War Lands of Arhosa

by James Tallett

  Tarranau supported her choice, for he knew what it was like to have crossed that boundary. Many times, he wished he had never done so, but knew he would have been long since dead had he not. In that regard, he had no regrets about his actions. It did not stop the faces of the dead from disturbing his sleep, and more than once he had found himself shaken awake by Ceinder. Those were trying nights, but as distance and time grew between Tarranau and those he had killed, he was better able to sleep.

  Fynyddwr broke into Tarranau’s thoughts. “I’ll be up and hunting before dawn. I think they’ll be dopey then, and I can catch a few before they spring away.”

  The others nodded, and Fynyddwr settled down to sleep. Soon the rest did too, Atyniadol curled inside of Sawwaed’s arms, Ceinder pressed up against Tarranau, the others tucked against the back of the cave. The sounds of snoring began to echo about, and Tarranau felt himself disappear into the realm of sleep.

  He woke to find Fynyddwr sitting on a stone, skinning one of the creatures he had caught. When the mountaineer noticed Tarranau’s stirring, he grinned. “Beasts are stupid. Get too close and they faint right away. Easiest pickings I ever had. Only reason they’re alive must be nothing at all hunts up here.”

  The meat was raw, but still warm from the heat of the creature. Tarranau ate it fresh, and handed the next piece to Ceinder, who had just woken. She took it with a mild look of distaste, but the emptiness in her stomach overwhelmed any dislike, and she finished every scrap. As Tarranau and Ceinder ate, the others rose and joined them in the feast.

  It was a struggle to get ready to leave the cave that morning, for the day outside was crisp and clear, with not a cloud in the sky, but a biting wind and bitter chill. Wrapping themselves tightly against the breeze, they followed Fynyddwr’s lead. Today would be a long day, for in his hunting the mountaineer had seen there was no shelter within sight, and so he wished to push hard until he found a place where they could stay for the night, for the temperature was low enough that to sleep in the open, even in a tent, was close to a fool’s task.

  A great grey swath of close-cropped grass and rock spread out before them as they left the cave, and across that ground they strode, strung out behind the mountaineer. That was to be their only respite of the day, for cliff after cliff presented itself to their sight, and Fynyddwr did tireless work, leading them up each one and then gathering the stakes to be used upon the next. The scenery gave to each of the hikers a lift, for the winds kept the sky clear of all but the faintest wisp of cloud, and so the land before them was laid out in bounteous detail, as if they were giants looking down upon a child’s play set. Many words were passed on the beauty of the land, and even those who had grown up away from the splendour of the mountains found themselves once more enchanted by the harsh grace of the northern lands.

  The day passed slowly, and exhaustion dragged at the limbs of the travellers long before the sun was ready to depart the skies. Sawwaed staggered under the weight of his armour, and Bwyell too, but neither would shuck any piece of it, for they knew that it would be necessary at some point in the journey ahead. Even those carrying naught but the packs of supplies stumbled, and when they came to a long chimney gully, they slumped at the base, uncertain if they could reach the top.

  Fynyddwr harangued them, for he knew staying here, exposed at the base of a cliff, was to risk icebite and death from the cold, and so he ascended, his hammer and chisel chipping holes in the rock in which to place his metal rods. Thankfully, the chimney was slanted, and thus easier, for he could rest against the wall for brief moments. He was halfway to the top when a strike with his hammer sent a loud crack ringing from the gully walls. A glance up confirmed the worst.

  “Avalanche! Run! Run!” Fynyddwr looked up again. His strikes with the hammer had dislodged stones loosely balanced on the precipice at the top of the chimney, and now they rushed towards him, bouncing off the walls and gathering compatriots. At least the others would be safe. He would die when the first heavy stone struck his head, and he faced upwards. He would look his death in the eye, until he could look no more.

  The rumbling sped onwards, and more and more stones of increasing size tumbled over the lip. A scree field had shifted, and was pouring the massed contents of its rocks over the edge. Soon, a few boulders poured forth, and the great grey mass of stone swept down upon Fynyddwr. He braced himself, knowing he went to join the hordes who had attempted the fearsome walls of Gysegar Fynadid.

