Arendal

"The wind whipped icy against the men as they crossed the bridge back to the village. Furious gusts battered their frozen cloaks around their bodies so powerfully that they had to bend over to put one step in front of the other. When they had finally crossed the palisade of Arendal, the force of the wind eased a little. For a moment, the veil of snow lifted to reveal the village square. Even colder than the winter storm was the horror that instantly spread through them as they found their worst fears confirmed: in the square they discovered a figure formed from three balls of snow, with branches poking out from its sides like stunted arms and eyes of black stone. Children who liked to sculpt such figures in the snowy season called them 'snow puppets'. As they approached, the men immediately recognized the familiar features on the sculpture, which clearly showed Snjorre's handwriting! In the first year, they had been surprised by the numerous snow puppets that had appeared in the area. It would never have occurred to anyone to ask the children which of them had made them. Nor did it occur to anyone to look for a connection between the missing people and the sculptures, as these figures were not an unusual sight at the time. I seem to remember that there was something different about them compared to those of the children and that the sight of them got under my skin right from the start.

It was only when the melting began that we realized our initial blindness. After the terrible secret that Snjorre's snow figures held had become apparent, their appearance in the following years spread downright horror. No child would have dared to build a snow puppet in those years. And so, although they knew what awaited them, more than one man's wail was heard as they plucked the stones from the snow puppet’s head and stared at the sightless, dead eyes of Edran Fingarson beneath." Old Jededaia paused theatrically, as if he were looking back at the old days. "He was the last. After that, neither Snjorre Snekilfang nor his snow puppets were ever seen again. No trace was found, no matter how hard he was searched for. Perhaps he left to do his mischief elsewhere. Perhaps some animal caught him in the wilderness, dragged him into his dark den and ate him there. Or perhaps he was swallowed up by the moor and disappeared into its depths. He would have deserved it, a thousand times over. I guess no one will ever know what really happened back then." Old Jededaia paused theatrically, as if he were looking back at the old days. "He was the last. After that, neither Snjorre Snekilfang nor his snow puppets were ever seen again. No trace was found, no matter how hard he was searched for. Perhaps he left to do his mischief elsewhere.

Perhaps some animal caught him in the wilderness, dragged him into his dark den and ate him there. Or perhaps he was swallowed up by the moor and disappeared into its depths. He would have deserved it, a thousand times over. I guess no one will ever know what really happened back then." He shook his head, sparsely covered in gray hair, with a sigh and took a deep sip from his mug before wiping his mouth on his sleeve, visibly satisfied with his own storytelling. The bushy brows above his cloudy eyes lifted as he looked first into his empty mug and then at the young wanderer who had stopped in Arendal today and asked him for his finest tales. The latter took the hint, pulled the cap from his drinking flask and poured more. Jededaia, whose cheeks had become noticeably redder, smiled contentedly and nodded gratefully at him. After another sip, his narrow, age-spotted forehead wrinkled and he murmured, more to himself: "That was... many years ago. Of course, many people have disappeared into the snow without a trace since then, but it had happened before. Nobody knew what had happened to Snjorre, so it was never possible to say for sure whether he had struck again. In any case, no more snow figures were found. Even today, the damn things give me the creeps every time I see them. It's probably the same for everyone in the area who experienced it back then.

Everyone here knows the story of Snjorre. Except the younger ones, of course." With a grim face, he added: "They're really not children's stories. And that's why the little buggers still build snow figures from time to time, if nobody stops them. They wouldn't know any better." The winter chill penetrated the Lebhall of Arendal despite the large fire, a sharp wind whistled through every crack in the shutters, pushed past the heavy curtains and brushed at the legs of the few people present. There were only about half a dozen older folk in the room. It had been explained to Rokbur that the four younger men of the village were stuck not far away due to the sudden storm. They had set off after someone had discovered a boar track, which in winter proved to be a stroke of luck. When they set off, the weather had been cold, but nowhere near as stormy. The track had been discovered half a day away on a wooded mountain flank and the hunters had set off in good spirits. Although the weather often changed quickly in this region, the locals were well prepared for such things. They had prepared various emergency shelters in the surrounding area to counter such weather conditions. So they were certain that their hunters were now sitting around a warm fire in the hut near that mountain - whether they had been successful or not. They were not expected to return until the weather improved.

