Chapter 19
The silence of the cave was both suffocating and beautiful. It was an hour-long trek south of Neska, and Ivar was supposed to be hunting to add to the food stores the village was building up so that there wouldn’t be cause to leave. So that all of the focus could be poured into preparing for the Ør’s invasion. But his feet had led him here, because the quiet familiarity of the cave welcomed him in a way he couldn’t deny. There was little to be gleaned from the sparse scratchings on these walls, and yet he’d somehow formed a strange attachment to the person who’d written it. Perhaps, he thought, as his eyes fell on the marks, it was because the writer had left their signature. Isól. It could have been a man or a woman, but knowing their name seemed to break down the years and years of separation between them, as though, if he said the name out loud, they might hear him. Perhaps part of them still haunted this cave, the cave that had at one time been their refuge. Their place of peace.
Ósa didn’t know about this cave, or if she did, she’d never said. Close as they were, there seemed to be some level of importance in having a place of one’s own, of having somewhere to go to be dead to the world and to allow oneself to become lost in the windings of one’s own thoughts. There was a beauty in isolation, but also renewal.
He dug his palms into his eyes, the realization of just how tired he truly was settling into his bones. During the day, while helping others train and throwing knife after knife in demonstration, he could keep up the appearance of strength, even while others wailed, panicked when in close proximity to anyone else in the village. He could try to be the voice of reason when others acted irrationally, but when he was alone, those walls began to crumble, and pure, unhindered exhaustion crept into the very core of his being. He slept at night, at least for a few hours, but his dreams were dark and frightening, his sleep often fitful. The light of dawn was a welcome sight, even if it was the start of another wretched day of waiting. It meant that at least he didn’t have to sleep again for hours.
Footsteps crunched in the snow outside the cave. He leaped to his feet as quietly as he could, knives in hand. He crept to the mouth of the cave, keeping to the shadows as he peered outside. A trail of people were moving by, headed north with boxes and carts and piled with belongings. With a sinking of his stomach, he recognized a few faces. When he emerged from the cave, a familiar boy stopped and stared at him. They were from Sjørskall. It looked like most of the village was trekking north, towards Neska, no doubt.
“What brings you to the north?” he asked, sheathing one knife but still gripping the other.
The boy gestured to those around him, many of whom continued their journey with nervous glances in his direction. “We’ve come to join you,” he said, his voice full of hope. “With Areld gone, many of us are happy to get away. We wanted to apologise for what happened in our village by bringing you our added numbers and whatever weapons we could gather.” He pointed to a cart rumbling by, carrying old knives and crudely-carved arrows. “Please accept our help.”
Ivar watched the cart roll by, remembering the heat of the flames beneath him, the certainty he’d felt that those were his last few moments. No one in the village had helped him, and without the sudden arrival of his father, he might not be alive today.
And yet.
How could he deny them safety? Their very presence here was an apology. Their willingness to join a fight such as this said something, and he could not turn them away to certain death. “You will have to speak to my father and our leaders,” he told them. “I cannot guarantee that they will have you after what happened, but I will do my best to convince them.”
It took the better part of an hour for the villagers to plead their case, but at long last, with the promise of new hands and weapons, Sigvard and Eldór agreed to let the newcomers stay.
The next morning, the sky was just beginning to hint at an approaching dawn. The stars overhead began to fade, losing their vibrancy as the sky eased from black to grey. Ivar stood just outside the village, his hands buried inside pockets within his cloak, his breath creating bursts of white fog. Sleep had refused to come to him, and the walls of his home had never felt so close. So confined. Some small part of him felt pangs of guilt. If Ósa can’t have the comfort of home, neither should I.
Where was she now? Safe? Warm? Alive?
He’d known it would take time, but as days slipped away, day giving way to night giving way to day, the Ør were coming ever closer. While his hope in Ósa remained, the more logical part of Ivar’s mind began to take over. Even if she did make it, even if she did survive, she would almost certainly be too late. And that understanding sat in the pit of his stomach like a rock.
A bird departed a nearby branch and snow fell to the ground with a gentle patter. The forest was just beginning to come alive, awakening to start a new day. Colours began to bloom, chasing away the dull grey of the night as the sun fought to regain control of the sky. There was something sacred in this hour, when night began to die and day was born again. New snow had fallen, stretching almost entirely unbroken around him in hills and valleys of white.
It was at times like these that Ivar struggled the most. The village was still asleep. He could slip into a stable and steal a horse before anyone else knew. He could be a few kilometres away before anyone woke up, riding north to find her. If he rode night and day, eventually he would catch up to her. A small smile pulled at his lips as he imagined that reunion, so far from home and so unexpected.
He could do it. He could do it right now.
But then he saw smoke rising from a few chimneys, and in the village voices carried to him on the breeze. Gregor and the other leaders would soon meet again to continue their discussions and preparations. One figure, shorter than the others, emerged from a house and looked about, his eyes finally settling on Ivar.
