by Dan Brigman
The stone, approximately two feet in height and width, must have been what Einar waited for because he yelled over his shoulder, “We run!”
After he kicked the mount into a fast trot it was all Saen could do to keep up with her friend. The lanterns bobbed up and down in cadence with the horse’s steps. The rhythm, while hypnotic, did not lull her to further weariness, rather Saen’s mind flushed with heightened awareness. Thinking, I don’t recall the last time I felt this way. The new-found energy renewed her as the horses’ pace did not falter until they reached a stone nearly identical to the one prompting the stride. Only then did Einar rein in his mount, and Saen followed suit with her gray.
The pace continued much the same for the next seven identical markers. Trot. Walk. Run. By the eighth marker, she had become entirely numb to the cold, and Einar never seemed to notice, regardless of the temperature. The horses breathed like huge gasping bellows, their breath plumes of wispy mist with each step.
“They’ll be fine, Saen,” Einar yelled over his shoulder every few miles, yet with each similarly-phrased placation, Saen sensed a tension in his voice which had not been there when leaving Tallvon.
After walking a few minutes past the ninth marker, Saen’s squinted as Sol’s first light lit up the eastern horizon. She held her hand up against the near-blinding glare, then noticed Einar had picked up the pace. She scanned ahead and noted the reason: a stable looming over an adjacent wooden shack; the squat buildings sat less than half a mile ahead between the road and the fast-moving river. A thin stream of smoke escaped from the small stone chimney. Saen realized then she had never seen such a wonderful home before.
The companions reached the front of the stable and sighed heavily as they glanced at one another. Similar spirals of breath flitted out into the stark cold; looking at each other, they grinned at the minor distraction. Knuckling their backs as they dismounted, they let the weight of their early morning’s journey wash over any thoughts of the remaining miles ahead. Both tied the reins on a smooth wooden pole in front of the shack.
Saen glanced up, her eyes widening at the sight of a man standing in the shack’s doorway who could have defined the word old. Wrinkles upon wrinkles, with brown spots intermingled, lined his face. Wisps of hair trickled out from underneath a gray woolen cap matching the color of his hair. Despite the emotionless face the man’s blue eyes caught Saen’s gaze like no one she could remember. Her eyes remained held fast for what could have been an eon to Saen’s reckoning, and then he blinked, seemingly breaking the spell. Not even Valen’s eyes could do that, she wondered. The long-stemmed pipe hung out of his mouth, barely held between perfectly straight teeth the color of the blowing flurries.
“Asgrim, old friend! It is good to see you,” Einar offered as he paced to the old man. Initially startled by Einar’s sudden energy, Saen could only watch; she could not remember ever feeling this weary. Her friend continued, “I had wondered a few miles back if you’d be gone today.”
The man called Asgrim merely puffed on his pipe. The ash within the pipe’s bowl grew bright red and cooled without a word from the man—only a disinterested snort. Without a sound, the man turned and disappeared into the shadows of the shack. The wooden door swung open enough for one person to walk through the opening.
Einar turned and said, “Saen, he’s inviting us in. Come in and warm yourself by the fire while I gather our remounts.”
She noticed his frown through her haze of fatigue, and she simply nodded, then strode toward the doorway. Seeing the glow of fire through the gaps in the stove’s metal, Saen stumbled over to what looked like a chair. She sat and felt the warmth roll over her. Memories of her mother tucking her in, night after night, washed over her. A smile of deep contentment soothed her to sleep within moments, even as she told herself she’d not fall asleep.
Einar shut the door and walked to the small square table near the stove. Picking one of the mismatched chairs, he sat next to the old man and watched Saen fall asleep nearly as quickly as she sat down. He smiled when her chin touched her chest. Einar glanced at Asgrim, who stood near Saen glancing down at her. The pipe was nowhere to be seen.
“You’ve worn her clean out, Einar.” Asgrim’s voice defied his age. The voice held no signs of an aged man, rather that of a man in his prime. One full of vigor. He continued, “You’re going to push her away, too.” The tone offered a simple statement of fact.
