Eve of Snows: Sundering the Gods Book One

by L. James Rice

  The old man smiled. “That’s my girl. We may yet learn a lesson from this man’s death. Then we can thank him to ease his passage along the Road of Living Stars.”

  Eliles managed a meager smile to soothe her master’s worrying after her. She rested her head on his shoulder. “I’m being silly. Everything will be fine.” What lesson would he learn if she were the next to rest in the brambles?

  21

  CHASING CHOERKIN

  A heart’s quiver in the rose of weakness,

  Two Dozen arrows full,

  Ebony shaft and peacock eye in flight,

  Raging turquoise piercing the mouths of Angels.

  —Tomes of the Touched

  Eight Days to the Eve of Snows

  Mecum lay bundled in a heap of furs next to the fire pit, wheezing with the puckering noise of mucus in his nose and lungs. The man’s mortal shell was failing him despite prayers. The old priest drank a swallow or two but hadn’t eaten in days; Tokodin would be the only human in the caves before long.

  The sleep of his dying was plagued by nightmares. Mecum muttered and screamed, his hands flailing against invisible foes as his legs thrashed. Every time the man’s sleep quieted Tokodin prayed for him to die, to escape this torture.

  Mecum’s body shuddered but his eyes never opened. “Nothing is something, like nothing that is something… they come. Shadows.”

  He focused on the man’s breathing and didn’t notice Zjin walk in behind him.

  “Come. Choerkin.”

  Tokodin shuddered as a tense breath escaped. He turned and brown, fur-lined robes finer than his own hit him in the face, dust sucking up his nostrils until he sneezed. As he swapped clothes, he realized they’d belonged to a priest. He failed to earn the robes once, and he figured he deserved it less now than ever, but he wasn’t going to argue with their warmth.

  “Got a pint of Istinjoln ale to go with this, have you?” It’d been too long since tasting anything but putrid tea and ice water.

  Zjin stared at him, blank-faced. Whether they brewed beer or not, a sense of humor would make these beasts far more likable. “All right, then, let’s go.” Sitting in a cozy hole in the mountain when he could be braving frozen Shadow-infested mountains grew boring anyhow.

  Zjin led him down a winding tunnel and when they emerged he covered his eyes. The sun was never so bright as after days in a cave. It reflected off the fresh white snow; there was no escaping its blinding brilliance. He sneezed twice. “Gods curse it.”

  When his eyes adjusted, monstrous wolves stared at him. Even the smallest was capable of making a quick breakfast of him, but they weren’t wild nor hungry. Their shoulders were high as his sternum, and when they raised their heads, they could look him in the eye. Tokodin had heard tales of the Colok running with Tundra Wolves from the Treaty Lands, but he’d never considered the Colok domesticating them. He’d never entertained the idea of Colok talking, either.

  Three teams of ten wolves stood harnessed to sleds, and Zjin beckoned him to climb aboard. He stepped on the contraption and knelt behind one Colok while Zjin stood on the back of the sled. Tokodin held tight, but when Zjin roared and the sled lurched, he tumbled into Zjin’s furry legs. His shoulder throbbed and one leg flailed in the air while the other pinned itself beneath a wool sack.

  It didn’t take long to discover the sound Colok made when laughing as he struggled to find his seat. The guttural rumpus thrummed through the air, sounding like what Tokodin imagined drums would sound like if filled with water.

  Their speed amazed him. The scenery whirred past over hills, swerving between trees, even across rocky ground that banged the sled and threatened to flip him into the air. The snow-capped mountains and their sparse green forests were an alluring vision when you weren’t slogging through waist-deep snow. It sounded funny, but it was the first time he’d ever been in the mountains without fear of a Colok attack.

  Better prisoner than prey.

  They traveled for several candles and all he knew is they headed westerly with a northern bend. Zjin didn’t bother to tell him a destination, but he knew it when they arrived: The sleds slowed to a stop at the edge of jagged cliffs thirty paces high, overlooking the Omindi, and straight across from the trail leading to the Crack of Burdenis. Tokodin’s journey was a painful circle returning him to the start of the mystery.

  A Colok scaled over the edge of the bluff. The creature was beautiful, with white fur streaked with rusty brown, and sky blue eyes. He thought it might be female but couldn’t be certain.

