Master of Whitestorm

by Janny Wurts

  Days passed in wearing succession. Frostbite and torn skin became themes for rough jokes as men gained competence on the mountain. Ones with less gift for climbing attended the chores at each bivouac, checking ropes and equipment, or carefully rationing the food. The Graley taxed all to their limits. Some days were spent in huddled misery listening to the song of wind and storm; other times, in blinding sunlight, men carved steps and hand holds up cathedral towers of blue ice. Each pitch had its frustrations, its failures, its false trails, and its triumphs.

  In the upper heights, the couloir narrowed. The glacier lay rucked into shards and blunt cornices, capped with spotless new drift. Clefts became traps to twist the ankles, and snow dislodged from bad footing could turn and roll, and kick loose grinding falls of ice. The climbers toiled on in the uneasy knowledge that their lives were precariously secured, and dependent upon the frailty of their companions.

  The expedition crossed the cloud line and Indlvarrn advised caution. The snow pack on the summit ridge was unstable; but one team gave in to curiosity and strayed. Their footsteps carved faults in the drifts, and the bridge where they explored caved away. The storm-piled mass at the head of the couloir loosened and thundered downslope, sweeping all in its path with a roar. One man was milled under, never to resurface. The other had been roped to a belaying pin before the disaster began, and when the avalanche subsided to a clatter of scoured stone, the king's men traced the line and dragged him free.

  Indlvarrn watched with his mouth pursed tight in disapproval. "Better to be rid of that fool," he concluded over the fuss as the survivor was checked for injury.

  "You speak of a king's man!" an offended companion shouted back. "Would you dare to mouth insults if the one needing rescue was a dwarf?"

  "I'd do better," snapped Indlvarrn. "I'd send him to his maker with my dirk, were any of my race born so stupid."

  The dead man's brother bridled at this. Known for strength and quick temper, he rushed the cheeky guide with his hackles raised for a fight. His swing at the dwarf was stopped by the vise-hard grip of Korendir, whose tolerance did not extend to petty feuds; the mercenary looked angry enough to kill outright. He spoke instead, too softly for bystanders to overhear. But the brother's aggression subsided. He retired though dwarves watched his back with unfriendliness.

  The king's men clustered to organize spirit rites for the departed; Indlvarrn was informed of their intent while sorting out ropes for rappel lines. He sprang to his feet in agitation, but Korendir reacted first and took on the onus of intervention. This time his words carried to all of the waiting company. No time would be allowed for sentiment. The soldiers broke up disgruntled, somehow still blaming their misfortune on the dwarves. In sullen knots, the men turned toward the valley and the ridge that remained to be crossed.

  On the face behind the Graley, summits like upraised knives funneled the wind between ridges. Black banded rocks were stripped bare of snow and polished sheer by weather. Here the company unstrapped crampons and began their first abseil, dropping by stages into a valley swathed in cloud. Gusts set the lines swinging as men rappelled straight down through winter air. Hands still raw from the axe handle suffered rope burns as friction heated through gloves and wrappings and savaged the tender flesh beneath. Bared rock absorbed the sun's warmth, causing melts that glazed a sheen across the crags. Refrozen to glassy hardness, such ice at times seemed bewitched; crampons pulled hastily from rucksacks screeched and skidded. The sharpened steel teeth left score lines, but gained no purchase. Men lost their balance and cracked heads and shoulders against the cliff face. They bruised and cursed and hoped their fellows on belay were prepared for trouble when they fell. As the last team reached the bowl of the valley, the talk swelled boastful and loud. Except for the misfortune of the avalanche, no man's safety had been compromised.

  The surrounding Hyadons soared upward with the magnificence of fortress spires; rocky spurs punched through mantles of sparkling ice, to rake clouds that plumed in the bitter cold of altitude. Ahead spread a snow-choked plateau and frozen lake. Vulnerable now to attack by the Corrigon, the men donned cloaks of white wool for camouflage. They clustered to listen while Indlvarrn sketched out their route with stubby, mittened hands. They must cross by night, preferably under cover of storm, when the Corrigon was likeliest to roost.

  On the far shore lay boulder fields deposited by some mighty and ancient glacier. Progress there would be treacherous. Drifts masked pitfalls and warm springs glazed over by parchment thin ice. The route wound through a twisty maze of melt-streams. Even in places where winds had stripped the snow cover, dangers awaited the unwary. The largest rocks might turn and fall, and sink-holes laced the land where underground streams had leached off the sediment of moraine. Hidden fissures could swallow a booted leg like trap jaws, macerating flesh and bone beyond hope or healing.

  "Misstep, and you're bait for the Corrigon," Indlvarrn warned. "This place has no pity for the injured, so I advise: use your axe spikes, and trust no ground you have not tested thoroughly. Fhingold or I will lead. Use the boot tracks of the man in front wherever you can, and still, check before you shift your weight."

  But the weather which had harried their progress up the Graley perversely failed to cooperate. The nights turned diamond clear. Rather than stall and consume stores needed sorely in Arrax, the expedition pressed on. They crossed the lake, nakedly exposed and raked by winds that whistled through the northern escarpments. Tracks marked their progress like a scar. Mountain born traced their faces with luck signs, and soldiers not in the habit of praying appealed to their maker for protection until gusts erased their trail. The dwarves became simply silent; except Indlvarrn, who sat with Korendir through hours of scholarly argument.

