Too Cold to Bleed

by D Murray

  “Roo!” Halpern’s voice.

  She ran back to him and leaned down, grabbing his wrists and hauling him from the snow.

  “We need to go,” he said, limping ahead of her.

  “But Tusk–”

  “We have to go!” Halpern urged, staring at her incredulously. “Roo! Now!”

  The sound of snarling came at Ruah through the snow again as Tusk fought the massive bear. Ruah looked at Halpern, then back to the space behind the fog of snow where Tusk fought. Her friend barked, snarled, and then a terrible yelp sounded. Then silence. Ruah ran. She ran hard.

  Kalfinar turned around and watched the two shadows approach through the spinning snow. He held the hatchet tight in his hand, and waited. “Ruah? Hal?” he cried.

  “It’s coming!” Halpern’s voice sounded. “Run!”

  The hot urge to turn and run twitched in Kalfinar’s heels. “Fuck.” He cursed under his breath. He spun the hatchet around in his hand, saw the forms of the two runners coalesce into their familiar faces, and then the shadow of the bear behind them. “Holy fuck,” he shouted as they passed him. He turned and ran with them.

  Kalfinar risked a glance over his shoulder as they ran up the side of the snow-covered glacier. The beast was gaining. “We can’t outrun it,” he said between ragged, painful breaths of freezing cold air. “I’ll lead it off, you run on,” he said, snow blowing into his mouth as he spoke.

  “No!” Ruah cried over the wind. “You–”

  “Go!” Kalfinar shouted as he slowed. He shoved at her back, pushing her on, and then stopped a moment, looking back at the advancing creature. “Come on, you fucker!” he shouted at it, and then ran to the side and veered downhill. He looked back; the bear was following, its slashed and bloody snout visible just past the swirling cloud of snow. Kalfinar’s lungs ached as he sucked in deep breaths. The condensate froze hard and heavy on his beard, and his leg ached as each step slipped and threatened to bring him down, threatened to lead him to his end. He ran on, the grunting, hungry breaths of the monstrous bear reaching out in a spectral plume, threatening to grab hold of him.

  A loud crack sounded behind him. It cracked again, and then a heavy thump and splash sounded. The cracking grew closer, and Kalfinar ran harder still, tears streaming from his eyes and freezing to the sides of his head. Crack, boom, splash. The noise snaked towards him from behind, and still the thundering breath of the beast followed on. Crack, crack, boom, splash. The snow underfoot was giving way.

  “Fuck it.” Kalfinar stopped and turned.

  As the bear closed on him, its eyes flaring with a red light, Kalfinar felt the copper amulet under his clothes heat up. The bear bore down, but quicker still came the split in the upper layer of snow and ice. As the beast made to crash into him with its terrible jaws, the ice beneath it fell away, and the bear tumbled with a honking grunt into the crevasse and the swirling icy river that sped down the glacier to the valley below.

  Kalfinar tumbled and fell. His hand lashed out, and he thrust the face of his hatchet into the smooth blue wall of the crevasse. His arm snapped straight, and he crashed face first into the ice. He hung for a moment, breath heaving. He looked down to see the bear swirling in the dark rush of water, being carried down into a pipe of ice and away into darkness. Kalfinar gripped tight to the haft of the hatchet in his right hand and swung his left elbow up and over the edge of the crevasse. Icy granules of snow skittered down into his face. He turned his head away and heaved with his left arm before releasing the haft and grabbing hold of the edge with his right hand. His fingers dug into the crisp layer of snow by the edge of the crevasse, and found purchase. He hauled himself up, toes slipping against the slick ice wall as he kicked, trying to propel himself upwards. His arms trembled, from the cold, from the strain, and from the sheer arse-shredding terror of it. His strength waned a moment, and his shoulders dropped below the edge of the crevasse once more. Shitting hells. Kalfinar sucked in a deep, chill breath through his nose, and calmed his mind. One more push.