Einar’s eyes widened. “Excuse me?” Einar mustered while he gripped the edges of the chair. His friend’s words shook him to his core. Asgrim shifted his gaze to Einar; his bright blue eyes bespoke a tangible sadness. Einar felt his face flush with unabashed shame.
“I knew it’d only be a matter of time before I’d see you. You’re loving wife passed by here a couple days ago. She stopped to gather horses, much the same as you’re doing right now. You’ve known for how long now that she’d leave? But did you do anything to change your ways? No.” At some point Asgrim had put the pipe back in place, but grief flushed Einar’s core and couldn’t remember seeing when.
“The children looked healthy though.” The man’s piercing blue eyes nearly unhinged Einar again.
“They need you, Einar. She,” Asgrim thrust his index finger at the sleeping woman, “needs you.” Pausing, he inhaled a deep breath of smoke and then exhaled just as long. “I don’t know her, but I know you can’t drag her to her end. Your wife, friend, and children need you to keep your wits, or they’ll all perish sooner than you’d dread.”
That last bit brought Einar to his feet. “What do you mean, perish? From what?” He refused to believe what the old man meant.
Asgrim’s pointed the pipe stem at Einar. “You know.”
Einar felt himself fall back to the chair. He placed his forehead into his palms. Closing his eyes, tears welled up and escaped to the wooden tabletop. A hand, gentle as a loving father upon his child’s, squeezed Einar’s shoulder. Asgrim’s clear voice carried the words, “If you’ve the will and the courage to help your loved ones, then I’ll be waiting in the stable for you.”
The hand released and Einar heard gentle footsteps moving toward the doorway; the sudden coldness of the late winter air stung Einar’s face and he opened his eyes. Just as quickly, the door shut, allowing the warmth to wash back over him. Shame and his tiredness mixed with indignation at Asgrim’s blunt words. The combination nearly drew out any thought of Einar standing to help Asgrim. That damned old man! echoed through Einar’s mind. With a sigh, Einar thought, He’s right. I am at fault for this mess. No one else will help my family and now I’ve got to protect her. Peering at Saen jarred Einar to his feet. Without another thought Einar wrapped his cloak around himself and went into the ever-deepening cold to help ready the new horses.
Sol’s rising light provided faint warmth as Einar paced. The brilliance highlighted the stark surroundings of the little shack. Winter’s grip still held tight upon the landscape, even this far south of the Pass. Brown grass pushed out over the random spots of white which had been dotted by flurries throughout the night; mostly leafless trees lingered. A few Durik oaks and Wych elms clutched their what had once been their lifelines, brown and brittle leaves. The frozen soil embraced the whiteness like a fresh blanket newly formed. The Vespow River’s flow, brisk as ever, pulled chunks of ice the size of Einar’s horse along its black surface.
Einar rubbed his eyes while he walked into the stables. Asgrim brushed the companion’s horses while they ate hay, their contentment plain with their methodical chewing. “Your replacement mounts are in the back of the stable. They’ll be ready when I get to them, but no sooner than an hour.”
Einar’s nod must have been enough for the man. He took his eyes from Einar and refocused on the horses. Einar jumped when something wooden struck his chest and dropped to the dirt floor. “Make yourself useful.” It was all he heard as he glanced down.
Einar sighed before noticing the brush at his feet. Picking it up, he moved the stable’s rear and began
brushing the other horse. Saen’s new mount, a red mare, made no notice of the movement along its side, except the occasional twitching of loose muscle along its hind legs. Taking gentle motions, Einar became lost in the downward motion of the brush upon the fine red hair. All the previous days’ worries fell away as stray bristling hairs fell to his feet. Motes of dust hung briefly in the air until minute drafts of wind, entering through cracks, blew through the stable. Even the stable’s tightly-sealed boards did not contain the pressing flow of frigid wind. The scritching of the brush soothed the weary Alterator as the moments swirled away.
The sudden pressure of a hand upon his shoulder shattered Einar’s peace as quickly as it had formed. “I told you to keep your wits, not to brush the horse to death. You do need rest.” Asgrim continued, after a deep sigh, “But not before you reach Jasten.”
