Too Cold to Bleed

by D Murray

  “I say that’s what I was thinking,” she replied, stretching her arms above her head and leaning backwards in a stretch.

  “Let’s just get ourselves sorted first. I want to get the rest of the crew combing the beaches for any materials that may have washed ashore in the night.” They both ducked back into the howf. “Broden and Jukster, can you have a look about the bays to the west and east for any debris that may have washed up in the night? Anything that may be useful for the rest of our journey.”

  “Our journey?” Jukster asked. “We carrying on, boss?”

  Kalfinar turned and held the look of the big man. Jukster’s expression was not so much one of dissent, but of confusion. “What did you think we would do? Sit here and wait for a passing ship in the spring?” Murtagh’s words sounded in his head, and he thought perhaps he had best start trying to forge some useful relationship with those of his crew that remained alive. “Excuse me,” he apologised. “I’d not explained our position to anyone.” He looked around at the faces of those in the howf. “We must carry on with our mission. We sailed for two days, and by old Crene’s reckoning, we would’ve been maybe only a day’s sailing from the bay we intended to put in on. We should be able to carry on by foot.”

  “What was that?” Lendal asked, his eyes darting to the entranceway.

  “What?” Ferdus asked, before pulling the hatchet from his belt. “Weapons!”

  “Cease!” a gravelly voice drawled from outside the howf. The accent was strange, like the words didn’t fit the mouth. “You’re surrounded, and outnumbered. Come out slow and easy, and you’ll live.”

  “Where the fuck did they come from?” Kalfinar hissed. The faces in the howf looked to him. He swallowed, withdrew his hatchet from his belt, and reversed the grip so the flat of the head rested in his palm, haft extended up his forearm. “I’ll go first. If there’s a chance, just follow my lead.” The faces nodded in agreement, and he stood up, stooped down, and exited the howf into the dawn light.

  Before him stood a tall man clothed entirely in sealskin. His hood was drawn up, and a fur face mask covered most of his face, exposing only his eyes. Odd-coloured eyes. One green, one red. To either side of the man stood two individuals dressed as he was, bows raised and arrows tracking him. Surrounding the howf stood two dozen other individuals dressed in sealskin, spears and bows held in hands.

  “The rest of you. Come out,” the man with odd-coloured eyes commanded.

  “Do as he says,” Kalfinar called over his shoulder.

  One by one, the remaining crew made their way out into the space between the howf and the wall.

  Odd-eyes nodded to one of his party who stood on the roof of the howf, and the individual jumped down and disappeared into the shelter. “Who are you, and why are you here?” Odd-eyes asked Kalfinar.

  “We’re whalers from Grantvik’s Bay. Our ship went down in the storm. We’re all that made it ashore.”

  Odd-eyes chuckled from behind his fur-covered face mask. “Odd crew you have.” The green and red eyes flicked from Kalfinar to Valus. “Maybe you want to explain?”

  “We’ve nothing to explain,” Kalfinar said in a quiet voice. “We’re whalers. Our ship went down. We’re all that remain.”

  The man narrowed his eyes above his mask. “I know the habits of the whalers of Grantvik’s Bay. I know they don’t hunt the White Swell in this season. I know how they crew their ships.” He looked at Valus and the others once more, then stepped up to Kalfinar, his mitten-covered hand resting on the long antler-handled knife sheathed at his side. He whispered low to Kalfinar, “I know the whalers of Grantvik’s Bay see it as bad luck to have women on board. You’re not whalers.” He pulled the knife free of the sheath and placed it under Kalfinar’s chin.

  “Easy,” Kalfinar said, urging his crew to remain calm.

  Odd-eyes whispered, “Who are you?”

  Kalfinar looked close at what he could see of Odd-eyes’ exposed face. The skin was pale, but not the grey-blue hue of the Ravenmayne, and the one red eye had a black pupil, and a largely red iris. There appeared to be threads of copper and yellow about the iris, but not the circle of flame as seen in the assassins at Hardalen. This man was not a true Ravenmayne, of that Kalfinar was certain. “We sailed from Grantvik’s Bay two days past. A man called Crene was the captain of our vessel. He’d aimed to take us along the coast, and put in around a day’s sailing east of this point, if my reckoning is correct.”

