For a moment, confusion hummed within Aravon. He had no idea what Snarl wanted—perhaps the Enfield had grown tired of being confined within their underground burrow and was going stir crazy. But if he tried to dig his way free, they’d both be caught in the storm. Even Snarl’s thick fur couldn’t hope to survive that piercing storm for long.
Then something struck him. He listened, ears straining to hear even the slightest howling of wind. Nothing. Of course! Aravon’s eyes widened in the darkness. Snarl had ears far keener than any human’s. He can hear the storm has stopped.
He didn’t know for certain, but for the last minutes—or hours, Aravon couldn’t be certain—Snarl had been subdued and remained quiet, resting against Aravon’s chest. He’d been as afraid of the storm’s fury as the horses and the Grim Reavers. He’d only perk up and try to claw his way to freedom if he no longer felt that fear. He’d know when it was safe to come out of his burrow.
Aravon struggled to shift, but the weight of the snow pressed down on the fur covering him. He managed to turn onto his back, to scoot into the space just beside his horse’s rounded back. The smooth, round wood of his saddle horn dug into his spine and back muscles as he squeezed as close as he could manage. There, the horse’s bulk took the pressure off him, just enough that he could roll over onto his stomach, then rise to his hands and knees.
Arching his back, he pushed upward with his limbs. The weight of the snow-buried fur refused to budge, no matter how he strained and heaved with every shred of strength. Finally, he gave up the attempt and slumped onto his stomach, gasping for breath. The heat within the tiny fur-lined cocoon set sweat streaming down his back and his face. Panic clawed at his mind—he had to get out of here, had to find a way to reach the surface.
But how? Buried beneath the Keeper knew how much snow and ice, he could waste his energy trying to shove the snow aside. No, if he was going to get out of here, he’d have to work smart.
The snow was too deep for him to simply push it off from atop him. That meant he was buried at least two or three feet below the surface. His best hope, then, was to take a page from Snarl’s fox kin and dig his way out.
This time, instead of trying to push upward, he dragged himself forward, his fingers feeling blindly along the furs until his gloved hands found the rough edges and the snow beyond. Bloody cold, but it hadn’t been packed too thick. With a smile, he began to dig.
Forward first, one measly handful of snow at a time. He shoved each handful off to the side, pushing it out of his path. His horse snorted in irritation as it was buried beneath the dislodged snow, but it was trained well enough to remain still until it heard the command to rise. Aravon tried his best to keep the snow away from the horse as he dug toward the surface. One foot became two, and the arm-wide tunnel expanded to a space the breadth of his head, then his shoulders.
The snow shifted and collapsed, burying Aravon’s arm to the elbow. Yet it was loosely packed, easy enough to scoop to the side and out of the way. Into the narrow space Aravon squeezed his upper body, twisting as he moved until he could sit upright. This proved a foolish choice, as every attempt to dig upward brought more snow raining down atop him.
Idiot! He cursed as he shook his head to clear a pile of powder from his eyes. Digging straight up to the surface would do him little good—he needed to work at an angle gentle enough that he could worm his way out without bringing the snow down atop his horse and Snarl.
To his surprise, a strange scratching echoed from beside him. He had no idea what it was until Snarl’s fur tickled his neck. The Enfield’s taloned claws dug deep into the snow as Snarl scratched his way up Aravon’s angled tunnel and disappeared into the darkness. Even as Aravon began to dig upward, a thread of light blossomed above him. A moment later, Snarl’s body disappeared from sight, and a stream of grey sunlight streamed down the tunnel.
Aravon blinked, blinded by snow and the sudden brilliance. Yet he couldn’t help marveling at Snarl’s impressive digging ability—the Enfield had clawed his way to the surface in a fraction of the time it had taken Aravon to hollow out enough space for his upper body.
To his surprise, the hole into open skies hovered just a foot or so beyond the length of his outstretched arms. He began clawing at the snow around him, pulling it down faster and faster as he dug toward that glorious stream of daylight.
He scrambled out of the hole less than a minute later, gasping for air, his fingers chilled and going numb, yet no less triumphant. Rising slowly, he looked around him, searching for any sign of his comrades.
