by Allan Cole
She was the color of ivory, and an ivory gown whipped around her, showing every curve and hollow of her figure. She had long auburn hair that streamed behind her and she made quite a heroic figure as she steered the ship through the sorcerous gale.
Then I saw her turn, one hand still on the wheel, and she peered toward the shore. Our eyes met and it was as if we were a mere breath apart, and I felt thunder shudder through my bones. Her eyes were dark pools that drew me down. Then they widened in fear and she was back on the silver ship and I was on the shore.
I heard lyre music swell the clouds, saw the distant figure in ivory wrench at the ship's wheel, and then the ship was soaring away in desperate flight I watched until it fled over the horizon.
The lyre music stopped and I woke up.
I rubbed my eyes. I looked around, feeling oddly out of place. Disoriented. Bewildered. Something was wrong. Something was different.
And then I realized what that difference was.
The storm had ended.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Death of an Evocator
WE CAME OUT blinking into sunlight and calm. The sky was eye-searing blue, and the ground—thanks to the snow-lashing we'd received in the last blow—was heaped with mounds of dazzling white powder. The sea was smooth, patterned like gray tiles, and at the shoreline the foamy surf was clotted with lumps of ice.
I shuddered in breath, feeling remarkably free. I might be starved and frostbitten, but, no thanks to the gods, I was alive!
I drew in three more quick gulps of air, then cast my senses out. Delicately at first, then stronger and soaring high into the ethers when I met no resistance or traps.
I rubbed my hands together. "Let's have a fire,'' I said. "A nice fire."
The men chortled and gathered about. With a flourish I swept my hands into a parting circle, indicating a space the size of a large campfire. The men shuffled out of the way.
I chanted:
"Hearthfires— Fires of home— Come where I beckon And burn warm and bright."
I gestured, making a good Evocator's show of it, boosting their spirits along with my spell. Then I flung my closed fist forward, opening it wide at just the right moment as if I were hurling dice. A small ball of flame leaped out, startling the men so, they jumped back. Then the ball fell to the ground, steaming and hissing as it sank through the snow. I threw my hands wide and the glow grew higher and larger.
Then I clapped my palms together and it became a large cheery bonfire crackling in the snow. It gave off the scent of burning leaves—leaves from familiar trees in Orissa.
The men cheered and we gathered close to the fire. We were truly warm for the first time in weeks. I had to be careful not to scorch my flesh, I enjoyed the flames so much. Soon the spells on our winter clothes even wavered into life with a little help from me and we were as toasty as the day we'd landed.
The next problem we had to solve, and quickly, was food. That I couldn't produce by magic—not by snapping my fingers, at least. Certainly I could command a meal to appear, as luscious as one could imagine. I could summon an entire banquet, for that matter. But there would be no substance in the food. No taste, no nourishment, and no matter how much one ate, she'd never feel full. If you consume a banquet plucked from the spirit worlds, you will leave the table as hungry as when you sat down.
I found a quiet place with sheltering rocks, made a little fire, and crouched down before it. I made a sea hawk in my mind, a hunting hawk with a hood drawn over its head. I plucked the hood off and let my spirit soar with the hawk as it flew through the air.
I could see the men gathered at the larger campfire. None of them saw me, although my spirit hawk self swooped over them low enough to ruffle their hair. I swept across the mounds of snow that marked the ruins of the outpost, glided along the shoreline to the broad field where the caravan had camped. I swung out from the flattened area, which looked like a depression in the high rolling blanket of snow that covered the tall grasses.
I caught a flicker of movement and instinctively tucked in my spirit wings and shot downward. I was a shadow, less than a shadow, speeding a scant few feet over the white field. Then snow exploded in front of me, and I heard a squawk as I climbed away from the explosion.
I circled about to see what prey I'd found. First I saw the fox, mottled gray, snapping at the mouth of a large burrow. A flightless bird nearly as big as the fox and armed with a long heavy beak was striking out at his attacker. The bird wasn't afraid, which must have been a surprise to the fox or he'd never have attempted the attack. Instead the bird was angrily clubbing the fox with its stubby swimming wings and pecking at him with its beak. The fox broke and fled, leaving the bird muttering to itself and clearing away the debris that'd fallen into its burrow.
