“Don’t worry. It will probably work out all right,” Audun Gilli told him.
“Easy for you to say,” Hamnet growled. “Runolf is a friend of mine. I don’t like running out and leaving him in the lurch.”
“I don’t think you are,” the wizard answered. “By the time Gunnlaug gets down to Nidaros again – if he ever does – how many Rulers will be between him and Kjelvik? With the worst will in the world, how much can Sigvat do to your friend?”
Hamnet Thyssen thought that over. His nod was grudging, but it was a nod. “Well, you’ve got something there,” he said, and worried about it less. Too late now to do anything but what he’d done, anyhow.
“Now we find our fellow Bizogots, our fellow sufferers,” Trasamund boomed. He seemed to have no doubts about what came next. “We fire them with our fury, and we lead them to victory against the accursed invaders.”
He made it sound easy. Had it been easy, the Bizogots would have done it when the Rulers first swarmed down through the Cleft. Trasamund was always one to overlook details like that. Ulric Skakki said, “Finding enough to eat through the winter here ought to be interesting all by itself.”
“We Bizogots don’t starve,” Trasamund declared.
“Except when we do.” Liv had a better grasp on reality than the jarl did. Hamnet had known that for a long time. She went on, “Even with our herds, it isn’t always easy. And we’ll have to hunt without mammoths and musk oxen to fall back on.”
“Dire wolves do it. So can we,” Trasamund said.
“We can rob them, too,” Ulric said. “What’s left of a musk ox or a baby mammoth or one of the Rulers’ riding deer that strayed will feed us for a while.”
For a while, Hamnet thought. When the Breath of God blew hard from the north up here, folk needed more food than they did down in Nidaros, with fireplaces and braziers and double walls handy to hold cold at bay. You had to keep the hearth inside you burning hot, or else the Breath of God would blow it out.
Peering north, then northeast, then northwest, Count Hamnet saw… snow. No mammoths. No musk oxen. No riding deer. No geese or swans. No ducks or ptarmigan. No white-pelted hares. No voles or lemmings, either. He knew game of all sizes lived on, in, and under the snowdrifts, but finding any wouldn’t be easy.
The horses would have to keep going, too. Unlike musk oxen or mammoths, they didn’t always know enough to dig through the snow to find fodder underneath. Sooner or later – most likely sooner – the travelers would probably end up killing and eating the pack horses. Once the supplies they carried were gone, what point to fussing over them? He wasn’t fond of horse-meat, but he wasn’t fond of hunger, either.
“Come on!” Trasamund said. “Let’s ride!”
He booted his horse forward as if he had not a care in the world. Up here in the Bizogot country, maybe he didn’t. Whether he should or not . . wasn’t the same question. Count Hamnet urged his mount forward, too.
When he came north the winter before, he’d looked forward to running into people. The Bizogots guested strangers generously, knowing they might need guesting themselves one day before long. The Rulers, though, would be enemies no matter what. He made sure his sword stayed loose in its scabbard.
Nothing . . . Only snow and chill and rolling ground under the horse’s hooves. Trasamund started singing a song about how splendid the countryside was. The jarl couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket. He didn’t care, but Count Hamnet didn’t feel like listening to him.
“How are you?” Hamnet asked Marcovefa.
“I’ve been better,” she answered. “My head still feels . .” She made a face. “Things in there aren’t right.”
“A slingstone will do that,” Hamnet said.
“But to knock out working magic?” She made another face, an angrier one. “It did that. I don’t like it. I feel stupid.”
“I can’t work magic at all,” Hamnet said. “Am I stupid?”
By her expression, the question was. “Suppose you go blind. Are you the same as you were before? I feel like I am blind in there.” She carefully touched the right side of her head.
Liv pointed northwest and called, “A herd that way!”
Hamnet Thyssen saw nothing out of the ordinary when he looked that way. “How can you tell?” he asked. Even so simple a question hurt.
“Look at the air.” Liv sounded as matter-of-fact as if they were strangers. “You can see the fog of all the animals breathing together.” She pointed again. Once Count Hamnet knew where to look and what to look for, he could see it, too. That made him feel a little better, but not much. Liv went on, “I think they’re musk oxen, but I’m not sure. The air doesn’t look quite right.” Hamnet couldn’t tell the difference between fog from musk oxen and that from any other beasts. Could Liv, really? Maybe she could. The Bizogots had to learn such things if they wanted to go on living.
“I think they’re musk oxen,” Trasamund said. “I think we ought to slaughter one or two of them, too. We can use the meat. It will keep us going longer than the bread we brought north. Bread is all very well when you have no meat, but when you do….”
Hamnet wondered who was watching that herd or flock or whatever the word was. If the outriders were Bizogots, there probably wouldn’t be any trouble. If they were Rulers, there certainly would. His hand fell to his sword hilt again. He was ready for trouble, or hoped he was.
“Let’s ride,” Trasamund said once more. Nobody told him no. Ulric Skakki looked dubious, but Ulric looked dubious about half the time. He very often had good reason to look dubious, but Hamnet chose not to remember that.
Before long, the herd itself came into sight: a brown smudge on the horizon. The travelers hadn’t gone much farther before Liv exclaimed, “Those aren’t musk oxen!”
“I don’t know what the demon they are,” Trasamund said. Hamnet Thyssen still wasn’t convinced they weren’t musk oxen. But he had to believe the Bizogots knew better than he did.
Still, it wasn’t a Bizogot who said, “They’re riding deer, aren’t they?” It was Ulric Skakki. He might look dubious, but he was also an adaptable man. Before long, Hamnet could see he was right here.
“What do we do?” Audun Gilli asked: all things considered, a more than reasonable question.
“I’m in the mood for roast venison,” Hamnet said. His comrades bayed agreement.
“What if the Rulers have herdsmen with their deer?” Audun asked.
“Then in a little while they won’t,” Hamnet answered grandly. That got him more cheers. He began to string his bow. So did Ulric.
Sure enough, a herdsman rode out towards them … on a riding deer rather than a horse, which said by itself that he was a warrior of the Rulers. “You goes away!” he shouted in the Bizogot tongue, his accent and pronunciation terrible. “Goes away! Thises our deers is!”
“We ought to kill him just so we don’t have to listen to him,” Ulric murmured.
“Oh, we’ve got better reasons than that,” Hamnet Thyssen said.
He and Ulric reached over their shoulders and nocked arrows at the same time. The enemy warrior seemed astonished that anyone on the frozen steppe would presume to disobey him. They’d both let fly before he even started to reach for an arrow. He hadn’t finished drawing his bow before one shaft caught him in the chest and the other in the face. He slid out of the saddle and crashed down in the snow.
“Well shot!” Hamnet and Ulric shouted at the same time. Marcovefa pounded Hamnet on the back.
Another herdsman rode around from the far side of the flock to find out what was going on. Seeing his comrade down, he wheeled his deer and galloped off as fast as it would run.
Liv pointed at the deer and murmured . . something. Suddenly, though the deer seemed to be running as hard as ever, it was hardly moving at all. The warrior of the Rulers beat it and cursed it, none of which did him any good. When the invaders had no shaman with them, they were vulnerable to Bizogot magic. Hamnet had seen that before.