To Lie with Lions - Dorothy Dunnett [195]
The noise was indescribable; so great that Benecke had to hammer his shoulder to make him look where Glímu-Sveinn was pointing. First he indicated upstream, where you could see the birds of prey now – more of them, and nearer. And then the Icelander turned his wrist down, pointing to the idling edge of the river, where the slush was coloured pink, and the thick milky water was marbled with blood.
Nicholas turned to his horse, took out his crossbow, and settled the quiver with its barbed bolts at his side. He saw Benecke was doing the same. Then they set off to lead their horses along the bank towards the birds. The packhorses were already tied tail to harness and, but for the dog, would not have followed. Nicholas realised that the dog was barking and snarling, and had been for some time. After a bit Glímu-Sveinn stopped, lifting his arm once again. He wore woollen gloves, with a second thumb sticking out from his little finger. The hand of a troll.
The bank had become steep, the noise hollow. He was pointing away from the water, to a confusion of hoofprints, and then the clear footprints of people. Two of them had worn fine leather boots. The third wore the soft sealskin shoes of the Icelander, drawn together and sewn in one piece, teasing the snow with the fur on their soles. Sersanders, Kathi and Sigfús.
‘This is where they saw the bear,’ Glímu-Sveinn said, ‘and dismounted. They would arm, as we are doing. Whatever it was happened there, just beyond the next bend of the river.’
There was no blood on the snow, only footprints. They followed the tracks round the bend and, sickeningly, half the river below them ran red. The red came from an island in the centre: a bank of gritty black sand like the others but not, like the others, whitened with snow. The surface was covered, in this case, by the immense yellow-white corpse of a bear. Its two large cushioned hind feet, pronged with black, lay pigeon-toed under its rump, and birds hovered over its flank and its head, scolding the little delicate fox, white as down, already busy there. You could see the dead beast was a female, in milk. Everything, including the fox, was blood-splattered.
‘Hà!’ cried Glímu-Sveinn. ‘Hà! Sigfús is sober!’
‘Are you sure?’ the Danziger said. ‘If so, where is he?’
He was speaking in the wrong language; and in any case, Nicholas had already arrived, jumping and sliding, at the bottom of the bank. The birds rose and hovered, complaining. The fox had turned and continued to gnaw, his eyes fixed on the horses and men. He was a good distance away, and there was a deal of fierce white water between them. Benecke arrived, and set his hand to his bow. Nicholas stopped him. Benecke swore.
Nicholas said, ‘Look. Three sets of prints. They shot her, and came down, but she swam to the island and died there. They tried to wade in and came back – see the prints. Then the sealskin shoes went back downriver alone.’
‘Why?’ Benecke said.
‘To fetch help. To get a boat. To bring back ropes, if they didn’t have any. The bearskin was valuable. But no one was hurt – there is no blood above the edge of the water. And if someone had drowned, the other would have gone with Sigfús. By the way, he was drunk. He was staggering.’
‘Unless they were both swept away,’ Benecke said.
It had been what Nicholas was afraid of at first. Then he had found the other footmarks, booted, impatient, walking up and down and then turning to reclimb the bank. Nicholas walked over to where Glímu-Sveinn had joined them. ‘What has happened?’ he said.
The Icelander lifted his shoulders. ‘Putt! The fools! The carcass is ruined! They were unable to cross; Sigfús has gone to get help. There is a farm five miles to the south. We passed near it. But they have filled him full of ale, and he has lost his way, or fallen asleep; who can tell? So after waiting a while, they have grown impatient. The fools!’
‘You saw the footprints above? They’ve ridden after him?’
‘How would they know where to go? No. They have continued upriver, to the north.