Chapter One Guthnyr
CHAPTER ONE
Guthnyr
The snow leopard hissed as Guthnyr’s fingers tightened on the bowstring.
Its pale blue eyes stared down at him from the ledge above, lips drawn back to reveal long white fangs.
The distance between them was more than a man could leap, but surely easily covered by a leopard.
Once again, it appeared Guthnyr’s knack for finding fresh opportunities to die had not deserted him.
He could try to put an arrow in one of those disconcertingly beautiful eyes.
But instinct warned that the beast’s teeth would be piercing his throat before he half-drew the bow.
Normally, the sense of being at another’s mercy would have enraged him, stirring ugly memories old and new, stoking the rage that was his best ally and worst enemy.
Yet it failed to stir as he returned the leopard’s stare.
The reason was plain: the cat didn’t actually mean him harm.
It merely wished to scare a rival predator away from the herd of goats strung out on the slope below.
For Guthnyr’s rage to truly blossom, it needed to be fired by the malice of others.
Slowly, he eased the tension of the bowstring and removed his fingers, holding up the hand, fingers splayed.
The leopard continued to bare its teeth until Guthnyr took the first backward step.
By the time he had, not without some difficulty, edged his way to the broader mountain trail a dozen yards to the rear, the cat’s snarl had disappeared completely.
Raising itself from its aggressive crouch, it regarded him with a narrowed gaze, then tensed once more when Guthnyr’s heel dislodged a loose stone from the trail and sent it skittering down the mountain’s flank.
Ever attuned to danger, the goats let out a chorus of warning bleats and bounded from sight.
The leopard spared Guthnyr a final glance, one he suspected held a gleam of reproach, then scrambled up the short cliff, a blur of silver vanished with a serpentine coil of its thick tail.
“Tuhlan would’ve killed you,” Guthnyr grunted.
The Caerith hunter had never hesitated when faced with a threat during their shared expeditions.
Cat needs to eat, but so do we, he said.
And fur is valued in the winter. The chill air of mountains fully gripped by winter made this inarguable.
Although, as Guthnyr followed the trail back to the settlement of Tahrim Kyrn, he was still glad he hadn’t killed the leopard.
You have a weakness for beautiful things, boy, his great-grandfather had told him once.
Have a care lest it kill you. Margnus Gruinskard had often made a point of remarking on Guthnyr’s weaknesses, for there seemed to be so many.
Yet, as Guthnyr’s gaze strayed to the Nihlvarian noblewoman, he knew with resentful certainty that the old man had been right about this one.
The shelter occupied by Tuhlvyr Deyna Holvehlt lay at the edge of the settlement’s unmarked boundary.
She had chosen it herself after Guthnyr abandoned the nightly chore of locking her in the shed next to the privies.
Ruhlin had made it clear that, having lost the favour of her king, the woman had nowhere to run to.
Therefore, treating her as a prisoner was a waste of effort and merely a sop to Guthnyr’s detestation of her people.
As ever, the tedious effort required to maintain petty spite had deserted him a few days after returning to Tahrim Kyrn.
So, issuing some dire threats regarding her conduct, he let her have the run of the place, within reason.
She kept to herself for the most part. He suspected this was partly due to an innate sense of superiority over the collection of escaped slaves and Morvek among whom she was now obliged to abide.
But the often naked hostility with which his comrades regarded a member of the Tuhlvyr caste was reason enough for her to shun their company, albeit with one singular exception.
Ryma let out a happy giggle as the Tuhlvyr tied the final braid into her hair. “There,” Deyna said. “Now you no longer look like a Tielvik.”
Ryma squirmed in Deyna’s lap, turning to prod her small fingers at the scarlet tattoos tracing over the woman’s brows. “Want,” Ryma said, her face taking on an insistent frown.
“No, no,” Deyna chided, setting the girl down. “Those are for when you’re older. Run along now, or your mother will come and wave a knife at me again.”
Ryma’s features tightened into a sullen scowl, fists bunching the hem of Deyna’s robe.