  Despite his desires, his eyes closed as they saw the stones approach, and he curled himself against the wall, waiting for the first impact in the torrent that would beat him into the mountainside. The rumbling continued, and grew louder, and yet he felt nothing. Some dust covered his face then, and he winced, twisting into a tighter ball, but nothing substantial struck him. After another moment of this, he opened his eyes to see great waves of stone catapulting off the mountain and beyond the cliffs below, well clear of where his comrades had been standing.

  Stunned by what happened, the mountaineer looked downwards, and saw Ceinder staring up at him, her eyes open but unfocused, her face flushed red. Boulders flew past, ripped away from Gysegar Fynadid and thrown to a safe distance. Fynyddwr marvelled at what he saw, for tons upon tons of stone had cascaded down towards him, and now the barest trickle slipped over the precipice. Soon even that was gone, and the avalanche that was to kill him seemed a distant memory, with no sign upon the chimney it had ever occurred. At that sight, Fynyddwr whispered a prayer to the earth, waved his thanks to Ceinder, and continued the tedious work of hammering bolts into the mountain’s flank. He would thank her properly when she reached the top.

  That took some time, for he was enervated from his near brush with death, and so progress up the chimney was slow. When he had completed the ladder, the others swarmed up after him, Ceinder coming last. From her pack hung the rods, which she handed to the mountaineer as he stared, amazed, at her. Finally, a single word passed his parched throat. “How?”

  Ceinder gestured at the world around them. “This mountain. Even in Tri-Hauwcerton, I could not, but here on Gysegar Fynadid, the strain of moving so much rock was as nothing. I felt invigorated after it, and in any other place, I would have broken under the trial.”

  Fynyddwr felt his composure return to him, as some of the stress bled away. “Thank you for that. I thought there was nothing to be done, and that you all would have to struggle onwards.”

  Ceinder shrugged. “Had it been anywhere else, we would have.” Tarranau then came to sweep her into his arms, and despite Ceinder’s statement that she was invigorated, Fynyddwr could see she stood on the brink of collapse.

  Tarranau had seen that too, and let her rest against him as she recovered from the strain. “That was brilliant, love.”

  His wife curled tighter, and the watermage looked down and realized she was asleep. Seeing that, Tarranau gestured Sawwaed and Ddif over. “I think we need to rest for an hour or two. Fynyddwr and Ceinder can’t go anywhere, and without them we’re incapable of safe travel.” The other two readily agreed, and so a cold meal was shared, tucked among those few boulders that had not been swept over the precipice.

  At the end of what he judged to be an hour, Tarranau gently nudged his wife, rousing her from her sleep. Ceinder woke groggy and bleary eyed, and stumbled as she rose to her feet. The rest had helped, but she could still feel exhaustion crawling through her bones, and knew she could not make it much further on this day.

  The others shared her feelings, and so when Fynyddwr set off over the scree field, it was in the hopes of finding a suitable place to rest for the night. The remaining six followed in a straggling line, Sawwaed being propped upright by Atyniadol, Ddif and Bwyell struggling along in the tail. Tarranau and Ceinder followed the mountaineer, but it was only willpower that carried them forward, for both had touched the limits of their energy already this day.

  On this night of all nights, the mountain did not cooperate, and the best Fynyddwr could find as the sun re
ached the horizon was a pit amidst a ring of boulders. True, the boulders would keep out the wind, but there was nothing to hold the heat in like there had been with the walls of the cave. With no other choice, the travellers settled down for the night, their tents pitched as close together and as low to the ground as possible. Stones were piled in the gaps between the boulders, but only a few, for none had energy for more. Once the tents were upright, and food consumed, all crawled into their sleeping bags, and let their exhaustion overcome them.

  The next day they spent inside that ring of boulders as well, a day of rest and recovery, although Fynyddwr did manage to catch a few more of the strange fainting animals that lived in these high reaches. He planned to go out again the next morning as well, for the snow line was a band of white only a little ways above them, and once they reached that, there would be no sustenance save melted snow, for no creature would ever live amongst the snow on a mountain such as this.

  Tarranau and Ceinder did little aside from eat and sleep, and beyond a few conversations of dubious merit, the others did the same. They awoke the next morning feeling greatly refreshed, their bodies restored. Fynyddwr had once more returned with prey, this time a heaping pile of it, for up here in the cold and the snow, the meat would not spoil easily. How the man with greying hair had more energy than any other eluded Tarranau, but he was grateful for what Fynyddwr did. Without the mountaineer, Tarranau knew the journey had no good outcome.

