by Angus Watson
She nodded her leave to the chipmunk and the fat bird, took a deep breath of pristine mountain air, leapt from her perch and bounded down the slope towards the running squatch, killing stick in hand.
Sitsi Kestrel, leading the march up the mountain, had started off as fast as she thought the Wootah could manage, then sped up when Paloma had said the squatch were coming. So far the Wootah had kept up.
They were jogging uphill, along a spine between two higher ridges. A forest fire had ravaged the area recently and the trees were blackened, branchless spurs. A variety of fresh green bushes and skinny plants had seized their opportunity and burst from the burned soil.
Hopefully they’d be clear of the trees before the squatch were on them. Then, hopefully again, out in the open she and Sassa would be able to keep the squatch at bay with their bows. But maybe they wouldn’t? A moon ago, Sitsi had thought that, given plenty of arrows and an open field, her bow could deal with anything. Since then she’d met the lizard kings and Beaver Man. Both had been impervious to her arrows. Chances were that the squatch were, too.
They couldn’t flee any faster, not least because Sassa Lipchewer and Bodil Gooseface were pregnant. A thought that she wouldn’t mind too much if Bodil lost her baby flashed into her mind and she banished it instantly. She really did not want Bodil’s baby to die, she really didn’t. If she did want to split up Bodil and Keef she only need tell him what everyone else knew: that the child was Finn’s. But she would never do that.
Their path dipped in and out of a stream which had halted the progress of the recent fire, and they were back into the lush pine forest. The air was fragrant, the light dappled, and there could have been a thousand squatch hiding behind trees. Sitsi’s eyesight was enhanced by her power animal, the chuckwalla lizard. She could see the freckles on a frog from a mile away. In thick woods, however, her ability was about as useful as a bent arrow.
The path steepened. The trees were thinning, revealing more glimpses of the snow-capped peaks towering above. They had a long way to go, and if the squatch were already following… She looked back. The Wootah were pink-cheeked and sweating, breath condensing in the colder air. How much longer could they keep going?
Keef the Berserker was holding Bodil Gooseface’s hand and helping her along. Sitsi quivered with unbidden pique. Finn should have been helping Bodil, but he was too busy lusting over all the other women. At the very least somebody ought to put the three idiots straight over who was actually responsible for the baby. Surely Keef didn’t think it was his? Surely he was far too fine a man to be tangled up in Finn and Bodil’s nonsense?
She looked past them.
Thyri Treelegs ran next to Sassa Lipchewer. The stocky girl looked the spryest of all the Wootah, prancing along, blade bouncing on her bare thigh. She wore a pouty I’m just as good as an Owsla expression. Sassa looked warrior-like, too, especially with the fin haircut Paloma had given her, but she looked like she was about to collapse.
Chogolisa seemed fine with Ottar bouncing on her shoulders, as you’d expect, and Ayla, by her easy gait, was untroubled by carrying Freydis.
Yoki Choppa was next, head down, lower lip protruding, alchemical bundle jiggling on his shoulder and the surplus fat of his chest and stomach wobbling as he ran. Sofi and Wulf took the rear, like the good leaders they were. There was still no sign of the squatch pursuit behind them, nor of Paloma.
The sudden roar of squatch from lower down the mountain startled her. It was more triumphant hooting than roaring, like hunters who have caught an elusive prey. Sitsi gulped. She hoped Paloma hadn’t done anything silly. It would be just like the Pronghorn to disobey Sofi’s orders, attack the squatch and get herself killed.
Paloma realised she was holding her breath and made herself exhale. By Innowak, she felt awful. She was crouching in a narrow dry valley in the woods, waiting for the squatch to appear along the path below. She was actually sweating with fear. Sweating with fear! Curse Yoki Choppa yet again for denying them the rattlesnake that made them brave. Bravery was fun. Fear was miserable and made her guts churn. What use could it possibly be?
