‘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.’