Chapter One: My name is Sneak.
Sneak was my name, and I lived up to it. There wasn't anything I couldn't get away with. My hands were as quick as lightning, and my tongue as smooth as ice. When I wanted something, I did what all Free Folk did: I took it.
I crawled along the bank of the Milkwater, my legs submerged in the icy river as I hugged the sheer rock cliff the river had carved over the eons. The water numbed my legs, but I was used to the cold; it wouldn't stop me today.
Today was the day I was going to get it. I peeked around the edge of the cliff, and there they were: the young sons of Tormund the Bear's Husband. They were too young to have names, but they had fishing poles with real iron fishing hooks.
Their father, a famous raider known to all Free Folk, had gifted his sons with many things. Four fish lay on the rocky shore next to them as I peeked over the side of a large river rock. They had so much food.
A smart man would steal the fish—it was enough food to live on for almost a fortnight. My stomach rumbled with hunger. Momma didn't feed me often; she had herself and my twin sisters to feed from her breasts. Mother's milk and fish were what I lived on. I had once tasted deer after sneaking into a hunter's camp. I was beaten so hard I puked the deer out before the hunter let me go.
I was not a smart man, though... I was sneaky.
That was my name.
That was my way of life.
Gauging where the current would take me was simple. I ducked into the frigid water, stone knife in hand. The cold water was home to me; I was used to it, lived and breathed it. It was holding my breath that was the problem.
I let the current carry me until I saw the hook floating with a wriggling minnow as bait. With the flint knife positioned just right, I let the weight of my body and the river slice the thin fishing line. The iron hook clenched in my hand, the minnow squirming in my palm.
My lungs were burning, but I carried on swimming underwater as fast as I could. The short minute felt like an eternity before I surfaced, gasping for air. I scrambled to the shore, triumph over the raider's sons spreading warmth through my cold body.
Quickly, I dove into the bushes as I heard one boy begin to cry out, realizing he had lost his prized southern fish-hook. After wiping away the water with dry dirt from the bushes, I slipped into my furs, chuckling to myself at my own cleverness.
As hunger gnawed at my stomach, I wished I had devised a plan to steal the fish as well. Gripping the fishing hook tightly, I realized it would still provide me with food.
Emerging from the bushes, I made my way to the nearby river clan, the Milk Sons', located a mile further down the river. Nothing could stop me now. Toregg remained oblivious to the fact that I had taken his fish-hook, and even if he knew, there was nothing of mine for him to take in return.
My mouth watered as I sprinted towards the clan's summer longhouse on the Milkwater's shore. Happiness bubbled within me as I waved to the grizzled old man, Scarface as I called him, one of their sentries keeping watch for the clansmen. They were ever vigilant against raiders seeking to steal their fish, or worse... Direwolves, Shadowcats, Snowbears—everything.
"Slow down, or the dogs'll bite ya," the old man slurred, half of his face scarred with three angry, long red lines. The scars and tales of the snowbear used to frighten me, but I wasn't scared of a snow bear anymore, or scarred old men. I was sneaky. I'd find a way to sneak right past them.
"Make me, you old drunk," I cried out, slipping from his reach with a scramble of my thin legs. Despite my retort, I took his advice anyway. The Milk Sons had massive hounds that loved to chase down anything willing to run away. I'd heard they'd brought down a direwolf just last year.
"Donny!" I called out for the chief's son as I neared the longhouse. "I've got it!" I cried out, filled with excitement. The fish I'd soon eat.
The teenager's face peeked out from the fur flap, which kept the heat inside the longhouse. He was short for his age but strong from years of pulling nets and using paddles on a canoe. His face was dirty with soot, and blond fuzz curled around his chin and cheeks. Stepping out of the longhouse with a grin, he was followed by his two younger brothers.
"Let's see it then," Donny grinned as he approached. "Did you have any trouble getting it?" he asked.
I shook my head, grinning, and held up the prize between my thumb and forefinger. The thin iron hook glinted in the summer sun. Donny's face showed awe. "I never thought I'd see the like," he whispered. "It's so shiny." He held out his hand, and I dropped it into his palm.
"And my reward?" I prompted with a grin.
"I have to show father what I got," he mumbled to himself as he stared at the iron in wonder. "They use iron for fish hooks down south. I never imagined it was real."
Denny tugged on my sleeve. "It's that one," he pointed to the shore where a row of canoes rested on the riverbank. "We finished it yesterday. The smoked fish is in it already. I put it there like you said, so Donny can't double-cross you," Denny whispered. "You need to go before he changes his mind or father finds out."
Good old Denny. Honest to a fault.
Gullible to a fault too.
"I'll have one for you tomorrow, to pay for the canoe. I could only get the first one today," I whispered to him as we walked away from Donny and his youngest brother, Danny, who marveled at the iron hook. "I promise, I'll be back tomorrow with another to pay you for the canoe." I smiled a friendly grin at Denny, and he smiled back.
I could see old Scarface glaring from upriver as he watched me slip into a small hide-hulled canoe. I had dragged it into the water as Denny grinned like a big goofy smile, imagining all the adoration he would receive as the owner of an iron fish-hook.
Denny gave me a good shove away from the shore and waved as I started paddling back upriver. It was a long trip, and I ate a good quarter of the smoked fish Donny had promised as a reward for the iron fish-hook before night fell. I was halfway home to Momma's hut in my village. By noon, I'd be back home, feeding my family, as a man ought to.
I was six, soon to be a man. Life was short for us northerners. I'd heard raiders say that southern kneelers are still considered boys until they have hair on their chins. Us northerners become men as soon as we can provide for ourselves. I was determined to prove it with this feat of sneakiness.
Momma would surely give me a man's name when I got back. Then, perhaps, I could take Momma as my spear's wife and feed her and the twins. No other man in the village seemed willing. No man laid with her, and few were even willing to give her scraps to eat. She hunted snow hares and rats to keep her milk flowing. Sometimes she ate tubers when there were no rats in the village, but they caused the runs. Tubers were more for animals than for humans.
Pulling the canoe into the bushes, I hid and waited for the sun to rise before leaving. I dragged the canoe out of the bushes next to mine and started towards the water.
I noticed a shadow on the riverbank as I paddled. The shadow moved with me, at the same pace, following me. I kept paddling but started paying more attention to it, feeling a sense of dread as it crept along the shore. I knew it was watching me.
Glimpses of black fur caught my eye as I paddled upriver. Was it a man wearing black fur? A Crow? Why would a Crow follow me? I wasn't a raider... yet.