The Dead Man's Doll Read Free Page A

Call slipped through the dark trees in the forest beyond the longhouse. It had been calling her for a hundred cycles, or maybe just a single day. Madyrut wasn’t sure. She thought it had always been out there wailing, but maybe not. Maybe her ears had just woken up.
    Evil girl. Bad girl. It’s your own fault.
    Madyrut shoved out of her deerhides, slipped on her sandals, and silently crept past the eight fires that burned down the length of the longhouse, making her way toward the bark-covered entry at the far end. High over her head smoke curled and danced before drifting out through the smokeholes in the roof and flying away to carry dream messages to the Blessed Ancestors living along the Star Road.
    She tiptoed past the sleeping people. Bark walls separated each chamber, giving the families a small measure of privacy. But at night most people left their hide curtains open to the fires for warmth. She could see them holding their children close. Faint smiles turned their lips.
    Madyrut wondered where their souls were wandering tonight. Happy places filled with sunshine and laughter, probably stories and bear hugs. For a split instant, she smiled.
    Then she hurriedly turned to make sure her mother wasn’t watching her. All day long, Mother had busied herself hanging hides to cover their chamber so no one could see inside, covering Madyrut’s wooden bowls and horn spoons, her bow and quiver, and laying hides across the dirt floor. Hides could be rolled up, carried outside, and shaken clean. No one would know.
    Madyrut smothered the cry that seeped up her throat. As fast as she could, she trotted for the exit and shoved aside the bark cover to get outside. Cold air. Deep into the lungs. Scrub them out. No more hickory-scented dust, no more curly shavings in her hair. The sky visible through the trees was an icy leaden wilderness.
    Run. Just run.
    But don’t get lost. Don’t get lost in holes in the ground.

November 24, A.D. 1002
    Young William finished tying up the rolled sail, shoved blond hair out of his blue eyes, and rose to stretch his aching back muscles. He was rail thin and dressed in ragged furs, as befitted a slave. With the storm rolling in, the ocean had gone rough. He was responsible for making sure the sail was rolled and stowed properly, just in case they hit heavy rains. Sodden woolen sails weighed a ton and could capsize a knorr. Though the wide-bodied vessel was one of the biggest of the trading ships that sailed these dangerous seas, it was still vulnerable to storms and icebergs, especially this time of year. Already the sea ice had started to edge southward, and icebergs the size of gleaming mountains drifted the ocean. No one aboard, except maybe the master, could understand why they’d dared such a long voyage at this time of season—though crazy stories had been circulating, whispered where the master could not overhear.
    William looked out across the frothing waves. On the horizon, the storm resembled a bruised wall filled with lightning. The other two ships were just barely visible in the distance. They were getting tossed around pretty good. The pagan Danes aboard must think that Thor, the sky god, was angry today. William, however, was a convert to the new Anchorite faith, and didn’t believe in such ridiculous gods. His Lord had been a carpenter, as William longed to be someday, if he ever earned his freedom.
    â€œWilliam? Come over here.”
    He turned to see his master, Wulfstan the Tall, waving him toward the bow. William hesitated, which made his master furious.
    â€œNow!”
    William swallowed hard and made his way forward. As he passed the muttering oarsmen, their stench filled the air. None had bathed in days. They cast sympathetic glances his way. They were just as afraid as William was of the woman being guarded by their master. She was a beauty, no doubt about that. She had long white hair and skin the color of ivory. When she turned her glacial