by S. W. Clarke
His thick fingers pressed into his beard, sent a flurry of dandruff floating to his lap. “A map?”
“Something to tell me where we are in relation to everything else in the north, or in the world?”
Herathor’s eyes went to the ceiling and he rubbed at the hair on his neck. Eventually he pulled a pipe from his jacket, pressed moss into it from a pocket. “Nothing like that.” He went to the hearth, found a bit of kindling to light the pipe, and returned to his stool before her, smoke issuing from his nostrils. “But I can tell you where you are if you listen well and close.”
And so she did. Herathor’s fingers drew Issverold in the air as he described the great swaths of ice that swept down from the poles and ended in a slender strip of land that divided north and south. It was there, between the reach of the poles, that a few villages eked life from the cold ground. But Herathor had never been so far south as that—he’d only heard tell of such a place as a child from his parents, and his mate, Brynhild, who had in fact crossed from the far south to the north as all giants did during their short lives.
“Why do you live here if the villages are south?” Veda asked.
He set the pipe between his lips, took a long and thoughtful inhale. “If it were night, and you set me on Fjall Bjornstad, I could walk to this cabin without a moon. Every bit of this valley is familiar to me as the tiny soles of me child’s feet.”
“What happened to her, your child?”
The smoke drifted from Herathor’s nostrils and rose into the air. “She was into everything. I was chopping wood around back, and Brynhild stirred a stew here, and if we didn’t keep eyes on her every moment she was gone.” His fingers snapped in the air so hard the noise was almost painful. “Do you know how quick the wind erases footprints that small and light?”
Veda shook her head.
“Faster than a single breath.” He seemed agitated, and he pressed himself up. “That’s enough for now.”
“Wait,” Veda pushed herself to a seat. “Just one more question.”
Herathor stood, waiting.
“Why do all giants cross Issverold from the south to the north?”
“Survival,” Herathor said. “If they can survive the journey, they can return with high heads.”
Except, Veda realized, watching the man return to his hunch over the hearth, that Brynhild hadn’t returned south. She’d stayed north—with him.
At sunset she stepped outside the cabin with Wa’s Gift in hand. The snow had tapered but the wind had increased; in the north, the almost-night was so cold Veda could see her health dropping point by point. By the time she’d cleared the cabin’s light she couldn’t feel any part of her face. In the wooden lean-to a massive creature stood with four legs hobbled, its white coat longer than Veda’s hair. It snorted, raised its face when she emerged, the pink nostrils widening to scent her. She remembered this creature from Sicora’s introduction: long-necked, tall and graceful. A horse. Except this one had hooves as big around as Veda’s head.
A nameplate appeared:
"Hello, Agnar." When Veda extended her hand, the breath blew hot on her fingers. She touched the velvet nose, and the creature’s head jerked back, one great black eye surveying her through the mane. Uncertain, wary. That seemed to be the way of every world she’d been in.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” she said to the horse. The pointed ears flicked toward her; it listened. “Though if I had scissors, I might give you a haircut.” She raised her hand to the mane, pressed it aside. Both eyes came into view, black and inquisitive. They stared back at her until she dropped the mane, her fingers trailing down the muzzle to the nose. She felt the same affinity with this creature as she had with the cracked staff, though both had seemed a bit weather-beaten to start.
Veda lifted her eyes; the light had nearly gone from the sky. She fought her way to an unbroken spot in the wide expanse of snow, set the staff into it, gripped with both hands and closed her eyes. She focused on Wa’s Gift in her interface, and at once the staff set to a soft vibration beneath her fingers. She let it build, and when the gem’s glow had grown bulbous and large, she lifted the staff and drove it hard into the snow. The gem sparked green, and then a shot of jade light rose straight into the air above the trees. It hung a moment before splintering to shards, raining back to the snow and dimming at her feet. At once, her mana drained to nothing, and a strong lethargy came over her.
“Who are you trying to attract, girl?”
Veda turned, found Herathor standing ten feet off with a white-spackled beard. The wind had even muffled the sound of his massive footsteps. “My friends. I’ve lost them.” She had to raise her voice to be heard.
