Page 11 of Weaving Winter

I finished my cheese and bread, trying to decide whether to veer south from here—there was a fork in the road up ahead—or to find a place to weather the coming squall. But as I contemplated my choices, a noise in the woods to the east startled me.

I froze, straining to discern what I was hearing.

The sound of voices wafted by on the breeze. Crap. I jumped up, dousing the fire with the rest of the water. A cloud of steam went up and I cursed.

Way to go in showing them you’re here, you idiot.

I tried to scout out a hiding place but I didn’t have time to pack up my things, and the voices were growing louder. I took hold of Yaran’s reins, trying to squeeze into a niche between a thick clump of spruce trees. I had just managed to hide when two riders broke into the clearing. I caught my breath. I recognized them as scouts from the village guard.

What the hell was I going to do? I wasn’t about to let them drag me back. I’d been gone long enough that Garimorn’s anger and humiliation would be fierce. Then it hit me—I was going to have to kill these men. There was no chance they wouldn’t find me in the next few minutes, and I couldn’t allow them to return back to Renmark with news that I was still alive. All of a sudden, the stakes of my escape escalated.

I reached back, feeling on Yaran’s side for my bow and quiver. The riders still hadn’t noticed me yet and so I quietly nocked an arrow, drawing the string back as I took aim for the larger one. I’d have one—maybe two—shots before they caught me. I had to do as much damage as possible.

Holding my breath, I waited for just the right angle. My hands trembled. I’d brought down deer and elk before, and squirrels, rabbits—even a few ducks. My father had trained me well. But I’d never targeted a person before, and now the very act of aiming an arrow at someone’s chest made me so heartsore that I almost broke. Was my life worth it? Was my freedom worth the life of another?

But images of Garimorn flooded my mind. I knew what he’d do to me, and I saw my life under his thumb stretch out before me—years of beatings and rape, possibly bearing his children, serving him and his wife, being at their mercy…

No, I can’t do it, I thought. I can’t live like that. And so, I steadied my aim and let the arrow fly. It spun through the air, firmly planting into the back of the larger man. He let out a shout and froze, then slowly toppled to the ground. I reached for a second arrow as his partner turned around, eyes wide.

I fit the arrow to my bow, but the man began to run towards the opposite area of the clearing. He was aiming for his horse, and I sent the arrow flying, but it missed by a fraction of an inch. The second scout pulled out a wicked looking sword. I dropped my bow and arrow, wresting out my sword as he raced toward my position. There was no time for another shot.

He was bearing down on me and I brought up my short sword.

At that moment, another scrabble of voices filled the area and I stumbled out of hiding, staring at the figures racing from behind a large stand of fir. They weren’t from my village, that was the first thing I noticed, and there must have been twenty of them. They surrounded us.

“Weapons down!” One of the men shouted. He was talking to the scout and to me. “Now, before we kill you both.”

I held out my hands, wondering what I’d gotten myself into now. Opening my fist, I dropped my sword to the snow below. But the scout wasn’t paying attention. Instead he turned toward me and raced, sword poised, aiming directly at me.

The man who had ordered us to stand down sprang into action. He was tall, with flowing black hair. Even though he wore a blue cloak trimmed with white fur, that fluttered in the wake of his movements, I could tell he was muscled. He had a well-trimmed beard, and the look in his frosty grey eyes was so fierce it made me cringe.

He was carrying a curved sword that gleamed in the diffused afternoon light, and it made contact with the scout’s sword. To my surprise, the scout’s blade shattered on contact, and that was enough to stop him. He stared at the shards of metal on the ground, then at the hilt still remaining in his hand.

“Who are you?” he asked, his breath ragged.

The mountain of a man stared down at him. He had to be a good six-three. “You do not have leave to ask questions.” He nodded at his troop. “Bind them both. The storm’s coming and we need to take shelter before it gets here. It’s driven by the Snow Witch, and she’s out for blood.”

Snow Witch? I’d only heard faint rumors of the Snow Witch, and I’d thought her a legend.

“You mean she’s real?” The words slipped out of my mouth before I could stop them.

The man glanced at me. His eyes were so feral that I shuddered, pulling back. And yet…there was something about him that forced me to meet his stare. We locked gazes, and I lost all sense of fight. I just stood there as one of his men tied my hands in front of me, leaving a section of rope hanging to use as a leash. I barely noticed what he was doing.

“Unfortunately, the Snow Witch is all too real. You do not want to mess with her, and her storms are famous in this woodland,” he said, his voice softening. “We must get back to camp, and I can’t very well leave you out here or the storms will finish you off.” He glanced at the scout. “Him, as well. Neither of you seem fit to survive the incoming winds.”

He was quiet enough that I decided to chance another question. “My horse—Yaran. I can’t leave him.”

“We’ll bring him,” the man said. He paused, then motioned for his man to back away. He was obviously the leader of the group. He walked up to where I was standing—I knew better than try to run—and stood beside me, staring down at me. He reached out and touched my hair.

“Your hair…it’s like spun copper,” he said.

I started to shy away, but he removed his hand from my pony tail that was hanging down to my waist. “It is, yes. My mother was copper-towed as well.”

“Was?” Again, he gazed deep into my eyes and I felt like I had to answer him.

“She died several months ago,” I whispered, unable to wrench my eyes away. I motioned to the scout with my head. “He came after me. The sheriff of my village ordered me into servitude, and I know what happens to the women he indentures.” I couldn’t lie. There was something about this man’s demeanor that demanded honesty.

“You may call me Bran,” he said. “What’s your name?”

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