“You will do no such thing. If you stay, I stay. And I’ve not spent the last two days freezing my arse off for nothing.”
Flakes of snow whirled about the Shadojak as he fixed her with an agitated expression. “We press on.”
“And the Snow jubbs?” piped in Otholo
In one fluid motion, Diagus pulled his sword from its pouch and drove it into the skull of Bray’s fallen horse. It may have been dead already for the lack of movement it made. The sound of metal scraping against bone grated above the wind as Diagus withdrew his sword. Then made a slash across its belly, spilling steaming guts into the open air and turning the snow scarlet.
“This should draw the little snow shits. The rest of you dismount, we’re moving out on foot.”
Elora watched blood drip from the horse’s gaping wound, its large round eyes staring up at nothing. It had been alive only moments ago, breathing the same air as them, probably as tired, as cold and hungry. And most probably, on some horsey level, it dreamed of warm meadows with lush grass. Now it was dead.
Bray’s arms tightened about her as he planted a kiss on the top of her head. “It was already dead, Elora. It died the moment a snow jubb cut its tendon,” he said, stroking her hair.
“And the rest of them?” she asked, her voice no more than a whisper.
“They’ll be glad to run back. Hopefully stamping down our quarry, or at least throw them off our scent.”
They made red boot prints in the snow as they passed the dead horse, Diagus leading the way, sword in hand whilst Ejan and Bray shuffled along as best they could, burdened with supporting Ragna, a large arm thrown over each of their shoulders. Elora volunteered to take Ejan’s place but the Norsewoman steadfastly refused. Instead she was entrusted to carry the Fist of the North, her chilled fingers locking about its shaft, the hammer’s huge head resting over her shoulder and bouncing against her collar bone as she struggled on.
Jibba-jabba noises, echoed from the place they’d just left and as Elora glanced back she favoured her gaze sought out small furry men scurrying over the rocks and through the snow. They blended well with the white surroundings, giving the hint of black lips, pale blue eyes and thick pink tongues. A flash of steel amidst the flakes, teeth and faces turning red as they began to devour the horse flesh. Elora turned her face away, heaving the hammer into a more comfortable position, or one which was a little less painful, and pressed on.
The world near the peak of the mountain was a white one. Snow drifted heavy against the steep rock, it coated the sparse trees and covered the narrow ledge they trudged along. Icicles clung to the overhang above, frozen tears, sharp enough to skewer anything the mountain cared to cry for.
Elora, kept her eyes to the narrow ground, away from the icicles and away from the outer edge, the vertical drop which seemed to lure her when she glanced over, like a moth to a flame.
Both her shoulders burned with the fatigue of carrying Ragna’s hammer, she used the pain to drive her forwards, to keep her going - its owner’s pain groaning out in laboured breaths with each step. Yet they were still moving. Otholo now carrying the pack, taking turns with her uncle who was now gripping the lute in his aged hands. Diagus, marching out ahead of the group, at a trail blazer’s pace in his haste to reach the pass; sporadically halting as he waited for them to catch up. Each time muttering under his breath, whilst fixing them with an expression that said he would like nothing more than to throw each of them from the ledge and watch them tumble out into the white sky.
Then she heard a strange sound above the haunting whispers of the wind. Unclear at first but as it came again her heart struck hard against her chest.
“Hounds,” shouted Bray. “They’ve caught us up.”
Diagus rushed to the back of the group, sword already out as he scanned the way they had come.
“Run,” he shouted. “The pass isn’t far. We can’t let them get ahead of us.”
Otholo didn’t need telling twice as he stumbled in his haste to get away. Elora watched the panic in Ejan’s eyes as she realised that Ragna could no more run than lift the mountain. Instead she lowered her husband to the rock wall and unslung her bow.
“Run, I said!” screamed Diagus, but Ejan was having none of it.
“I’ll not leave him,” she promised, setting an arrow to the string, her countenance cooling to that cold sharpshooter.
“Nor me,” said Elora, as she stood by her, ready to drop the great hammer and retrieve her sword.