Einar nodded again and realized the horse’s head hung low and the beast seemed to be asleep. Einar had brushed every spot of the horse’s flanks. Flushing, he turned to the older man. He noticed Saen over Asgrim’s shoulder; she stood at the open doorway with her pack. The nap had washed away some of her sleepiness. The stable’s lantern highlighted the lessening darkness beneath her eyes. Her hair had been pulled back and put under a woolen cap, which accentuated her freckled cheeks. She smiled, but it did not reach her eyes. Her head tilted slightly when she had met Einar’s eyes.
What is she curious about? Einar thought before Saen said, “I’m ready when you are.”
Saen paused briefly to close the door, then strode to the back of the stable. Einar handed the brush to Asgrim. Gently rubbing his hand to relax the cramping, Einar followed Saen to the readied horses. They stood unaware of what came next, yet were ready, nonetheless. Bred for long trips and sure-footed movement, the two mounts would serve us well, thought Einar.
Asgrim moved past Einar and faced Saen. Saen and Asgrim gently embraced for the span of a breath, and he whispered words too low for Einar to catch. She smiled, but again, the smile caught only her lips as she stepped in a stirrup and Asgrim helped her with a grunt as Einar followed her lead.
Asgrim strode to the two oversized stable doors; sliding them open with ease, he barred them from closing with a metal latch. The incoming wind offered no respite as its even-lower temperature cut through their clothing. Asgrim offered no words while the horses exited the stable and Einar blinked as his eyes adjusted to the sudden brightness of the increasingly snow-covered landscape.
Asgrim slid the doors closed then offered, “Safe travels, friends,” before he stalked back into the shack, his hands clasping his hood tightly. The day had darkened slightly since their arrival, yet enough light remained for them to reach Jasten.
Flurries mixed in with the travelers’ breath, and Einar set the pace with a trot. His eyes soon adjusted enough to the relative brightness to realize the flurries’ flight quickened and covered the ground. Patchy brownness showed through the whiteness. Einar glanced to his side and noted Saen’s usually-calm eyes had taken on a determined fierceness, as if she would burn through the cold with her eyes. She turned and caught his gaze, then frowned at what she saw.
“We’ve got to make better time if we are going to beat this storm and your exhaustion,” she remarked just before spurring her red mare into a faster trot. The red’s mane and Saen’s cloak billowed behind them; Einar thanked the Originators for providing him with such a friend.
Hours passed with the companions alternating their mounts between galloping, walking, and trotting. At the fifth marker, Saen took the lead after she mentioned she had lost patience with Einar’s slow pace and the damned cold. Not arguing, he motioned his acceptance. That’s fine. I’ve never felt this tired. Only toward the last marker did the pace slow. The looming blizzard had reined in its flurries and began to unleash its expected outcome. White flakes flew by in blurred streaks as the wind quickened. Blasts of air and snow tore at the companions’ clothing, and even the horses’ quickened breaths, white jets erupting from their mouths and nostrils, exacerbated the storm’s intensification.
Einar held a tight grip on the reins and his hood; the irregular burst of coldness seemingly clamped his fingers tight. Keeping his gaze downward to avoid the worst of the frigidity, Einar noticed the snow had already reached halfway up to the horses’ knees. To his side, he heard, “We are almost there! I can make out the lights of—”
What else she had said was lost to Einar; his eyes closed fully without warning. A strange sensation of falling tickled his ears and nothingness overtook him.
Warmth and softness washed over Einar. Feeling somewhat rested, yet cold beyond anything he had ever known, Einar realized with a start he lay upon a bed. Groaning, he reached for his forehead and it felt afire. Light played over his eyelids and he struggled to open them even slightly. Despite everything—the coldness, the strange room, and the new struggle to stay conscious—Einar wondered if he could have felt anything else more foreboding than the look Ellia’s cousin gave him.
“Cousin,” Holli began with blue-gray eyes narrowing. She sniffed, “If you live through this, you’ve got much explaining to do. And, don’t think for a second that you’ll be able to Alter your way out of it.” Not waiting for a response, Holli exited the room. The latching door clicked shut as she calmly closed the door behind her.