“Friends are good to have, but you won’t be a friend to anyone as a statue. Come on.” He gestured her back to the cabin.
When she had returned to the warmth, Veda struggled to close the door against the wind. Herathor pressed his weight to it and bolted the latch, and both of them stamped the snow away. She shivered so hard she dropped to her knees in front of the hearth.
“Those are some loud teeth,” Herathor said, dropping a cloak atop Veda, who pressed her chattering jaw shut. “Take that, and keep it.”
She lifted the cloak in front of her, inspecting it:
ITEM: Autumn Cloak
QUALITY: Uncommon
STATS: 3 AC, +2 to stamina.
EFFECTS: Reduces damage taken from cold exposure by 50%.
A magical cloak, deceptively warm; Veda pulled it tight to her body. “Thank you. I’ve never felt winter like this.”
Herathor snorted, got on his stool beside her. She watched him scoop icemelt from his beard. “A loon after all. This isn’t winter, girl.”
She turned wide eyes on him. He busied himself with the ladle, stirring it in the pot of stew. “Not winter?”
“It’s what I said.” He took a loud sip of the stew. “These are the dying days of summer.”
Veda sat back on her heels, still shivering. The dying days. She thought of the creature outside. “How does the horse survive?”
Herathor shook his head at the stew, dropped the ladle into the pot. “Horse? He's a hestur. They love the snow, prefer to be out in it.”
A hestur. She’d never heard the word. “What's his name?" She already knew, but she didn't want to accidentally call the hestur by name without Herathor having told her first.
“Agnar. Brynhild’s stallion.”
“Is he a pet?”
Herathor laughed in a sharp staccato. “Suppose now he is. That was the hestur Brynhild rode across Issverold. The only thing they love more than snow is galloping through it.”
“What happened to her?”
The man met her eyes, turned back to the stew. He stirred and stirred, while outside Agnar nickered and the wind blew fast. “Loss is a hard thing, girl. We all mourn in our own way. Some of us cry, some of us get quiet, and some of us start to walk and don’t stop until our bodies freeze through.”
She closed her eyes; after Prairie, Veda had been the quiet type of mourner. “Did you find her?”
In the pot, a massive bubble rose in the broth, grew and grew until it burst and Herathor resumed his stirring. “She left in the night. By the time I woke, the snow blanketed everything—and everyone.” His voice had gone thick, one hand swiping at his face. “Stew’s done. Eat before it’s gone soft.”
They ate in silence. Veda wrapped her hands around the bowl, savored the pork so well she nearly forgot it was virtual. When Herathor’s spoon scraped the bowl, his blue eyes rose to her. “Your friends as scrawny as you?”
She shrugged, nodded. “More or less.”
“Midlanders. He shook his head. “You ought to find them in these three days or not at all.”
Three days. The same amount of time on her countdown. “Why three days?”
Herathor stood. “What world are you from, girl?” He set his bowl on the stool, lifted a piece of burning tinder from the hea
rth and crossed to the fur rug that lay over the floorboards, flipping it up to reveal a square door carved into the paneling. He pulled the latch until it creaked up and open, and Veda came around as Herathor ducked into the cabin’s cellar. She followed, her mind gone to Jacob Henry. She expected to be ushered by the creaking of warped wooden boards, but her steps were muffled by packed dirt; the staircase had been carved right into the earth.
When they were both in the cellar, Herathor swung around with the flame. Stacks and stacks of wood appeared, sacks of foodstuffs, skinned and frozen meats. The cellar spread wider and bigger than the cabin itself, running on into the darkness. “This is the autumn stockpile.”
“All this for autumn?”
Herathor shook his head again. “You midlanders know nothing of cold, do you? Thought you could foray up north three days before autumn and climb Fjall Bjornstad, then you get separated.”
“It was a mistake,” Veda said. “Herathor, what happens in autumn?”