The world had gone white. Endless mountains of fresh-driven snow disappeared to the horizons—a horizon thick with light grey clouds that hung as thick and heavy as a fog over the heavens. The dark, angry clouds had disappeared, the storm’s wrath spent. Snarl’s bright orange-and-white fur served as the only spot of color in the unbroken landscape of pristine white.
Dread coiled like a serpent in Aravon’s gut. Without the sun, landmarks, or any idea which direction they’d traveled, he had no idea how to figure out where the other Grim Reavers had been positioned before the storm hit. He could spend an eternity digging into the snow and still never find them. Unless they found their own way free of the snow, he had little hope of finding them.
But he could find his horse. Kneeling, he set about widening the hole and clearing away the top layers of snow over the spot where his mount lay. He guessed their little cocoon of fur was roughly three or four feet beneath the surface. It took him the better part of five minutes of scraping the snow away with the blade of his Fehlan-style longsword before he saw any sign of movement. At his whistled command, the horse rose, bursting through the snow. A few minutes of effort later, and the mount, furs, and gear had all been pulled free of the now gaping chasm in the snow and stood on ice-covered ground.
One problem down, he thought. On to the next.
He drew in a deep breath to shout, but stopped himself. No way they’d hear him buried beneath the snow. He’d have to find another way to let them know the storm had died. He listened. Nothing. No sound of scratching or even a hint of movement that indicated they were trying to dig their way free.
His mind raced. How the bloody hell am I going to find them in all this? Gritting his teeth, he set his mind to figuring out the problem of finding his comrades.
Snarl solved the matter for him. The little Enfield was a few paces to Aravon’s left, yipping and barking eagerly as he clawed at the fresh-driven snow. His sharp talons had already dug down a good foot-and-a-half. With surprising speed, he raked at the white powder, his back legs sending it flying behind him. All the while, he kept up a steady stream of happy yipping.
Aravon slogged toward the Enfield. With every step, his heavy boots cracked through the thin layer of ice, burying his legs to mid-calf. By the time he reached Snarl, the little creature had dug a three-foot hole into the snow, enough for Aravon to recognize the rough texture of snow-covered fur.
“Hello in the hole!” he called out. “Nap time’s come and gone. Time to get a move on!”
The furs shifted, and a head of fiery red hair appeared in the hole. Skathi emerged, blinking at the brightness, and accepted his hand up to help her out. Something grunted beneath her as she stepped out. A moment later, Belthar burst up from the snow, spraying powder in a wide arc around him like some shaggy bear emerging from hibernation.
Aravon’s eyebrows rose behind his mask, but he said nothing. Neither of the two Grim Reavers seemed inclined to speak, either. Skathi swept Snarl up into a hug, and the Enfield nuzzled happily into her neck with a happy barking, his pink tongue licking at her face.
Aravon offered a hand into the hole and dragged Belthar onto a section of snow he’d packed as solid as he could.
“Good to see you in one piece, Captain,” the big man rumbled.
“And you, Belthar.” Aravon clasped the big man’s hand. “And here I was worried you might have frozen off something important.”
Belthar’s ma
sk hid his face but failed to conceal the deep, dark flush that rose to his neck. “Er…n-no, sir.” He shot a sidelong, almost embarrassed glance at Skathi, then quickly looked back at Aravon. “The, uh, horses kept us pretty warm.”
“I’ll bet.” Aravon’s tone was bland, his eyes revealing nothing. “Dig out your horses while Skathi and I find the others.”
“Aye, Captain.” Belthar turned back to the hole and set about widening it to make way for the horses. It seemed they, too, had possessed the presence of mind to spread out the furs above and below them as Aravon had. That and each other’s warmth had kept them alive.
“Go, Snarl!” Skathi said. “Find the others.”
At her command, the little Enfield leapt from her arms and promptly disappeared in a puff of snow. He reappeared a moment later, shaking his bright orange head and flapping his wings to clear off the powdery snow. A half-hop, half-glide brought him to another patch of fresh-driven white, and he set about digging.
