North Dark | Chapter 1 of 21

He has to close the distance, get within the beast’s range, strike swiftly, and pray to Jesus for the best.

Treesplitter sees that his sons neither hear nor understand him. He waves his whipping torch and they all spread out to search the ice caves. His sons are capable, not useless. He casts the rippling torchlight forward as he enters the blue socket of a nameless tunnel he played in many times in his youth. His dark reflection blurs on the icerimed ceiling and walls. He throws back his foxfur hood and searches the ground for footprints in the frost: None. That does not mean he is in no danger. That does not mean the fugitive is not just ahead of him, hiding in the dark, blade drawn. Treesplitter advances quietly.

He has been through this before. Men, desperate men, come through his village several times a year. Some criminals, others victims, but the hard custom is to turn all away. There is no room. No space for unknowns. Once, years ago, on a similar adventure, he had been forced to kill two men in a cave like this. He never did learn from what they were running, but they had carried longknives and wild looks in their eyes and that was enough.

The grim weight of resolve settles over him. There is a good chance he will murder soon.

Murder. Best not to call it that. Protection. Protection of his family, those he loves, those he fathers, the woman he husbands. He presses forward until he reaches the first hard bend. He bites his knife and transfers the torch to his left hand. He reaches for the leather sack looped through his belt, sets it on the ground, opens the mouth and lets loose the three gray ridgemice within. The screaky animals, each no bigger than a bread heel, circle him. He waves them forward with his torch and they slip into the dark of the tunnel ahead. He stands there listening for long seconds. He scrapes the flat of his knife against his beard. Fugitives. Ruffians. He has better things to do, village work to complete, supper to eat. The temperature seems to drop a few degrees. You had better keep your mind on the job at hand. Tougher men than you have lost their lives in less danger than this.

The high whine of the ridgemice ahead. A long, panicked squeal. One of the cries cuts off and, a moment later, two of the mice race past his feet, darting away. He holds the torch forward, illuminating another few yards of blue cave and the twisted, enraged face of the snowbear lumbering toward him on enormous paws. The creature’s small eyes flash and its fur glows blue in the strange halflight of the tunnel.

Treesplitter’s eyes widen in alarm and he throws the torch at the beast. The bear ignores the small burst of fire bouncing from his chest and charges the man before him. Treesplitter lowers himself, crouches and springs at the animal—there is no point in running, his mind tells him that immediately. He has to close the distance, get within the beast’s range, strike swiftly, and pray to Jesus for the best. He forces the length of his knifeblade past the matted fur, into the liquid fat and tough, dull warmth of the creature before him. He draws another knife with his free hand and sets about stabbing the bear as it levels him. He presses his body against the animal as he strikes again and again. He smells its salty odor; tastes its moist, ragged fur. The bear tries to slash at him but the closer Treesplitter presses himself against it, the less damage its long arms achieve.

The tunnel fills with strange huffing and scraping sounds. Distantly, Treesplitter becomes aware that others have entered the cave. He feels through the bear the impact of bolts, the punch of thrown stones. His sons have found him. They shout at the bear and fire upon it with their crossbows. The bear snarls, abandons Treesplitter, and bounds off into the dark of the tunnel, stout bolts he may have fashioned himself standing in the beast’s shoulder and neck.

Treesplitter lies on his back gasping. He feels so light he thinks he might begin to levitate. His sons lift him up and his shredded cloak falls in heavy panels from his torso. The tunnel seems so much colder now without the staggering weight of the bear atop him. He looks to his feet. Blood streaks the ice there. Mine? Some of it, certainly. His obsidian necklace, torn from his body, lays on the ground. Two Crows scoops it up.

“How bad?” Ramscoat, the eldest, asks him, passing his torch over his father’s body.

“I’m not dead,” Treesplitter says.

“Let’s get you back quickly,” Pond says.

His three sons huddle around him to keep his bleeding body warm as they walk him toward the mouth of the tunnel.

It seems a long walk.

“Mom is going to skin us for this,” Pond chuckles.

“You maybe,” Treesplitter says. “She’ll pity my condition.”

“Don’t talk,” Two Crows says. “Let’s just focus on getting you home.”

The company of father and sons reach the mouth of the tunnel. They stare outward at the daylight and the tundra beyond, trying to process what they see before them. Three of their sleds sit upright in the snow attached to no dogs at all. Treesplitter’s sled and all of the dogs are gone.

They have been, he grimly realizes, outfoxed.