The flame cut a sinister shadow across Herathor’s face. “If you’re not a hestur, you’ll freeze outside the cabin before you’ve had the impulse to rethink your choices. It’s like slipping through an iced pond.”
Without the fur coverlet, Veda’s hands had gone across her body, cradling the warmth inside. “And when exactly does it begin, Herathor?”
“Sunset. Always sunset.”
Veda calculated in her head. Autumn began an hour before the countdown ended. Finally she understood: she had to survive. That was all—just survive, normally a small thing. Except, as it turned out, this world wanted none of that.
And there was another hitch: she had to make sure the other three survived Issverold, too.
Sixteen
In the morning she woke to a fist pounding on the cabin door. Herathor snored on the rug, didn’t even stir from his sprawl. Veda climbed from the bed, peered out the window; the snow had painted the panes blue-white, frosting and covering them in the night.
The fist delivered itself onto the door again. Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump.
She knelt by Herathor, touching his arm. The man slept hard in the grey light. She said his name, loud and louder until she was right next to his ear. No response. All the while, the fist knocked, and a voice belled out as though it came up through a well. Veda couldn’t recognize it.
She stood, crossed to the door and yelled through the hinge in as low a tone as she could manage. “Who approaches the door of Herathor Strongarm?”
The fist stopped. A voice came back, muffled: “Veda?”
Her gut cinched. “Who is it?”
“The girl whose ass you promised to save. Though she can’t even feel her ass anymore.”
Veda scrabbled with the bolt, finally yanked it hard enough that it came free. When she pulled the door open, wind and snow blew in around Amy Park, who stood shivering, her pink cheeks shrouded in a hood of fur. “You sent up a flare for pizza?”
“Why in the name of Agnar’s backside have you got the door open, girl?” Behind her, Herathor had woken, sat stark upright with his hair flying around his face.
Veda turned, her eyes wet with wind, cold, feeling. “My friend survived.”
Amy stood at a distance from the lean-to as Veda lifted her hand to Agnar, whose nostrils widened to scent her. “Where are his eyes?” Amy said.
Agnar’s head swung left, and he nickered. His breath came so warm, so fragrant Veda hardly minded the droplets. Her hand went to his hair, pressing the mane aside to reveal one large black eye. “Where they should be—just hidden by all the hair. Right, Agnar?”
The hestur swung his head the other direction, snorted; she had begun to recognize his signs of excitement, interest. Veda turned, wiping the droplets from her cheek. “He’s awful nice. Come on.”
“Veda, I grew up in a house with plastic on the carpets. The carpets.” Her arms crossed tight over her body, and she cast her eyes around the valley once before eyeing the hestur. “He’s probably infectious.”
“With what? He’s a horse.”
“I don’t know—hestur immunodeficiency virus. You know, like cats catch from each other.”
“He’s not even the same species as you. And we’re in VR, Amy.” Veda stooped to unhobble the creature, who let a great, belling whinny.
The cabin door swung open, and Herathor stepped out, his hair floating wild around his scalp. “There’s the sound of him. He’s a handful, girl, and he’s not had a run in a long while. You sure you don’t need help?”
Veda shook her head, moved to unhobble the back legs. The hestur could cave her head in with a single kick, but she felt uncommonly confident around him. “As long as I have the whistle, he’ll come, right?” It hung at her neck, a metal tube with a slitted top for her lips. Herathor had given it to her that morning when she’d asked again about the hestur, and he’d finally brought the whistle out from the depths of the wooden chest, offered it to her at the end of a leather string. “Take him for a ride, if you’re so curious.” When she’d received it, she’d taken a close inspection:
ITEM: Agnar’s Whistle
QUALITY: Unique
STATS: None.
EFFECT: Can be used to summon Agnar, Brynhild Strongarm’s companion. Note: this item has been temporarily shared and must be returned to its owner upon request.
Outside the cabin, Herathor’s heavy steps carried him toward the lean-to. “That’s right, though he hasn’t heard it in—”
Another whinny drowned Herathor’s words. Unhobbled, the hestur sprung over Veda, who fell into the snow. Off he went, his hooves carrying him like a shot toward the trees, the coat such perfect ivory that Veda could hardly make him out from the ground. Only when her eyes followed the trail of churned snow could she spot him, his tail horizontal as he galloped from sight.
