him, Dodinal would have been forced to slow anyway, to make out the scuffed snow the child had left in his wake. Making the task harder yet was his growing desire to sleep, as the cold drained warmth and strength from his body. Sleep was the cure for all ills, he’d heard it said, but not here and not now; if he gave in and slept, he would not wake up again. But it was hard, so hard, to keep going, to force one leg to move and then the other, over and over until he could think of nothing else. The snow came down hard and the wind picked up, blowing stinging white flakes into his face and blinding him. Dodinal’s head was light. He had given up all hope of following the child now. It was all he could do to stay on his feet and stumble through the deepening shadows.
Just when he thought he could not take another step, he saw lights in the distance. Real lights, not life-lights, burning bright in the darkness. Torches, he realised, moving through the trees ahead of him. A hound barked excitedly, as if it had picked up a familiar scent. Now Dodinal could hear voices, too, calling out, the wind devouring the words. When he tried to call back, his voice was a croak in his throat. The lights began to spin, the world spinning with them. He staggered and fell. Then there was nothing but darkness.
1
TWO
The boy lay buried under a pile of furs and tried to sleep.2 When he had ventured out with his father in search of game, it had been colder than he imagined possible. They had hunted together since the boy was small, but this time, the icy air had brought tears to his eyes and had driven him back indoors, leaving his father to hunt alone.
Now he was warm and snug, with a full belly and furs heaped on top of him. A blanket hung from the ceiling, separating his pallet from the rest of the hut. Beyond it, the fire burned brightly, popping and snapping and throwing dancing shadows on the walls. Between the furs and the fire and his father’s hound curled at his feet, the boy wondered if he had imagined the cold after all.
But while he was comfortable and his eyelids drooped, he could not sleep. Perhaps it was the low murmur of his parents’ voices that kept him awake. They would not take to their bed for a while yet. He smiled a drowsy smile and closed his eyes.
He must have drifted off, for when he opened them again the hut was in darkness, the fire a subdued glow behind the blanket. For a moment the boy wondered what had woken him. Then he heard the clamour of many voices raised outside.
Seconds later there came a curse and a thump as his father threw his boots to the floor and pulled them on, followed by a fast rustling as he put on his outer garments. The boy’s mother started to speak, but his father hushed her.
He raised himself up on one elbow, a thrill of excitement surging through him. Something was happening. He thought he smelled smoke. A fire? It was only when he heard the unmistakeable rasp of a blade being drawn from its sheath that he felt the first stirrings of fear. Why would his father need his sword if someone’s hut was on fire? Before he could call out to ask what was happening, footsteps clumped across the floor and the door opened, letting in a freezing blast of air that the boy felt despite the furs. “Stay here,” his father commanded. “If the worst happens, take the boy and hide in the woods. Whatever you do, don’t let them take you.”
“Be careful,” his mother replied, sounding strained. “Come back to me.”
“I will. Remember what I said. And you be careful too.”
With that the door slammed shut. For a moment there was silence inside the hut, and then the sound of quiet weeping. The boy could stand it no longer. He pushed the furs away and got up.
The fire had burned low and his father had been in too much of a hurry to feed more wood to the flames. The air was cold enough to make him shiver. The hound was gone; his father must have taken it with him. Pushing past the blanket, he crept across the floor towards his parents’ bed, not sure if he would be in trouble for getting up at such a late hour, but desperately needing to be with his mother. He had never heard her cry before and did not like how it made him feel, empty and helpless.
A board creaked beneath his feet and the crying stopped.
“Dodinal? Is that you?”
He stepped closer until he could see her in the low light, sitting upright on the edge of her pallet, hands pressed to her face.
“What’s wrong, mother?”
For a moment she did not answer, but then she held out her arms.
Dodinal ran into them, the bad feeling going away as she held him close. “What’s happening?” His face was pressed into her chest, so the words sounded muffled.
“Nothing you need to worry about. Everything will be fine.”
The shouting grew closer. There were other sounds, too, reverberating through the night: metal clashing on metal, dogs barking and yelping, the roar and crackle of great fires burning. Tendrils of smoke snaked under the door, making the boy cough. His mother held him tight. Then she pushed him away and abruptly stood. “We have to go.”
“Why? What’s happening?” He knew he had already asked but had not had an answer. “Why is there so much smoke?”
“No time for explanations,” his mother snapped as she wrapped her cloak around her. “Get your boots and put a second shirt on. Oh, and don’t forget your cloak. Quickly, Dodinal!”
He went back to his pallet, dragged his boots and a shirt from under the furs and hastily pulled them on. He could hear his mother pacing anxiously. The moment he was dressed, she grabbed him by the hand and squatted down so she could look him directly in the eyes. “You have to be brave.”
Her voice trembled. Dodinal’s throat tightened. He was sad, and scared. His world had been ripped apart in an instant. Whatever was happening, it must be very bad. It sounded like fighting. But that was impossible. Why would there be fighting here?
“I will,” he said.
His mother hugged him briefly. “Just move quickly and do everything I tell you, understand?”
Dodinal nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
“That’s good.” His mother somehow managed a smile. “My big, brave boy. Now we must go.”
She hesitated momentarily before taking a deep breath, pulling open the door and hurrying out, pulling him closely behind her. Dodinal blinked, trying to make sense of what he saw. Most of the village was in flames. Thick clouds of smoke boiled into the night sky and swirled between the huts. Sparks flew everywhere. People were running around. Dodinal saw a man stagger about like someone who’d had too much to drink. He fell to the ground and lay still. Others were already down, their bodies broken and twisted. Firelight flashed from naked blades. Screams of pain and roars of anger rent the air, as did the maddened baying of hounds. It was like the ground had swallowed up the world and sent it to hell.
His mother pulled at him impatiently. They ran from the village, away from the fighting, heading for the woods. It was bitterly cold, but his cloak kept the worst of it away, and exertion did the rest. At least he and his mother would be safe. There were places to hide if you knew where to look for them, and Dodinal knew them all. He had loved wandering through the forest for as long as he could remember, especially in the spring when the trees burst into life after slumbering all winter. He had never once got lost. If his mother did not know the way, Dodinal would guide her. He would keep her from harm.
They were a stone’s throw away from the sanctuary of the wildwood when his mother cried out and stumbled, her hand pulling from his as she fell headlong to the ground. Dodinal reached down to help her up but she whimpered in pain when she tried to stand. He heard deep voices, drawing closer, lending fresh urgency to his attempt to lift her. There was no way of knowing whether they belonged to his people or those who had attacked the village. He could not take a chance; better to run from a friend than linger to be killed by an enemy. “Please,” he