Móri.
Ivar wanted to be alone, but it was too late now to avoid being seen. The boy made his way to him through the snow, pulling his cloak tighter around his slight form. He was still thin, not quite tall enough to be a man, but not that far off, either. Ivar couldn’t remember his exact age, but reckoned it had to be somewhere around thirteen.
“Hunting?” his cousin asked when he was close enough.
“No, just standing here. It was quiet.”
“I’m sorry.” Móri looked down, clearly disappointed with himself.
“Don’t be. I was just about to come back. I couldn’t sleep.” Ivar sighed and turned to face the woods once more.
“My father is going hunting later and I’m going with him. He said it will be good practice with my bow. I get to shoot whatever we find.” Móri gently patted the bow strung across his back. “I’ve practised almost every—” He stopped short and sniffed. “Do you smell that?”
Ivar lifted his head and breathed deeply, facing into the breeze. Sure enough, it carried with it a subtle but distinct smell.
Smoke, thick and pungent.
Without stopping to think, Ivar bolted back into the village, where he hammered on the door of his home. “Father! Get out here!” Without waiting for an answer, he ran to Arvid’s house. Aside from the horse he’d given to Ósa, Ivar knew there were three more in his stables. He pounded on the man’s door and kept pounding until it opened.
“What has got into you?” Arvid hissed, his eyes still glassy with sleep.
“We need to borrow your horses. Something’s happened in the north, something’s on fire.” Ivar turned and flung open the doors to the stables, Móri following close behind him. Behind them, Sigvard hurried in, pulling on his cloak, his eyebrows knitted together in confusion.
“What is the meaning of this?” he asked, grabbing his son by the shoulder until he stopped to face him.
“There’s smoke coming from the north,” Ivar said. “Ask Móri. You can smell it in the trees.”
Sigvard glanced at the younger boy, who nodded solemnly.
“We need to hurry,” Ivar said, untying one of the horses and leading him from the stable.
“Grab a knife and a horse. We’ll explain on the way,” Ivar shouted to Eldór, who had emerged from his home to investigate the commotion. When he turned to ride into the trees, Móri stood in his path.
“I discovered the smoke,” he said, chin held high. “I deserve to come with you.”
“We don’t know what it is, Móri. I don’t want you to—”
“I’m coming with you, Ivar. You would wish the same if you were me.”
Ivar stared at the boy for a moment. Yes, he was young, but it was that sort of fire and fearlessness that Skane needed. He was old enough to choose for himself. So, without answer, he reached out a hand and swung the boy up on to the horse behind him. Moments later, they left the village with Sigvard and Eldór.
It was difficult to make good time in the trees, both from the varying depth of snow to the tall trunks constantly having to be avoided. Whenever there was a clearing, they urged the horses forward as fast as they could go, then reined them in again to circle the trees. The further they travelled, the more intense the smell of the smoke became. It began to sicken Ivar’s stomach, hanging thicker and thicker in the air. Even the horse’s pace began to slow, his ears darting around as he sniffed nervously.
Sigvard moved to ride beside them. “Whatever we find up here, it won’t be good,” he said.
Minutes later, the ruins of Is̊avik lay before them. The houses had been burned from the inside out, the snow still hissing and melting away. Anything that would burn lay charred and blackened, smoking and crumbling to ash. Blood sat red against the snow, bodies fallen haphazardly around the village. No one moved. No one breathed.
“Devils,” Sigvard breathed. Eldór remained silent, staring.
“How did they get here?” Móri asked.
Ivar jumped from the horse and walked slowly to the nearest body, which was not yet cold. Motionless. Eyes glazed over with death. Teeth missing. “They might have come in the boat with the others,” he said quietly. “Or on one we haven’t found.” Then, after examining the body more closely, he said, “This is new. Look for tracks.”
“You think four of us can hunt down an unknown number of Ør?” Eldór asked.
“If they don’t know we’re coming we’ll have an advantage,” Ivar said, remounting the horse. “We have to stop them before they reach another village. This must be their plan. They’re going to try to eradicate our people village by village, before we can all stand together, working their way down from the north. Take us out without needing a fight.” He didn’t wait for a reply, only steered the horse away and began searching the snow for tracks.
He swiftly found some, leading out of the village and into the forest headed south, on a different route than Ivar and the others had taken to reach Is̊avik. They must have passed each other with too much distance to notice. The tracks were large and messy, difficult to read, but after a few moments, they all seemed to agree on five. Five Ør. That’s all it had taken to destroy an entire village.