Jededaia, a gaunt man who leaned on a stick as he walked, shivered and settled back into the fur over his chair. "You're lucky to have reached Arendal before the storm really gets going, stranger. It's getting uncomfortable out there! Where are you from again...Rokbur?" "I come from the Congregation Fleuven in Uster, if that means anything to you. From the Karnagh clan." He had stretched his long legs out beside the table, his heavy boots towards the fire to catch some of the warmth. "And you're right, I really wouldn't have liked to wander through this weather. I'm grateful to you all for the shelter and the food. Which reminds me - I'd better start chopping wood now, while there's still some light and before the snow gets any heavier." "Good boy," Jededaia grumbled, "I'm sure we'll need plenty of wood before the winter is over." He sipped his mug with relish and allowed his eyelids to rest a little. Rokbur smirked wryly. The Waftrudnir may not have been known for their fine distilling skills, but they certainly weren't known for half-hearted booze either. Jededaia was certainly no light drinker, but the alcohol seemed to warm him up. Rokbur had learned by now that a sip of schnapps was always a welcome gift. He pushed his traveling bag with his foot into an alcove next to the fireplace and leaned the unstrung bow against a wall nearby. Before he stepped out into the gloomy twilight of the

night, he zipped up his thick jacket and turned up his collar against the cold wind. Arendal was a little smaller than the Karnagh settlement, with just three or four families living here. From his point of view, the location of the village was well chosen and quite similar to that of his clan. On one side ran a small river, the Bruk, which provided a natural barrier, served as a source of food and powered a small mill. Fields had been laid out all around and the scattered trees were used for fuel and building materials. Behind it was a moorland area that extended away from the fields as far as the river. Jededaia had reported that the entire land along the Bruk had once been boggy. The fields had been reclaimed by digging drainage channels towards the river, which allowed the excess water to escape and the land to dry out. The moor adjacent to the fields was dangerous even now in winter, as it only froze over in places. On the opposite side of the village lay some fields and behind them mountains with wooded slopes. Behind the Lebhall, he found a pile of cut logs and the necessary tools next to a stack of large trunks. His time with the Waftrudnir had taught him a thing or two about working with wood, so he was familiar with the various techniques and tools that the families there used

as a matter of course, but which were unknown to most other clans. In Arendal, they seemed to work a lot with wood, because in addition to axes and saws, he saw some special tools here, such as a sapie, which was used to pull heavy pieces of wood with its pointed saw tooth head. This was not really the weather for such work, but he owed the people here something for their hospitality. Besides, the cold didn't bother him much, even if the wind did. After checking the sharpness of the axe and choosing a decent block as a base, he got to work. Stoically, he pulled up one log after another, laid it down, split it and collected the logs. It wasn't long before he felt downright warm, icy wind or not. After a good half hour, he took a break. His heart was pounding with exertion and sweat was beading on his forehead. The weather had indeed worsened and the thick clouds soon hid the little light that remained. To continue working in the pitch dark would have been reckless and Rokbur was quite attached to his limbs. So he leaned the splitting axe against the wall and walked around the Lebhall. He paused when he heard a loud voice through a window that he had not heard before. A man's voice, gruff and commanding. And another one. It was followed by rumbling, screeching and shouting. Quickly, he squeezed himself into an alcove next to a window,

which was formed by the attached fireplace in the wall, and listened intently. "You'll behave yourselves, or you'll get a beating, scumbag! And you, go and get something to eat. And something to drink!" The order sounded angry, the harsh voice was distinctive and unpleasant. Rokbur took his knife, inserted it gently between two slats of the shutters and carefully pushed the curtain aside a little to catch a glimpse of the fire-lit hall. In the light of the fireplace, which was out of his field of vision on the right, he saw a tall man with broad shoulders and a thick beard, standing menacingly in front of the huddled occupants. His figure reminded him a little of Arod, the strongest man of his own clan, except that this fellow lacked the cozy roundness of a small belly. In his right hand, he held an iron-clad staff with a massive beaklike point protruding from the side of his head, which looked extremely dangerous and would have made the sapie look rather dainty next to it. The way he pointed it at the inhabitants and threatened them made it clear that it must be a weapon. He could think of few things that wouldn't have looked threatening in the hands of a man like that. The fellow pointed his weapon at an older woman, who immediately ducked her head and did as she was told. Before Rokbur could continue peering around the room, he heard a

new voice and a second man stepped from the left towards the armed man. He was just as tall, but much leaner and with fair, unkempt hair. His upper lip was adorned with a pale moustache, combined with some rather pitiful-looking fringes on his chin. As he stepped forward, he dragged a woman of perhaps thirty behind him, grabbing her roughly by the upper arm and now flinging her forward. "Look what I found here!" His voice had an unpleasant croaking quality. Rokbur caught a gleeful excitement in his features. The guy was enjoying his dominance and his eyes sparkled menacingly in the orange glow of the room. To Rokbur, he gave the impression of a rabid dog. "Jule!" Rokbur saw Jededaia hurry to the fallen woman with all the haste his old bones had to offer and help her up. The younger man cackled with laughter and shoved the old villager back just as he had helped the prostrate woman to her feet. "Jule," he mimicked the old man's exclamation with a silly drawl and turned back to the woman. In a flash, his hand grabbed her chin and pulled her towards him. His other hand wrapped around her waist and grabbed her bottom. "Not bad," he crooned. "Not quite fresh, but really not bad!" The woman tore herself away in disgust and stepped back. A boy of about six immediately clung to her skirt and looked up at her fearfully.

