Eve of Snows: Sundering the Gods Book One

by L. James Rice

  She giggled. “I don’t know, I think this is exciting. But then I’ve lived in tunnels for the better part of my life.”

  The sled rocked and creaked as Zjin climbed on back and roared. The sled lurched as the wolves dug snow and ice and he wrapped his arms around Eliles’ waist. She didn’t argue, so he left his hands there, fingers knotted as she relaxed into him. He smiled and glanced back at the sled on his right, where Solineus and Lelishen talked, though he couldn’t hear them over the wind and grind of runners over the snow and ice. They looked cozy bundled together. Tokodin and Rinold rode off to his left, far less at ease in each other’s company, sitting tight and trying not to touch each other, while making sure the keg of Istinjoln ale rode nestled beside them. Ivin supposed they should all be thankful for that keg, but he couldn’t help wishing it were bigger, or at least full.

  38

  AGELESS CATACOMBS OF A PAST AGE

  Snow dancer, ice Walker,

  Dragons without Wings still find clouds.

  Clouds rain high above tears,

  Clouds draw sweat to fall from skin,

  Clouds muddle your thoughts with dreams

  hiding the Depth beyond the surface of Reality.

  —Tomes of the Touched

  Priests spoke of the Treaty Lands as a place forsaken by the gods, a place where the heat of Sol’s love had left the world, leaving the lands and its peoples frozen in permanent ice. Ever the skeptic, Eliles expected everything she’d heard to be an exaggeration, but as the Tundra Wolves pulled their sleds from the heights of the mountains, the air grew colder. The winds carried flakes and pebbles of ice that dug their way through any opening in her bundle of clothes. If it was this cold on the twenty-fifth of Yistole, she didn’t want to know what it was like to face winter in this land.

  The wolves left trails of steam rising from their bodies, snow and ice melting as soon as it touched their fur. The amount of heat these animals produced as they ran confounded her, but she was grateful for their speed, power, and endurance across the bleak, featureless wastes of the Treaty Lands. They took occasional stops for food and to melt ice to refill canteens.

  The Choerkin… Ivin, was as sweet as he first appeared, hugging her close when the sled rattled across hard ground, and even apologized red-faced for his arms brushing her breasts. It took her several flickers to figure out what he said sorry for; she hadn’t felt his touch through her layers of wool, but she still appreciated the sentiment and smiled. He was shy and courteous, a pleasant change from the men in Istinjoln, who either came at her with brash propositions or couldn’t meet her eye if they dared speak to her.

  The bones had spoken of love in her future, but she didn’t dare imagine they might contain some truth.

  They stopped only to rest the wolves and to melt ice and snow for their canteens. What sleep she got was nestled in Ivin’s arms as the sleds glided over the terrain, and in short stints. Grinding runners passing bumps and cold winds slipping to frost her face kept her dozing light, but saved her from any dark dreams.

  Night came and went, and her eyes grew heavy after a meal of potato bread. By midday Eliles didn’t even know she slept until Ivin’s gentle touch nudged her awake. “We’re here.”

  Her back arched, shoulders pressing into his chest. Her arm stretched back into Ivin’s hood, her hand brushing the warmth of his face. She smiled to touch him, and her eyes opened to a wonder. A roiling, world-bound cloud stood before them, a dome as high as a mountain’s peak trapped in a glistening basin of ice. Tendrils of steam escaped into the sky in weak streams, but it seemed some force held the cloud’s escape in check. She’d glanced at books in the library with illustrations of volcanoes, their craters smoking and full of fire, and she wondered if this place was somehow similar. The notion didn’t settle her nerves one bit.

  The wolves eased to a trot, then walk, bringing the sleds to a stop yards from the drop that sloped into the Steaming Lakes. A damp heat washed over her face. Eliles’ father had told her stories of armies from the seven clans engaged in battle here, only to disappear in a winter’s storm, and of men seeking treasure in the fog to return as the Wakened Dead. She hated those stories even when she adored her father, now it was another reason to loathe him. Fate possessed a cruel sense of humor to send her to a place which spawned childhood nightmares.

