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Moon made camp in a small cave, after carefully checking it for bear-spoor. He led his horse – a white stallion of eighteen hands – inside, and lifted his saddle, pack, and bedroll from its back. Taking a stiff brush, he groomed the animal, brushing snow and ice from its back. Lifting each leg, he ensured no stones or pebbles were lodged between its hooves. He poured a handful of oats into a feeding bag, which he looped over its head. Running his fingers through its mane, he stroked its great head and whispered into its ear. “You’ve done well today, great one. Eat and rest now.” The horse lifted its head, an eye swivelling to regard him gravely. Moon may not have cared greatly for people, but he liked animals. They never did anyone any harm – except that cursed bear that took his eye out, but then, mused the Axeman, that was his own mule-headed fault for blundering into its territory. Animals were faithful, loyal, and never let you down.
Stepping outside the cave, he foraged for dry branches before snapping them into smaller pieces. Returning to the cave, he got out his tinder box and built a small fire some distance in, close to a wall. The fire would cast less reflection that might draw unwanted attention, for he was travelling through hostile land. Removing a blanket from his bedroll, he warmed it over the fire before placing it over the stallion’s back.
The Axeman removed a battered old pot, a crudely carved wooden spoon, a jar of honey carefully wrapped in rags, and a bag of barley oats from his pack.
Stooping, he scooped a handful of snow into the pot. Placing the pot over the fire, he waited until the snow melted before pouring in a fistful of oats. Using his wooden spoon, he stirred it into a smooth consistency. He hated lumpy bits in his oats. Removing the pot from the fire, Moon stirred in a drip of honey and sat back to enjoy his repast. He sighed with pleasure as the honey-sweetened mess slid down his throat and warmed his insides.
Moon checked on the stallion, then stepped to the cave mouth. A half-moon bathed the white-shrouded landscape. It was a cold, cold still night. Satisfied all was quiet, he returned to the fire and stretched out on the ground wrapped in his blanket. He was five days out of the settlement, and hadn’t seen another person in the last two.
He had hidden behind a screen of snow-covered trees as four riders slowly picked their way through the snow. Grim looking men in chain mail and wrapped in furs to ward off the cold. Fur-covered hoods shielded their faces, but Moon recognized them as Borga One-Ear and his brothers Finn, Hrogar, and Hogni.
Borga and his four brothers were skua – clanless scavengers, who lived by raiding and looting from the many clans scattered in the valleys of the mountain range. They had mostly left Moon alone, perhaps because he had little of value to steal. But last autumn, he had a run-in with the youngest of the brood, a simpleton named Finnbogi. He hoped they were not trailing him.
The brainwort the Old Woman had given him was working wonders. He was following her instructions precisely regarding the dosages, and at worst, his headaches had been reduced to a dull throb nagging away at him. Sometimes, he felt no pain at all.
He had returned to the old hag’s cabin on the seventh day as instructed. She had been wearing the same filthy linen dress with cadaver skin shawl draped over her shoulders. The small room still stank of death, and he was certain she was in the exact position as when he left her seven days earlier. He shuddered in revulsion as his gaze fixated once again on the purple-hued mole on her cheek.
“Ah, Moon, you return, though I think there were times when you doubted the wisdom of coming to see old Hjotra again,” she cackled.
“Well, can you cure my headaches?” he asked brusquely, desperate to be away from her disconcerting presence and nonsensical ramblings about Norns and such.
The Old Woman had laughed as she mocked him. “Your headaches, your headaches. The world doesn’t care about your big ugly head Moon. I told you there was more at play here than your head, Axeman. I have further walked the paths weaved by the Norns. The threads converge and you have a significant role to play.”
He had felt his exasperation growing. What game was the old hag playing? Then he heard the words he had been dreading.
“I cannot cure your headaches, Moon. That is beyond my powers. I already told you they would be the death of you. But I can offer you some relief. Travel south beyond the mountains to the lowlands below. Seek the city of Petralis. There you will find what you seek. It is a long perilous journey, but you are strong.”
“Will I find a cure there?” Moon asked, hope in his voice.
The Old Woman smiled her dreadful smile, but had offered no further answers.
Moon knew she wasn’t telling him everything. But he had no real choice in the matter. This pigging growth in his head was killing him, and if travelling to the lowlands was his only option, then south he would go. Besides, he had no ties here. He had never knotted the bridle, and had no offspring. He had always wanted to see what lay beyond the mountains of the Nordir. If he was to die, at least he would get to see some rare sights.
At dawn the next day, he had oiled and sharpened the blades of his axe – though it rarely needed it – packed what he needed for the journey, and saddled his great white stallion. All was quiet in the still of a chill early morning except for a strong wind sighing through the snow-laden branches of the fir and pine trees.
There was not a soul abroad. Pulling the hood of his bearskin robe over his head, he settled Widowmaker in the specially made leather holster next to his saddle and rode away from his cabin. Briefly stopping to look back at what had been his home all his life, he turned his face onward, and rode into the early morning mist.