“And that’s why my parents didn’t let us have pets,” Amy said.
Veda pushed to her feet. The leather gloves Herathor had lent her, while not much stat-wise, at least covered her forearms, and they were a boon in this cold—she could actually feel her fingers inside them. The cloak helped, too; her health wasn’t dropping from daytime exposure. Of course, autumn would change that.
“All right, now whistle for him,” Herathor said. “And I don’t want to hear some half-arsed toot.”
Veda rubbed at her lips, lifted the whistle to her mouth. When she blew, the noise came breathy and faint, and then she poured her lungs into it. The call rose loud and long, and she waited. Agnar didn’t return.
“Again,” Herathor said.
Veda closed her eyes. She breathed deep into her lungs and out, in and out. The cold air felt like acid inside her. Finally she raised the whistle to her lips, and following a hard, painful inhale, she blew so hard that Amy’s hands went to her ears. This time the whistle hit a lilting note, rang almost symphonic.
And when it had ended, Agnar’s neighing rose from deep in the trees.
“You did good, girl,” Herathor said, as the hestur emerged from the treeline, galloping so fast his mane swept back to reveal both black eyes. When he barreled toward Veda, she thought: Keep your nerve. The hestur was a stallion, a proud creature. Even with her affinity toward him, he would test her courage. She stood with the whistle still between her fingers, and the hestur came to a skidding stop before her, a wave of snow kicked up and flurrying over her head and shoulders.
She wavered, didn’t step back. Her face raised to meet one of the black eyes through the veil of hair, and he stared back for a tense few moments. Finally the hestur let a snort, swung his head and proceeded to survey the snow for a good spot to lick.
Veda set one hand to his ribcage to feel the quick breath, the heat. She could practically hear the sonorous heartbeat. Again she felt the pull toward him.
And perhaps he did, too. Almost as soon as she’d touched him, Agnar folded his forelegs and then his back legs until he had settled on his belly.
Veda stood beside the stallion, who, even on his belly, still
nearly outstripped her height. “Should I, Herathor?”
The man threw up his hand. “The hestur’s asking for it. Who am I to say no?”
Veda rose, set one hand to the muscled neck. She stepped to his side, and the hestur pressed his muzzle to her leg. She stepped forward, slid her hand to the shoulder, gripped at the base of the mane. After three preparatory hops, she threw one leg up to his back. But the hestur was so massive that she slipped back down, only held her balance through her grip on the mane.
Agnar seemed unaffected; he remained seated, his head curled to observe her. Was he actually that warm in the snow? Veda removed one glove, pressed her hand into the thick coat at his shoulder blade. What emanated from beneath felt warmer than the fire in Herathor’s hearth.
She took off her other glove, pressed them both into the waistband of her tunic. She grabbed up a handful of the coat, her fingertips supple, dexterous despite the cold. She set both hands on the hestur’s back and two steps alongside him before she threw her leg up. The hestur angled his head around, nudged her up to a straddle. And it was as simple—as terrifying, she thought, as Agnar started up to his full height—as that.
“Coming, Amy?” she asked, but Agnar had already turned her toward the forest.
The other woman raised one gloved hand. “I’m good. You have fun.”
The hestur’s heat was so strong Veda didn’t even want to replace her gloves. And the creature’s heart vibrated through her, a drumbeat. Agnar lifted his head, let out a great and deafening whinny that set Veda clenching hard at the mane, leaning close to his neck.
“One tip, girl,” Herathor’s voice came from behind her, “don’t drive your heels into his side unless you mean it.”
And before she could turn to acknowledge him, the hestur leapt into motion. He landed at a canter, and they ran and then pelted through the snow, Veda pressed to his backside with a vice grip. She could hardly see around the mane whipping her face, but for now her one, great wish was that she wouldn’t end up thrown like a ragdoll into a drift.