A faint snickering next to the fireplace caught Einar’s attention. He turned, albeit very slowly, as any spare movement induced pain and he noticed Saen sitting on a plain wooden chair. A clay mug wafting steam upward sat upon her crossed legs. She looks as bad as I feel. The mug gently shook from Saen’s own trembling.
“What?” Einar muttered in frustration.
Saen’s laughs continued unabated until she finally sighed moments later and set the mug on the floor. When she did not answer, Einar closed his eyes to focus on his breathing. Ignoring her would be best. After a count of thirty, Einar fell into a deep sleep. Her gentle laughs gradually subsided at the gentleness of Einar’s breathing. His tiredness matched her own, yet Saen observed him for several moments before she finally set the mug on the floor. It seems I’m getting good at sleeping anywhere. The careworn new wrinkles on his face were the last thing she remembered before sleep overwhelmed her.
14 — Endings
Melek lifted Loken from the stool and held him a foot off the floor. Loken offered no attempt to struggle and he calmly kept his hands perched on Melek’s wrists in an effort to somewhat lessen the pain. The look in the Melek’s eyes held enough for Loken to know survival through the night diminished in probability. He felt the life being crushed out of him, yet he did nothing to stop his friend. Through Melek’s heated glare Loken knew his friend had convinced himself death was correct course of action.
Deep in his own mind Loken agreed. If I am not killed, then the entire clan will be destroyed. The thought had been ringing through his mind since the moment he saw Melek riding away with the horses to Bregoth’s home.
Loken felt consciousness slipping away as his vision blackened. He heard a slight grunt come from Melek as the grip strengthened, and Loken could no longer inhale. He felt the pangs of his body’s reaction to the waning amount of air in his lungs, yet he fought against his own will to survive.
Suddenly, a bright light emanated from the other side of the room. The fading light from the fireplace blinked out and the fingers around Loken’s neck became frigidly cold. Without warning, Loken felt himself hit the floor unceremoniously, followed by an uncontrollable instinct to take in heaping gasps of air.
“What is the meaning of this!?” questioned a seemingly familiar voice. Loken thought it more than a mere voice though. Raw power etched itself in the voice. “You two fools will stop this nonsense! Now!”
Loken continued lying upon the floor allowing his body to recover. He rubbed his neck and glanced upward at the man standing over him. Melek’s visage portrayed, if possible, an intensified anger akin to rage. His attention turned toward the voice’s direction, and Loken followed
his gaze to a startling sight.
Malkari stood next to a bed. A younger, more robust form stood there with disbelief shadowing his eyes; no longer did he have severe lines of age crossing his forehead and cheeks. The lines around his eyes and mouth had softened considerably. He stood with an unmistaken vigor neither man had ever seen before. He no longer stooped while he spoke, and his eyes shone in the pale light of the early morning. Loken stared at the figure, wondering if he had merely dreamed that the Alterator had seemingly aged close to death.
As if reading his thoughts, Loken heard, through another long series of his own gasps, Malkari’s voice reverberated off the walls, “I did not nearly age myself to oblivion to watch children fight to the death in this very room. Yes…children,” he said pointedly at Melek. “You two have much explaining to do. I will need both sides of the story now that you two are well.”
Loken had gathered his wits enough to watch Malkari speak. The words issuing from his mouth seemed to almost take on a tangible form that brought a tinge of trepidation in Loken’s mind. If those words are tangible, he could probably rip us to pieces just by talking, Loken thought. Despondence overwhelmed his willingness to die.
Melek paced to an empty bed and sat without responding to the words. Loken rubbed his throat to ameliorate the pain lingering from the death grip. The Alterator looked down at Loken and calmed visibly while waiting for him to rise. Loken rose, despite the pain, and did not remove his gaze from the wooden floor. He heard footsteps coming toward him, so he glanced upward momentarily to see Malkari striding effortlessly in his direction. Apparently, the restoration to his body is more complete than I had originally thought, Loken pondered. Malkari swept past him to sit upon the small stool.