Rokbur's stomach clenched as he watched the thin man step slowly towards her, an ugly grin on his lips as he hooked a hand into his belt, from which hung two short-handled axes. His mind raced trying to find a way to intervene, but he just didn't know what he could do. The helping hands of the other inhabitants had brought Jededaia back to his feet. Another old man, someone had called him Schnacker earlier, tried unsuccessfully to push Jededaia away from the confrontation and onto a chair. But the latter gruffly shook off Schnacker’s hands, brusquely pushed past the other inhabitants and stepped between the tall brigand and the woman with the child. "Matthes, you slat-faced beast, it's bad enough that you've turned up here again! Leave them alone!" It would have been easy for anyone to see that the old man could do nothing against the robbers, yet the young Karnagh was deeply impressed by the man's courage, if not by his prudence. At least he had done something, overcome his fear. Jededaia, leaning on his walking stick until a moment ago, had straightened up and glared at the thin fellow challengingly, gripping the aid like a club now. Apparently his anger was so great that the fear had evaporated. Still, this confrontation could not possibly end well. "Leave it alone, Matthes! There's plenty of time for that later," a third voice intervened calmly. Rokbur couldn't make out the speaker from his vantage point.

"Yes, let it go," agreed the giant of a man with the unusual staff and stepped up next to Matthes. He struck old Jededaia so abruptly in the face with the side of his weapon that he collapsed before Rokbur or anyone else realized what had happened. Then he turned to his companion without taking the slightest notice of the fallen man. In an impassive conversational tone, he suggested: "Let's have something to eat before we get down to the fun. Come on," he gestured to a table near the fireplace, to the right of Rokbur's window, " this is a nice, warm place." The giant and Matthes turned away from Jededaia, at whose side Jule was already sinking to her knees. Another figure that Rokbur had not noticed before emerged from a shadowy alcove by the door and joined his companions at the table. He had obviously made sure that no one would come into the hall - or rather flee from it. When he spoke, Rokbur realized that it must be the same person who had just called Matthes back. "The more plentiful the food, the better off you'll be, you hear? So put some effort into it and make a good job of it." The speaker was a stocky man with dark, curly hair that had already turned gray. He was at least ten, maybe twenty years older than the other two. A whisker made his broad face look even more massive.

Like his companions, his clothing was marked by a life in the open, solid but often torn and mended. An arm-length cudgel with an iron, serrated head hung from his broad leather belt and he carried an unstrung bow in his left hand. Rokbur exhaled deeply. He had a problem. He could do nothing alone against three well- armed robbers. Since Jededaia knew at least one of them, it could be assumed that they were from the area and probably knew their way around better than he did. Should he inform the local hunters? But even if he found them - and that was highly unlikely - they would hardly make it back to the village through this snowstorm. He looked around. The darkness of the night had descended in the meantime and, thanks to the snowstorm, he couldn't see much more of his surroundings, even with the help of the occasional torches. When he suddenly heard a new voice from inside the Lebhall, Rokbur flinched, but his mood could not sink any lower by now. "Not so fast. We won't rest until we've secured everything." Rokbur slid his knife between the slats again and pulled the curtain aside a little. His breath caught for a moment, because the man who had now stepped into the middle of the room must have been standing next to his window on the wall, right next to the fireplace. He had been no more than a meter away, possibly even less...

From behind, Rokbur could tell from his proportions that he must be strong. His cloak, wet with dew by now, hung over a broad back and was steaming a little from the heat of the fire. Particularly disconcerting, however, was the long sword at his hip, which was not concealed by the cloak. As the man stood next to his companions' table, the fire illuminated his profile. He had short-cropped, black hair that flowed over his forehead to a pointed base. Dark brows and a prominent jaw gave him an expressive, even handsome face. Beneath the cloak, Rokbur recognized a suit of armour and bracers of dark leather, studded with iron rivets. "The men are out hunting, Ormen. They won't be back until the storm is over. And even then they'll need half a day or more." The man with the whiskers spoke thoughtfully. "What did you have in mind?" The fourth man pursed his lips thoughtfully. "The hunters may be gone, but don't underestimate the rest of this bunch. If we don't keep an eye on them, they might get some ideas." "There are only women and children left here," Jule spoke up, "and they don't even know you're here. Why don't you just take whatever you want and leave?" You could clearly hear the fear in her voice. "Just leave us in peace," she added. Rokbur thought he could see the man with the whiskers thinking about the situation. The

