Skin Page 4

  He glanced back down the hall, silently cursing himself for picking a room so far removed from all the others. At the time, it had seemed like a good idea: he hadn’t wanted to hear the laughter of others or make it convenient for the others to show up unannounced. He wanted to be left alone.

  Now he was not so sure that it was the best thing.

  He drew three quick breaths. He had followed the trail of the monster’s blood out of the great hall but as he had turned to the corridor that led to his room, the ichor painted the stones leading to the opposite end of the keep.

  That was a good thing. The monster should be somewhere else in the keep, but still he felt as if an icy invisible hand had clutched him by the back of his neck.

  He shook off a spasm forming in his spine.

  He took a deep breath and darted into his room, peeling his armor from the wooden pegs and slipping into it. He fixed his helmet on his head, and slid the long knives into the sheaths on his belt.

  He grabbed his shield. In these close quarters, it would bide him time against those talons. Even now, he could see the blood glistening through the gashes in Arne’s armor, and he shivered at the memory.

  But the shield meant that he would be limited to the knives, and as brutal as he could be with those, he trusted his axe more. With it, he had dropped men with a single blow and fought himself out of more than a few bad spots.

  He lay his shield on his bed.

  Better to die swinging hard.

  He found Liv with her dogs at an intersection of two corridors. She had leashed the hounds up, the leather leads wrapped in her fists. They sat, whining, snorting and shivering.

  “The others?” he asked.

  “Still assembling in the hall.”

  “How long does it take to put on a helmet and grab a sword?”

  “More of a matter of how much liquor they need to feign courage.”

  “What the hell are we hunting?” Hemming asked.

  Liv stared down the corridor. “I grew up with tales of monsters and demons in these mountains. Men who were half-goats. Ice giants. Fire-breathing dragons dormant beneath the glaciers. But nothing like this. Nothing that wears the skins of others.”

  “Do you think Arne is right? Should we be chasing after this thing?”

  “If something is hunting you, it’s better to go after it first.”

  “I think we’re making a mistake not going down to Riverton.”

  “I don’t know if we can all make it down there.”

  “Then maybe we all don’t.”

  Liv stared long at Hemming before speaking. “Maybe we have to look out for more than ourselves.”

  Hemming knew what he was supposed to say: that he would sacrifice himself for others. That’s what she wanted to hear. That’s what fit with society. But he had done just that for years, and it left with him nothing but death and emptiness. He cleared his throat, trying to muster words to not sound like a selfish bastard, but before he could speak, armor clang and hard footsteps echoed against the stones.

  Within moments, the others assembled in the intersection, armed with swords and spears.

  At Arne’s urging, they followed the thinning trail of blood to an aged wooden door at the end of a hall. Beyond the door lay the tunnels – drafty, maze-like, rough-hewn corridors that ran in three directions beneath the keep. During his first week at the keep, Hemming had explored those tunnels to understand weaknesses in the defense of the fort. Each passage ended at another large oak door that opened to snowfields around the keep. Arne hadn’t been clear about the purpose of the tunnels but Liv had suggested they had been designed to sneak out of the keep could sneak out and get behind any force that might be assembled outside of their gates.

  “We should barricade this door,” said Sigurd. “Not let it back in the keep. We’d be safe then.”

  Hemming voiced his agreement.

  “And let that thing just run around beneath us?” asked Arne. “It’s too dangerous.”

  “We need to hunt it down and kill it,” said Liv. “Even if we lock it out, imagine if it goes to one of the nearby villages.”

  Hemming bit his lower lip. He liked Liv. She matched his desire to be alone in the world, free from all the machinations of civilization. But he did not care if the monster was roaming the countryside. As long as it was out of the keep, he was fine.

  He had just spent the past decade risking his life for others, fighting someone else’s foolish war and he was in no mood to face death in order to defend villagers he did not even know.

  “We split up and search the tunnels,” said Arne. “Liv, you and the dogs take the left passage. Magne and Sigurd, the middle. And Hemming, you and Elof take the right.”

  Hemming scoffed. “And you, Arne?”

  “Someone needs to hold the door in case the monster comes back.”

  “Brave of you.”

  Liv and her dogs vanished down one corridor, and then the Magne and Sigurd hesitatingly entered their corridor. With a scowl shot in Arne’s direction, Hemming stepped into the tunnels.

  He shivered. It was freezing, all the warmth of the keep sucked away. He felt as if by entering the tunnel he had stepped through a membrane and plunged beneath the surface of an icy lake.

  He clutched the axe at his shoulder. Elof followed, sputtering torch in hand. Arne had not even allowed the hostage a weapon.

  Hemming stared at the ground. Despite the uneven torch light, he saw the glistening trail of blood. Dark ichor smeared the stones. He glanced behind at Arne and the others remaining in the doorway, but the torch light in the doorway was blinding and he could not quite make them out.

  “Arne, there’s blood here. The monster went this way.”

  “Then kill it, Hemming. You’re the killer. So do what you are supposed to.”

  “We should call the others back. Follow it all together. We shouldn’t split up.”

  “Just get in there. Hunt it down.”