I brought the spirit hawk back gently, not wanting the shock of a suddenly broken spell. Then I was back into myself, rubbing my hands in front of the fire. My stomach rumbled.
We would eat.
The flightless birds were delicious. They were a bit stringy perhaps, and fishy, but I don't think I've ever tasted anything as good as that first bite of roasted flesh. They also made a tolerable stew, which improved in the next few days because Lizard made liquors from their organs to flavor the food. I'm afraid we hunted out those fields in short time, digging into the grasses and dragging the birds out of their burrows. We clubbed them, skinned them, ate our fill and butchered out and preserved scores more.
Then Lizard came up to me with a shy request. "Remember your promise, lady," he said. "About the first thing you'd do when the storm ended."
I did indeed. I'd promised a jug of grog if he gave us a song.
How to produce that grog, however, was a different matter. I told Lizard the problem, seeking his assistance.
"I can get grog," I said, "but it'll be like imaginary grog. You'll see it, feel that it's wet, but that's about all. However, if I have something similar to exchange, I can get the real thing."
"You mean grog for grog, lady?" he said. He scratched his head. "What's that get us? If we had grog, we wouldn't be needin' any, now would we, lady?"
"It doesn't have to be grog," I said. "Just something fermented like grog. Anything will do. If we had vinegar, as a matter of fact, I could make a decent enough wine."
Lizard brightened. "Aye, lady. Vinegar, you wants? Why'n't you say so?"
"Fine." I grinned. 'Then I'm saying so. We need vinegar. But for the life of me, I don't know where to get it. We have no supplies, if you recall."
"Certain we do, lady," Lizard said. "Not old supplies but new ones."
He dashed off and returned in a little while with a bloody object glistening in one fist. He shook it at me, a big grin splitting his homely face. "Here's our vinegar, lady," he said.
The. bloody hunk he displayed was some kind of bladder. Lizard pierced it with his knife and squeezed out a clear stream of liquid. I caught some on my finger and tasted.
"It's a bladder from one of them birds, lady," he said.
"And it tastes exactly like vinegar," I answered.
By dusk Lizard and I had squeezed about a gallon of the stuff from the bird bladders. Not much longer after that, I'd cast the necessary spell and we were all sitting about the fire toasting each other with the most pleasing and heady wine imaginable.
Although it did taste a little fishy.
THE NEXT DAY we got busy laying plans for escape.
"Here's the size of it," I told the men. "We could try for the other outpost and pray they still live."
'That's not likely," muttered Carale.
"And we'll be worse off than we are now," I said. "We'll use up what strength we have left to get there, and if a miracle hasn't saved our friends and there is no one waiting for us with fuel and supplies, we'll be doomed."
"Where else can we go, Lady Antero?" Donarius asked.
"Nearest place we know's more'n twice distant. 'N' that's a nomad camp. Mightn' even be folks there, either."
; "Unfortunately," I said, "the nearest civilization is ruled by our enemy. We don't know exactly where his lair is, but we've seen the marks of a caravan that went through here. And we've seen the trail it took. It has to end someplace. More than likely that place will be civilization ... for better or worse."
"Worse, more'n likely," Donarius muttered. He looked around at the stark landscape and the frozen bird corpses piled up like logs for a fire. He shivered. "Maybe not," he said.
"So what do you think, lads?" I asked. "Do we go right to the heart of the enemy? Take a chance that we can steal a ship and sail home with our skins still on our bones?" Then I indicated the same bleak landscape that had caused Donarius to shiver. "Or do we stay here? There'll be more storms, I'm certain. We've yet to face winter."
I gestured at the crackling fire we were all enjoying. "I can't keep that up," I said. "It takes sorcerous energy that I'm drawing from someplace else, as well as from myself, and I can't keep it up forever. Also, if I use more energy than I can quickly replenish, if some emergency occurs, I might not have the power to respond."