Ever since the Tuhlvyr’s arrival at this remote mountain village, she had instilled an instant fascination in this girl.
Much to Aleida’s annoyance, Ryma began sneaking off to beg attention from the new arrival, uncaring of any scolding she might receive.
Guthnyr found he couldn’t fault the girl for her interest, since it was one he shared, albeit sternly unexpressed.
Still, Aleida’s ire was not something to be ignored, and her temper grew shorter with every day Ruhlin failed to return from his sojourn.
“Off with you, girl,” Guthnyr told Ryma with as fierce a glower as he could muster. “Aleida will be fretting.”
Ryma offered him a short poke of her tongue before scampering off towards the village.
The fond smile that played over Deyna’s lips as she watched her go made Guthnyr resume his stride for fear she might notice how it piqued his interest. “Empty-handed?” she enquired, voice laced with that arch taunt he found so irksome. “Again.”
“There was a leopard,” he grunted, not breaking his stride.
“Then why didn’t you kill it?” She raised her voice as he walked on, adding a touch of laughter for good measure. “I look very fetching in fur.”
Such barbs were, of course, to be expected from one who bore the name Holvehlt – Quick Knife – but he still swallowed a curse at her faultless ability to make them sting.
Fortunately, it transpired that the Morvek had also been hunting this day, bringing in a boar which meant at least they would have fresh meat tonight.
“There was a leopard,” Guthnyr repeated to Iyaka who at least didn’t taunt him for his failure.
Although he did detect a few shared smirks among her fellow Morvek.
“A hunt is always a game of chance,” she said by way of conciliation before her face resumed its more typical seriousness. “Any sign?”
This had become a daily ritual between them.
Every day he would climb halfway up the mountain, ostensibly to hunt but in truth to cast his gaze over the southern valleys, hoping to see three figures struggling across the frosted ground.
Guthnyr shook his head in response, drawing a sigh from Iyaka.
“Nor has Velkar returned,” she said. “Although she could have simply returned to the Teyracha.” The elder to the Teyrak clan had departed the village with her three remaining wolves a week ago.
She offered no word of farewell to Guthnyr but Iyaka explained she had gone in search of a new member for her pack.
It was impossible to say how long such a quest might take, or if Velkar would return at all.
Her continued absence added to Guthnyr’s growing unease, a sentiment fully shared by Iyaka.
“The Ochra-mah is not so far,” she said. “The Telchak should have returned by now.”
“Tomorrow, at first light,” Guthnyr said, “we’ll scout the foothills. Look for signs of trouble.”
“We should send word to Tirohk also,” Iyaka said. “There are many hunters among my people. More eyes would be welcome.”
“Tomorrow,” Guthnyr confirmed before forcing a smile and nodding to the recently skinned and gutted boar suspended from a frame, blood draining to pool in the snow. “Tonight we feast.”
Iyaka gave a cautious nod in response. So far, she had accepted his leadership without demur, but he saw the doubt she failed to hide.
He was not Ruhlin. Not the man who had broken her chains and led this curious band through all manner of dangers to this mountain refuge.
Nor was he the Telchak, a mythic figure the Morvek believed would win victory over the hated Nihlvarians.
He was just Guthnyr, a man from far across the sea who bore but one name.
She had seen him fight, to be sure, and knew him to be fierce.
But Guthnyr had learned well from his brother, and from Ruhlin, that fierceness alone did not make a leader.
Nodding to Iyaka, Guthnyr made his way to the forge where he found a shirtless Sygurn busy pounding his hammer into yet another sword blade.
Always brawny, weeks at the anvil had added sharp definition to the Nihlvarian’s arms. The thick hair of his chest, singed in places by wayward sparks, was matted with sweat though he showed little sign of tiring as he wielded the hammer.
His features showed serene, concentrated contentment rather than exertion.
“I told him to rest,” Aleida said, emerging from the shadows of the adjoining armoury.
“He won’t.” Behind her, Ryma peeked her head around the door and favoured him with another poke of her tongue.
Guthnyr took note of the fact that her braids remained in place.
He had expected Aleida to have unpicked them already.