fellow that one had called Ormen turned to Jule. "Normally I would even do that, Jule. I want as little to do with you as you want to do with me since you drove me away. But I can hardly put my men through this storm without shelter." His voice was calm, almost gentle. He looked at her like an indulgent teacher who had to explain a lesson to his pupil for the third time. "I care about those who join me. Those who don't must see where they end up." Jule bared her teeth in anger. "Yes, you've always been like that. 'Anyone who isn't with me is against me. Are you surprised that no one agreed with your views, with you?" Ormen put on a wounded face. "I remember you used to agree with me. For a while." Even in the firelight, Jule's face flushed. Whether it was shame or anger, Rokbur couldn't tell, but before she could utter a retort, she must have noticed the boy's arms, which now gripped her all the more fiercely. Even the little one couldn't escape the threat of a fight. With a recognizable effort of self-control, Jule swallowed a retort. Ormen also looked at the boy and his expression was hard to read. Perhaps he had wanted Jule to be angry and was disappointed with her restraint. In any case, when he spoke again, his voice was harsher. "Where's the other boy, Eggard's older one?" Jule winced. "What's his name again?

Erik?" "He... he's with Jamara. She's old and sick, he often keeps her company." Rokbur found it difficult to grasp what exactly was going on. The man, possibly the leader of the group, also seemed to have lived here sometime in the past. Had he had a relationship with Jule? "How old was he when you let Eggard into your bed? Seven? Then he's now...what? Twelve years old? Thirteen?" Ormen turned his back on Jule and addressed his men in a cold voice. "Matthes, bring them both here. If they cause trouble, take care of them." He must have been expecting Jule's reaction, because when she jumped at him from behind with an angry shout, he had already taken a step to the side and turned to face her. His fist caught her on the side of the skull and she slumped down with a groan, almost unconscious. "Come on!" he hissed and grinned maliciously down at Jule. But it wouldn't have been necessary. Matthes had already stood up and was running his hands expectantly over the hilt of his axe. Rokbur withdrew the knife and crouched under the window. There would be blood. And if he wasn't very careful, it could be his. If chose to act, he had to do something now, Matthes would most likely kill the boy and his elder sister. He had seen the murderous lust in the skinny one's eyes. He considered his options for a moment.

All his belongings were in the Lebhall, including his bow. All he had was a knife. This was so insane that he couldn't suppress a soft laugh. Was this what it felt like to lose your mind? "Is there so much to lose?" he whispered quietly, noticing with a grin that he could give himself Kjaelnyr's answers. That made his friend even more useless, a part of his mind immediately pointed out. He absolutely had to tell him that in time. At least it was not very likely that he would be discovered immediately. Because the storm had already covered him with so much snow that his clothes were almost completely white on one side. In this snowstorm and in the darkness of the night, he was about as easy to see as a shadow in a lightless room. The incessant howling, mixed with the numerous other noises caused by the wind, also provided him with protection. Rokbur didn't have a plan for what exactly he wanted to do, but he should probably start by protecting the children. That meant he had to find their house - and quickly. He looked at the heavy splitting axe by the woodpile and bit his lips. When Matthes appeared in front of the elders' house shortly afterwards, he was once again wrapped in his thick jacket and had also thrown on a heavy cloak. He trudged through the snow and stopped a few meters from the door.

The back of the house had been built close to the palisade, there was a small stable on the left-hand side in front of the entrance and a large pile of firewood just to the right of the front door. It had already been stacked halfway up the wall and further to the right he recognized a few more logs that had been brought in to be chopped into pieces. Vaguely, a glimmer of light could be seen behind the heavy curtains, but the constant howling of the wind drowned out any sound. Rokbur had crouched just a few steps away from the robber behind a feeding trough that stood in front of the stable. The man had not been able to notice him in the complete darkness and the driving snow. Now he watched as the guy called Matthes fiddled with his cloak. When Rokbur realized what the thin man was up to, he cursed soundlessly and searched his mind for the right words to channel his gift with. He could make some stories come true. His magic couldn't do much, but if the ancestors favored him, it would be enough. "In the darkness, the murderer stood in front of the old woman's door and reached for his weapon. Then he noticed that snow and ice had frozen the leather sling around the hilt..." "By the fire dragons of the south..." Rokbur heard the man grumble softly as he tugged