  Stripping down the tents and having breakfast at the same time, the travellers found themselves looking at the world through new eyes, breathing with new lungs. The air felt crisp and clear, yet not so cold they would need the protection of the windings, nor so bright they would need to shield their eyes from the light. In some sense, it felt as if a new beginning was upon them, and it was with optimism and grace they swung out onto the trail, following Fynyddwr as he led them towards the shining mass of white snow that covered their goal.

  The snow appeared first as dirty white blotches upon the ground, hiding in the shade of boulders and under rocks, places where there was little sun. As they marched, it became more common, and the trail soon wound across the snow, which was slowly melting in the sun, leaving the ground muddy and their feet damp. Seeing the mass of frozen water, Tarranau paused and opened his senses to the world about him. While they were still blinded, it was perhaps a clearer blinding, and he could distinguish a few small shapes and objects. Still, his talents would be useless until he made his way down from the mountain.

  Where before the summit had stood hidden behind banks of clouds and the rolling of the mountain, now it stood in plain view, a towering pinnacle high above. Despite the distance they had come to reach this point, it felt as if they must go that distance again to reach their goal. At that thought, Tarranau cringed, for he knew if that was the case, they would never have enough in the way of food to make it down again. Still, vision had a way of deceiving the mind here, and the watermage felt they would make their destination in safety.

  Bwyell had taken the lead from Fynyddwr, for this was an easy uphill, and forging a path through the deepening snow was tiring. In his heavy armour, Bwyell packed the snow down firmly and secured the footing for those behind, and they were able to make good time up the pass.

  Lunch was a midday stop atop a pile of boulders. As she glanced around, Atyniadol knew what birds felt, when they flew overhead, for she sat higher than any mountain around, and indeed many of them were but little hillocks compared to her perch. The world laid itself out on a map for her eyes, and she could see valley after valley, spreading away from the great central mass of Gysegar Fynadid. Despite the trials that had brought her to this point, she felt a surge of thankfulness at the path life had taken, for she had stepped so far away from the mundane scribing of a year ago that it felt as if her prior existence had been but a dream to the one she lived within now. Seeing the man responsible, Atyniadol grinned and kissed Sawwaed hard. She never regretted asking him to marry her.

  Lunch ended, and the travellers set off once more, their legs sweeping aside the snow. Sawwaed strode ahead, his bulk ploughing a path onwards. Behind him came Fynyddwr, who tapped him on the shoulder as they reached a short cliff. Stepping around the armoured bulk of the Veryan warrior, the mountaineer rapped on the ice that adhered to the rock.

  “It’s thin, which means I can hammer into the stone. I’ll you have up in a jiffy.” Hammer crashing onto piton, soon the first was struck into the cliff, and up Fynyddwr went, each strike bringing a shower down upon those below, as the thin ice splintered away from the cliff. Progress was swift, and Fynyddwr found the going easy. Each of the rods had held firm, but as he reached up to plant the next of them, he felt the one beneath his feet shudder and shift. He had time for a strangled curse before it broke away and he fell, his torso thudding into the pistons below him. He pinwheeled from one to the other, striking several before thudding into the snow.

  Atyniadol and Ceinder were first to arrive, Ceinder opening herself to the flow of earth as she did so. A gasp passed her lips, and then she turned her senses upon the bones of the mountaineer. They were cracked in several places, his arms, his ribs, his collar, and his hip. It looked as if each impact had fractured some part of his body. Moving with caution, she let her talent reach out to his ribs and slowly pull them towards their proper placement, pausing each time the wounded man let out a groan of pain. Fynyddwr’s reactions were unconscious, for he had been swept away by the anguish and the agony, and could no more hear nor respond than could the stone which had struck him so cruelly.

  Atyniadol propped up his body, shifting him so that he lay on the unwounded side. She cradled his head and dug in her bag for her needles, for in several places the bones had broken the skin and blood was seeping through. At each injury, she waited for Ceinder to shift the bones back into their proper place, and then she stitched closed the wound. It was only luck that had saved Fynyddwr from death, for none of his vital organs had been ruptured by the broken bones, nor had any of the wounds upon his body cut through important flesh.