  “I knew a Crene. Black hair, and a patch over his left eye?”

  “White hair. No patch. Bad eye though.”

  The man looked at Kalfinar a moment, and then pulled down his mask and shoved back his hood. The sides of his head were shaved, the pale flesh covered in runic tattoos. His hair was dirty blond, and tied into a single, long braid. He wore a long blond goatee, split up the side of his chin to his lip by a ragged scar. “So you know what old Crene looks like. What does that prove? Where is he?”

  “Dead. He drowned when the ship went down. He is with Woakie, as was his wish.”

  “And what do you know of Woakie?” The man bared his teeth and the point of his knife burned under Kalfinar’s chin.

  Kalfinar felt a line of blood trickle down his neck. “I know she is to be respected, and feared.”

  “She is our mother.” Odd-eyes eased the pressure on the blade, and removed it from Kalfinar’s neck. He stepped away from him and turned to the bodies of Kalfinar’s drowned crew. Hunkering down, Odd-eyes pulled back the fragments of sail that covered them. “Hmmm,” he mused, inspecting the uniform on Cookie’s body. “This is not the clothing of a whaler. Nor is it the uniform of a Solansian. What is this?” Odd-eyes pointed at the silver stitched eagle on the shoulder of Cookie’s jacket with the point of his knife. A thin line of Kalfinar’s blood ran down the blade of Odd-eyes' knife and seeped into the silver thread. “What does this mean?” He turned and looked at Kalfinar.

  “It marks us out as Pathfinders. We are of the Free Provinces.”

  Odd-eyes stood and wiped his blade on the thigh of his sealskin trousers before sheathing it. “And why are you here? This is not your land.”

  A commotion drew Kalfinar’s attention away from Odd-eyes. Valus shook off a hand on her shoulder and stepped forward. “You are children of Woakie, which means you’re not our enemy, and we are not yours. You’re Maracost, aren’t you?”

  “Who is this woman that speaks with me?” Odd-eyes smiled in amusement at Valus’ bold approach.

  “I am Dedicant Valus, of the Lihedan Isles. I travel with these people to aid Dajda, and destroy Balzath, the Usurper, who has risen above all in Hagra.”

  Kalfinar looked across to Odd-eyes. The edge of the man’s mouth twitched. One of his people, one holding a bow trained now on Valus, spoke in a familiar language. It was guttural, and sounded cruel. The voice was male, the words full of anger. Odd-eyes waved the words away and shook his head at the speaker.

  “My friend here, Rhayer, he wants to kill you all, and take your skins. Sorry, I mean your sealskins, not your flesh.”

  Kalfinar held the man’s unusual gaze, noting the laughter lines about his eyes starting to crease.

  “Kal,” Broden urged in a low voice. The big man’s hand held a short sword ready.

  Kalfinar replicated the action of Odd-eyes, urging calm.

  “Are the words of this woman true?” Odd-eyes asked, his hand back to resting on the antler handle of his knife.

  Kalfinar nodded. “What Dedicant Valus says is true. We’re here to restore our gods, if we can.”

  “The truth shall be borne out in flame. You’ll come with us to our village, and we will see. Bind them.”

  “Wait!” Kalfinar shouted as their captors advanced, pulling thin rope from pouches that hung from their belts.

  Odd-eyes turned and looked at Kalfinar with an amused expression. “Wait for what? You either die here, and lie out in the cold with your drowned friends, or you come with us, and fire will show us your intent
ions. There is no waiting.”

  “You’re not our enemy. We’re not yours.” Kalfinar repeated the words of Valus.

  Odd-eyes pointed to the bodies of the drowned crew. “Your people, your burden. Have your men carry them with us.”

  “Are you even listening to me?” Kalfinar growled. “We are not your enemy.”

  Odd-eyes took a single step forward and slapped Kalfinar across the face with the back of his hand.

  Kalfinar tasted blood on the inside of his mouth. He suppressed the urge to retaliate, and straightened up.

  Odd-eyes stepped right up to him, matching him for height. He stared hard at Kalfinar. “The truth shall be borne out in flame.”

  Twenty-One

  Into The White

  Ruah dipped her head into the wind and pressed on, step after terrible step. The storm had closed in, bringing snow and a bullying wind that contrived to push them down the steep, rocky slope they climbed.

