The Pictish Child by Jane Yolen Read Free Book Online Page B

painfully over the metal doorstep.
    â€œMom?” Peter called out tremulously into the grey mist that was rapidly filling the courtyard. “Pop?”
    As if to mock him, the fog called the same names back.
    At the garden window, Molly cried, “It’s gone. The grey stuff’s all gone.”
    But it was not gone, had merely left the garden and was gathering by the open front door, bunched and thick and ready to push in.
    Peter slammed the door shut and locked it again, leaning his back against it. Jennifer pushed against the door as well, as if their combined weight was all that was needed to keep the household safe.
    â€œIt’s all right,” Peter called to the others in the living room. “I shut it again in time. No harm done.”
    No harm? wondered Jennifer.
    Even as Peter spoke, the tiny wisp of fog that had made it across the iron barrier began to take form. It shifted and shaped itself before their horrified eyes, growing into a man. Not a tall man—not nearly as tall as Pop, who was six feet—but a man broad at the shoulder, with well-muscled arms, a full dark beard, and long, dark hair combed over to one side and tied up in a ponytail. He was wearing a short leather tunic and soft leather boots. In one hand he held a large ax, and in the other a long-handled spear. Some kind of embossed leather shield was slung across his back on a leather strap.
    The warrior was scary enough in the darkened hallway, but when Peter backed away from him and accidentally rubbed against the light switch, turning on the hall light, the man was scarier still.
    Like Ninia, he was tattooed on his hands and arms. But he was also tattooed on his body and face, in great swirling designs, like waves. His startled mouth was open and it was a misery of broken teeth. A livid scar ran down his face, from forehead to chin.
    Jennifer screamed and Peter tried to run back into the living room, but the warrior quickly blocked his path, bellowing some awful Pictish war cry. So Peter simultaneously gave him a great kick in the shins and ducked under the man’s right arm, the arm with the ax.
    It was an incredibly brave and incredibly stupid thing to do, and Jennifer shouted encouragement, as if she were cheering Peter on at one of his soccer games.
    The warrior turned and started after him, battle-ax held high. In another second the ax would be swung in a downward stroke, and that would be the end of Peter.
    Jennifer’s cheer turned into a scream.
    But Ninia’s voice was louder still. She stood and called out something in three short, commanding syllables.
    The warrior looked over, spotted her, and fell to his knees in one movement. He laid down his weapons, first the ax and then the spear; put his head in his hands, and—all unaccountably—wept.

Eleven
    Single Combat
    Ninia walked over to the burly warrior and pushed his tattooed hands away from his face. Then she put her own hands under his chin, lifted it, and said something so softly only he could hear.
    â€œIf she blows in his nostrils, I may have to honk,” said the dog.
    â€œIf you are not silent, I may have to kill you,” said Devil.
    â€œIf someone doesn’t explain what is happening,” Jennifer said, “I may have to scream.”
    Gran held up a hand and they all quieted. “Clearly she recognizes him. King, father, brother, cousin …”
    â€œActually,” the horse said, moving out into the main part of the living room, but taking care not to step on Gran’s good carpet, “he is the high king’s war councillor.”
    â€œAnd …” Gran said slowly.
    â€œHow do you know there is more, old woman?” the horse asked.
    â€œThere is always more in history,” Gran said. “It is only in a story that much is left out.”
    â€œBesides,” Peter said to the horse, “she’s a witch. And a grandmother. It’s an unbeatable