Read Online Snow-Walker by Catherine Fisher - Free Book Online

looked up. “Birds. Two of them.”
    They were perched on the sill above him; the two ravens from the wood. Their eyes followed every movement.
    Steinar gripped the thorshammer at his neck. “This is a place of sorcery, or worse. Let’s get out, man. While we can!”
    But Helgi snatched the torch from his hand and turned, holding it up. Then he stopped, stock-still.
    Jessa’s fingers clenched on the frozen reins.
    Before them, the door was opening.
    It was tugged open, jerking and grating against the stones as if the wood was swollen.
    Firelight streamed out, as if a slot had opened in a dark lantern. It fell on their faces, glinted in the horses’ eyes. A scatter of snow falling through it turned red as blood.
    A man stood there. He was a giant; his head reached the lintel of the door, and though he was wrapped in furs and patched cloaks, they saw his strength. His face was flushed with the fire’s heat; his beard and hair dark red, cut close.
    Helgi gripped his knife, looking suddenly small and pale on the cold steps. The big man gave him a glance, then pushed him aside and shouldered his way down among the horses. He went straight to Jessa. She could feel the warmth of the fire glowing from him as he gripped her horse’s mane.
    â€œYou’re late, Jessa,” he said. “A good soup is almost spoiled.”

Nine
Greetings to the host. The guest has arrived.
In which seat shall he sit?
    The chair was too big for her, and had once been covered with some embroidery; the firelight glimmered on a patch of trees and a threadbare reindeer. She snuggled back and sipped the soup. It was so hot it scorched her tongue.
    They were in a small room, very dark. There was another ragged chair, a table, and in a corner some empty shelves, their shadows jerking in the firelight. By the hearth a stack of cut logs oozed dampness. The window was boarded up, and some torn shreds of green cloth were nailed across it to keep out drafts.
    Jessa’s knees were hot; she edged back. Her coat was dripping into a puddle on the floor.
    On the table lay two fishing spears and a knife, thrust deep into the timber. Thorkil was trying to pull it out, but couldn’t.
    â€œThat’s another thing,” he said, tapping the empty platter. “Enough food for six. Everything prepared. How did he know?”
    She shook her head.
    Outside, voices approached; the door shuddered open. The big man, Brochael, came in, and Helgi trailed behind him, glancing quickly into the shadows. They had all done that. No one forgot that the creature was here, somewhere.
    â€œWe’re going, Jessa,” Helgi said quickly.
    She stared at him. “Tonight?”
    He shrugged unhappily. “You’ve seen. They won’t stay here. To be frank, neither will I. There’s too much strangeness in this place.” She nodded, wordless.
    â€œI’m just sorry to have to leave you both here.”
    â€œDon’t be.” Brochael planted himself in front of the blaze. “They’ll be safer here than in any hold of Gudrun’s.”
    Helgi gave her a wan smile and went to the door. Suddenly Jessa wanted to go with him; she leaped up, spilling the soup, but he caught her eye and she stopped.
    â€œGood luck,” he said. Then he went and closed the door.
    In the sudden silence they heard the clink of harness, the muffled scrape of a hoof in snow. After that there was only the wind, howling over the sills and under the doors into all the empty rooms and spaces of the hall.
    Brochael sat down. He cleared the table with one sweep of his arm, tugged out the knife and thrust it in his belt, and leaned both elbows on the bare wood. “Now. I already know your names and I’m sure you can guess mine. I am Brochael Gunnarsson, of Hartfell. I knew your fathers, a long time ago. I also know that Ragnar has sent you here into exile.”
    â€œHow do you know?” Jessa demanded. “How could