  Ruah’s right foot slipped on the slushy snow underfoot once more, dropping her body weight onto her left leg. She gasped as the pain gripped her entire body. She strained to silence her cry, so as not to alert Culver or Halpern to her struggles, and owned the pain. Blinking away tears, she placed her hands into the icy, wet snow, and took the weight from her leg. Tusk pawed at the snow beside her, the big dog’s inquisitive eyes searching Ruah’s. She lifted her right foot and placed it back down, finding solid footing. She straightened up. The blustering wind gusted, sending a flurry of snow into her face. Her feet slid back as one, and she yelped as she slapped face first into the slushy mess of snow. “Fuck!” she roared, her voice tearing at her throat. Shit on owning the pain. Shit on hiding from them. Shit on it all. “Fuck! Fuck! Fucking fuck!” She pulled her face from the snow, feeling it red raw, and looked up. Tusk cowered, belly on the ground and head lowered at eye level to Ruah. Up the hill behind Tusk came the hooded figures of Culver and Halpern, both hurrying down to meet her.

  “You hurt?” Halpern asked as he ploughed through the snow, sending it spraying over her and the retreating Tusk.

  “Hells, girl,” Culver called out from behind the younger man, “we’re coming.”

  “Just help me up, would you?” she asked, her voice a small, shamed, and timid thing now that her fury had been swallowed up by the aching pain. Her pain. The pain she was supposed to own.

  “Here, take a hand each,” Culver insisted, leaning over and offering his forearm to her.

  She took the proffered arm with one hand and grabbed Halpern’s wrist with the other. Both strong limbs. Nice to have strong limbs.

  “Take my sword,” Culver said as she regained her footing. “You can use it to help you keep your balance, maybe lean some of your weight on it.” He reached up and pulled the heavy leather strap over his shoulder, retrieving the sheathed sword from his back.

  “And take these wraps.” Halpern leaned down and began to unwrap the cloth he had tied about the tops of his boots, wrapping around his shins.

  “No, Hal–”

  “I insist.” He cut her off. “If you wrap these about the soles of your boots, the fabric will give you purchase on the snow.”

  “But your legs. Your boots.”

  He waved her protest away and undid the wrapping about his second boot. He stepped up to her and placed one knee on the ground. “Here, lift your boot onto my leg.”

  Ruah strained and lifted her bad leg onto his thigh, the snow on the sole of her boot instantly soaking through his already wet trouser leg. “Sorry about that.”

  “Already wet, aren’t I?” Halpern looked up and smiled at her. He began wrapping the cloth about her ankle, and then down under the arch of her foot, carefully wrapping it about the sole and heel of her boot before tying it off in a secure knot at the front of her shin. “Not too tight, is it? Don’t want it hurting.”

  “It’s fine. Thank you.”

  “Now the other foot.”

  “No, really, that foot was the worst of them.”

  Halpern held her gaze in an unflinching and stubborn glare. “Foot. Now.”

  Ruah lifted the toe of her other boot onto his thigh, and Halpern once more tied the binding from about his boot around her ankle and sole.

  “There,” he said, brushing the melting snow off his reddening hands. “With the cloth, and Culver’s sword, you’ll be right as rain.”

  “Not as stupid as you look, lad.” Culver clapped the younger man on his broad shoulder, drawing a confused look from him.

  Ruah looked down at Halpern’s legs, and seeing he was near up to his knees in snow, she felt a twist of guilt in her guts.

  “Come on, you and your ugly dog,” Culver called out, waving her up the hill as he and Halpern set off.

  She jabbed the sheathed end of the sword into the snow, feeling it take purchase in the hard ground, and took a step forward. The cloth around her foot bit into the snow, binding, and giving her blessed grip. She looked down at Tusk, who offered up a concerned frown, and sniffed at the snow on top of Ruah’s boot. “One more step and we’ll see, boy.” Ruah lifted her ruin of a leg, owning the strike of pain that shot up her thigh and about her back. She placed the foot down, her breath held tight as she anticipated the fall, but instead felt the cloth around her soles grip the snow, and grip it hard. Tusk looked up, wagging his tail, and barked, sending flecks of froth flying alongside the snowflakes.

  “Working?” Halpern asked, turning around to face her.

