Snow-Walker by Catherine Fisher

the three kept together, watchful and resentful.
    The track climbed up, moving slowly above the snowline. Now the horses strode in one another’s hoof holes across a great snowfield, dazzlingly white, broken only by streams that gurgled under their seamed, frozen lids. These were invisible, and treacherous; once Thorkil’s horse lurched forward into one, almost throwing him. After that they kept direction only by the sun, but the sky slowly clouded over. By late afternoon they had lost the track altogether.
    Finally Helgi stopped and swore. The narrow valley down which they had come was closed by a sheer rock face, glistening with icicles and glassy twists of frozen water. He turned. “We’ll have to go back. This isn’t it.”
    Jessa saw Steinar glance at his colleagues. “What about a rest?” he growled. “The horses need it.”
    Helgi looked at Jessa. She tugged the frosted scarf from her mouth. “I’m in no hurry.”
    They found an overhang of cliff and sat under it; Helgi fed the horses, then he joined Jessa and Thorkil. They ate slowly, listening to the bleak wind in the hollow rocks. The other three sat apart, talking in gruff, quiet voices. Helgi watched them. Finally they called him over, and when he came they stood up. Steinar was bigger and heavier than the younger man. He put his hand on Helgi’s shoulder. Talk became hurried, noisy, almost an argument.
    â€œI don’t like the look of that,” Thorkil muttered.
    Jessa raised her eyes from a daydream. Helgi was shaking his head angrily. He snapped something sharp and final.
    â€œThey’re scared,” Thorkil said. “They don’t want to go on.”
    â€œI don’t blame them.”
    They watched the bitter, hissed argument. These were soldiers, Jessa thought, trained how to fight, to deal with things, but how could they deal with this? The horror of whatever was in Thrasirshall had caught hold of them; it was wearing at their nerves.
    â€œDo you think he’ll make them go on?”
    â€œHe’ll try. But it’s three to one.”
    â€œThree to three.”
    Thorkil flashed her a brief grin. “You’re right. But remember, if we were … out of the way, they wouldn’t have to go on at all. They’ve probably been thinking about that.”
    Helgi flung Steinar’s hand from him and turned away. He marched past Jessa and caught the horse’s bridle.
    â€œRide close to me,” he muttered. “And pray we find the place soon.”

Eight
A wayfarer should not walk unarmed,
But have his weapons to hand:
He knows not when he may need a spear,
Or what menace meet on the road.
    It was a hard thing to pray for. Jessa swung onto her weary horse and gathered up the reins, moving out hurriedly after Thorkil. Looking back, she saw that Steinar and Thorgard Blund were still listening to the thin man, Thrand. His voice was a quiet echo under the cliff. Steinar laughed and turned, catching her eye. He put his huge hands up to his horse and hauled himself up.
    Jessa and Thorkil rode close together. Neither spoke. The path ran along the edge of a vast pine wood, its branches still and heavy with snow. In there it was dim and gloomy, the trees receding into endless aisles, only a few birds piping in the hush. Once a pine marten streaked across the track.
    Helgi was guessing the way now, and they all knew it. The sun became a cold globe, sliding down into mists and vapors; twilight turned the world black and gray. The snow lost its glare and shimmered blue; crystals of ice hardened on the tree trunks.
    Without turning his head, Helgi muttered, “Thorkil. Can you use that knife of yours?”
    â€œWhat knife?”
    â€œThe sharp one you’ve been keeping under your coat.”
    Thorkil grinned. “It’s not the only thing that’s sharp. Yes, I can use it.”
    Jessa glanced back. Three wraiths on shadow horses flickered through the