Aravon slogged toward the spot, Skathi at his side. “Good to see you both alive,” Aravon said in a quiet voice. “And Belthar still in one piece.”
Skathi shot him a sidelong glare. “Next time, I’ll keep Snarl, and you get Belthar.” Her words lacked any real barb or edge of scorn.
“No deal!” Aravon laughed aloud, throwing up his hands.
Following Snarl’s example, he and Skathi set about digging at the spot where the Enfield clawed at the snow. Noll, Colborn, and Captain Lingram had huddled together, four horses and a pile of the heavy ice bear pelts stolen from the Tauld village keeping off the cold. Skathi set off after Snarl the moment the Enfield bounded away. By the time the three Grim Reavers emerged from their snowy cocoon, the archer had found Rangvaldr and Zaharis and set about digging them free.
Relief flooded Aravon at the sight of his Grim Reavers. The cold hadn’t done them any favors, but a few of them—Colborn, Noll, and Captain Lingram—actually appeared rested, as if they’d used their time trapped beneath the earth to doze. It was ever the soldier’s way to sleep as and when they could.
“Anyone in need of healing?” Aravon asked.
“My nostrils!” Colborn gave a theatric groan and pressed his hand over his masked face. “You’ve no idea how many times I nearly decided to get out of that miserable hole. Death by icy storm has to be better than smelling Noll’s boots for that long!”
“Aww, Lieutenant, and here I thought we were bonding over our shared love of rotten feet.” Noll’s tone held an edge of mock outrage. He gestured at Colborn’s new footwear—soft-soled boots made of the strange shaggy-haired bovine’s hide—courtesy of the Tauld. “You get a new pair of boots, and all of a sudden you’re too good for bad smells?”
Captain Lingram elbowed the scout in the ribs. “You left bad behind years ago, Noll! Those boots could defeat an Eirdkilr horde on their own. Send them into battle and we’d never need to fight again.”
Noll drew himself up and spoke in a haughty tone. “An effective Grim Reaver uses every weapon at his disposal.”
Captain Lingram and Colborn laughed, and Noll joined in. The sound—mingled with the grunts and groans of Belthar, Skathi, Rangvaldr, and Zaharis digging their horses free—washed over Aravon and filled him with relief. They had come out of the storm alive and little worse for the wear. Colder, certainly, but oddly well-rested. The tiredness numbing his mind and slowing his muscles had gone. Even Rangvaldr appeared to have shaken off the fatigue that had settled in after he healed Colborn’s foot.
His momentary relief soured in his gut as bright daylight streamed through the thinning clouds. The sun had passed its zenith more than two hours earlier and would set within four or five hours. They’d lost nearly half a day to the storm.
“Come on,” he said, a new urgency ringing in his voice. “We need to get riding. We lost too much time to that storm.”
That stopped the laughter cold, sobered up the Grim Reavers in a heartbeat. They set about the task of freeing the horses and collecting their gear with a determined energy.
Aravon slogged back to his own hole and hauled out the two bear pelts. He spared a moment of gratitude to the Tauld—their furs had saved his life and the lives of his Grim Reavers. If he had a chance, he’d find a way to repay the debt he owed them.
The eight of them mounted up and rode out five minutes later, gear and spare pelts securely strapped behind their saddles, weapons within easy reach. The wind had lost its biting edge, though the cold still set Aravon’s eyes watering as they raced across the rolling landscape of white.
With the passage of the storm and the clouds, the Wastelands took on a strange allure. The light of the afternoon sun shimmered over the pristine white expanse, reflected off the icy rime and sparkled like billions of tiny diamonds scattered across earth untouched by humans. Even though the glare soon hurt Aravon’s eyes, he couldn’t help marveling at the still, silent beauty of the tundra. The land was at once savage, unforgiving, and utterly exquisite, like a fresh canvas ready for the hand of a master painter.
As the sun slowly descended toward the horizon, the landscape turned into gently rolling dunes broken up by a single sinewy thread of black—the same river they’d seen south of the Tauld village. The thick fog that encircled them parted, revealing the Sawtooth Mountains far to their north.