  He strained his muscles and gritted his teeth. He stretched a leg up, and the sole of his boot found the head of the hatchet embedded in the ice wall of the crevasse. His leg propelled the rest of his body weight over the edge, and he rolled onto his back in the snow, grateful for the cutting whip of the wind once again. He sighed a heavy breath, and shuddered as the savage cold began to suck the warmth from him. Got to keep moving. He rolled over onto his stomach, and reached down into the crevasse, avoiding looking at the deadly rush of the melt river charging below. He grabbed the haft of his hatchet, and with a jerk, freed it. Kalfinar stood up, hung the hatchet in his belt loop, then pulled his hood over his head and began running back up the slope of the glacier, sucking chill air into his burning lungs as he retraced his footprints in the snow.

  Thirty-Six

  The Truth Shall Out

  Thaskil stood atop the highest point of Carte’s western wall. He pulled his cloak tight to fend off the damp, chilly air. The snow had ceased, only to be replaced by a thick fog rolling in towards the city with the incoming tide. The smell of the latrines wafted up and rankled him. He took a bite from a sliver of dried beef, his dinner for the night, and grimaced as he chewed down on the gristly piece.

  “Hells!” He spat the offending meat from his mouth and out over the walls. “That’s not beef!”

  “Sir?” Lieutenant Steele, newly promoted from the Officer Cadets, stepped up from behind Thaskil.

  “The beef, Lieutenant. Try the beef.”

  Steele rifled through a buckskin pouch hanging from his belt and fished out a strand of brown meat, all twisted and dry. He sniffed at it, and gnawed a piece free. He chewed at it with open mouth and narrowed eyes. He closed his mouth and chewed some more. His eyes widened and a smile edged onto his face. “Mule, sir.”

  “Mule?”

  “Aye, sir. Mule meat.”

  “Mule.” Thaskil looked out to sea as he played the word about his mouth.

  “My old man, he used to own a glue shop,” Steele continued, biting free another length of mule jerky. “Times went up and down for us. Didn’t always have the best of things. Oftentimes we had to take the meat of the beasts we were to render down. Guess that’s where I got my taste for mule.”

  Thaskil turned and appraised the officer, his upper lip curling in disgust. “You have a taste for mule?”

  Steele smiled through the hard work his jaws were doing, his thin brown beard flexing as he chewed. “Aye. It’s a bit strong, but no worse than horse.”

  Thaskil shook his head and grunted a small laugh, though there was little humour about it. He took the rest of the strip of mule and bit free a chunk. “I was just thinking, if we’ve taken to curing the beasts of burden now, what state will we be in if the Cannans lay siege to us for more than a week or so?”

  Steele’s arm raised up to point, and the strip of mule trembled before Thaskil’s face.

  Thaskil snapped his head around and saw the multitude of sails piercing through the fog and stretching the width of the bay. “They’re here.”

  “Where are you going?” Merkham asked Subath as he stood from his chair.

  Subath pulled his chainmail over his head. “What?” he asked as he reached for a vambrace.

  “What do you mean, ‘what’?” Merkham stepped up from around the table and lowered his voice. “You’re the acting chief marshal. Your place is not on the front lines, but here, commanding. I can’t appoint an acting acting chief marshal, can I?”

  “You can.” Subath smiled. “Seems a bit pointless, if you ask me. But you’re the governor, so I suppose you can do as you see fit.” Subath laced the vambrace on tight and struggled to tie it off with one hand. “Look, you heard the man as well as I did. The Cannan fleet is here.”

  “Here.” Merkham took the laces of Subath’s vambrace. “Let me help.”

  Subath looked up at the lined face of his friend. “You know I’m no use cooped up in these rooms. I’m like a tethered wolf. I�
��m built for one thing. You know that.”

  Merkham said nothing as he looked up at Subath. He reached for the other vambrace, fitting it over the chief marshal’s thick forearm.

  “My nature’s not one to let me sit watching the young die at my word, while I drink the cleanest water, and eat the fullest stew.”

  “Not my nature either, old friend.”

  Subath frowned. “I didn’t mean any offence.”

  Merkham tied off the vambrace and stepped around Subath to lift free the cuirass from its stand. Merkham’s face twisted as he appraised the armour. “Are you sure this plate is still thick enough to take a blow? It looks as though it’s been stretched a few times. Could you not have got some new armour befitting your title?”