Men’s voices then came on the heels of the baying hounds. Shouting encouragement as they closed in on their prey. The words indecipherable but infused with excitement as armour rattled and heavy boots crushed the snow.
“I’m sorry, Ragna,” said Bray, as he gripped the Viking’s wrist and bent down to feed his arm through the great man’s legs before hoisting him bodily into a fireman’s lift. The smooth swiftness with which Bray moved gave little chance for Ragna to protest, instead swallowing the pain as he let himself be carried off at a run, chasing after Otholo.
Elora shifted the hammer once again and followed, her uncle doing the same and finding it a struggle to match the heroic speed of her boyfriend.
The path began to climb at a ridiculously steep angle, twisting around a sudden bend and becoming so narrow that the space between rock face and ledge was less than two feet. Bray showed no signs of slowing as he sprinted up the icy track, momentarily disappearing. Elora slowed to allow Nat in front of her, the path only manageable in single-file, keeping her eyes focused on her uncle’s back as he ascended the bend and not on the sheer empty drop. If the shouts from Diagus and the sounds of the baying hounds were not at her heels she would have felt better progressing up this treacherous section on hands and knees instead of an all-out sprint; the Fist making her top-heavy and threatening to throw her, unbalanced, from the mountain.
Elora’s calves and thighs burned as the path flattened out, yet becoming no less narrow. Before them she could see it wind along the rock face, flowing along its contours until it met an old wooden rope bridge that reached across an abyss.
Thick anchor posts, covered in ancient ice, stood taller and wider than Otholo. Large statues, now hidden beneath snow and icicles, were carved into the old wood. The weather had long ago eroded their faces to noiseless ovals, eyes no deeper than thumb prints yet Elora caught the outline of crowns above and the curving of wings sprouting from their backs - angels, maybe?
The bridge itself reached across an immense gap between this rock face and the next which jutted out from the mountain some hundred feet further away. The snow-laced ropes sagged, dipping incredibly low as it swayed above the void. The planks of wood, maybe half her body length in size, were bound tightly together, although in more than one place she noticed gaps; one of them where three planks had rotten through and leaving a hole she wasn’t sure she could cross.
Otholo paused long enough to catch his breath before plunging on, a hand on each rope, which creaked and groaned with the sudden movement. Elora found him to be brave for going over, but realised that he was caught between trusting the reliability of the bridge over the honour of the pursuing soldiers not to kill him.
Bray set Ragna down against one of the posts, his face gone waxy, his features pulled back in pain as he gripped his side. Ejan went to him and breathlessly knelt before his wound but he slapped her probing hands away, shaking his head.
Bray joined Elora and lifted the hammer from her shoulder. The sudden lack of weight made her feel light as a feather, as if she needn’t use the bridge at all and could simply float across.
“You’re next,” he instructed, pointing his sword after the bard. “Go, they’ll be on us any minute.”
The hounds were yapping loudly now, the men’s shouts echoing around the rocks as they rounded the bend. Polished helmets appearing as they scurried up the rise.
“Too late,” she said, drawing her sword.
Ejan loosed an arrow which ricocheted off a helmet, making a pinging sound before burying into the face of the soldier behind. He reeled back, blood pumping from the shaft that had imbedded through both cheek and neck.
The rest of the hunting party halted, kneeling low and used the slope as a shield. The leader advanced a step, squeezing to the front where the track was only wide enough to accommodate himself, but still lay hidden, only the top of his sweat-filmed brow visible below the helmet.
“Lay down your arms,” he shouted, after quieting the dogs. “You’re out numbered and if you try to cross the pass we’ll cut the ropes and see how well you fly. You won’t make it to the other side. Lay them down now and you’ll be treated fairly.”
Diagus stepped forwards. “Do you know who I am, soldier?” he growled.
“I do, sir. You’re the Pearly White. I dare say you’ll take a good few of my men down, but Shadojak or no, I have my orders. And now you’ve killed one of our own - my men will be more ready to fight.” He lifted his head, seeming more confident after saying his piece, a condescending smile curling his lips. “Or you can wait until the main body arrive, they’re only a couple of hours behind.”
