slope-sided as if scooped in a trench from the earth. Above it rose rugged peaks, white-topped the year ‘round. The river itself, fed by many more rushing creeks, flowed fast and full. Stones and boulders littered the ground, strewn like pebble-pieces of some giant’s game.

Clouds drifted in. The day, not warm to begin with, cooled and grew damp. Mists whirled in ghostly skeins along the water. The horses’ breath billowed steamy vapor. Men and women pulled their cloaks more tightly around their bodies; beads like dew-drops collected on the fur trim of hoods.

The red banner hung limp and dispirited from its pole. Stefnir, Kjarstan’s nephew, swiped moisture from his forehead and wrung it from his fair hair, then cursed as some trickled down the nape of his neck.