Dies the Fire by S. M. Stirling Page A

them. Learned a lot from my own dad too, of course. Though I figure the Ojibwa part is why I’m so chatty and talkative. It’s perverse for a Finn.”
    He scrubbed down his hands and forearms with some of the snow lying in the shade of a whortleberry bush, trying not to think about hot showers and soap. She passed him his coat again, and winced a bit doing it, pulling her hands back protectively and curling the fingers as he took the garment.
    â€œDamn, let me look at that.”
    He took her hand in his and opened it. The palms looked worse than they were, because the strings of skin from the burst blisters had turned black. Havel drew his puukko again, tested the edge by shaving a patch of hair from his forearm, then began to neatly trim the stubs of dead skin; that should help a little, and reduce the chafing. There hadn’t been time for her to really grow any calluses yet.
    â€œI told you to put more of the salve on them,” he scolded. “You’re pushing it too hard. When something starts bleeding, say so and someone will spell you on the stretcher.”
    â€œI’m doing less than Eric is, Mike,” she said.
    â€œYou’re also forty pounds lighter than Eric, and most of that’s on his shoulders and arms,” Havel said bluntly. “I thought you had more between your ears than he does, though. You’ve got nothing to prove.” And you’re certainly not the cream-puff airhead I thought you were, he thought. Massively ignorant, but not stupid.
    She learned quickly, rarely had to be told how to do something twice, and didn’t stand around waiting to be found work.
    And she’s no quitter or whiner. Complains less than her brother.
    â€œEric may be bigger, but I’m a lot younger than Dad—I don’t like the way he looks,” she went on, leaning a little closer and lowering her voice. “Mike, he goes gray sometimes when he’s been on the stretcher for twenty minutes, especially on the steep parts. The doctor’s warned him about his heart. What will we do if he . . . gets sick . . . out here? Carrying him and Mom—”
    There she’s got me, he thought, looking over at the elder Larsson.
    The flesh had melted away from him, but it didn’t make him look healthy, just sort of sagging, and his color was as bad as Signe thought. Cold and the brutal work and lack of proper sleep or enough food was grinding him down, and he wasn’t a young man or in good shape.
    And this isn’t the way to get into shape at his age. Much more of this and I wouldn’t bet on him coming through. But I can’t take him off carrying the stretcher for at least some of the time. There’s too much else to do and I’m the one who knows how to do it.
    â€œBy the way, Mike,” Signe said, obviously pushing the worry aside with an effort of will. “There’s something you should consider about ‘mystical crap,’ as you put it.”
    His brows went up and she continued by putting her hand out, fingers cocked like a pistol and making a fffffumph between lips and teeth, uncannily like the way his gun had sounded when he tried to fire it.
    Have to admit, you’ve got a point, he thought, and was about to say it aloud when he heard Eric’s voice, cracking with excitement: “A deer! She got a deer, and it’s running away!”
    Havel was on his feet and running forward in an instant, scooping up the rabbit stick and tumbling Signe on her backside with a squawk; she was up and following him half a heartbeat later, though.
    He passed Eric, but the twins were right on his heels as he flashed into the clearing; their legs were long and their hightops were better running gear than his solid mountain boots. Astrid was a hundred yards ahead, sprinting fast with the bow pumping back and forth in her left hand; and the blood trail was clear enough for anyone to follow—bright gouts and splashes of it on snow