harder and harder at his belt, seemingly unable to free the axe from the frozen leather loop. With a long log in his hand, Rokbur crept up behind the man. At first he had wanted to take the heavy axe with which he had split the wood. But the weapon was too unwieldy in a fight and he did not want to kill the robber if possible. He might be more useful alive. Besides, he didn't like the idea of killing a man from behind. But knocking a half-crazed, murderous bandit unconscious was something completely different. He had no problem with that at all. He took a swing and aimed for Matthes' skull. Whether he had overestimated the howling of the wind, whether a sixth sense warned the man or whether it was just bloody luck, he could not say. But Matthes seemed to notice him and turned to face him before he could deliver his blow. With a growl, he raised his left hand, in which he held the second axe, and parried Rokbur's falling log. Cursing inwardly with rage at his carelessness for forgetting the other axe, Rokbur jumped back as Matthes pushed him away and struck horizontally at his face with a yell. He heard a strange sound that he couldn't quite place and immediately felt a burning sensation on the bridge of his nose. Switching the short axe from his left to his right, Matthes began to move sideways around

Rokbur, his weight low and his knees bent. He felt compelled to follow the bandit's movement, lest the other get into his side. His fighting experience was limited, and this had to look like a dance. Was it supposed to be? Or was he doing something wrong? He kicked his mental shins and tried to focus on the fight instead of analyzing it. To his amazement, he tasted blood on his lips. The first axe blow must have grazed his nose. The large brigand made a sudden lunge in his direction and struck at him again, but Rokbur, blessed with a long reach himself, was able to dodge him just in time. And the strangely silent circling continued. Matthes attempted two more blows, but Rokbur parried one with his log and skillfully dodged the other. Surprised, he suddenly felt something against his foot that prevented his next sideways step. He had been so focused on his opponent that he had inadvertently run into the pile of cut wood. He realized too late that this was exactly what his opponent had planned. With a malicious grin, Matthes threw the short axe. It was a practiced move, lightning fast and unerring. Reflexively, Rokbur yanked the log in front of his face and heard the rich thunk of the impact before the log was ripped from his hands and smashed into his face. Stars danced before his eyes and he realized that he had fallen on the bottom of his

pants next to the pile of wood. Matthes stared at him, fuming with rage. He tore the second axe and its icy leather eyelet from his belt and Rokbur realized that he had not thought his spell through to the end. In more ways than one. Like a wild animal, the enraged robber lunged towards him, swinging his axe in a treacherous arc. As Rokbur tried to throw himself sideways out of the path of the rushing axe, he pulled out the tool he had pocketed. He realized he was hitting something and felt an unappetizing tug, but he held on to the handle of the sapie. As he felt no renewed pain, the axe clearly must have missed him. He quickly rolled to the side and saw Matthes lying next to him. Blood was pouring from his mouth, which was slowly opening and closing like a fish on land. A shudder seemed to run through his whole body and then his movements stopped completely. The sharp, serrated tip of the sapie had pierced the robber's belly, and the momentum of his flight had done the rest, tearing him open from the base of the ribs almost to the pelvis. Rokbur had not been mistaken. The night was young and a lot of blood had already been spilt. What now? He frantically scrambled to his feet and looked around. No one seemed to have noticed the fight.

The Lebhall was a good fifty meters away, but it might as well have been in another country. Thanks to the storm, not even the two in the house next to him seemed to have noticed anything. As Rokbur looked around, he noticed a box of shredded kindling and dry, sparse branches next to the pile of wood. His gaze was caught upon it all of a sudden. He got a little woozy, possibly as a result of the fading battle frenzy. He had an odd feeling, distanced from himself. What was that he was hearing? Was the wind carrying voices through the night? Was that the sound of a clock in his head? Tick-tock-tick-tock. He felt sick at the sound. Old Jededaia: "Everyone here knows the story of Snjorre." Tick-tock-tick-tock. As if the night itself was enfolding him in its arms. The gravedigger: "Emotions can also be a hindrance. Fear spreads to others." Tick-tock-tick-tock. Penetrating him with velvety blackness. The Nexus Fisherman: "Winter is cold, is terror, is fear..." Tock! He felt something stirring inside him, longing to finally be set free and unfold in dark beauty. The sapie penetrated the dead flesh almost without resistance and it was so easy to drag the body over the fresh snow as he made his way towards the Lebhall. In a few minutes, winter would have removed all traces with its brush of snow. The inhabitants of Arendal huddled in a corner of the Lebhall. Jule held little Elim close to

her, worried about her foster son Erik and the eldest of the village, Jamara. Gray-haired Schnacker sat with them, quietly trying to distract Elim and a girl of the same age with silly stories. Jededaia had not yet regained consciousness after the giant bandit had knocked him down. They had made him a camp near the fire, where one of the women held his head on her lap and cooled the swelling on his face with some ice in a cloth bag. Two others were sitting together with an old man at one of the tables. They all looked exhausted, silent and hung their heads. Every now and then, when Ormen and his men asked for something, they tried to get the women to comply as quickly as possible. "Matthes is really taking his time," said the giant, taking another sip of hot wine and wiping the drops from his thick beard. " That really doesn't bode well for the boy and the old woman!" His whiskered companion rubbed a stiff neck. "Do you think he's in trouble? Should we go and see if everything's all right?" The other smiled mockingly. "You don't think he can't cope with a boy and an old woman, do you? Our Matthes? Or do you think there are still real men in Arendal after all?" Ormen stood by the hearth. He sipped from time to time from his wine cup and stared silently into the flames.

