Sun and Moon, Ice and Snow - Jessica Day George [16]
“There’s no way to bring the chickens in,” he panted as the lass helped him remove his ice-covered outer clothes. “We may lose them all. But the bigger animals should do all right: the barn is tight, and they had water and feed.”
“I made sure of the chickens,” the lass told him, trying to reassure her father, whose expression was as bleak as she had ever seen it. “They’re safe enough.”
“You’re a good girl,” he said, patting her head absently even though she was only a handspan shorter than he.
“And who is making sure that my Ash-lad is safe?” Frida demanded. “Where is he sheltering from the storm?”
“I don’t know, wife,” Jarl said, sagging down on a chair by the table. “All we can do is pray.”
“Is he not the lucky third son?” Hans Peter spoke for the first time since making his pronouncement to Askeladden. “Is he not, as you call him, the Ash-lad? Surely he will ride out this storm in some fabulous palace, and will return triumphant tomorrow with a princess and a chest of gold.” His words would have been insulting if his voice hadn’t been so drained of emotion.
“And so he shall,” Frida said, giving her eldest son a defiant look. “He is the best and brightest of all my children, my lucky third son, and he shall return in triumph, as you say.”
The young lass didn’t say anything. She wanted her mother to be right . . . not about the gold and the princess, although that might be nice. No, she wanted her brother to return in safety. She was not half so fond of him as she was of Hans Peter, but he was still her brother, and the lass could not bear to think of losing even one member of her family.
Lost in these dire thoughts, everyone jumped when Rollo lunged to his feet and streaked to the front door. He stood before it, hackles raised, his growl cutting through the silence in a most unpleasant way. Hans Peter also got to his feet, drawing his sharp whittling knife, and moved between the door and his youngest sister.
“Rollo? What is it?” The lass didn’t care if her mother heard her talking to the wolf. She was covered in gooseflesh and thought that she could see a shape moving outside the little front window. A shape not made of wind and snow.
Rollo’s growl rose in pitch, and he took a stiff step forward just as the door burst open. A great, white, fur-covered figure barely managed to squeeze through the door, shoving Rollo aside as though he were a puppy. Frida started to laugh, to say something, obviously thinking that it was her darling Askeladden come home.
But it was not Askeladden, wrapped in furs and coated with snow. It was not a human at all. It was an isbjørn, a great white ice bear of the North, and it was standing in the middle of their cottage and looking right at the lass.
“Rollo, don’t you dare,” she hissed.
The wolf, more stunned than hurt, had regained his feet and looked ready to pounce on the bear. Never mind that the creature outweighed him by more than a ton, where his mistress’s safety was concerned, Rollo had no fear.
“Rollo, I mean it, come here,” the lass insisted, slapping her thigh.
Snorting to show the bear that he was not afraid, Rollo backed his way over to the lass and took up his position beside her. None of the other humans moved. Frida was frozen in place, a ladle in one hand and the pot of stew in the other. Jarl stood beside the table, one hand on the bread knife and the other clenched in a fist. Hans Peter was still standing protectively in front of the lass and their mother, his short woodworking knife drawn. But his hand was shaking so badly that it looked as though he would drop the knife any moment, and his face was the blue-white of frozen cow’s milk.
“What do you want?” The lass’s voice was shrill. “Go away!”
The bear swayed from side to side, blinking its black eyes. The wind blew gusts of snow through the open door