  Zjin left him to speak with this newcomer and returned in a loping gait. He growled, “Men. Horse.”

  A Choerkin patrol investigating after the attack made sense, and maybe they’d even found the entrance to Burdenis’ shrine. They should be warned of the sinister hole in the cavern, but he didn’t have a clue how.

  A quiver reverberated through his bones like an echo of something terrible. He recognized it from the caves: The pulse. So deep in the ground and yet he felt it here. He didn’t know what it was or what it meant, but it set his nerves on edge. He wasn’t the only one.

  The Colok scrunched their eyes, surveying the region, sniffing the air. Zjin snarled and he and the new Colok jumped on the sled with Tokodin, turning and driving the wolves south. They stopped at a copse of trees, unloading from the sleds and leaving the wolves.

  “Come,” Zjin commanded.

  Tokodin climbed from his comfortable seat with a grimace, none too pleased. “What are—”

  Every Colok crouched, their weapons at the ready. Tokodin went to a knee.

  Zjin pointed across the gaping Omindi, but Tokodin saw nothing. He shrugged, and the beast grabbed his head, cranking his neck to set his eyes straight. He squinted, something moved. A shadow of a man, but no one was there. It dashed from rock to rock, swift, sometimes invisible, and disappeared over a cluster of boulders in the direction of the Crack.

  The Colok didn’t give him time for questions. Zjin and his people descended into the Omindi every which way with great claws and massive hands, but there was also a trail his pathetic human feet could manage. He scrambled after them, sliding much of the way on his ass, but reaching bottom in one piece.

  The scream of horses echoed. Zjin growled and the Colok loped north, leaving poor Tokodin by his lonesome. Alone in the Omindi? Hells, no. He ran after them, forgetting his pain and stiffness.

  His throat ached from the icy air by the time he huffed around a corner to find his new allies skulking forward, and he wondered if he might not have been better off walking. What was he in for? A fight with wardens or Shadows?

  Hooves echoed and twenty or so horses skidded down a scree-covered slope. The patrol turned their way, then yanked hard on their reins on seeing the Colok. Fresh powdery snow billowed with skidding hooves.

  Tokodin shouted, “We’re here to help!” But he knew there was no way they heard him over the din of echoing hooves and shouting men.

  A bearded man in black shouted orders, and the horses wheeled and rode north at a full run.

  “No! We’re here… Ah, hells.”

  Everything happened in such a hurry he forgot to consider what those armed and armored men ran from. A silent and terrifying horde of Shadows swung around the cliff. They floated above the ground, disturbing nothing as they passed, not even raising a trail of powdery snow. They ignored him and the band of Colok, turning north to follow the fleeing men.

  Well, no way they would chase down horsemen and Shadows… or maybe they would. The Colok took off in pursuit. “Ah, hells! Zjin! I can’t run down horses!”

  The Colok skidded to a stop and loped back to him.

  “I appreciate your—”

  Zjin grabbed him around the waist and tucked him to his giant furry armpit like a man might carry a log and took off after the others. Nope, Tokodin couldn’t say he appreciated this at all. Bad enough to be chasing non-corporeal Shadow demons bent on killing folks, but stuck under an arm and bouncing until his ribs
ached as much as his shoulder while choking on wet dog smell? This must’ve been what his dice warned him about the times they suggested he choose death.

  Zjin’s pursuit slowed with Tokodin dangling in his arm, and the rest of the tribe disappeared around a curve in the Omindi, but he didn’t tire.

  Tokodin tried to go stiff as a board, limp as an overcooked noodle, and everywhere in between to make his ride more comfortable, but after a quarter candle noodle was all he could manage. After another half candle, he considered that he might’ve made Church history by discovering the Thirteenth Hell.

  He lost track of time and distance in the jarring discomfort, struggling to keep his head up until Zjin slowed. The patrol stood in the middle of the road, Shadows clinging to the walls of the Omindi, surrounding them. Colok stood between Shadows and men, protecting them. He’d be fascinated by this turn of events as soon as he could breathe.