“All right,” said Eldór, finally finding his voice and speaking with his usual air of authority. “We track them down, but when we’re close, we abandon the horses and go on foot. Sigvard and Móri carry bows. That will give us two surprise shots to take two of them down before they realize we’re following them. Do not miss.” He stared into their faces in turn, intimidation causing Móri to nod, but Sigvard only to stare back. “Once they know we’re there, we’ll rush them as fast as we can. Ivar, how many knives do you have?”
He felt at his waist, and answered, “Two.”
“Throw one and don’t miss. Use the other for fighting.”
“Ivar never misses,” Móri said defiantly, then looked quickly to the ground after a silencing look from Eldór.
“Are we all clear?” he asked a moment later. No one replied, but he seemed to take their silence as consent. “Once we find them, Sigvard and Móri will circle ahead for a clear shot. Ivar and I will attack from the rear.”
Ivar rested a hand on the hilt of one knife for comfort, though he found none. They had not come prepared for a fight, Móri least of all. He shouldn’t have to face this, but their group couldn’t afford to lose one man. There was no way around it, they had to find the Ør and stop them before they reached another village.
Eldór remounted his horse. “Keep the horses reined in. We don’t want to to give away our presence.”
With the two other men riding in front, they set out following the tracks. Ivar sat ahead of his cousin Móri, eyes staring into the woods, searching for any sign of the monsters. There was nothing except tree after tree, and a blanket of snow that was broken by the large footprints – and, here and there, droplets of blood, probably from the new teeth they’d stolen. Ivar hoped Móri hadn’t noticed, though judging by the utter lack of colour in his face, he almost certainly had.
No one spoke, and when the sound of the horses’ hooves gently pushing into the snow faded away into the background, silence set in. Ivar wondered how Ósa had dealt with it, with the loneliness and quiet of having no one else around. That sense of isolation, mixed with the knowledge that the burden of salvation rested upon her shoulders, would be enough to drive anyone mad.
Time dragged by. The tracks led on and on, never ending and never arriving.
Until, after perhaps an hour, a new sound reached their ears.
Water.
Of course. They must have been nearing the Horn by now, the river that led down from the north and passed close to the lake. It wasn’t deep by any means, but it would have to be crossed, and if they had to cross it … then so did the Ør ahead of them.
“Stop,” Ivar whispered, but the two men before him seemed to have already caught on. Everyone reined in the horses and swung quietly to the ground, then tied them to a few low-hanging branches. The sound of the river grew louder as Ivar trailed the others through the trees. It didn’t take long for their footsteps to falter and stop altogether, as five large forms became visible in the distance. They stood on the bank of the river, seeming to be wrapped in some sort of conversation about which way to go. Now and then, one would point across the river, and another would point downriver, as if to follow it.
Ivar and the others hung back, peering out from behind the trees. Móri’s mouth was open in horror, but there was also an unmistakably determined knit to his brows. Lines of surprise pulled at Sigvard’s and Eldór’s faces, though they visibly worked to remain calm.
“The wind is from the north,” Sigvard whispered. “Móri and I will trail downriver and try to get ahead of them.”
“Eldór and I will stay in sight of them and wait for your arrows. That will be our sign to attack. Móri, would you rather I go in your stead?”
“No,” Sigvard replied for him. “Bows are safer than knives. He can keep his distance.”
Ivar nodded and rested a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Just think,” he said, as lightheartedly as he could manage, “you’ll have stories of your own arrows to tell Ósa when she gets back.”
Móri smiled a little, and nodded.
“Let’s be off,” Sigvard said. “It should not take us long to get around them, with the sound of the river masking our movements. If we haven’t fired in half an hour, the plan is off.”
Everyone nodded, and after a final pat on the back from Ivar to his cousin, they moved away through the trees.
When the sound of their departing footsteps vanished, only the rushing of the river remained. The Ør were still conversing amongst themselves, and every few seconds, Ivar’s gaze moved to Eldór’s face. He’d known him since childhood – or rather, he’d been aware of him. Despite being the father of the one person he’d spent more time with than anyone else, he knew so little about him. They rarely spoke, Eldór almost never acknowledged his presence, and right now, when it was just the two of them with nothing to do except wait, a million questions he’d always wanted to ask him flooded to mind.
He contented himself with studying the man’s face when he wasn’t looking, searching for similarities to Ósa. He had her nose, straight and balanced, but that was all. Everything else she must have got from her mother.
Minutes ticked by. Ivar’s attention gradually moved back to the present and his current situation. They both stared at the Ør, waiting, watching, until—
Seeming to have come to some sort of agreement, they turned right and began walking downriver. Eldór tensed beside him.
“They’ll run into our men,” Ivar whispered, hand moving instinctively to a knife.
Eldór nodded. “Follow them.”
They moved from behind the trees, but slipped from trunk to trunk and shadow to shadow as they trailed the monsters. If Sigvard and Móri weren’t already in position, the Ør would be headed straight for them. They couldn’t afford to lose the element of surprise. It was their only advantage.