  When they were a dozen steps into the tunnel, Elof muttered beneath his breath. “If we make it back, Arne dies.”

  10

  When they were beyond the cast of the light from the doorway, Hemming gave Elof one of his knives.

  “You trust me with this?” asked the red-haired hostage.

  “Two blades are better than one.”

  “But I’m the enemy. The Sverge.” He touched where Arne had burned his skin the night before.

  “I’m not like Arne,” said Hemming. “I’m not perfect but I wouldn’t have done what he did to you. I saw too much torture and murder during the war. And I know it only leads to more torture and murder.”

  As the two delved deeper into the tunnel, a faint but sharp stench, reminiscent of singed pork, filled Hemming’s nostrils. It made him gag slightly. At first, he thought it might have been from the monster that they were tracking and then he realized that it came from Elof’s seared flesh. He imagined how painful those burns must have felt for Elof. Arne had gone too far the night before. Hemming wondered how far away he would need to go to be free of the madness of men.

  Hemming looked down. The blood painted the floor. He peered ahead.

  His breath misted before him, for a moment obscuring his vision of the tunnel ahead. The light from the torch crackled at his shoulder. Hemming’s shadow stretched long and monstrous before him, jumping and bending with the sputtering light.

  The walls were slick. Rivulets of water streamed down the dark rock, the water under the keep somehow not frozen despite the ice on the snowfield above. His teeth chattered.

  Hemming hesitated.

  At any moment the creature could hurl itself out of the darkness ahead. He imagined he would have enough time for at least a single swing, and then he and the monster would be tangled together in tight quarters. The axe wouldn’t be of much use without the room to swing it, and giving one of his knives to Elof might not have been the best idea, especially if the Sverge decided to run when the fight began. After all what did Elof owe
him or his people, and what would Hemming do in the same situation, especially after having been tortured?

  “How far does this tunnel go?” asked Elof.

  “Not too far. This one turns right and when it begins ascending we’ll know we are close to where it ends.” The air felt colder, icy gusts blowing towards Hemming, sending needles of pain into his lips and cheeks.

  “I always imagined myself growing old at court,” said Elof, “or being killed in a duel with one of the doddering dukes over an indiscreet affair with one of their young, ripe wives.”

  “No fancy court for me. No growing old. I should be dead already, left in a muddy trench covered in shit and flies.”

  “Pleasant. On the other hand, if we get out of this alive, the princes and dukes will marvel at the tales of my time here. The hostage returned to entertain the courtiers.”

  “You really want to go back?” asked Hemming. He stopped, momentarily raising his axe, before realizing that what he saw moving ahead was merely his own shadow. He settled his breath and began creeping forward again. They were running out of tunnel.

  “Of course, I want to return to the court. How could I not?”

  “Your people betrayed you. They sent you here as a hostage. Hostages aren’t guaranteed to return. And even if you do, it might not be for years, most of your life lost.”

  “I volunteered to be a hostage.”

  Hemming laughed sharply. “Why would you ever do that? Are you an idiot, the union of your father and his sister?”

  “Such sharp wit for such a common soldier.”

  “Sharpened by bitterness.”

  “The war was lost. We all knew it. The price to maintain the peace was clear, as it has been for centuries. We exchange hostages, people of value, young men and women of the court, to form a bond. Who wants their favored sons and daughters killed? We are the threads that bind the nations together in peace.”

  “Peace never lasts. Read your history books.” Hemming saw the ground ahead of them begin its gentle slope upwards. They were getting close to the end of the tunnel.

  “If the peace can last for another five or ten years and I am part of the reason for that, then I will have served my role. How can you not sacrifice yourself for the good of others? Hemming, you were a soldier for years, on the front line. You made sacrifices too.”

  Hemming paused. The door at the end of the tunnel had been flung open. The icy field beyond was blinding, so bright that Hemming’s eyes watered.

  He walked to the end of the tunnel. He could make out the tracks, human-like in the whiteness. No blood matched its footsteps. Snow came down heavy and swirled. Soon the falling snow would completely cover the monster’s tracks and the trail would be lost. He imagined even Liv’s dogs would struggle to pick up the beast’s spoor.

  But did it matter? It was out of the keep.

  He pulled the thick iron-banded door shut, and dropped an oak beam in place to lock it. He pushed against the door. It did not budge. Nothing was coming back through there. Even men with axes would struggle to break through the thick wood.

  “My time of sacrifices is done,” said Hemming. “Back to my room for more mead.”

  11

  Half an hour after Hemming had reported to the others that the monster was locked out of the keep, he found himself in the dining hall as the others argued.

  “We’d be fools to go out after it in this storm,” said Liv. She stood by the hearth, one of her dogs sleeping at her feet.

  Arne sat at the long dining table, a cup of mead clutched in his fist. Magne and Sigurd hunched on either side of him. Arne’s lips glistened with drink. “It came into my keep. It attacked me.” He ran his fingers gingerly over the gashes in his armor. “There is a price to pay for that.”

  “We’ll get lost in the white out within a few minutes,” she said. “I know what it’s like. I’ve survived winters here. We won’t walk more than a hundred steps from the keep and we’ll all get separated. The rest of the day will be me and the dogs tracking all you city fools down and dragging you right back here in front of the fire. We’ll be running in circles, no closer to tracking down the monster.”