  Zjin trotted up to the wardens and plopped Tokodin on the rump of a horse behind the hairy man before turning to eye the Shadows. Tokodin knew him as the Wolverine’s second, Modan, both from their visits to Istinjoln over the years and the fact the man had rammed a spear through a priest accused of rape several years back, without trial. Another day he’d hate this warden, but today he was damned pleased to be perched on his horse.

  Modan squirmed in his saddle to glance at him. “Who the godsdamned hells are you?”

  A fair question albeit a tad blasphemous. He held up a finger, still catching his breath. “Tokodin.” He coughed. “I, we, need to speak to a Choerkin.”

  “There are more priests?”

  He didn’t bother to explain the cloak; it didn’t hurt his feelings to be mistaken for a priest; just another sin to complicate his crossing the Road of Living Stars. “Let me rephrase. The Colok wish to speak to a Choerkin.”

  “Ain’t no clan-blood here; he’s in that damned cave.”

  Tokodin slumped. A Choerkin dead in a cave, perfect. For the longest time he figured only his luck with women was worse than his dice, but after this past week he considered there might be a new leader. He mustered the nerve to ask, “Let me guess, the Wolverine is in there, too?”

  “Aye, that he is.”

  “By all that’s holy. Could something go right?”

  Modan laughed, but it was stiff and out of place as he surveilled looming Shadows. “Sure as hells hope so, Priest, or we’re all godsdamned dead.”

  The man smelled funky, or perhaps the horse, but he had a point. No use worrying about whether other folks were dead or alive when your own fate was in doubt.

  22

  GIFT OF WORDS

  Feline pride taken in stride eyeing golden eyes,

  Pillow paws stalking soft the lives of man,

  Slashing claws render mortality moot in bleeding immortal lies.

  —Tomes of the Touched

  Eight Days to the Eve of Snows

  Solineus watched Ilpen count his wares after a predawn breakfast, confident not a single piece had walked in the night. They hooked up the team and rode side-by-side on the wagon toward the orange of a rising sun. A covered bridge spanned a gurgling ice-edged brook and on reaching its shade they saw a man hanged from a leaf-bare tree across the way.

  Ilpen whistled, drew the team to a stop and looked around, suspicious. He nudged the donkeys with his reins and they clopped forward, the bridge’s planks thunking as the wheels passed.

  “Told you this were a dangerous village. Beaten, and bet’n they hanged him by his own sling.”

  Solineus feigned a hard look as they passed the dangling corpse. “I’d wager you’re right.”

  “A bad man, brought it on himself, likely as not. Strung a man up once myself, back when I were younger.”

  Solineus shot him a sideways glance. Murder seemed out of character, but a tall tale didn’t. “You don’t say.”

  Ilpen chuckled. “Well, it weren’t just me. This stranger came looking for work in town. A no-good character, could tell from the first. He killed young Tirnur, knifed him in a lung when the boy caught him stealing chickens. Me and some others didn’t wait none, we dragged him outside town and lynched him, just like that.” He spat. “I didn’t slip the rope on him, nor heave him to the branch, but I was there. Watched the man’s neck stretch. A horrible thing, but the right thing. Stabbing poor Tirnur like that, we couldn’t let it be.”

  Solineus thumped him on his shoulder. “I’d do the same. Some folks ask for it.”

  Solineus didn’t know how much the tinker suspected or knew, and he didn’t care to find out. If Ilpen did know, and was trying to ease Solineus’ guilt, the words were appreciated but pointless. Killing the slinger had come as natural and remorseless as putting down a rabid possum. What this said about his forgotten past, well, bouncing on the wagon’s seat put him in no mood for those musings.

  “How long ’til we reach the Fost?”

  “Oh, midday, if we don’t throw no wheel. Head out tomorrow, or the next morn, depending on business. Three days, four at the most, and we’ll rumble on into Istinjoln.”

  True to the tinker’s word the donkeys rolled them into Choerkin Fost in the afternoon with the sun well above the horizon. The western gate leading to the docks bared the teeth of two portcullises, and murder holes stared at them as they passed beneath. With walls thirty feet high, twenty feet thick, and round towers, the defenses were stalwart. His impression of an impenetrable fortress hardened once inside with a clear view of the castle proper, its white walls sitting on a sheer cliff overlooking town and bay.