The wailing of the wind ebbed and flowed like a steady singsong, but never completely stopped. One particularly strong gust rattled the shutters and blew open the curtains. All at once there was a loud crash and almost everyone present flinched. An icy draught blew through the hall and carried the snow through the open door. All eyes turned to the darkness outside the building, as if they expected to see a horde of crystal-covered ice devils about to pounce on them. Even Ormen stopped his brooding and looked towards the entrance. Yet there was nothing there, just snow dancing wildly against the darkness of the night. "Damn me, you can't even close a door properly, you useless dolts!" the big man grumbled and tried to rise. But Schnacker had already got up and hurried to beat him to it. "Sorry, this storm is really unusually strong. We probably just need to close the bolt tighter." The old man laboriously pushed the two door wings together. Suddenly he paused, his gaze fixed on the thick drifting snow. He stumbled back, let the door slip from his hands and fell backwards to the ground. Eyes wide, he stared out into the darkness. "By all the ancestors! That's not possible!" he gasped. In an instant, weapons were unsheathed. The two men who had just been sitting at the table were now lurking to the left and right of the door frame, the giant had drawn his iron-tipped,

shod cudgel, his gray companion gripped the bow and began to fiddle with the bowstring. Ormen had merely placed his hand on the hilt of his sword. He had also come to the entrance and peered out into the dark surroundings. But there was no one to be seen there, only the blackness of night and the snow, cut through by the orange cone of light from the interior of the Lebhall, in which the shadows of the three men could now be seen. Then they recognized a thick, white figure with round proportions at the very edge of the cone of light. It was a snow puppet, formed from three unevenly sized snow globes stacked on top of each other. The arms consisted merely of two scrawny twigs that had been stuck into the top of the middle sphere. The largest sphere lay at the bottom, while the smallest formed the head at the top. Something dark had been stuck into it for the eyes, but it was impossible to tell what it was from a distance. There was also a hint of something like a mouth, but it was deformed in a way that seemed uncanny under the circumstances. The three men involuntarily stepped closer, driven by curiosity to see what exactly was wrong with the mouth. Ormen appeared calm, but he drew his sword while his men covered his sides in a practiced manner.

Up close, he realized that the snow puppet's head did not have a mouth as such, but rather long, grotesquely shaped teeth made of dark ice. The big man with the bludgeon looked confused. "What's that, Ormen? Was that thing already there when we got here?" The tip of the arrow in the older archer's hand trembled. His breathing was heavy and he looked around almost frantically. "It's a damned snow puppet, you horned ox! This is Snjorre's work! Don't you know anything?" "Shut up, Juland!" Ormen snapped at him without turning around. He stretched his hand back. "Illgard, your dagger!" The giant hurriedly handed him the blade while Ormen looked around the area. When he discovered neither tracks nor any other indication of an ambush, he examined the snowy shape more closely. The teeth were rusty red, as if they were made of frozen blood. With the tip of the dagger, he plucked a pebble from one of the eye sockets, which fell into the snow at his feet. Juland's eyes widened even further and he made choking noises as he stumbled back a few steps like Schnacker before him. Ilgard's face darkened and he spat out a curse. Ormen remained motionless for a few seconds before turning back to his men. He caught sight of Juland, who had regained his composure somewhat but was still as white as a sheet. "Pull yourselves together! It can't possibly be what it looks like. I don't believe it. Not after so

many years." Juland avoided his gaze. Illgard, on the other hand, looked uncertain at first, then he seemed to compose himself and shook his head, a little too vigorously to be convincing. He avoided looking at the snowy figure, neither at the shuddering teeth nor at Matthes' sightless eye, which had emerged from behind the pebble. Part of the snow on the head sphere had now crumbled away and the bluish-pale face of their dead companion peered out, half of the mouth still covered in snow, from which long, shimmering red icicles protruded. From his hiding place, Rokbur watched the three of them and whispered quietly: "...said the robber. But those who knew him noticed how he involuntarily licked his dry lips and tried to cover up his nervousness." Ormen marched back into the Lebhall. He approached the residents' table and examined them scrutinizingly. Finally, his eyes lingered on Jule. "Did your son kill my man? I swear to you, I'll slit him open and strangle him with his stinking guts!" Jule shook her head violently through her tears. "No! No! Believe me, he's just a child, he couldn't hurt anyone!" "" "I'd rather not take any chances," Ormen hissed, grabbed the pommel of his sword and turned towards the entrance. Jule sobbed loudly and had to be stopped by the others from running after the brigand chief. "Wait a minute," Schnacker called out, "there was someone else. I'd forgotten all about it, but