  “Works!” she shouted loud over the wind, nodding. She looked down, raised her good foot, leaning on the makeshift crutch, and planted it forward. She lifted the sword, jabbed it home, and then pulled up her bad leg. “Step by step,” she muttered to herself, owning the pain about her. Breathe. Step. Pain. Pray.

  “How can you even tell we’re still going in the right direction?” Ruah shouted as hard as her hoarse voice allowed. Even still, she wasn’t sure Culver could hear her over the howling wind that battered them. “Can’t tell one way from the other out here.”

  Culver’s hood blew back as he leaned in towards her. His hair blew about his face in the gust and exposed his ear, showing a ragged scar about the lower half of it. He reached up with his gloved hand and pulled the hood back up before pushing his hair into it. “I don’t know.” He looked at Ruah, and then to Halpern, and then finally down to Tusk. “We need to make a shelter.”

  “Make a shelter?” Ruah mustered her most incredulous of looks. “Make a shelter out of what? Snow?”

  “Aye. We need to find a deep drift, to take us out of this wind. The snow here is too flat and shallow.”

  She looked at him, holding his eyes a moment, and then realised he was serious.

  “Come on,” Culver said, turning and forcing his way through the knee-deep snow.

  Halpern looked at her and shrugged. He stalked on, his wet shins pushing through the snow, following in Culver's footsteps.

  They reached the top of the hill and found a flat plateau with a doubly strong wind that sent icy spindrift smoking about their legs, and occasionally sending, twisting, stinging flurries of it into their faces. Ruah fancied she had blisters about her cheeks. Frozen streaks of tears lined the sides of her head beneath her temples, and her eyelashes were heavy with frost. The chill of the wind froze the wetness on the front of her clothes. Her hands had stopped hurting some time ago, and she was sure it couldn’t be a good sign. She looked down at Tusk and was amazed to see the dog steadfast by her side. “I see you, good boy.” Tusk kept his head down, but gave a little wag of his tail.

  “Over here!” Culver’s voice shouted out from somewhere to the right.

  “Roo,” Halpern said, stepping towards her. “He’s over there.” He pointed out onto the swirling grey mess of snow and touched her shoulder, leading her.

  “I can see him!” she snapped, again regretting the sharpness of her tone. Fuck's sake. She cursed herself and followed on.

  Culver was on his knees, pulling large armfuls of snow out from the downhil
l side of a ridge that rose up along the plateau.

  “I’ll help.” Halpern hurried forward and fell to his knees.

  “Your sword,” Culver said. “Use it to break the snow. I’ll haul it out.”

  Halpern set about it, jabbing the sheathed blade into the deep snow and pivoting it side to side.

  “Take the scabbard off,” Culver said, “you’ll ruin the leather.”

  Halpern unsheathed his sword and tossed the scabbard to one side before jabbing the blade into the icy snow.

  Culver reached in and hauled out load after load.

  “What can I do?” Ruah asked, her shoulders shaking in great juddering movements. She tried to force them to stop, but found she was utterly powerless to stop their movement.

  Culver looked back at her. “Push the spoil out of the way, in mounds either side of us. We’ll need it for a barrier once we’re in.”

  She set to work, her numb hands hardly feeling the snow as she moved it. Within minutes she had piled a wall of snow on either side of the cave-like snow-hole.

  “Let’s get in and out of that wind. We can dig out more from within,” Culver said, ducking down and shuffling into the deep hole. He was followed in by Halpern, Ruah, and then Tusk.

  The relief of getting out of the savage wind was instant. The sound of the howling wind was muffled by the snow about them, and Ruah heaved a sigh of relief.

  “Need to get a little deeper,” Halpern said, shifting himself to the rear of the snow-hole.

  “Think we’re fine, Hal,” Culver said, placing his gloved hand onto Halpern’s forearm. “We’re deep enough. Let’s just get that entrance closed up.”

  “I’ll get it,” the younger man said, shuffling past Culver and Ruah and hauling lumps of snow about the entranceway to close it over.

  “Need to leave an air hole, though.” Culver leaned back against the snow on the inside of the hole and sighed. “That was pretty wild out there.” He rubbed at his gloved hand and winced, before looking back at Ruah. “Still sure this is worth it?”