made her bow herself, and knew all its faults too well. The force that was sufficient to stun a bird or pierce a rabbit’s thin hide would probably do no more than bruise the animal below. But the lure of that much meat wrapped in a useful hide sent her slipping from one tree’s shelter to the next, getting ever closer as she worked her slow way down the hillside.
The mother pawed snow away to bare for her calf the tender lichen beneath. While the calf fed, she lifted her antlered head and stared about, watching for wolves and wolverines and the occasional lynx. When she was sure all was well, she dipped her own head into the hole. It was during those moments, while the mother’s watchful eyes were below snow level, that Tillu advanced.
Tillu halted while she was still out of range. Her heart was high with hopes, her head whirling with plans. If she didn’t spook the animal now, perhaps she would still be in this area tomorrow. Even if she weren’t, sighting this reindeer meant there would be others in the nearby valleys and hills. Their winter hides would be thick now, good for boots and coats and bedhides. Their long sinews made fine thread, their bones and antlers good tools. To say nothing of rich slabs of red meat frosted with layers of fat, or the steaming liver and succulent marrow bones from the new kill. Tillu let her hunger rise as she thought swiftly. What would it take? A spear? And Kerlew to spook the animals to where she waited? It was possible. The mother lowered her head again, and Tillu peered out from the cover of the tree.
And froze anew.
She was not the only hunter here. Even as she watched, two shapes were converging on the deer, rising from the snow to creep forward. They were a mismatched pair, and she watched them curiously. One was a man, tall and wide-shouldered, dressed in tunic and leggings of reindeer hide. His dark hair was touched with bronze when the light hit it. It was cut straight, jaw-length, and swung forward by his face as he scuttled soundlessly on his hands and knees. A bow was slung on his back and his eyes were fixed on his prey.
The other was a youth, or a very small man. He was short, not only in height, but in every measurement. His short, thick legs were slightly bowed. He did not move as smoothly as the older man, but twitched along like a nervous weasel. His hair was black and dense, lying flat on his head and framing his wide face. His cheekbones were high, his nose broad, his lips finely drawn. Tillu studied him as he studied the deer. An odd thrill of recognition ran down her spine. He was not so different from the raiders who had snatched her away from all she had known. He had a coiled rope of some kind in his hands. He was in the front, and seemed intent on getting as close as possible, while the other seemed content with getting within close bow-range. The men exchanged glances, and the older man nodded to the youth. One rolled into place behind a tree, to unsling his bow and draw out an arrow, while the other slithered forward, rope in hand. When the feeding reindeer lifted her head, the youth froze, belly and face flat to the snow. The animal widened her nostrils, snuffling audibly in the cold evening air. But the air was still beneath the black-barked pine. No wind carried their scent to the mother. She began to lower her head again.
Tillu never knew what turned her eyes. There was no sound, so perhaps it was a tiny bit of movement at the edge of her vision. Whatever it was, she lifted her eyes from the scene below and looked down the hill to her left.
Years ago, one of the forest giants had fallen. Its great trunk lay prone, half submerged in snow. Its bare reaching branches rose from its trunk like a screen. When it had gone down, its great roots had torn up a huge mass of soil with them. Parts of the tree were still alive, nourished by the half of the roots that were buried still, while some of the roots clawed blindly at the air, the mass of earth that had surrounded them slowly eroding away from the clump still clinging to them. It was a tangled, brushy place, perfect cover for any small animal seeking shelter. Or for the bowman who stepped out suddenly from its cover.
Tillu saw no more of him than the shape of his hat, the outstretched hand that gripped the bow, and the long black curve of the bow itself. She sensed the tension in the bowstring she could not see. A smile cracked her cold face; he wasn’t going to wait for his fellow hunters to get closer. He was going to take the deer now, and, from the steadiness of his hand, she’d wager his shot would be true.
The reindeer lowered her head, and Tillu fixed her eyes on the scene. She wondered if they would carry it off whole. She decided to wait. She was not too proud to take whatever they might leave.
The bow sang just as the youth reared up to swing the rope over his head. Tillu cried aloud in horror, a warning that was too late. Swifter than sight, the black arrow ripped the air, snatching itself in and out of the boy’s upraised upper arm, to go wobbling off, its flight spoiled by this unexpected obstacle. It buried itself in snow.
Reindeer and calf bounded away, crashing awkwardly through the snow that would not support them. Tillu clung to the tree trunk that had hidden her, feeling giddy. The tall man who had signaled the boy sprang out from his hiding place to dash to his side. The boy wallowed in the snow, his bright blood staining it. Of the other bowman, Tillu saw no sign.
She would be wisest to flee. She was a woman alone, and she knew nothing of the men below her. Perhaps the wound was but a scrape; perhaps they didn’t need her skills. If she went down there, she could be putting herself in their power, men she knew nothing of. Foolishness. They could kill her or drag her away, and Kerlew would never know what had become of her. She stepped deeper into the cover of her tree, watching.
The big man pulled the youth’s tunic off over his head, more swift than gentle. He seemed smaller without his coat, younger than Tillu had first estimated. The boy wore a shift of some woven work beneath it. Tillu was startled. How long had it been since she had seen folk who wore woven cloth? The shirt was the color of ripe grain, save for the one sleeve that was brilliant red and dripping. The youth gripped his arm, his gasps of pain audible even to Tillu. He sank suddenly to his knees, his companion following him down. Shock and pain were overpowering him. The big man supported his body, speaking hoarsely to the boy who wasn’t listening. His ignorance was obvious. Bleeding like that had to be stopped right away, or the boy would not live. Tillu began a stumbling run down the hillside.
Heckram knelt in the snow, Lasse half in his lap. He could hear nothing but the thunder of his own heart and rasp of breathing, and Lasse’s thin cries as he squirmed and clutched at his arm. It was a nightmare. Soon he would awake, sweating in his bedskins. He tried once more to see the damage to Lasse’s arm, but the boy only gripped his own arm the tighter, his eyes squeezed shut against the pain. Heckram had seen the black flash of the arrow that had ripped from nowhere to slide through Lasse’s arm. He held Lasse tighter.
‘Calm down. Please, Lasse, calm down. Lasse! Let me see your arm. We have to stop the blood.’
Lasse gave a sudden whimper and went limp in his grip. The boy’s head rolled back, and for an instant Heckram’s soul froze. Then he saw the wildly jumping pulse in the boy’s neck. He was alive still, just unconscious. Perhaps for the best. He pulled at the stubbornly yielding weave of Lasse’s wool shirt, trying to expose the wound. He had nothing to bandage it with, nothing, and the talvsit was a day’s hike from here. He could carry the boy that far, but if this wound didn’t stop bleeding, he would soon be carrying a corpse. Lasse had no flesh to spare, and his face was now near white as the snow he lay in. The arrow had pierced the heavy leather of Lasse’s tunic, opened a deep gash in his arm, and ripped out the other side of the sleeve. The wound was a gaping, ragged thing. Heckram thought he caught a gleam of white bone deep inside it and felt dizzy.
Someone dropped into the snow on the opposite side of Lasse. The stranger was dressed in an oddly cut coat and leggings, hood pulled forward as if against a snowstorm. A bow was slung on his back. Sudden fury rose in Heckram, and when the bowman reached for Lasse, he pushed him roughly back. ‘Did you come down to see what meat you had taken?’ he demanded angrily. The man was even slighter than he looked, for Heckram’s push sent him sprawling in the snow. He sat up, spitting
