Jarnulf cursed his clumsiness, then immediately regretted taking the Ransomer’s name in vain even in the midst of peril. He knew he could not wait to see if the second scout was badly injured: if the creature had the strength to escape, he might make his way back to a larger body of Hikeda’ya, then Jarnulf himself would become the hunted one. But neither could he go straight after the wounded Sacrifice soldier, because if he lost the wind his victim would scent him coming and the wounded one still had a bow. Even badly wounded, the Hikeda’ya would only need one shot to end Jarnulf’s career of vengeance against the immortals.
When he reached the next high place with a downward view, Jarnulf saw with relief that the injured Sacrifice was still crouching behind the sheltering hummock. Blood from his stomach wound was staining the snow around him . . . but not fast enough. The angle for a shot was bad, so instead of taking it and perhaps driving his enemy to cover, Jarnulf began a stealthy approach down the steep hillside. The rocks were slippery and there were points where he was completely exposed to a shot from below, but no shot came.
At the last, still some ten cubits above the valley floor, Jarnulf spotted the wounded one’s legs behind the hummock. He could continue to circle down, but with the wind shifting direction he would spend long moments upwind and exposed, his scent blowing straight toward his enemy; it would simply be a matter of which of them got off the best shot. Jarnulf did not like the idea of trading arrows with even a wounded Hikeda’ya soldier. Instead, he moved to the edge of a stone outcropping, then dropped to the snowy ground below, only a short distance from the wounded Norn.
The snow was softer and deeper than he’d expected; instead of being able to land and leap forward, Jarnulf found himself floundering in a thigh-deep drift. He used his bow to help himself clamber out, but the scout had already heard him and turned, blood flecking his mouth and chin, red splashed over white like some kind of crude mask. Jarnulf didn’t dare give the enemy time to lift his bow, but flung himself forward without even trying to draw his sword, instead pulling his long dagger as he half ran, half stumbled across slippery, snow-covered rocks to throw himself on his enemy.
For a moment it seemed he had succeeded: he struck the injured Hikeda’ya with his shoulder and his enemy’s bow and nocked arrow danced uselessly away. But the Sacrifice was well trained and fast despite his wounds, and he had a blade of his own.
For long, near-silent moments they rolled across the snow, locked in an embrace as tight as any lovers’, until Jarnulf managed to drive his blade up under his enemy’s ribs close to the arrow wound. The stab did not kill the creature outright, but the blow was deep; now it was only a matter of time. His enemy’s grip grew weaker. As he defended himself from Jarnulf’s thrusts, his movements grew slower, heavier. At last, with blood spattered for several arm-spans on all sides, the Hikeda’ya scout slipped into a kind of moving half-sleep. Jarnulf wrestled him onto his back and thrust the long, thin blade through his eye and into his brain.
For a while he could only lay atop his enemy’s body, gasping. Struggling hand-to-hand with even a wounded Sacrifice was like wrestling a large serpent, and all Jarnulf’s muscles were trembling. He took deep breaths, fighting to get air back into his lungs, and if he had not heard a noise behind him between inhalation and exhalation, he would have died.
He only had time to roll to one side as the third Sacrifice leaped toward him; the spear-thrust meant to kill him went instead into the lifeless body of the dead Sacrifice. In a fury of self-disgust at having assumed there were only two soldiers on this wide patrol, Jarnulf grabbed at the spear and held on so it could not be withdrawn for another thrust. The Hikeda’ya leaned back, trying to pull the spear free, which gave Jarnulf an instant of safety. His enemy was too far back for him to strike at a vital organ, but close enough that he could stab down through the Sacrifice’s booted foot. In the split-instant that the pale creature gasped (but did not scream—the Hikeda’ya were controlled even in agony) Jarnulf managed to reach the dead scout’s bow. He swung it as hard as he could and shattered it across his attacker’s face. As the white-clad soldier tried to shield his head from another blow, Jarnulf threw himself at him, pieces of the broken bow clutched in each hand, the bowstring still attached.