  “Nothing wrong with it.” Subath rubbed at his belly over the chainmail, and looked down. “Aye, I’ve filled out a little.”

  Merkham placed the cuirass around one of Subath’s arms. He closed the armour about his chest. Merkham pulled the leather strapping and buckled it into place, causing Subath to wince. “Too tight?”

  “I like my armour same as my whores.” A smile stretched the lines about Subath’s eyes. “A nice tight fit.”

  Merkham shook his head and smiled. “You play the role well, my friend. Always have done. Pauldron?”

  “Aye.” Subath turned to the stand and lifted one of the shoulder plates, handing it to Merkham.

  The governor worked the armour over Subath’s arm and began buckling it into place. “Will you be on the wall?”

  “Aye.” Subath tugged at the pauldron, grunting his approval before lifting up his arm, allowing Merkham to fit the other.

  “I’d tell you to be careful, and to avoid heroics, but...” Merkham smiled, and finished strapping the pauldron into place. “Coif?”

  “Aye.” Subath reached out and took the mail coif from Merkham and placed it over his head. “It’s been a while since I wore all this shit properly. Bastard of a weight.”

  “Getting old.”

  “Maybe I should think of retirement.” Subath laughed, his humour echoed by Merkham. “Pipe and slippers.” Subath leaned back and laughed, before dabbing a tear from his eye with a trembling finger. “You trust Leilah and her troops fully?”

  “I trust she believes she has been wronged, and that there is a plot against her people. But when it comes to the battle, and she is sheathed in the blood of her kin, watch her then. No one can truly stomach that.”

  Subath took his sword belt and strapped it around him. “She won’t stay in the High Command. She says her soldiers won’t fight without her leading them.”

  “And we need their numbers,” Merkham supplied as he lifted the deep red leather surcoat of the chief marshal’s office and slung it over one of Subath’s shoulders, and then the other. “The colour suits you.”

  “Piss off. And yes, we do need their numbers.” Subath tightened his sword belt and shifted it round. “Short sword.” Merkham handed him the sheathed blade, wrapped up in its belt. Subath worked the belt into place and tightened it. “We need her troops. We’ll just have to hope the division in their politics runs deeper than their blood. Hatchet.”

  Merkham took Subath’s battle hatchet and clipped it into place on the left-hand side behind his sword belt. “Just make sure you’ve one of our own at your back.”

  “I’ve never taken sharp metal to my back. I don’t intend to start now.”

  “Helmet?”

  “No helmet.” Subath shook his head. “Obscures my vision. Stops the enemy from seeing my pretty face too. Don’t want to deprive them of such a fine final face to see.”

  “Well, then.”

  “Well, then.” Subath placed a gloved hand on Merkham’s shoulder. He walked over to the door, trying not to show the strain on his face at the weight and restriction of his armour. “To the wall.”

  Thaskil watched as the small group of Cannans approached along the main street towards the western gate under a white flag of parley. “Open the gate,” Thaskil commanded. Footsteps sounded on the stone steps leading up to the upper battlement where he stood.

  “Captain,” Subath greeted him as he approached followed by the Cannan, Major Ferah, and Lieutenant Steele.

  “Chief Marshal.” Thaskil saluted. “Major.”

  “Sending us terms, I take it?” Subath asked.

  “Approaching now,” Thaskil replied.

  “This’ll be good.” Subath looked over the battlement and saw the horses pass through the gate into the city.

  Thaskil stepped across the flagstone of the battlement and peered over into the city. He observed the Cannan emissaries as they dismounted onto the mud-clogged ground several tiers below. He smirked as he saw their grimaces in the red torchlight, drawing the ends of their cloaks up to their noses. “They don’t like the way our city smells.” Thaskil grinned and looked across to Lieutenant Steele, who was busy chewing a twisted strand of mule jerky.

  “Smelled worse.”

  “Glue shop?”

  “Aye. We had a tanners next door.”