  Eliles climbed from the sled, glancing at stakes left driven into the ground where tents would’ve been pitched and blackened circles of stone that must’ve been campfires. A few tools and pieces of other gear lay scattered and abandoned as the priests broke camp, but it was the huge bowl fashioned from the world and filled with steam which held her attention.

  The haze of fog curved away from them in an arch, stretching toward the horizon. If stories were true, a lake lay beneath the cloud, riddled by geysers to sink the courageous and their flat-bottomed boats. Hidden in the depths of the lake lay an ancient city and its citizens, hundreds or thousands, who’d wakened to torment the living who dared disturb them.

  She spotted a trail descending into the Steaming Lakes a few paces to the north. The iced slope was chipped and broken, probably from spike-shod boots she’d seen priests carry for journeys into the mountains. Following this trail might be their best way to find the unnamed tomb.

  The fog on the edge was thin, and she could see the bottom of the slope where snow turned to dirt and rock, but the cloud grew thick soon after. There were no Wakened Dead she could see, a small comfort.

  Rinold looked at the same trail, peeling back layers of gear in the newfound heat. “We’ve enough rope to make our way down, slow but safe. Stories I’ve heard, the dead only come for ya if disturbed, no skipping rocks or other childish fare, and sure as shit, if you fall into the water, plant your feet, or paddle calm like, no thrashing about.”

  Tokodin asked, “How the hells do we find our way in such murk?”

  Ivin stepped to Eliles’ side. “Priests could do it, so can we.”

  Tokodin chortled. “By that logic, we won’t find the Sliver, seeing as they didn’t.”

  Eliles ignored the irritating monk. “Best we know, they narrowed the search to two cairns, and thought they found the Sliver in one. That leaves one.”

  Tokodin asked, “The Colok won’t go into the mists. Something about steam and their fur freezing when they come out, and… dead people. Don’t forget those.”

  “A pity, I must say,” Lelishen said, “though I don’t blame them.”

  Eliles glanced at the woman, wondering for the hundredth time why a Trelelunin was on Kaludor, and why she joined them. Her mysterious nature, not to mention the cadence and pitch of her voice, were annoying as hay in your smallclothes. “So, six of us.” The notion of walking into the Steaming Lakes loomed as a more horrifying prospect than it had a couple days ago when faced with Shadows in Istinjoln.

  Ivin spoke to the monk. “No plea to stay behind?”

  “I’d be more than happy to throw bones with the Colok.”

  Rinold spit and grinned. “Don’t need me to find the way down, I say send this monk first.” He held out a roll of thick rope.

  Eliles took a step forward and traced her toe across the sheen of the bowl’s lip. Thick and slick, the fog and cold combined to make a treacherous slope for even a skilled mountain goat, but its angle toward the bottom suggested a different approach. She exhaled a determined breath and smiled at the tiny group and the Colok behind them. “We don’t need rope. Well, folks! I give you the last fun we’ll probably have in the short remainder of our lives.”

  Eliles sat on the edge of the ice and pushed off before the others could say a word, gliding down the hill, leaning back, gloved hands struck to either side for support and to control her descent. She bit back the urge to unleash a resounding whoop as she reached breakneck speeds. She slowed as the grade leveled, but not enough for her taste.

  She planted her feet, knees bent, and dropped to her back to slow herself, and went into a wild spin before coming to a stop
scant feet from bare dirt and haze. Wide-eyed, she scooted to the thawed ground and leaped to her feet with a thrilled smile. By the gods, she wanted to do that again.

  Ivin followed a moment after, trying to slow himself by driving his sword into the ice a bit like a steering oar, but that managed to send him into a spin worse than her own, albeit slower. She offered her hand when he reached bottom and pulled him to his feet. They laughed, forgetting for a moment where they were, and glanced into the fog looking for dark shapes.

  Solineus and Lelishen arrived with such comfortable ease you’d swear they did this sort of thing daily, but Tokodin was another story. Ivin tried to grab his robes as he slid past, but the man spun out of control until hitting lichen-covered ground and tumbled into the cloud.

  The monk scrambled back to them, robes soiled, a hand wiping his brow to find a scrape and blood. Rinold slid into the monk, feet raised to shove the man into the fog several steps.