Then again. She was about to attack an enemy that had defeated her with ease last time she’d attacked them. Perhaps her fear was trying to tell her “what you’re about to do is very stupid and you will be killed. Don’t do it.” Back in Calnia, Paloma had assumed that the Owsla could defeat any opponent in a fight. That view had changed as they’d come west. If one looked at it objectively, Yoki Choppa had removed their fearlessness so that they’d be able to judge when to fight and when to run away. Objectively, it was a good idea.
Objectively, this was a time to run away.
But were pronghorns objective? Actually, she didn’t know. It didn’t look like there was much at all going on behind their bulbous eyes. Point was, she wasn’t running away.
The first squatch pounded onto the path below. By Innowak’s burning balls, it was huge. Paloma swallowed.
She watched the first few pass, then, before she could persuade herself it was a bad idea–a suicidal idea–she leapt up and sprinted down the gully. Within a heartbeat she was going too fast to stop. If they saw her coming, she was dead.
As she’d hoped, their attention was focussed on the rough track. She skipped off a stump, jumped off a rock and flew, swinging her killing stick.
Her target turned and he (or she, it was hard to tell) was greeted by a faceful of killing stick.
Paloma felt and heard the beast’s forehead crack. But at the same moment her head clouded and her vision spiralled.
“No!” she told herself, “you mustn’t…” and she passed out.
She came to.
She was tumbling. She bounced, ploughed face-first through a pile of pine needles, rolled arse over tit and whumped, upside down, into a fir tree. She fell to the ground, spitting needles.
Roars from above made her jump to her feet. The squatch were crashing down the slope towards her.
She struggled clear of the tree. Thin branches tore at her exposed flesh, but that was way down on her list of worries.
A screaming shout rang out, far too close. She turned. A squatch was diving at her. She leapt away, across the slope and the beast tumbled past. She felt it reach into her mind, but then it was out of range, unable to stop its fall.
A squatch-hurled boulder flashed past her face. She tensed to run, but another rock caught her thigh, hard. The impact knocked her over like a skittle. Roars of triumph rang out.
We are going to tear you apart!
We’re going to eat you!
Paloma sprang up. A squatch was right on her, so close that it didn’t need to mind-crush her. It swung a fist. She ducked, then ran.
She was out of its mind-crush range in a hundredth of a heartbeat. One of the great things about being the fastest person in the world was the ability to get out of trouble smartish.
She’d been lucky. She instructed future Paloma to be more careful, knowing full well that future Paloma had no respect whatsoever for the decrees of past Paloma.
There was a dusting of snow on the woodland path. Ankle-deep patches heralded a lot more to come. It was steeper and the Wootah were walking now.
Sofi Tornado joined Sitsi Kestrel at the front to try to increase the pace. A noise high above startled Sofi for the blink of an eye, but she recognised the sound of Paloma skipping swiftly through woodland.
The springy Owsla bounced onto the track ahead of them and waited. She was bleeding from small scratches on her face, legs and arms. There was a bloody bruise on one thigh.
“I think I’ve slowed them down a bit, but we have to speed up,” she said, matching Sofi’s walking pace. “Is this really as fast as you’ve been going?”
“You attacked them,” said Sofi.
“Not really, I just—”
“You disobeyed me.”
They walked on in silence.
Discipline was becoming increasingly lax with her three remaining Owsla. Paloma Pronghorn had a
lways been cocky, but she’d never disobeyed a clear order before. Even toe-the-line Chogolisa Earthquake and Sitsi Kestrel weren’t the dependable followers that they’d once been. A moon or two ago Sofi would have beaten their wilfulness out of them in the practice arena. For disobeying an order, she would have banned Paloma from the arena and missions for a moon and had her performing menial work with the Low.
However, the further westward they marched, the less of a crap Sofi gave about discipline. She didn’t think it was her rattlesnake-free diet making her softer. There was no need for the level of control that she’d required for women like Morningstar and Caliska Coyote. Sitsi, Chogolisa and Paloma were simply nicer people.
Sofi’s captaincy had become more like Wulf the Fat’s lead over the Wootah. It was still effective, but the chasm of authority between her and her troops had narrowed. She’d never have admitted it to the women, but she was becoming less their leader and more their friend. A dominant friend who’d take no shit, but a friend nevertheless.