He managed to loop the bowstring over the Hikeda’ya’s head, then let his momentum carry him past; a moment later he was behind his enemy, tightening the cord with all the strength he could muster, shoving his knee into the Hikeda’ya’s back to keep the clawing fingers away from his head. The creature bloodied the backs of Jarnulf’s hands with his nails as he struggled, but the bowstring had been made in Nakkiga and was nearly unbreakable, and Jarnulf outweighed his enemy. Despite the Hikeda’ya’s probably greater strength, all Jarnulf had to do now was hold on.
It still took a long time—a horribly long time—but at last the white-skinned creature stopped struggling. Even so, Jarnulf held the cord tight until he could no longer keep his arms up, then let go and collapsed onto the snow beside the corpse. If there was a fourth Sacrifice nearby, Jarnulf knew he would soon be a dead man.
But there was no fourth member of the scouting party. Aching, scraped, wearier than he had been in weeks, Jarnulf staggered onto his feet to finish his sacred task, of which killing was only the first act. Corpses by themselves were meaningless. The fear—the fear was what mattered.
He dragged the three bodies to the trunk of a pine tree and set them against it. Next he took a palm full of blood from the gut-stabbed Norn, put his other hand down against the snow, and blew on the blood until it flew in spatters over his spread fingers. When he lifted it again, the clear outline of a white hand lay on the snow, limned in red blood, then he kneeled to pray.
“I dedicate the bodies of our enemies to you, O God. May they learn to fear Your wrath.”
But unlike in earlier days, when he had finished he did not feel exultant or even satisfied. The sight of the dead Sacrifice scouts unsettled him in a way it hadn’t before, the emptiness of their dark, dead eyes seeming to mirror his own hollowness. How could he simply go on doing what he had done for so many years when the corpse-giant’s words had changed everything? If Queen Utuk’ku was awake and the Hikeda’ya were preparing for war, they were nothing like the spent force he had imagined and all his killing had accomplished nothing. Nothing but death and more death.
Jarnulf knew he could not linger near the bodies. He found his bow and retrieved his arrows. He cleaned his boots of blood so as not to make tracking too easy for any enemies that might be nearby, then climbed on shaking legs back up into the trees that crowned the hill. When he was well hidden from the spot where the dead Sacrifices lay motionless beneath the cold sky, Jarnulf fell to his knees, pressed together hands still tinctured with the blood of so-called immortals, and sent up another prayer, this one silent.
Father, my dear Father, wherever you are, in Heaven with the saints or a captive suffering in the enemy’s dark stronghold, help me see my way.
And Almighty God, my other and truest Father, in the name of Your blessed Son Usires Aedon, my Ransomer, tell me what You would have your servant do. What good to punish mere slaves when their mistress the White Witch of Nakkiga still lives? I fear I have lost my way. Tell me what You require of me. Let Your servant know Your will.
He stood, but kept his head bowed for long moments.
I ask only this—send me a sign, O Lord. Send me a sign.
“You, Blackbird.” Makho wiped a smear of grease from his chin and pointed to the white hares lying on the ground like a pile of blood-flecked snow. “Give those that remain to the giant.”
Nezeru took up a brace in each hand. She counted herself lucky that she had been allowed a few handfuls of cooked meat herself, and wondered if Makho would have fed her at all if he did not think she was growing a child inside her. She was becoming used to the lowly role the Hand Chieftain had given her, not that she had any choice: it was clear Makho would have much rather left her at Bitter Moon Castle.
But it is better to be patient than to be noticed, Nezeru reminded herself. It was one of her father Viyeki’s favorite sayings, although he himself was not always as retiring as he liked to pretend. But just now, when she was shamed, outranked, and with leagues between her and her family and clan, it seemed like good advice.
She crunched across the uneven snow toward the spot where the off-white bulk of the giant sat like a small mountain. As always, she stopped out of the creature’s reach, then tossed the two strings of hares so that they landed near him. The great gray and white head lifted, and Nezeru froze in place despite herself. The wide nostrils flared.
“Ah.” The giant’s voice rumbled like a tunnel collapse in deep Nakkiga. “So Goh Gam Gar will not starve tonight.” A leathery hand so brown it was nearly black reached out and enveloped the hares as though they were furry pea pods. “Sit and talk as I eat,” he growled. His voice made her bones quiver. “Or are you feared of old Gar?”
Nezeru found her voice. “I fear only failure.”