we had a wanderer here today, a young man, a rather strange bird. He was chopping the wood before you came here. I haven't seen him since. I assumed you had him... had... I'm sorry, I should have said something, I'm really sorry!" Ormen looked at Schnacker piercingly for a few moments. Then he wheeled around to his men, who were now standing at the entrance. "You heard him. Let's get that bastard!" He pointed his naked sword at Schnacker and the other inhabitants. "If you try anything clever, I'll slaughter you. All of you. Do you understand that?" They nodded avoiding his gaze. "You stay right where you are!" With that, he turned away and stormed back out into the darkness, followed by his men. Wrapped in their thick cloaks and with torches in their hands, they searched the area without any success. Near the gate, Juland had taken his bow from his shoulder and crouched down. Ormen joined him and looked over his shoulder. "Any tracks?" "I think so. It's really hard to tell in this snowfall, but these could have been footprints. Maybe he passed the gate here and went to the bridge. He's probably trying to get away." The search for something real, a person, had given the older bandit back some of his composure. "Come on, we can't let him get away!" They were used to life in the wilderness and on the run.

They were able to keep up the pace set by Ormen for a while, even in this weather. But they came to a halt just after the bridge. A snow puppet with bloody red teeth, almost identical to the other one in front of the Lebhall, was awaiting them once again, silent and still. "Bloody hell, that can't be true!" spat Ormen. "How could he have made them so quickly?" asked Illgard, his voice betraying a hint of uncertainty. "And who's in it this time?" added Juland, making a protective sign to ward off the evil. After a few seconds of hesitation, Ormen approached the figure, took one of the branches that had been stuck in as arms and flicked the stone eye out of its cave. Only snow appeared behind it and every single one of them breathed a sigh of relief. "Nothing," he shouted to his men over the wind, "he's just trying to drive us crazy and lead us around by the nose! But that took him time, now we'll have him before long!" They followed the gloomy path from Arendal, which led along the river on the left. In the dim light of their torches, the shadows danced between the snowdrifts and gave them all kinds of illusions. A few times they thought they saw hints of the eerie figures here and there. After a few minutes, the path led off to the right into a grove. Sure enough, another snow puppet

was waiting for them at the edge of the path, right on the bank of the small river. Ormen slowed down and stared at it as they passed. His anger at the murder of one of his men was increasingly overshadowed by confusion at these crazy snow puppets, who stirred old, almost forgotten memories. How could anyone have built these things so quickly? Juland stood still for a moment, but then got over himself and gave the creepy figure a wide berth. "Ormen, there's something wrong here. Let's go back. There's no point in wandering around here in the dark." He could have spared himself the words, because Ormen stubbornly walked on as if he hadn't heard him. The giant, Illgard, tried not to look at the figure. There was no person who could have frightened him, but this was something else. He knew little of the stories, unlike his comrades, but if they could frighten Juland - and even Ormen seemed shaken - then they had to be taken seriously. But legends and stories were nothing you could touch and he felt more powerless than ever against them. Barely two hundred meters away, the next figure was waiting. It had already been dark outside the grove, but between the trees they would not have been able to see their hands in front of their eyes without the torches, let alone the snow-covered path. The wind was no

longer blowing so hard in their faces and the persistent howling was replaced by a more distant rustling in the treetops and the creaking of the trees around them. When Juland reached the shadow, Ormen was already standing in front of it, resting his arms on his thighs and catching his breath. He shook his head in disbelief. "That can't be. Tell me I'm not crazy, Ju." His half-laugh sounded frightening to Juland's ears. "If you are, then so are we, right?" When Illgard remained silent, Juland looked around, but his companion was nowhere to be seen. Confused, he looked back the way they had come. He recognized only two tracks that led here through the snow. "Illgard?" His call sounded strangely muffled through the snow. "Illgard?" he called even louder, but there was no answer. Ormen looked at him questioningly. "What is it, where is he?" He looked back the way he had come. "You were both behind me a moment ago." "I don't know, he was just there. Damn, did he get lost in this fucking snowstorm? We should at least be able to see his torch." They hurriedly trudged back through the snow in the direction they had come from and soon reached the snow puppet they had passed at the entrance to the grove. Juland was taken aback - perhaps he was only imagining it, but the thing seemed even larger than before.