  He glanced to the docks as they rode into town, the skyward masts of the harbored ships listing to and fro with the waves. Several bore flags fluttering in the breeze, one catching his eye: a golden crown on a field of blue, surrounded by the eight phases of the moon in white. A Luxun banner. A frustrated smile stretched his lips. How in the hells did he know anything about Luxuns? They were blue-skinned folk with feathery plumage for hair and bore a reputation as great sailors and tradesman.

  “Whoa.” Ilpen reined in the team.

  “Time to stretch my legs?”

  “Aye. I’ll set up shop for a while, got some business with the woman here. Don’t be gone long, I’ll be finding food and drink soon.”

  Solineus jumped from the seat and wandered. Several accents caught his ear along the crowded streets; the Fost supported a healthy foreign trade, both northern clans and mainlanders from the south. These diverse peoples went about their work with polite nods and patience, jostles and bumps met kind words instead of insults. Unlike the Bloody Pebble, a sense of calm prevailed despite the raucous calls of vendors and boisterous barter. Conspicuously armed guards lent to this sensation, no doubt.

  The fluttering blue pennant drew him, but as he reached the docks, a woman’s voice stopped him.

  “I’m looking for passage to Istinjoln.”

  The voice reminded him of the lady in his dreams.

  A raspy voice answered her. “In two days, if’n you can pay.”

  The voice wasn’t in his head unless someone else was there, too. Solineus turned and weaved through street traffic to find a tall woman with golden-blond hair draping to her slender waist, where her silk-lined cloak was cinched by a braided cotton-and-velvet sash. “I’d prefer to leave tomorrow, if possible. I can pay extra.”

  A greasy merchant missing several teeth eyeballed her. “Yeah? How much?”

  “A silver fifty-song?”

  The familiarity was uncanny, but the accent hinted to a northern clan, as a guess. Solineus needed to see her face, and his words slipped out as the merchant laughed at her offer, “We’re headed Istinjoln way.”

  The woman turned with an engaging smile and eyes the ruddy brown of dark sardonyx. They captivated him but her round face bore little resemblance to the lady from the blue sea. He regretted saying anything until she spoke again, hauntingly familiar.

  “Ah! That would be wonderful. When can we depart?”

  His thinking hadn’t stret
ched beyond getting her to turn around. He stammered. “I-I’m not sure… I’m just saying, I’m working for a tinker headed that way. Might be we head out tomorrow, but the ride wouldn’t be comfortable.”

  Her voice changed, the words trilled and hammered an upbeat tempo. “Take me to this tinker.”

  She sounded nothing like the lady from his dreams. His ears deceived him, or her excitement altered her tone. He turned without a word, wondering what he’d gotten himself into, and she followed on his heels.

  Her words came with the speed of galloping hooves. “My name’s Lelishen, I’m making a pilgrimage to Istinjoln and wanted to visit several shrines in the mountains before the Eve of Snows. Years and years my mama told me about them, a dream of mine since I was but a wee girl. I do hope your employer is kind enough to take me on; the journey would be so much more pleasant with good company, don’t you think? Hmm?”

  He shrugged. “S’pose so.”

  “Ah, one of those serious, quiet types, a man of few words. I can be that way sometimes too, you know. Mmmhmm. Sure can.” She giggled.

  “Now that’d make a more pleasant journey.”

  “Funny and quiet, we’ll get along just grand. Where is this tinker? Hmm?”

  They rounded the corner and Solineus pointed. The woman raced like a hound that’d caught a scent and wedged her way through potential customers until stealing Ilpen’s attention with fingers wiggling in his face. Solineus hung back out of earshot, watched as her hands talked as much as her mouth did.

  A pilgrim might be useful. She could get places a merchant’s guard wouldn’t reach. If Ilpen succumbed to her gyrations and banter there wasn’t much room for an extra passenger. Where would she ride? Any hope of Ilpen turning the woman down ended when coins changed hands. It must’ve been a hefty sum. Ilpen waved off customers and slapped the shutters closed on his wagon and locked them.

  “Solineus!”

  He turned to see a scruffy, barefoot man in loose-fitting clothes. The sailor smiled big and clamped his arm in greeting. “Godsdamn, man, I thought for sure you’s drowned.”