A Day of Fallen Night (The Roots of Chaos)

Her first sight of Hróth was a burnt city, a headless wyrm draped over its roofs, scales ripped from its flesh and passed like hot loaves in the streets. On a hill stood the feasting hall of the Hraustr, where the Hammer of the North had ruled from his seat of carven bone.

Of course, Canthe spoke Hróthi. She had a gift for uncovering secrets – her silver tongue charmed people into loosening theirs. After two days in Eldyng, she knew Wulfert Glenn had ridden away with another housecarl, bound for the wilderness. She had spent more of her gold on thick bear pelts, doughty Hróthi steeds, and boots with teeth to grip the ice.

Soon they were back on his heels, riding faster than Tunuva ever had on horseback.

They took the ancient road the Hróthi used to transport amber, which slunk through leaning pine forests and forded dark and brutal rivers. Waterfalls fell white and glittering, showers of shattered glass, from cliffs so high the water barely touched the ground.

Even as the days slipped away, the sun never departed. Tunuva had always thought the eversnow must be a fable, and there was greensward here and there – but even deep in summer, Hróth was cold and hard.

Siyu had wanted to live here. Tunuva wondered if she would ever have been happy. Do not think of her. She spurred her mount. Think only of him. Find him, so you may find her again.

Canthe stayed just ahead, seeming to know her way, as always. In time, they reached the marchland known as the Barrowmark, and there, they saw the first birds circling.

A body lay on its side in the snow, dead perhaps three or four days. Farther on, they found two more, each holding an axe.

‘The Barrowmark is where it started,’ Canthe said. ‘In a village to the far north, called Ófandauth.’ Threads of snow crowned her. ‘We should keep riding. Only death lies here.’

She was right. From then on, there was no end to the bodies. Hundreds or thousands, all dead of plague – Tunuva had lost count by the first night. Carts laden with corpses sat abandoned on the wayside.

When their waterskins ran dry, they stopped at a frozen lake to fill them. Tunuva knelt in the snow and crunched a fist through the ice, misted black water welling up to greet her. She had just dipped the mouth of her waterskin when she saw another corpse.

The man had crawled headfirst into the shallows. From the waist down, he was bone and rot, slim pickings now even for crows – but the lake had tightened around the rest of his body, preserving his screaming head and red hands.

By the time a tall ridge covered the horizon, Tunuva could not think beyond the endless drumbeat of hooves. They galloped northeast until the mountains parted.

‘The Vathuld Pass,’ Canthe said. ‘Here, Hróth ends, and the cold wilds begin.’ She looked at Tunuva. ‘Last chance to turn back, my friend.’

Tunuva gripped the reins. She was a warrior born in fire, and all that lay beyond was snow.

‘Eastward, then,’ she said.