  As their wives ministered to the stricken mountaineer, Tarranau and Sawwaed pitched tents for the night, for with Fynyddwr in his state, there was no possibility of going further. Tucked up against the base of the cliff with snow piled on the windward side, the tents would stay warm, the snow a good insulator against the chill.

  From where she sat, Ceinder spoke, her words echoing strangely from the cliff wall. “I’ve fixed the critical bones, but he needs his energy too much for me to correct the others. I’ll have to wait for hours, perhaps till the morrow, before I can do that. And even with my help, his muscles will be twisted and battered for many days to come.” She paused, then turned to Atyniadol. “Do you have any device which might help with that?”

  The rust-haired woman shook her head. “I never learned all the healer’s arts. I can stitch, but little else. Treatment after the first moments is beyond me.”

  Ceinder cursed, long and loud. Ddifeddianedig looked shocked to hear the words coming from her mouth, but Tarranau and Sawwaed both laughed, the warrior nudging the watermage. “You’re really sure she’s not a firemage?” Tarranau laughed again, tension draining from his face. After a moment, Ceinder joined in, mouth splitting wide in a grin.

  The worry lifted for a moment, but soon settled back down. Tarranau asked the question that all had been thinking, but none had voiced. “How long?” Atyniadol looked at Ceinder, then shrugged. “Perhaps a day, perhaps a week. Ceinder can set Fyn’s bones, and that will help immensely, but how long it takes his body to recover, I don’t know. We’ll have to wait until he can go on.”

  A call came down from above. The five of them looked up, surprised to see Bwyell hanging from the pitons, examining the rod that had broken under Fynyddwr’s weight. “It’s all ice here. The rock curves inwards, the ice doesn’t. Nothing more than a little ice was holding him up.” Bwyell stuck his head into the hole and looked around. “Over to the right it looks safe
.” So saying, the armoured warrior climbed down, removing the pitons as he went.

  Borrowing the hammer from where it lay, the scarred man set about building a new ladder. He was neither as graceful nor as fast as Fynyddwr, but his heavy strokes anchored the pitons securely in the wall, and he tested each before placing his entire weight upon it. The others stood and watched him for a little, but soon returned to their ministrations. Fynyddwr stirred momentarily, but then lapsed back into his unconscious sleep.

  Feeling it was safe to move him, Ceinder and Atyniadol directed their husbands as they lifted the still form of the mountaineer, and gently slid him inside the tent. From that point on, one of the two women would stay with the wounded man, watching him for signs of recovery, and feeding him with light splashes of water and broth, enough to give his body energy. The rest sat around for a desultory meal, for which Bwyell joined them.

  “The summit doesn’t look that far, after we get over the cliff. It appears to be a rocky ridge from here to there. Once Fynyddwr is recovered, I think another day, at best, before we reach the peak. I cannot tell you what the descent may hold.”

  Cheered they were closer to the top than expected, the travellers set about firming up their shelters for the night, with Bwyell and Sawwaed using their helmets as shovels to pile the snow in a great wall about the four tents. Soon the settlement appeared almost permanent, although the lack of a fire in the centre was bemoaned by one and all.

  Fynyddwr broke into a sweat that night, and Ceinder and Atyniadol packed cold snow about him, cooling his fevered body. Near dawn, the fever subsided, and in his recovering state Ceinder was able to mend the rest of the bones. On that score, they had no worries, but for those that had never broken the skin, none could tell if blood flowed internally, and Tarranau, the only one who could, was as blind now as he had been since he first step foot on Gysegar Fynadid.

  The day passed with the mountaineer sleeping, although now that it was a comfortable sleep, the rest felt more at ease. To pass the time, each in turn climbed the ladder, looking out over the spine running from their feet to the summit of Gysegar Fynadid. Each confirmed for their own eyes Bwyell’s statement, and thought that once Fynyddwr was ready to hike they would soon reach the summit and look down upon the lands they had come to reach. Questions abounded as to what those lands would look like, and Ddif, ever the merchant, opened a betting pool on what terrain there would be. “More mountains” led the betting, with “Forests and Hills” the second favourite. There was no money exchanged, but the various sides took turns ribbing one another, teasing them about their logic and foolish predictions.