  Tokodin blurted out, “Unholy hells, man!”

  “That’s for your boney godsdamned elbows on the ride here.” The Squirrel launched to his feet and offered the man a hand, but Tokodin refused with a silent, mocking laugh.

  Ivin grinned. “Now we survived the easy part remember these names: Ximfwa, Cimdine, Komdwom, and Extek. They might point to the unnamed mausoleum.”

  Visibility wasn’t as poor as she expected once at ground level. Dense towers of steam rose in the mist, scattered to and fro, but in most spots the cloud hovered no worse than a light fog. Orange and green lichen covered the ground leading east into the fog, and thirty paces in she caught sight of murky water, the marsh the stories promised.

  Ivin said, “Stick together, and stay quiet, no need to wake the dead.”

  A tiny elemental flame appeared on Eliles’ finger. “Fire?”

  Her friends might attract unwanted attention, but if Wakened attacked or Shadows came for them, she figured the Fires should be ready. He nodded, and she bowed her head with eyes closed. A flame appeared above everybody’s head. Lelishen poked her finger at the tiny creature, and it rested on her knuckle, mesmerizing the woman.

  Tokodin, too, stood in awe. “I’d read in books where some priests could call living fire, but I’d never thought to see it.”

  Eliles did her best to smile as she lied. “Sol has blessed me and our cause.”

  They entered the marsh on a piece of ground wide enough to stand abreast, but the boot-marred path narrowed after leading thirty strides into the marsh. While much of the water was brackish green or gray, they passed broad pools with crystal clear waters in wide stone basins which glowed of their own accord with vibrant yellows and greens and blues. They were surreal, unnatural, and breathtaking in their hues, and in the middle, broad tunnels spiraled into the world.

  The heat and humidity stifled their lungs and sapped their energy. They found themselves stripping layers of winter gear and stuffing them in their packs. It wasn’t long before they wished for more layers to remove without going naked.

  The muddy turf lay pocked by the feet of passing priests in every which way, lending them no aid in picking a direction. Rinold stopped to stare at tracks a dozen times, and trotted ahead now and again, but she was sure his choices were as much a guess as anyone else’s would be.

  Short, crooked trees with branches draped in mosses and thorny vines grew scattered through the marsh. Rinold broke branches and carved trees to mark their trail. The trees, bushes, and vines were foreign to Eliles, she couldn’t put a name to a single one, but she recalled drawings in books that resembled them, with giant, broad leaves, but how plants from distant lands would find their way to Kaludor perplexed her. Twitters and tweets of birds from the branches were scarce and outnumbered by the croak of frogs and the whistle of insects.

  There were fewer critters than there might otherwise be, Eliles surmised, because of the multitude of snakes, ranging from the length of a finger to longer than three men. The slithering creatures swam in the green water and dangled from branches, but they only cared enough about the travelers to stop and stare, or flee from their path. Snakes were an oddity on Kaludor; most on the island were Fever Snakes, which didn’t need the sun for heat, so she found their variety of shapes and colors fascinating and creepy. For the most part, she tried not to think of them at all.

  The narrow strip of ground they traversed split into three paths. Rinold glanced to the ground for tracks and chose a rising trail leading to a hillock surrounded by swirling towers of vapor. A few hundred yards into the fog they found the entrance to their first crypt. The massive stone door lay cockeyed—moved and replaced without care. Violet and green moss grew thick on the rock’s face, but priests had scraped clean the symbols carved deep in its face. Eliles didn’t recognize the runes. It never occurred to her the names wouldn’t be written in Silone. “Anyone able to read it?”

  Everyone looked to each other, until Lelishen sighed, her speech different, slow and melodious. “Lomkonu everhit be volu sede Erœ Vuntu Ma. ‘Here lies Erœ, Lord of the house Vuntu.’ More or less.”

  Tokodin stammered. “Horseshit. Mecum said it took weeks for scholars to translate… to even find the names on these tombs, and not a one speaks the tongue. This woman’s full of horseshit.”

  Lelishen shrugged. “I’ve picked up a few things in my travels. The language is Old Hostorun, pretty much a dead tongue since the Age of Warlords. We best keep moving.”