Sofi fell back to join Ayla.
“Berlaze said that the force at The Meadows was the work of the Warlock Queen. Do you know what he meant by that?”
No. There is a legend of a Warlock Queen who won a war and united the Warrior and Warlock tribes, but she’s long dead.
They emerged from the trees onto bare mountainside. The snow was ankle-deep and the path was gone.
Head towards the peak on the left, thought Ayla.
The snow was soon knee-deep. The Wootah puffed plumes of white exertion. Their pace slowed.
Paloma looked over her shoulder, first at the Wootah, then at Sofi. A squatch roar reverberated from the trees, much louder now. “You’re going to ask me to carry Ottar to safety, aren’t you?”
Sofi nodded.
“You should come, too. I’ll put him on my shoulders and tie his feet, freeing up both arms to pull you, then—”
“No.” There was a dark rock outcrop ahead. Sofi reckoned that if they could reach that, Sitsi’s arrows and hurled boulders might keep the squatch at bay. Possible but not likely. The odds of finding a helpful pile of boulders were not far off zero and she doubted that even Sitsi’s arrows would slow a squatch.
They were in trouble. The best they could do was press on and hope for a miracle.
They waded on through deep snow. Sofi looked back. Falling away to the east behind them was a series of ever lower wooded ridges, draped in scraps of wet cloud that reminded Sofi of dew-sodden spider web on the Ocean of Grass. Somewhere in those hills’ shadowed folds was the plateau where the squatch had held them. Beyond were endless miles of plain leading back to Calnia and Hardwork. Those two places that had seemed so far apart were now clumped together geographically in her mind, the distance between them made to seem like nothing by the vastly greater distance that they’d travelled west across the Ocean of Grass.
A squatch emerged from the trees. Berlaze. He stood, roaring and beating his chest.
Bodil screamed.
More squatch poured from the trees and joined in Berlaze’s triumphant bellowing.
“Spunk on a skunk,” said Sassa.
“Sitsi, shoot. Everyone else, run,” said Sofi.
Sitsi strung her bow, nocked an arrow, aimed and loosed it in a heartbeat. It was a marvellous shot. Berlaze dodged it, moving at a speed nor far off Paloma’s.
“Fucknuts,” said Keef.
“Run! Run!” called Wulf.
They waded on.
Sofi looked back.
The squatch were walking calmly. And catching up.
She looked ahead. The snowfield stretched on and on, up and up. The squatch would be on them before they were a tenth of the way up it, if the Wootah could keep going. But they were already slowing.
“I can’t go on!” wailed Bodil.
“Everyone stop!” shouted Erik the Angry.
“Yeah, great idea, Erik,” said Keef.
“Seriously, stop… I’ve got a… plan,” Erik panted.
“Everyone stop!” shouted Wulf. “What is it, Erik?”
Erik put his hand on his knees and puffed out a cloud of condensation.
The squatch were closer and closer.
“Anytime now would be good, Erik,” said Sofi.
“Everyone take out their… rackets from their packs!” Erik managed. “Strap them onto your feet. These are for you, Ayla.” He held up a larger pair of rackets.
“Rackets on our feet? Why?” asked Bodil Gooseface.
“Do as he says,” said Yoki Choppa.
Sofi could see it, too.
“Owsla, strap on your snow shoes,” she ordered.
Sassa attached the wooded frames with half an eye on the approaching squatch. There was no way they were going to get away.
She finished strapping the first shoe. The squatch were maybe a hundred paces away. The one next to Berlaze tapped the chief’s arm and pointed at the Wootah and Calnians. Berlaze nodded.
The squatch started running.
Sassa scrabbled at the straps of her second shoe. A squeak of fear escaped her chewing lips. She was not far from sobbing.
They were closer now, fifty paces.
Finally, she got the shoe strapped on. Chogolisa had finished too and was swinging Ottar up onto her shoulders.
“Come on!” said Wulf, taking her arm.
We’re going to catch you and tear you apart! a squatch mind-shouted. More threats followed. Horrible, ugly threats.