  Thaskil shook his head and remembered the smell of fresh-baked spice-breads from Apula as a child. Then he remembered the smell of the burning bodies, the blood, and the bowels. His hand began to tremble. He clenched his fist, gripping hold of his frayed nerves. He looked about the battlements as the Cannans were led up the steps to where they waited. Thaskil looked at the faces around him. Young and old. Men and women. Boys and girls. Spears, swords, axes and halberds. There was no shortage of sharp metal. Just the bodies to wield them. Faces were dirty, and tired. Hollow eyed and hollow cheeked. The place stank of shit, and death. Things would only get worse if the terms could not be agreed. In that moment, Thaskil's heart started to beat hard, and he felt the blood thump around his throat and head. I can’t do this again. I can’t. His heart hammered. It hammered so hard it hurt his chest. His mouth went dry and his whole body felt like it trembled. He was dizzy. He felt like crying. He was crying. He dropped onto his knees and gasped for breath as his neck tightened.

  “Captain!” Steele’s face was beside him, his hand on Thaskil’s back. “Captain! Thaskil!” Steele pressed. “What’s wrong?”

  “Step aside, lad.” Subath’s growl sounded from behind Thaskil, and he sensed Steele stand up and away from him.

  The tightness that coiled about Thaskil’s neck eased, and he panted in rapid, shallow breaths. He felt sweat bead his forehead as his trembling hands took hold of his head.

  “Stand up, Thaskil,” Subath’s voice sounded down by his ear. “Come on, lad. Take my hand.” The old warrior spoke gently. More gently than Thaskil had ever heard him before.

  Thaskil took one hand away from his face and glanced across at the frowning face of Subath.

  “I’ve been where you are, lad,” Subath whispered. “More times than I’ve had runny shits.” A sorrowful smile ran lopsided on the old man’s face.

  “My lord,” a voice sounded to Thaskil’s left. “The emissaries of the Father of the People of Canna.”

  The quick breaths shivered in and out and the tears still welled and fell from Thaskil’s eyes.

  Subath dipped his head down, and closer. “It don’t mean you’re dying, lad. It don’t mean you’re weak. It means you aren’t mad.”

  “My lord. The emiss–”

  “I’m speaking with one of my lads, soldier. I’ll get to the Cannans when I’m done.” The old warrior’s tone had hardened in an instant, before softening again as he spoke to Thaskil. “Take a long, slow breath.”

  Thaskil drew the shuddering breath in, and let it free.

  “Good. And another. Good. This is what we endure, lad. When we see the horrors of this world. When we are instruments of it, we carry this burden. Take another breath. Those of us who don’t feel this, they’re broken in the mind. Never stop fearing it, but learn to address it when times are quiet. Don’t ignore it, otherwise it will build up and come crashing down on you as it has now. Take another breath.”


  Thaskil sucked in the breath. His face burned, but the breath came easier.

  “And now stand. We have some dogs to chase off.”

  Thaskil took the old man’s hand, finding it rough and his grip strong. Subath hauled Thaskil to his feet, his legs feeling weak and shaky like a new-born foal’s. “Thanks,” he offered in a thin voice, and wiped away the moisture from his cheeks before turning to face the emissaries.

  “Your men weep on the battlements?” One of the emissaries smiled. He was a tall man with long black hair tied back and oiled. His beard was black and long, with three beaded plaits hanging from his chin. The emissary chuckled and raised his eyebrows. He muttered in Cannan over his shoulder to the other three Cannans who had attended with him.

  “Major, what did he say?” Subath asked of Leilah, who turned to face the emissaries.

  The bearded emissary hissed something in Cannan.

  “Nesta,” Leilah greeted the man with a smile, drawing back her hood. “Chief Marshal, this is Nesta Hevera, the man I told you about.”

  “The one who had you knifed?”

  “The very same.” Thaskil looked at Leilah, and back to Nesta. Their eyes were narrowed at each other.

  “Not very nice of him. What did he say to his friends?”

  “He said with crying children on the walls, it will be even easier to take the city.”

  Nesta spat more words at Leilah in Cannan.

  “That was just him calling me a bitch.”

  “Tell me, Nesta,” Subath said as he casually walked up to the man with his thumbs tucked into his belt. “Is Canna truly seeking terms, or was your plan always to storm the city?”