  Arne rose on unsteady legs. “Come spring, I’m going to put word out to the villages to get another hunter for the keep. I can’t have a coward here under my watch.”

  Liv glared darkly at him and for a moment Hemming thought that she might say something but instead she swallowed her words.

  “Tracking down this foul monstrosity is more than a fool’s errand,” said Elof. “We owe it to the surrounding villages, and Riverton, and both our peoples to root out something evil and destroy it. We cannot allow it free to murder and cause mayhem among innocent souls.”

  Old Runa barked out laughter. “You think we can chase down a demon? Let us be free of it.” She drew signs in the air. “If it gets back into the keep, it will slaughter us like it did your Svergish friends.”

  “Cowards!” blurted out big Magne. Like Arne, he too had been tossing back cups of mead. He slapped the sword at his hip. “Blood Taster and I will cut the head from that beast with one mighty blow. People will sing songs of my deeds. I could not live with myself if I cowered in the walls of this keep while a monster roams the countryside. I would shame my family and my people. I stand with Arne and the Sverge. We go out there and hunt it down.”

  “And what of you, Hemming?” asked Arne, tilting as he stood. He spread both hands on the table to steady himself.

  “Is this a vote?”

  “Of course not. You will all do what I say. But I am a fair man and will hear all of you out. What would you have us do?”

  “Return back to our rooms and sleep. We let that thing go. If it doesn’t want to come back here, we are better off for it. No use chasing after our own deaths. And Liv is right: there’s a storm out there. It’s easy enough to bluster and brag about everything you will do while standing safe by the hearth fire. Take a half dozen steps out into that storm and your courage will shrivel up.”

  “Coward!” Magne spat out.

  Hemming stared at Magne until the big man averted his gaze and hid his face behind a deep drink of mead. Then he slammed the cup down so hard that Hemming thought that he might shatter it on the table. “I’m going to the barracks and gearing up. Sigurd, get up. We need to put on our furs. We’ve got a monster to hunt.”

  Arne shoved away from the table. “Ten minutes. No more. Then back here. Hunting time.”

  12

  Hemming watched as Liv ladled out scraps of the previous night’s dinner to the dogs. He had followed her out to the kennel rather than remain with the others while they took one more drink and blustered to strengthen their resolve. Better to be away from them. Besides, he liked being near Liv.

  She moved quickly and efficiently among the animals, cajoling and soothing, making sure that the dogs got to fill their bellies before being forced back out into the storm. They attacked the bowls filled with fish gruel, shouldering each other to get their noses in.

  Hemming let his gaze linger on Liv. Beneath her furs and scowls and the stench of dog, she was more than just plain looking. At certain times the light caught in her braids and they glowed as if made from hammered gold. He wondered if she ever snuck glances at him.

  He turned to look around the room before she caught him staring at her.

  The kennel was a small stone room off the central courtyard and had been built up where the keep had been carved out of the mountain. It stunk of moldy hay and wet fur, an earthy animal smell. Hemming knew that some nights Liv slept among the dogs. He imagined it was warmer but he could not see himself getting any sleep, bitten by fleas, kicked and nuzzled. But still a warmth seeped out and he imagined that is what she sought.

  He thought about her bedding down for the night. He looked away from her.

  Hemming retreated to the doorway where the cold licked the back of his neck. On either side of the kennel were two separate buildings used for the goats and the chicke
ns. The chickens were loud, scratching, and clucking.

  Even beneath the protection of the roof overhang, snow dusted his shoulders. The path of their footprints back to the main compound was already blurred in the snow. Liv was right that venturing out into the storm was a fool’s errand. He no longer had a choice but to do as he was told.

  He stared at the sky, gray, muted, almost as if it swallowed all color. The windows of the keep were mostly dark, though one or two windows were lit from where people hurried to put on their furs. He tried to imagine what the place would have looked like during the war when the keep was adequately manned. Every window would have been lit. The courtyard stalls would be packed with horses, men would be practicing with wooden wasters, and servants would be carrying buckets of water and armloads of firewood. It would have been full of life. Not desolate like it was now.

  For a moment Liv and the dogs seemed horribly distant and that his only companions were the shadows that clung in the corners and the low moans of the wind through the crenellations.

  He trembled. None of them had realized that a monster had hid under Brit’s skin. He felt like he should have recognized that something was wrong earlier. He should have seen the signs. He squinted at the shadows. Just shadows, he thought. But how hard would it be for that skin-stealer to climb the walls of the keep and sneak back inside? The oak doors and gate were no real deterrent, not if the monster wanted to come back for them.

  “Arne’s not who I would have picked to lead the others,” she said.

  “They’re all idiots,” Hemming answered. He looked at the clinging shadows and listened to the wind. For a moment, he thought he saw one of the shadows shift. He stared. Nothing. He was letting himself get too wound up.

  “Or maybe you and I are the idiots for being here at all. I actually hope he follows through and makes me leave in the spring. Good enough by me. The silver coins earned this winter will buy me adequate stores to last through next year.”