This realization sent a shiver through him that had nothing to do with the cold. He was filled with a fear that he had not known since childhood. The fear of the impenetrable darkness, of the eerie things that you could only see out of the corner of your eye, that were terrible and invisible or lurking under the bed waiting for you to finally close your eyes. He summoned up all his courage, overcame himself and took a step towards the snowy figure. With a trembling hand, he took a stone from its head, only to drop it again immediately with a cry. One of Illgard's green eyes looked at him, wide open and lifeless. "No!" Ormen's scream echoed through the night. "No! It can't be, by the darkness and all the shadows, it can't be!" Juland felt as if something inside him was reeling. Was he trapped in a terrible tale? He was wandering through the icy darkness, pursued by these hideous snow puppets that contained his dead friends. Until they were all gone and only he was left. And eventually he would end up in the snow too. He felt something inside him threatening to break irrevocably, and he knew it was his sanity. Ormen continued to rage beside him, but Juland did not hear his words. It seemed unimportant to him what he was saying. Even their leader had long since been gripped by fear, he was just trying to cover it up.

Juland had to get away from here, somewhere, just away from these snow creatures. But then he spotted the next one. It was standing just a few meters behind Ormen, right on the bank of the Bruk, where nothing had been seconds ago. In a panic, he looked around. Where would the next one come from? Were they going to surround him? Something happened to his mind right then, he decided not to take any more notice. Running away, away from here, from this thousand times cursed place, that was all that mattered. Then he realized that his legs were already moving. He was filled with joy and satisfaction at how quickly his legs were able to carry him. Faster and faster, it didn't feel strenuous at all. If he ran fast enough, he would surely be able to escape the darkness and cold and thus the murderous snow puppets. In his outburst of rage, Ormen only noticed that Juland was running away when he was already deep in the grove. He had thrown away his torch. Without its light, Juland had no chance of staying on the path - and that was important, because the moor adjoined the grove. Stunned and undecided what to do, he looked around - and discovered the bloody grimace of a new snow puppet behind him. For a moment he stared at it in bewilderment, then a suspicion came over him. Growling, he tore his sword from its sheath and hacked at

the figure, piercing it with his steel. But no one emerged from underneath, it was just snow. Furious with rage, he stubbornly continued to hack at the pile of snow. Rokbur, meanwhile, floated in the shadowy chill of the river, clinging to the bank vegetation below the surface, watching everything from eyes that had turned as black as night. He could feel the fear in the men he had hunted, and it had been like nectar. The power of winter allowed him to endure the cold of the river and even breathe the water as if it were air. It had never occurred to him that this would one day save his life. He saw the leader of the gang stabbing the snow puppet with his sword, felt his despair and the growing crack in his mind. It was time to tell the end of the story. Once he had collected himself, he devised the final act and released it into the world. Once again, he reached for the power within him. Ormen had plunged his sword into the ground after the last blow and was now leaning on it, panting with exertion. His men were all dead, or as good as, in Juland's case. Alone, he could hardly hope to keep the village at bay. Just how had this happened? He was still searching for an explanation when he noticed a movement on the ground by the

light of his torch and saw the snow begin to gather around the ruined figure in front of him. The white scattered by his sword strokes flowed to the remains of the lowest sphere, crawled up and reassembled it, grew even higher and reshaped the rest of the shape until it looked like before. Something like blood flowed from the top sphere and froze into red icicles. The figure's eyes now gleamed silver and cold and looked at him balefully. The inhabitants of Arendal in their Lebhall flinched as they heard a distant scream born of sheer terror. It was perhaps the worst thing they had to endure that night. No one could have told what creature was suffering out there, but you had to feel sorry for that poor soul. A short time later, the portal to the hall was suddenly pushed open and the young wanderer entered. He was tall, with snow-white hair that hung down in wet, half-frozen strands. His clothes were also soaked and partly frozen over. The bridge of his nose was clearly marked with a bloody gash, which he must have gotten only recently. He looked around for a moment and then walked wordlessly to the place by the fireplace where he had sat with Jededaia a few hours earlier to listen to stories from the region. Now he took a chair, moved it towards the fire and sat down on it. The light from the fire played

across his pale features, but did not find its way into the dark hollows of his eyes. Rokbur did not miss the looks of the inhabitants, he almost thought he could feel their emotions, the fear they suddenly had of him. He let himself sink into the fur over the back of the chair and couldn't suppress a small smile. He had never encountered fear in this way before, but it felt almost intoxicating. Never before had he been so aware of the potential that lay in sheer terror. Of what stories it could tell.