Olin ignored him, reaching for tongs and hammer.
Dawn was a glow in the east when they left the forge, turning the water of the Starstone Lake to rippling bronze. Snow had fallen during the night, a thick layer fresh upon the ground, but the roof of the world was cloudless now, a pale, fresh blue that felt like it went on forever, the air cold and sharp. Drem found it refreshing after the night of thick heat and hammer blows in the forge.
Drem rode behind his da, staring at his back with a mixture of dread and awe.
What happened last night? A sword forged, my da casting a spell . . .
His mind tried to pick apart the events, to unravel them and piece them back together in a shape that resembled logic. It wasn’t working.
Who is my da? It was a terrifying feeling, to realize that he did not know the man he’d spent his whole life with, almost like vertigo, as if the world were shifting beneath his feet.
They had spoken little after Olin had started shaping the white-hot metal, hammering, twisting, cooling, heating and hammering again, dross leaking from the metal like black tears. Drem fed the bellows, between hammering he dipped the shaping sword in water and oil, and towards the end he shared the hammer-work with Olin. The din and smells of the forge filled Drem’s senses as he struggled to make sense of what his da had told him. In the end he had become lost in the rhythm and roar of their labour.
Drem’s eyes fixed upon the sheepskin bundle that was tied to Olin’s saddle, little more than a shadow in dawn’s first light.
We’ll finish it at home. A handle of ash, bound with leather. Those had been the only words Olin had said as they’d stood and stared at the result of their labour. A long blade, tapered to a fine point, a heavy crosspiece and fuller like a black vein running down the blade’s centre.
Kergard’s gates were closed when they reached them; Olin frowned at that.
‘Calder is supposed to be here,’ Olin said, searching the shadows for the big smith, but he was not there. Drem jumped from his horse and hefted the bar across the gates. It was heavier than he’d thought, judging by the way Calder had lifted it last night. The gates opened with a creak, Olin hovering a few more heartbeats, waiting for Calder.
Drem looked at his da enquiringly.
‘He’s supposed to be here,’ Olin muttered again.
He sounds worried.
Olin scanned the streets that converged on the gates. They were silent and still, only melting shadows for company. ‘Don’t like leaving the gates open and unguarded,’ Olin said.
‘Guards should be along soon enough,’ Drem said.
‘Aye,’ Olin agreed.
And if we’re still here, Da’ll have to explain what he’s doing.
That thought seemed to have run through Olin’s mind, too.
‘Can’t wait any longer,’ Olin said and with a shrug from Drem they were riding through and breaking into a trot as a world of white opened up before them.
Drem looked at Fritha’s hold as they passed it, and he was pleased to see that there was no hound still tied to the rope and ring in the yard. A sound echoed in the distance, from the woodland to the north. Dim and muted. Drem strained to hear it. A crashing, perhaps a roar. He and Olin shared a look.
Wolven bringing down their prey. Something big, anyway.
As they began the long stretch of track to their hold Drem noticed tracks in the snow, following the path they were on, then veering off, towards woodland framed in the distance by the Bonefells. Olin saw them too, reining in his mount.
One man, one hound. Maybe a woman – small feet for a man.
A jolt of worry.
Fritha?
Drem looked up at the sky, heavy with more snow, a strong wind gusting down from the north, bringing with it the taste of ice. Drem looked to his da. At any other time there would have been no question, no hesitation, but Drem knew his da wanted to get the sword home. It was written all across his face.
Drem just waited, knowing what the outcome would be, but letting his da go through the process of it.
‘Best go see who those tracks belong to,’ Olin said.
‘I think we’d better,’ Drem agreed.
Drem heard something, away to his left, coming from the scrubland that fringed the wood as it rolled down from the Bonefells.
‘You hear that, too?’ his da asked him.
A nod, and together they were pulling on reins and riding away from the track, towards the scrub and woodland.
They followed the footprints in the snow, heard a voice calling out, the same word, again and again.
Drem ducked his head under branches heavy with snow, the voice louder now. He recognized it.
‘It’s Fritha,’ he said and urged his horse on. Then he saw her, flitting between the dark trunks of trees, still calling out.
‘Surl!’ Drem heard her cry.
Her hound.
She saw them, stood and waited.
‘It’s Surl, he’s gone,’ she said and pointed at paw tracks in the snow, heading deeper into the woods. She wasn’t dressed for the cold, just wearing breeches and boots, a wool shirt and cloak.
Not enough to stop the blood from freezing out here. And no weapon.
‘Up with Drem,’ Olin said to Fritha and clicked his horse on, Drem taking Fritha’s hand and pulling her up into the saddle behind him. She wrapped her arms around his waist.
‘How long has the hound been gone?’ Drem asked her as he followed his da into the thickening trees.
‘Dawn,’ Fritha said and he felt her shrug. ‘A while. I let him out and he just ran. I followed.’
‘Should’ve brought a spear, and put on some snow-clothes,’ Drem said over his shoulder.
‘It happened so quickly, I didn’t think . . .’ Fritha said into the back of his head.
‘Not thinking is what gets you killed in the Wild,’ Drem muttered, the words drilled into him by his da. There was a pleasure in saying those words, and not being on the receiving end of them.
Fritha said nothing in response.
‘There,’ Olin said from ahead and Drem spurred his mount on, weaving through the wide-spaced trees, pulling alongside his da, and he saw a dark shape about thirty or forty paces ahead. Fritha’s hound, Surl. It was slumped against an ash tree.
Something’s not right. Drem frowned. The hound’s dun coat appeared much darker, the snow around it serving to intensify the difference in colour: white, unbroken snow almost glowing, the hound dark as night.
Olin reined in his horse, Drem did the same, both of the animals shying and dancing away as the two men slipped from their saddles. Fritha followed and Drem held a hand up, warning her to stay back. Fritha scowled and ignored him.
Closer, Olin and Drem instinctively fanned out, Drem’s hand resting on the hilt of his knife, his da slipping a short axe from his belt. Drem saw a splattering across the snow, droplets of blood about the hound, a string of rubies. He scanned the trees around them, widespread, the snow crisp and unbroken.
Nothing and no one hiding close by.
‘Surl,’ Fritha said, both command and question.