Theresa made no complaints. She took one of the bulkiest bundles, untied the tendons that held it together, and boldly started to clean one of the grotesque furs on her lap. On the first stroke, a swarm of insects flew from the skin, falling to the floor of the cart and scattering across the boards. She kept brushing, her eyes fixed firmly on the pelts, until she had brushed the whole bundle. Without respite she continued to do the same with a second wad of furs. When she had finished, Althar pointed at a third.
“After that, clean the traps till they’re gleaming,” he said.
Theresa grabbed the traps, spat on the filth, and got started with her new task. Then, as she scrubbed the contraptions, she reflected that Althar must have a special gift for the art of hunting, for how else could he have amassed such a collection of furs? When at last she finished her work, she informed Althar, who, surprised at her diligence, stopped the cart to check her handiwork.
“Right then, lass, time to fill our bellies,” he said with a smile before clambering off.
He went to the back of the cart and rooted around until he produced a small sack, which he dropped on the ground. Satan approached for a sniff, but Althar kicked him away. Then he turned to Theresa. “Climb up to that hillock and take a good look around. If you see anything out of the ordinary: a fire, horses, men, anything out of place, bark like a dog.”
“Bark?” asked Theresa incredulously.
“Yes, bark… you know how to bark, don’t you?”
Theresa practiced barking with varying success. She thought it sounded awful, but Althar seemed satisfied.
“Hurry, then. And take the bell with you.”
While she climbed the slope, he prepared some slices of cheese with pieces of hard bread. Then he cut open a couple of onions. He commandeered the biggest portion and then beckoned Theresa.
“All quiet,” said the young woman.
“Good. At this rate we’ll reach the gully before midday. We’ll eat now because we won’t stop again. Back there, behind the traps, you’ll find some wine. And put some more clothes on, if you want. You must be freezing.”
The trapper clambered back onto the cart and urged the horse on. Theresa followed his lead, and dispensing with any prayers of thanks, she set about her food, washing it down with a gulp of wine that tasted of heaven.
Before long they were traveling over a strip of woodland surrounded by a quagmire. Althar’s countenance changed, and he seemed more cautious. Any noise that they heard would make him give a start. He glanced around continuously, and every now and again he stopped the cart to stand up and scan the surroundings. There were moments when he thought Satan was sniffing danger. The hound was no longer straying very far from the cart. With his ears pricked and tail extended, he followed his master’s movements closely.
They must have gone a hundred paces when the dog began to bark. Althar stopped the cart dead, clambered down and walked on ahead. With a worried expression he ordered Theresa to be silent, his hand slowly moving to his scramasax. Then, without a word, he straightened and disappeared into the undergrowth, leaving Theresa in the cart in the middle of the road.
Theresa’s nerves started to get the better of her. She tried to stand on tiptoes to see farther than her stature permitted, but the sores on her feet prevented her. She didn’t know why, exactly, but in her bones she felt that something terrible was about to happen.
A few moments later Althar reappeared looking shaken. “Come with me. Quickly.”
Theresa jumped down from the cart and followed him into the vegetation. The trapper walked bent over like a cat stalking its prey, while the young woman floundered behind him, dodging the branches that he pushed aside. They progressed with difficulty through the dead leaves and mud from the recent rains. In some places the undergrowth was so thick that all Theresa could see was Althar’s behind, a hand’s width from her face.
Suddenly he turned his head to signal that she should be silent, and slowly he moved aside to reveal a scene of death and devastation. Two blood-soaked bodies lay on top of one another in a macabre embrace, half-hidden under a mantle of slime. A few paces ahead, half-submerged in a ditch, the mutilated corpse of a third man could be made out.
“This one’s no Saxon,” said Althar, nudging one of the men with his foot.
Theresa didn’t respond. Despite the mud, she recognized those clothes. She had seen them in the Larssons’ cabin. With her heart in her throat, she approached the grotesquely conjoined bodies. Slowly she pulled away the one on top and suddenly her vision clouded over and she would have fallen to the ground if Althar hadn’t held her up. The body lying under that shroud of blood was none other than Hoos Larsson, the young man who had a few days prior saved her life.
After a few moments, Althar realized that Hoos Larsson was still breathing. He immediately informed Theresa, and they carried him to the cart to tend to his wounds. The old man examined him with concern. Theresa questioned Althar with her eyes as to the seriousness of his injuries, but he didn’t answer.
“You say he saved you?” he asked.
She nodded, tears rolling down her cheeks.
“Well, I’m sorry for him, but we can’t take him with us.”
“We can’t leave him, he’ll die.”
“He’s going to die anyway. What’s more, look at that wheel,” he said, pointing at the repaired spoke. “You two, me, and the load—with so much weight, it won’t last a mile.”
“Then get rid of the furs,” Theresa suggested.
“The skins? Don’t make me laugh! They’re my living for the next year.”
Althar’s words seemed final. Theresa hesitated. She knew that if she was to help Hoos, she would have to be convincing.
“The man you want to abandon to his fate is called Hoos Larsson. He’s an antrustion of the king,” she lied. “If he survives he could feed you and your family for the rest of your lives.”
Althar looked at Hoos’s near-lifeless body and spat in surprise. He was at pains to admit it, but perhaps the girl was right. Upon examining the young man, he had already noticed his fine clothes, and though he had thought them stolen, perhaps that was a rash conclusion. After all, he could see how well tailored his robes were and the perfect fit of his shoes; he doubted that a thief would have had such good luck.
He cursed. Perhaps the man was indeed who Theresa claimed he was, though that did not change his fragile state or his own predicament. He might not be able to save him, but maybe he would last long enough to reach Aquis-Granum alive. He cursed again and took the reins of the horse, which had been grazing through the layer of snow. Carefully reconsidering it, he spat and grumbled, “He might live, I suppose.”
Theresa nodded, relieved.
“Until I get my reward, at least,” Althar muttered to himself.