  The woman strode into the marsh, her voice and bearing changed, and smooching the flicker of fire riding on her shoulder.

  Ivin sidled up to Solineus. “Who the hells is she?”

  “Can’t say. But she knows things.”

  Eliles wanted to tell Ivin, but figured it wasn’t her place. And besides, she appreciated how the woman rankled the monk, no need to spoil that fun.

  Rinold skirted ahead of Lelishen with the group falling in line again, and they twisted and wound through the marsh, leaping skinny stagnant streams to make better time, and examined every mausoleum entrance they came across. They headed deeper into the marsh where the pools became broader and deeper, and the trails more narrow and treacherous.

  Eliles and others slipped several times, scarring the muddy sides of embankments, but no one fell as far as the lake itself. She couldn’t say when night fell. With the steam cloud and the fires floating above their heads, not to mention her eyes focused on every skittering thing that moved, time felt irrelevant. She beckoned more light from the Fires, and sent them ahead here and there so Rinold could better see where he was going, but the dark around their flames unnerved her. Her Fires lit a moss-slicked stair, leading the way to yet another crypt door.

  “Tsst!” Ivin raised a hand, crouching, and Eliles stopped on his heels, heart beating in her throat.

  A blur of motion caught her eye. Ivin drew his sword and crept the last few stairs. A gigantic mannish skeleton ambled past a cairn’s door, the Wakened Dead damned near invisible in the dark and steam.

  Rinold’s bow flicked from his shoulder, nocking an arrow, but Solineus nabbed the rest and arrow, making sure the man didn’t let loose. “That might get us all killed, and what’s an arrow gonna do to them bones? Come with me.” Solineus eased forward, sword in hand, but passive in posture.

  Eliles followed, but her sweat came faster the closer they got. Having Ivin right in front of her and Rinold behind with his bow didn’t hurt her feelings a bit, despite Solineus’ point. She’d seen Wakened several times, brought into Istinjoln to purge the evil, but they paled beside this thing. A skeleton clean of flesh, and if it straightened, it would stand eight feet tall. If it attacked, its bones would strike as cudgels.

  Solineus stepped in its path. The creature paused before sidestepping the living man and passed into the fog.

  Ivin asked, “How’d you know it wouldn’t attack?”

  “A hunch. Check the door.”

  They walked to the crown of the hillock to find a slab of white marble a foot thick and open enough for men to squ
eeze through. The face was scraped clean of mosses and bore no inscription.

  Tokodin said, “No name, but the scroll spoke of Wakened guarding the entry. Not a lone wanderer.”

  “It didn’t mention whether they were inside or out,” Ivin said.

  A shriek in the distance set Eliles’ nerves on edge. She spun, staring into the dark behind them. Give me light. The flame hovering above her head sped into the dark and grew, casting light for a hundred paces in every direction. The shadows of trees and vines and bushes danced with deceptive wavers, but after a few moments her eyes picked out the fearful reality.

  “Shadows.”

  Ivin leaned beside her, his breath hot in her ear, giving her a chill. “You’re sure? I don’t see any.”

  The demons soared above the ground, appearing and disappearing in natural darkness. They weren’t so far away, separated from the party only by stale puddles of water and slow streams. Why didn’t they come straight for them?

  Lelishen said, “I see them. They’re avoiding the water. If we get inside, close the door, we might have a chance.”

  Ivin exhaled and led the way. “This is what we came for.”

  Eliles asked the Fire above Ivin’s head for more light and it grew brighter the moment he entered the tunnel, what was once dark now shining bright. The hall’s steps and walls were fashioned from polished white marble, the stone chiseled with intricate floral scenes interspersed with hummingbirds, sparrows, hawks, and eagles, and on the ceiling a wingless dragon soared above their heads, its gaping maw and tail stretching the corridor’s length. The hall was a marvel, pristine, unmolested by water, moss, tree roots, or time.

  “No peasant’s tomb, for sure.” A clatter echoed from the deeps as Eliles’ whisper faded, reminding her of whitetail antlers clashing during rut. “It’s so beautiful. It looks like the artisans could’ve finished this morning.”