back to Hammerhaven.” Brand and Ingrid would take him in for a while, he was sure. “But first I want what’s mine.” He strode over to the locked bin where the money was and rattled the lid. “I need to break into this. Any ideas?”
The Nis darted him a mischievous look. It reached out a long arm and hooked its wooden bowl out of the ashes. It was empty. Baldur and Grim had forgotten to fill it. “I has had enough too, Peer Ulfsson,” the Nis announced importantly. “See me!”
It scampered up the ladder and disappeared over the edge into the loft, where it began puffing and groaning. Bewildered, Peer climbed up to find it heaving away at the upper millstone, trying to lift it from its spindle.
“What on earth?” Peer began, and then he saw. If they could roll the millstone over the edge, it would fall on the chest below. But it must weigh half a ton. They could never lift it.
The Nis doubled limply over the millstone and lay panting. Peer looked about for something else to use. He clenched his fist in triumph. Standing upright against the wall, dark with dust, was the old worn millstone that had been replaced in Baldur’s father’s time. No need to lift it: it was already on its rim, with just a couple of chocks driven in on the underside to stop it rolling.
The Nis saw, and the sparkle came back into its eyes. It probed under the old millstone, pulling out the chocks. Peer grabbed the top of the stone and felt it roll forward. Between them, they guided it to the edge of the loft. At the very brink they paused and looked at each other. The Nis giggled. Peer grinned and pushed.
There was an ear-splitting crash, and pieces of wood flew like daggers. Loki fled under the table. Peer looked over to see the damage. The millstone had cracked in two, and the wooden bin was firewood. He jumped down, reached into the wreckage, and pulled out a soft leather bag.
It was all there, his father’s hard-earned wages – thin copper pennies, and worn silver pieces that slipped gently through his fingers. At the bottom of the bag was his father’s old silver ring. He shut his eyes and pushed it on to his own finger. Father, are you there? Can you hear me? I’m doing what you did, Father. I’m running away. He waited, as if there could be an answer, before opening his eyes.
He pulled on one of Uncle Baldur’s old tunics. It was smelly but warm, and came down to his knees. He seized the best of the blankets from Grim’s bed and wrapped it around his shoulders like a cloak. Next he chose the smallest pair of boots. They were still huge, so he stuffed the toes with straw and laced them up tightly.
“We need some food,” he said, taking a loaf from the bread crock. He tore some off to munch and gave half to Loki. The Nis watched, bright-eyed.
“Want some?” asked Peer. The Nis sprang into the rafters and sat nibbling like a squirrel. Peer took a last look at the dark room, the glowing bed of the fire, the shattered millstone and broken bin. “I’m off. Goodbye, Nis. I’ll never forget you. But I have to go now, before they get back.”
Snow was falling thickly in the yard. Peer crossed the bridge and decided to leave the road. He did not want to meet his uncles on the way home. Somewhere behind the snow-laden clouds the moon had risen, and he could pick his way up over the glimmering white fields. In spite of the cold and the dangerous journey ahead, he felt he had come to life.
“I’m free!” he said, savouring the word. It was a pity he was leaving the Nis behind. And Hilde. He desperately hoped Hilde would be all right. But leaving seemed to be the only thing he could do for her now. Hilde and her family belonged here: the neighbours would look out for them. Arne and Bjørn would, for example. But Peer? He was nobody’s business. We’re just strays, Loki and me. We’d better look out for ourselves. Nobody else will.
At the top of the big field above the mill, the same field Ralf had galloped across escaping from the trolls all those years ago, he stopped for breath, leaning against the tall stone called the Finger. Out of the steadily falling snow, a white fox came trotting downhill. Loki pricked his ears, whining, and Peer caught his collar. The fox froze with one foot lifted and looked sharply at the boy and his dog.
“Hello!” said Peer, amused. “Going down to the farms to see what you can find? There’s a black cockerel at the mill. You can have him and welcome!”
The fox shook its head and sneezed. It sprang away with flattened ears, disappearing into the white world in seconds. Peer laughed. But beside him, Loki growled. A moment late, Peer realised why.
Only a few yards away, two huge shapes emerged from the greyness, plodding uphill. He heard the grumble of two familiar and hated voices. His heart nearly stopped.
Uncle Baldur and Uncle Grim!
Chapter 14
Peer Alone
PEER CROUCHED, his mind spinning. Were they after him? How could they know where he was?
Had they caught Hilde? Were they taking her to the Troll King all by herself?
Cheek pressed to the stone, he looked around the edge. And one thing was clear: his uncles had no idea he was there. Their hoods pulled well down, they trudged past his hiding place without looking left or right. And Hilde wasn’t with them. He sighed in relief. But each of them carried a large bundle over his shoulder.
What were those bundles? Was it just the poor light, or were they moving? Peer strained his eyes. With a jolt of horror he suddenly saw what they were. Two small children, bundled in sacking and swathed in ropes.
“Sigurd and Sigrid!” Peer breathed. A girl and a boy. Twins.
A matching pair!
He stood in the snow, in full view if his uncles turned around, his mind racing. What could he do? What could he possibly do, all by himself? How could he rescue the twins from two huge, powerful men – or from a whole hill full of trolls?
If he had been slower leaving the mill, or if he had gone by the road, he would never have known – never have seen what his uncles were doing. He gazed after their disappearing backs. It was nearly too late. In a moment they would vanish into the dim night and falling snow. He could go on to Hammerhaven as if nothing had happened.
But into his head slipped a memory, the memory of Sigrid’s high little voice in the summer, screaming at Uncle Baldur: “I don’t like the nasty man! I hate him!” Sigrid and Sigurd were only little, but they were his friends.
Peer stood as still as the big stone. He knew what he should do. He should follow, and see where his uncles were taking the children. He should tell the whole village what they had done. If he didn’t he would blame himself for ever.
“Loki!” he said with a furious sob. “This way!”
Loki gambolled along at his heels, thinking this was a game. Peer was terrified he would bark and give them away. He was afraid of losing his uncles, and afraid of getting too close. Already their shadowy shapes were disappearing into a little valley. Peer ran, as if in a bad dream. His cumbersome boots dragged half off at each stride.
The valley was no more than a dimple on the hillside, but it was full of drifted snow. Both Peer’s boots came off as he ploughed through it. There was no time to empty out the snow; he just shoved his numb feet back in and plunged on. The tracks turned uphill again. Peer dropped into a plod, forced himself to run, fell to plodding again. On and on he went. It stopped snowing, and the moon sailed out over a landscape of white slopes and black rocks. Deep
