Читать онлайн «Snow-Walker»

The door was the last one in the corridor.

The keeper hung his lantern on a nail, took the key from a dirty string around his neck, and fitted it into the keyhole. Then he looked behind him.

“Get on with it!” the big man growled. “Let me see what she keeps in there!”

The keeper grinned; he knew fear when he heard it. With both hands he turned the key, then tugged out the red chain in a shower of rust and pushed the door. It opened, just a fraction. Darkness and a damp smell oozed through the black slit.

He stepped well back, handed the stranger the lantern, and jerked his head. He had no tongue to speak with; she’d made sure he kept her secrets.

The stranger hesitated; a draft moved his hair and he gazed back up the stone passageway as if he longed suddenly for warmth and light. And from what I’ve heard, the keeper thought, you won’t be seeing much of those ever again.

Then the man held up the lantern and pushed the door. The keeper watched his face intently in the red glow, and his great hand, as it clutched a luckstone that swung at his neck.

Outside, the keeper waited, listening. No sound came out of the room and he dared not go too close. For six years now he had locked it and unlocked it, letting in the witch Gudrun and the sly old dwarf she brought with her. No one else in all that time—until today, this gruff red-beard.

For six years he had left food at the door and taken it away half eaten, had heard rustles and movements and had never looked in. But there had been that night, nearly a year ago now, when halfway up the corridor he had looked back, and in the dimness seen that hand, thin as a claw, lifting the platter.

Suddenly the door opened; he stiffened, his hand on his knife. The big man was there, carrying something heavy, wrapped in old bearskins. He cradled it with both arms; whatever it was moved in the folds against his shoulder. It made a low sound, wordless and strange.