Sassa tried to ignore them and focus on moving as fast as she could on the weird shoes. It felt unnatural. It felt precarious. The broad frames crunched through the crust of snow maybe the breadth of a little finger, but sank no further.
“Keep your feet apart!” called Erik. “Don’t step on your own shoes!”
“Faster, faster!” Wulf cried. Sassa looked about. Everyone else was ahead of them. How come they’d got their shoes on so much more quickly than she had, she wondered. Legs wide, arses out, they were running up the hill like a squad of duck people. It would have been funny if it wasn’t for –
We will eat your brains! mind-shouted a squatch.
She looked back. The squatch were a dozen paces behind. An arrow zipped over her shoulder. Berlaze ducked it.
You, human with the yellow crest of hair! Sassa heard, loud and unpleasant as if someone was shouting in her ear, I’m going to rip your leg off and beat you with it! I’m going to snap your neck and bite the top off your head and drink your brain!
Another couple of heartbeats and they’d be in mind-crush range.
“Come on!” shouted Sofi. “Faster!”
Sassa put her head down and focused on running, driving her legs like a mad woman.
The squatch had stopped hurling insults, but she could hear their heavy paces and grunting. Maybe, just maybe, their perusuers were tiring. She didn’t want to turn. She thought of the baby growing inside her. She had to run, run run.
She had a flash of memory; as a girl maybe eight years old wading through the snow at her parents’ farm in Hardwork to fetch food from the very shed that the Calnians had burned down at the start of all this. That had been the cold but sweaty arseache to end all arseaches.
She looked up. Sofi was waiting for them. She dared to turn. The squatch were now fifty paces behind. Sassa’s relief at realising they might actually make it gave her another burst of energy.
“We can slow down a little,” said Sofi. “They’re tiring.”
“Can I stay and fight them?” yelled Keef.
“Sure, go for it,” called Wulf.
Keef leapt around and landed wide-footed like a giant frog, Arse Splitter at the ready. He was grinning, but it was a worried grin.
“Wow,” he said, “there must be fifty of them.”
“Sixty-one,” said Sofi, jogging past. “Good luck.”
“Are you sure you’ll allow me to fight them, Hird leader Wulf?”
“On second thoughts, Keef, no. I command you to run with the rest of us.”
“Is that your final order, Wulf? There’s no way you’ll let me stay?”
“Don’t push it, Keef.”
“Okay! I’ll do as ordered!” Keef the Berserker leapt back round and ran.
Sassa jogged on. Next time she dared to turn, the squatch were two hundred paces behind, labouring through waist-deep powder.
“Snow’s deeper!” chirped Sitsi. “It’s slowed them!”
Well, obviously, thought Sassa, but she didn’t say anything.
A few paces ahead of her, Keef, Erik, Wulf and Finn stopped and saw how far back their pursuers had fallen. They pulled down their trousers, waggled their bare arses at the squatch and shouted “Wooooooo-TAH!”
Chapter 5
Suffocation
On the one hand, Finn the Deep had had quite enough of trudging uphill. How come it was so much harder than just walking along? On the other hand, he was stupefied by the wondrousness of the snow-capped peaks. It had been summer on the plains, but up here, surely near the top of the mountains now, it was like the middle of winter. Despite the cold which hurt his ears and made his eyes water, the sun glared off rises and valleys, blinding white and sparkling as if the snow had been sown with billions of tiny crystals. Rising out of the white here and there were great, wet, dirty-looking craggy brown cliffs.
Surely this was where the gods lived? Finn half expected to see Tor bounding over the nearest brow, great hammer in one hand, huge mug of ale in the other.
As if to prove him wrong, chubby little birds, very similar to the ones that had filled the woods of Hardwork, flitted about, perching on wooden poles that poked out of the snow here and there. Look, they seemed to say, this is simply more of the world, just like Hardwork. It’s nowhere special, so don’t think you’re special for being up here.
Finn reached out into their minds and made a connection, but all he found was the joy of flying and a sense that the humans and the following squatch were interesting and probably not threats, but an eye should be kept on them nevertheless.
He looked back. The squatch were a very long way away.