"Don't mind the stray witch tha' might pop out, me lady," Carale said. "It's the lack of fire that got me. If stay in' here in this cold got me six months more of life than I face on the trail, I'd rather move on than stay, if it's all the same to you."
"You've got tha' right, Captain," Donarius agreed. "I say we see how far sneakin' can carry us. Maybe even get to whack a head or three afore I go. Better'n swingin' at the wind out here."
Everyone agreed, with no little vehemence. An uproar erupted over what preparations should be made, the terrain that might be faced, the things that needed making, the supplies that should be brought, and on and on. It was like old times. Like being in the barracks readying for a long march that'll likely end in battle and quite possibly death.
It cheered me immensely.
* * *
It TOOK us a little over a week to prepare. We were growing stronger daily. The weather remained mild and we had plenty of time to do the job right. Only Carale and I had any winter training, although all the others knew the theory of basic survival in any land.
I had no qualms about tackling this wilderness. At least it wasn't mud. I've fought in mud, and it's worse than snow.
We made snowshoes out of the bird carcasses, using their feathered hides for the base and the bones for frames. They worked quite well. If you've ever seen those black and white birds skim across the snow on their bellies, you can imagine how easy it was for us to get about. It was like skating on snow rather than crunching awkwardly about on clumsy shoes.
We also used the bird hides for packs, stitching them together with gut from their innards and needles from their bones. We found two small timbers we'd overlooked when foraging for fuel. We turned those into a sled to carry our supplies, which mostly consisted of bird meat and unused hides. We'd strung the timbers together with rope made from tendon, suspended hides over them for a carrying bed, and that was that. Our reworked costumes also became heavily dependent on bird skins and feathers. Holes were patched with feathers, our clothes were stuffed with them for insulation, and we made hats of the stuff, perching them on our pates like black and white nests. We drew our parka hoods over the feather hats, drawing the strings tight so no cold air could get in.
We'd become obsessed with matters involving warmth and cold. Finicky about the most minute details, like old soldiers at a grogshop. Always going on about how the socks ought to go over the boot top and then the breeches tucked in. As if these small things were the most interesting and absorbing topics in the world.
I wasn't displeased with our armament. Each of us had swords and daggers. We also had bows and slings and battle-axes. There were various other arms, but not many. We'd only planned, after all, to spend that one day on shore. But we'd come better prepared to fight than eat, so I didn't think we were that bad off when we finally set out.
We must have looked an odd group as we shuffled out of the ruined outpost: scooting along the snowy path on bird skis, with black and white feathers sticking out of our clothes. But none of us laughed and none of us looked back at the place that had nearly become a desolate haunt for our ghosts.
Finding and then following the caravan trail was not as hard as it might seem. True, a month had passed; the area had been swept by a massive storm and then left covered with snow. But all of us were skilled trackers. The twins were especially good, brushing away the snow in likely spots and finding physical signs to follow. Added to that was the magical spoor left behind by the caravan drovers and their animals.
The terrain we traveled was strange. From a hilltop it looked like slow rolling waves of white. The waves seemed like lacy clouds clinging to jagged peaks of black and brown and gray. Those peaks clawed up, malformed by wind and time, looking like demons' talons. Meanwhile the sky was an ever-changing swirl of thick clouds of white and black and gray. Here and there a patch of blue would break through and a column of sunlight would hit a point of land and make it leap out with startling clarity.
That was the view from a hilltop. It was different close up. To begin with, the snow was not an even blanket. Some areas were smooth enough and we could make good time, skating along on our bird pelts. But other areas were as treacherous as the worst reef-edged coast.
I remember being a day or two out, on point, charging along the trail at top speed. The men were strung out behind me— with the twins guarding the rear and Carale and Donarius paralleling us on both sides to watch our flanks.