Yet something about their position seemed wrong. Aravon could sense it, even before Colborn reined in and turned back to him. “We’re off course,” the Lieutenant said.
Aravon’s gut clenched. “You’re sure?”
The Lieutenant nodded and pointed to the sun. “If we were on a proper southwestern course, it would be farther to our right. We’d be riding away from the mountains, too, rather than alongside. Or worse, we might be riding toward the mountains.” His finger lowered to the river. “We’ve been unconsciously following the river northwest.”
“Damn.” Aravon gritted his teeth. “How far off course are we?”
Colborn glanced at Noll. The little scout’s eyes had gone dark with worry. “Ten miles.” He shook his head. “Maybe more.”
Aravon grimaced. They’d already been cutting it dangerously close before the storm had wasted half a day. A ten-mile detour would cost them two hours, but every hour would prove precious. They’d need all the time they could get to reach Praellboer—still more than a hundred miles away—and find a way to eliminate Tyr Farbjodr.
“But that’s not the worst of it,” Colborn continued.
“It gets worse?” Zaharis’ hand gesture was sharp, scornful.
“We need to get across the river.” Colborn gestured to the ribbon of black cutting through the pristine white landscape.
Aravon grimaced. Of course we do. He’d gotten a good look at the river a half-hour earlier—the current was fast enough to churn the ice-cold water to white. Worse, rocks jutted up from the depths, and large chunks of ice—heavy enough to crush bone or knock a horse off its feet—were borne downstream on the racing flow.
“What are the chances we can ford it?” he asked Colborn and Noll.
“About as good as Belthar’s chance of skipping a meal at the Prince’s table.” Even the joke failed to crack the grim worry that darkened Noll’s eyes.
“Even if the river wasn’t too deep for the horses to cross, it’s cold enough that it’ll kill us before we make it to the far bank.” Colborn shook his head. “Our only hope is to find someplace to cross it ahead.”
Aravon heard the grim tone of the Lieutenant’s voice. “Which means going even farther off course.”
Colborn nodded. “I’ve no idea how far, but yes, we’re going to have to head northwest with the river until we find a crossing.”
He left the if unspoken. The river flowed southeast, which likely meant it originated somewhere in the Sawtooth Mountains. There existed a possibility that they’d have to ride all the way back north to the mountains before they found someplace safe to cross. They would end up scores of miles out of the way—too far to even hope to find
Praellboer before the Feast of Death in two days’ time.
Yet what choice did they have? Aravon wouldn’t risk his soldiers’ health or the horses trying to swim the freezing, fast-flowing river. Their only option was to ride northwest and hope they found somewhere safe to cross.
Every one of the Grim Reavers understood what that meant. They hunkered lower in their furs, gripping reins tighter, and adjusted their feet in their stirrups. Aravon didn’t need to give the order to ride; Colborn set off at a fast pace, pushing the hungry, tired horses as much as they’d allow. The remaining soldiers fell into place in their column without a word.
The journey northwest along the river seemed to drag on for an eternity. Every crunch of his horse’s hooves digging into the snow tightened the knots in his spine and shoulder. They served as a reminder that they drew farther and farther away from their target. They could very well run out of time, and not a damned thing any of them could do about it.
A faint hope blossomed within him as the black ribbon of water suddenly ended at a vast expanse of white. Dark threads shone through at various spots in the ice covering the frozen-over river, but the farther west they rode, the thicker the ice grew. Finally, nothing but snow-covered ice stood between them and the opposite bank, and Colborn called a halt.
Colborn and Noll dismounted and strode toward the edge of the frozen river. The two crouched low, studying the ice, testing it with a hand first. Noll placed a foot on the ice, shifted his weight. No loud crack. No sudden collapse of ice. He placed another foot, then walked a few paces away from the shore.
“Well?” Aravon asked.
“It’s definitely ice,” the scout called back.
Aravon snorted. “Thanks for that keen insight, Noll.”
Noll swept a mocking bow. “Anytime, Captain.”
Courage to Sacrifice Page 42