Slowly and quietly, Ivar and Eldór narrowed the distance between themselves and the monsters, working to keep to the right of them and out of the direct breeze. Ahead, the Ør spoke now and then, and though their voices were muffled, the sound made Ivar cringe. It wasn’t a growl, but it wasn’t speech either. It was a strange mixture of harsh sounds and grunts, and at one point, one of them seemed to laugh. The stilted, guttural noise made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.
There were about fifteen metres between them when an arrow shot out of the trees in front of the Ør and sank into the neck of the forerunner. He crumpled to the ground with a garbled cry. A second or two later, another arrow followed, but missed. Bad. That was bad. It left four Ør still standing, and that was too many to take down.
“We have to go now,” Eldór hissed, taking a deep breath and holding up his long knife.
“Go for their heads and necks,” Ivar said quickly. “The armour on their chest is too thick.”
The man nodded, and together they ran forward. The Ør, still shouting in their twisted, broken language and staring in the direction from where the arrows had flown, didn’t notice their advance until the last moment. Ivar picked the one to the left and charged with as much speed as he could gather in the snow. Just before he pummelled into the monster, it let out that now-familiar scream and drew a knife. Ivar ignored the advice he’d given to Eldór and tried to slash through the Ór’s wrist so it would drop the knife, but the leather gauntlet was too tough. It raised its long arm, those ghastly pale eyes locked on his own.
Ivar ran a few steps backwards, slipping on the rocks that lined the riverbank, trying to put as much distance between himself and the beast as possible. It ran towards him and closed the distance quickly. As Ivar’s own knife clashed with the Ør’s, he tried to clear his mind of all other thoughts, including what was becoming of his companions. Thinking of them in this moment could only lead to his own death, and that could not happen. He would fight with every bit of strength he had. Turning his mind instead to images of the destroyed village, of bodies and blood littering the streets, he pressed forward with a renewed strength.
A scream, so blood-curdling and shrill that Ivar couldn’t tell if it came from one of the Ør or one of his companions rang out. He wanted to look, to see who had done it, but distractions were deadly and his opponent was losing patience. His attacks were heavier, fuelled by frustration and agitation. As the seconds wore on, Ivar fought back less and less, out of breath, just trying to evade blows and duck a swinging arm. When he was beginning to fear he might collapse, or that the next blow would bring him down, an arrow whispered through the air and landed in the Ør’s neck. Ivar took the brief opportunity to glance at who had shot it.
Móri. But the boy was turned towards him, bow still held aloft without another arrow strung, and one of the monsters was rushing towards him. Ivar’s own opponent yanked the arrow from his neck – it hadn’t gone in far enough to cause true damage. Any moment he’d be after him again. Móri had only seconds left, if he didn’t turn around.
“Móri!” Ivar shouted, and started to run towards him as fast as his legs could move. His cousin turned and saw the approaching Ør, but in the seconds it took for him to reach back and grab another arrow, it was too late. Ivar took quick aim and hurled his knife cleanly through the air and into the side of the monster’s head, but not before the tip of its knife slashed down Móri’s front, chest to belly. When Ivar’s knife sank in, the beast fell forward, trapping Móri underneath.
All sound seemed to melt away, leaving only the silent beat of Ivar’s heart beneath his furs. He fell to his knees and tried to pull the Ør away from his cousin’s body, but it wouldn’t move.
“Ivar! Get your knife!” He didn’t know who shouted the words, but he stood slowly, unsteady and shaking. Warmth spread from his fingertips to his heart, then through the rest of his body.
Móri. They’d killed Móri. Móri was gone.
His teeth clenched together and his breath came quicker and quicker until a scream of rage rose from his throat, and he yanked his knife from the skull of the Ør. Holding it with both hands, he turned back to the fight, where two of the monsters remained standing. Sigvard bled from a shallow wound to his cheek and Eldór was limping, but those seemed to be the only injuries. With another shout that boiled up from the rage in his core, Ivar ran into the fight, a new strength behind every sweep of his arms.
It didn’t take long. With the three men against the two Ør, and Ivar’s renewed fury, they brought the beasts down within minutes. When the final one had collapsed, injured but not dead, Ivar kneeled beside it. Blood ran from its face and neck, those white eyes starkly clean against the mess. It watched him, face contorted with pain and anger, and hissed something at him in that ugly language he would never understand.
It walked like him. It spoke. It had skin and eyes and a mouth and probably a heart. But this thing wasn’t human. And this thing’s companion had killed Móri.
“Step aside,” Sigvard said breathlessly. “I’ll finish it.” He strung his bow and held it up, but Ivar raised a hand.
“No. I’ll do it.”
He took the bow from his father and strung the arrow, then pointed it at the monster’s head. It hissed again, and said something incomprehensible.
“For Móri,” Ivar whispered, before he let the arrow fly.