The physical signs of the track had been faint, and I'd taken the lead from the twins—sniffing for magical signs. I'd caught a strong whiff of Searbe, our captured Evocator. The scent aroused mixed feelings. First, I was glad he'd still been alive when the caravan passed this way. On the other hand, I was worried about why he'd been captured and how much he'd cooperate and to what purpose. Still, the scent of him had given me a surge of energy and I charged along the trail at a high rate of speed.
Then I grew tired. The physical signs became plainer and I waved for the twins to relieve me.
As they came forward I dropped back, intending to let the others pass so I could take up the rear and rest for a while. The twins grinned as they flashed by, raising their thumbs to signal that they'd spotted Searbe's spoor, as well.
Then they turned it into a boyish race, with Talu gradually edging out his brother and straining some yards ahead. I watched their sport with a smile, ready to bring them to heel if I thought their high spirits would tire them out too soon.
Talu spurted ahead, aiming for a boulder the two had obviously chosen as a mark. As he neared it he leaned into a graceful curve, showering snow as he skidded to a stop. Then he raised his arms and shouted a mock battle cry to claim victory.
The snow suddenly collapsed under him and the cry shrilled into fear. He clawed the air for balance, then started to sink from view. I ran toward him as fast as I could, but there was no way I'd get there in time.
At that moment Talay hurtled up, shouting his brother's name. Talay dived forward, grabbing his twin's wrist and stopping his fall.
But just as I was sighing relief the terror continued. Talu's weight overbalanced them both. And now the two of them were sliding to their doom. He called out to his brother to let go, to save himself, but Talay ignored him, clinging harder.
Then 1 was diving forward, grabbing Talay's legs. I clung to his ankles, digging in my toes to anchor us. They skittered across icy ground, and now I could feel myself being dragged along, as well. Then Donarius' strong hands gripped my calves, his heavy weight dug in behind me, and we stopped.
We clung together like that for a long time. At last our comrades caught up and reeled us in one by one; and soon we were all on our feet gaping at the hidden ravine we'd nearly fallen into, marveling that it had happened so fast Within a few blinks of an eye all three of us had nearly been killed.
After that incident we traveled with more care. It was a good thing the
accident had occurred early on. We soon saw that the whole region was laced with deep ravines, lying hidden between the rolling waves of snow.
The caravan track was some help. Naturally, it took the easiest route. But the weather had rearranged many things since the caravan we followed had passed. Sometimes the trail across a ravine would be barred by rocks that had collapsed from the sides. The most treacherous places tended to be those that looked the safest. The way ahead would appear smooth and safe. But lurking just beyond might be a deep ravine that had been bridged and hidden by a thin sheet of snow-dusted ice. Waiting for you to set your foot down so it could swallow you up.
We were in a hurry, so by necessity we sometimes had to trust luck and our growing experience, poking at suspicious places with our spears or swords and moving quickly along other areas with nothing but prayers to guard us.
I saw scores of avalanches, thankfully always from a distance.
I'd be looking at a mountain's smooth, serene face when suddenly I'd hear a rumble. Then snow would break away and spill down the mountainside like a thick white waterfall, foun-taining clouds of foamy dust as it plummeted to the ice below.
Visibility was strange under those swirling skies. Sometimes the trail would seem like a river of cloud shadows that moved so swiftly;along the ground that you'd lose your bearings and suddenly find yourself clutching madly at the air to regain your balance. Then the next moment you'd be moving under a blue patch of sky with light so dazzling that you'd become confused and stand there gaping like a dumb beast suddenly set upon a different world. Colors were brighter, objects clearer, but just in that swatch of light. All else would appear fuzzy and surreal.
Game was scarce. I could sense small animals about, little burrowing things. But nothing large. From time to time we came upon frozen streams, or ponds. At those places, I used a trick I'd learned from a nomad to fill our cookpots. It took no magic to perform the trick, unless you consider the wonders of nature sorcerous. But there was enough guesswork involved to edge it close to a wizard's art.
There are freshwater fish in the far south that are frozen rock-solid in the winter. When spring comes they thaw out and swim away as if nothing had happened. The nomad claimed the fish can remain frozen that way for many years without effect.
