“Has the wight killed anyone?” Ragnvald asked. Rathi looked at him for a moment, then to Hakon, who nodded.
“No,” said Rathi. “But he is armed. And these creatures, first they feed on the blood of animals, and grow monstrous by it. Then it will kill our children, women, and when it is strong enough to kill our grown men, it will be too late for any but a god to stop it.”
Hakon looked worried. “How was the man killed?” Ragnvald asked.
“He took an ax to the skull,” said Rathi. “The sorceress Helgunn packed the wound with moss and cobwebs and said mighty spells over him, and though he should lie still, the dead man walks. She said she was only trying to cure him, when we put the question to her.”
That was how the tales said it was done, though Ragnvald had a feeling that this wight was not so murderous as the ones in the tales. Or else he just did not like the idea of these women whose protector was dead now condemned by the men of Smola.
Rathi laughed, a mirthless sound. “As though a man can be cured of being dead, once the thread of his life is cut.”
“Someone should kill the wight,” said Ragnvald without thinking, “not the sister. If the magic lives beyond the mother, then killing her will only make it angrier.”
“You?” Rathi asked, rudely.
“Not me,” said Ragnvald, though his protest was lost when Heming began talking over him.
“Not Ragnvald alone,” said Heming. “I will kill this thing, Father, and if I fall, Ragnvald can stand in my stead.”
“No,” said Ragnvald, though quietly enough that anyone could ignore him, and they did. It was a fine compliment that Heming should choose him for this honor.
Hakon shook his head. “I would not risk you,” he said to his son. Heming looked lost for a moment, and Ragnvald pitied him.
Then Hakon gave Ragnvald a considering look. “It is a brave suggestion. You may go and see to the wight, if you take my son Oddi with you.”
“I did not mean to . . . ,” said Ragnvald, then trailed off without refusing. He stood to rise or fall in Hakon’s eyes by his choices tonight. He should have stayed silent before; now, between Rathi’s ill temper and Heming’s ambition, they had volunteered him for this task. He was one of Hakon’s men, and Hakon protected Smola. Oddi put on an expression that might have made Ragnvald laugh under other circumstances; he could not seem to decide whether to be glad of his father’s notice, or scared of what they must do.
“The wight comes out on cloudy nights,” said Rathi. “Perhaps you shall see him tonight.”
*
Though in high summer the sun barely dipped below the horizon at midnight, a gathering storm lent a false darkness to the heath where the wight’s barrow stood. Oddi walked a half pace behind Ragnvald as he circled the mound, examining it. The earth had been dug up, though whether the creature had done that or his hunters, Ragnvald did not know. The clouds hid the twilight glow from the sky, and illumination seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere.
“You do get yourself into trouble,” said Oddi. “Why did you agree to this?”
“I did not,” said Ragnvald.
“You did not object, either. And now this brute is going to kill us. I hope some of Rathi’s thrall maidens weep over our terrible fate.”
“It’s too late for me now,” said Ragnvald. “I’ll look a coward if I go back.” He had ample time to regret opening his mouth since dinner. “You might not,” he added, dryly.
“You know that is not true,” said Oddi. Ragnvald had been counting Oddi as bolder and wiser than him up until now, but the tenor of Oddi’s voice, brittle with fear, made him reconsider. Oddi tried to avoid notice; it might be a wise tactic for him, but it was not the stuff skalds made songs upon.
“This is like the trial,” Oddi persisted. “You’re plunging ahead out of pride.”
“Your father thinks we can do this,” said Ragnvald. Or Hakon did not much care if Ragnvald lived, and he was a convenient offering to keep the steward Rathi happy. Still, in the tales, the monster killed the band of men, and fell to a hero’s blade. Ragnvald felt a stir of hope that his earlier brushes with death might have given him an advantage here. A breeze fluttered the heads of the wildflowers in the field, the small white motes closed up in the dark. The strange, low light made every blade of grass on the mound stand out in sharp relief. Ragnvald touched his sword.
“I don’t like it here,” said Oddi.
“You don’t have to be here,” said Ragnvald, irritably. Oddi’s fear could infect him easily, he knew that, if he listened to Oddi rather than focusing on the task ahead. Oddi did not answer. “Maybe I’m supposed to do this on my own,” said Ragnvald.
“What does that mean?” Oddi asked, stamping his feet. Ragnvald felt the cold as well, penetrating his leather jerkin and making his skin shudder. “Have you turned prophet?”
Ragnvald did not answer. His vision, or imagining, of the sorceress, who did not deserve death for trying to heal her son, seemed like a fancy now that he was out in the cold. He was no hero, simply because a fisherman had saved him from drowning. He could be sleeping, finally, in a bed that did not sway with the sea’s currents. Although he would probably be thinking of the wight tonight anyway. As well he was out here to face it.
“What now?” Oddi asked after Ragnvald was silent for a time.
“We wait,” said Ragnvald. “It will come.”
He could not count the time, for they had no torches with them, but it seemed like an hour had passed since midnight, perhaps two, when the wind began to rise. It lashed Ragnvald’s hair around his face, carrying moisture to his lips that tasted of salt, as though it had been whipped off the sea, not come down from the sky. Ragnvald began to shiver and could not make himself stop. Sorceresses commanded the sea, he knew; perhaps he had been hasty to sympathize with the wight’s dead mother.
Out of the wind and driving rain, it came. A silhouette at first against the charcoal sky, it lurched over the uneven ground. With every step it stumbled, only to recover its balance just before falling. Its clumsiness made it seem more implacable, as though it would plow over and through anything that lay in its path. It had been a big man in life, broad and bearded. Now the face seemed dark, the beard matted. Far-off lightning crackled behind it. Ragnvald stood staring at it for a moment before recovering enough to draw his sword.
“It is real,” said Oddi. Ragnvald fancied he could hear Oddi’s nervous swallow, even over the sound of the wind. “A draugr.”
“Yes,” said Ragnvald with a bravado he did not feel, “and I’m going to kill it.”