a few short moments he thought he might see to his aches, then he counted them, and abandoned that notion. Everything hurt, and that was how it would be.
Around him the camp was coming to life. Muttered curses and invocations to anyone or anything promising warmth floated on the air; horses snorted, stamped, and shook off blankets of snow. A sudden jolt of panic made Valgard swallow his breath: the prisoner! Where was she? He looked all around—and then saw her crawl out of Botolf’s shelter, hands still bound.
“We’re going,” a familiar voice snapped. Botolf stood behind him.
He fought and defeated the urge to jump out of the way. “And good morning to you, too,” he said. “So soon?”
“Fuck off. Piss and shit now. Eat on the way. And keep your eyes open.” With that, the tall man strode off.
Valgard watched him leave. Something was wrong, that much was certain.
“Over there,” Bug-eye whispered and nudged Botolf into position.
The chieftain scanned the horizon to the north and lingered only slightly longer on the tree line that the trek-master had indicated. The forest crept alongside their path, a dense mass of frozen branches and snow. “Got it,” he muttered. “Who? And how long?”
“Don’t know. I think they watched us last night.”
“How close?”
“Close enough to take a good look, I’d guess, though it’s hard to tell how near, what with the morning snow.”
“Anyone else know?”
Bug-eye looked at Botolf and shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. Haven’t asked.”
“Don’t,” the tall chieftain snapped. “Just keep an eye on our prisoner. This—I don’t like this. I’ll have a look.” Valgard watched him turn, scan the line behind them, and pick out his first target, a block of a man with hard eyes. Bug-eye shrugged and dragged Thora back to her place. He was as imperturbable as ever, but Thora appeared revitalized by her night’s activity. She glanced at Botolf’s back and grinned as he engaged in rapid, hushed conversation with the fighter. Words exchanged, the two headed on down the line, and by the time they reached the end, there were five of them. Botolf led his little group into the woods, where they vanished.
Valgard walked in silence for a long time. Thora and Bug-eye seemed to communicate naturally in their own secret language of nudges, grunts, and nods, which now and again resulted in the trek-master adjusting their course slightly. Around them, the terrain changed as they moved out of the sheltered valleys, past the pine and fir that bounded the farmland, and up into the highlands. Now snow-covered hills and heaths stretched out before them, undulating softly. The land was treacherous, the soft white covering concealing cracks, crevices, and boulders all fit for twisting ankles, breaking limbs, and wrenching backs.
Botolf didn’t return to the front of the line until long after the sun had crawled over the horizon. Behind him, two of his four fighters dragged a man bound hand and foot. The other two limped along behind them.
Bug-eye signaled and the line slowed to a halt. Without needing any further commands, the men split up into groups and started tending horses and doling out rations.
Within moments the stranger was thrown at Valgard’s feet. He was a lean thing, and probably younger than he looked. His clothes were old but well mended.
“Who’s this?” Valgard asked.
“Couple of his friends had been watching us,” Botolf said. “Handy little bastards, too.” Valgard noticed the glares from his soldiers at that. “We lost one, two won’t see much anymore, and I caught this one.” He reached out, grabbed a fistful of hair, and hauled the prisoner up onto his knees. “Didn’t I, boy?” The boy hissed in pain but did not speak. He’d be about fourteen, Valgard thought. That’s a nasty scar on his neck.
“Oh, my,” Botolf crooned. “We’ve got a nice little tough guy here, haven’t we? Tell me, boy: You look like someone with a bit of sense in you. So why were you watching men like us?”
Valgard watched the boy’s face lock in contempt. His gaze drifted past all of them to some unseen place far away.
“Who sent you?” Botolf yanked the boy’s hair again, but all he got for his troubles was a sharp, indrawn breath and blood seeping from the boy’s scalp. “Right.” He reached for his knife.
Hands bound behind her, Thora strode forward. She turned to Botolf. “Maybe he just needs a woman’s touch.” Without missing a beat, she leveled a vicious kick at the prisoner’s ribs, and the boy crumpled to the ground,