cloaks. It was not only his da who had fallen to the white bear. The next day had been a sombre procession back through the forest, carrying litters fashioned from spears and cloaks, Drem carrying his da. He’d been aware of men around him, Ulf offering his sympathy, others like Wispy Beard and Burg saying nothing to him, and for the most part Drem had been unaware of anyone else’s existence. All he could think of was his da, the fact that he was gone now feeling like when the giant bat had sunk its fangs into his shoulder. Sharp, excruciating pain, followed by a numbness to all else, then a memory surfacing through the fog that would drag him back to the pain, followed by the numbing sensation again, over and over.
They had reached his hold on the evening of the first day, bringing his da’s body into the cabin. On the second day Ulf and Hildith had returned with half a dozen men and they had carried Olin’s body into the paddocks and there helped Drem to raise a cairn. Words had been spoken, by Ulf, and Drem remembered even saying something himself, though he could not remember what he’d said. More vivid was the pain in his knees where he had dropped to the ground in his grief. His breeches still bore the snow-salt and grass stains as a reminder.
And now it was the third day since his da had died.
I think.
His stomach growled, but he ignored it, the thought of putting food in his mouth making him feel sick.
Or is it the fourth day? How long have I been sitting here?
He didn’t know.
A shiver rippled through him, his body telling him he was cold, but he didn’t care. He was close to the hearth, though no fire burned in it; only cold ash and black embers filled it. Blinking, he looked at the shuttered windows, realized that it was getting lighter outside, faint beams of light stretching through the slats.
The fourth day, then.
What does it matter?
Da’s gone.
I’m alone.
No one and nothing to live for.
He felt so alone, a depth to the feeling that the word couldn’t hope to contain, and he felt lost, like a broken compass with the needle spinning wildly. His da had been his compass, his lodestone, his north star, and now he was gone.
He realized he had something in his hands, looked down as the daylight washed over it, a gleam of silver.
Da’s silver cloak-brooch.
Sunlight reflected from the four points of the star on it.
The Order of the Bright Star. My da was a warrior, fought for a cause.
But he walked away from it, turned his back on it.
Aye, for me. To protect me, and to avert a war.
That’s what he was doing, even to the end. Telling me to run, standing before me, protecting me. He was only there, in that forest, for me. Because I wanted to find Fritha. And she’s gone too.
Tears came then, not the first time he’d shed them since his da had fallen, but this time they came as great, racking sobs, heaving out of him, his whole body convulsing, his voice and throat a raw, wounded howl. At the end of it he sat there, rocking back and forth, his arms wrapped around his knees. The brooch glinted on the floor where he’d dropped it, and, not knowing why, he bent and picked it back up, wiping tears and snot from his face.
He was a warrior, and even though he walked away from the Order he never turned his back on me.
One of the few things that Drem did remember clearly from those tangled moments when the bear attacked was the sight of his da setting his feet and raising his sword, and the battle-cry that had issued from his lips.
Truth and Courage.
Why that?
Hooves drummed in the courtyard, one horse, no more, the sound of someone dismounting, feet thudding up the steps. A knock at the door.
‘Drem?’
The handle turned, the door opening slowly, a creak of hinges, light flooding in. A silhouetted figure stepped in, opening the door wider.
‘There you are, lad,’ the figure said, turning now so the daylight washed his face. It was Asger, the market-stall holder. He had been on the hunt, Drem remembered, and been one of those who had helped raise a cairn over his da.
Asger looked at Drem, then about the room, finally at the hearth, and went to work. He threw the shutters open, letting in a blast