  All without exception huddled under blankets each dawn to watch the Corrigon kite skyward from the ridges. The monster's black-feathered, horn-scaled breast knifed the winds like old bone. Swift as a crossbow quarrel, it soared in tireless circles and scoured the mountains for prey. Once it dipped overhead, a yearling bullock impaled in blood-crusted talons; the animal was still alive. It thrashed and bawled in pitiable agony. The monster turned narrowed, bead-yellow eyes, then whipped its head down between wing beats and crushed the beast's brain in its beak. Men and dwarves, the company sweated in terror as the predator arrowed away. Confronted firsthand by the monster which afflicted Arrax, the king's men exchanged whispers, but furtively, lest Korendir overhear their talk.

  Nightfall saw the company on the move once again. Dragging the supply sleighs, they marched over frost-blasted tundra, shadowed by a grandeur whose desolation dwindled the soul. Restlessly urgent, Korendir exhorted the stragglers to haste, though the storms returned and gale winds screamed like curses across the vista of ice and rock.

  The party paused on the rising ground at the far edge of the valley. There, harried by driving snow, Indlvarrn ordered teams to rope up for ascent up a vertical gash in the rockface. That the fourth pitch must route them within yards of the Corrigon's eyrie was noted by the king's men-at-arms; several shot glances at their captain. Korendir noticed. With keenest intuition he assigned the ones who clustered to separate teams. Now each rope was led off by a mountain born or a dwarf. They had most to lose if nerves faltered, and no one needed to name what would befall any climber who strayed from protection in the cleft. The Corrigon's insatiable appetite caused it to hunt during gales; snowfall might hamper its eyesight, but not its ability to kill.

  Slowly, with much trepidation, the party began the final stage of the journey. Arrax might lie in the valley beyond the next ridge, but dire were the hazards in between. The fissure was damp, runged with frozen cascades where springs sprang from the rock. Icicles offered precarious footing. Patterns of freeze and thaw had set down layers that shattered under the jab and pressure of crampons; the slate beneath was less trustworthy still, crumbled with erosion and frost. Indlvarrn drilled his screws well away from such watercourses, but often that precaution necessitated a pitc
h off the direct route up the cleft. The dwarf guide wormed up slippery overhangs, threaded past seracs riven with cracks. Forward progress stalled while he side-tracked. Men were compelled to wait for untold spans of time, while muscles stiffened, and faces burned numb from the cold. None but the leaders could see to know the reason for delay. Nerves frayed, and tempers shortened, and the strain told the worst upon Indlvarrn. His partner noticed and suggested with utmost tact that Dalon's team head the next pitch.

  "What would you do if I refused?" Indlvarrn called from above. Between a blast of driven snow, Fhingold caught a merry smile that belied the attrition of fatigue.

  Fhingold framed answer in the same spirit. "Say no, and I'll gnaw through your boots at the ankle. Then here you'd be, pink as a baby and wiggling your toes for the Corrigon."

  Indlvarrn returned an epithet torn short by another gust; the back draft wafted a stench of putrified flesh, probably from the carcasses that rotted in the nest up above.

  "Dastardly housekeeper," muttered Fhingold. "Birds usually are, Neth in His wisdom knows why."

  "What d'you expect from a species born without a sphincter?" Dalon offered up from the ledge below.

  Fhingold scraped an itch under his cap and searched for a stinging retort. That moment Indlvarrn shouted warning.

  An overwhelming, monstrous shadow raked past. Air sang over taut feathers and overlapped scales of burnished horn. The Corrigon swooped out to hunt, and this time its flight cut too close. Indlvarrn ducked a slashing talon; his axe fell, clanging and showering ice as it tumbled. Startled to instinctive reaction, Fhingold crooked his knuckles and hugged the face of the mountain. Braced with fear, he listened as the scuffle continued above.

  Indlvarrn clutched to the outcrop as his body swayed out over air. His glove caught, scraped, and snagged for a second in a cleft. He grunted. His lips pulled back from his teeth as he strained in the effort of recovery. Then his hold ripped from the mountain. Gravel pelted downward, and Indlvarrn twisted.

  "Hang onto me jewels," he gasped as he lost his last purchase and plunged.

  "You'll owe me an ale," Fhingold replied, eyes screwed shut in anticipation of the moment when the dwarf guide would fetch against the belay rope. Dread spared no thought for the Corrigon, which had flown on to Neth knew where. A safety line had been secured to the face above Fhingold; but the rock had accepted the drill too readily for the younger dwarfs liking. He dared not rely on that anchor to spare the guide's life from disaster.

  His hands scrabbled desperately for purchase as the safety line whumped taut. The screw ripped out, and the rope yanked short a second time. Jerked cruelly against his harness, Fhingold grunted. His feet slithered free, and his body slammed frill length into rock. The last gasp of breath was wrung from his lungs. But his hands held. Fhingold disregarded the ache of overtaxed wrists. With dwarvish obstinacy he set himself to endure for as long as his companion might require.

  But the harness dug into his shoulders for barely a second's interval. The rope sang short and sharp and then went ominously light.

  Fhingold banged both knees and hastily recovered his footing. "Dal," he gasped painfully. "Where's Indie? There's not any pull on the line."

  The king's man called up from beneath. "Probably caught himself. The mountain born swear he's half spider."

  But a glance down the face revealed only a tassel swinging in the wind.

  Indlvarrn had gone without a sound.

  Heartsore and shivering in reaction, Dalon pulled in the trailing rope. The plies were sheared cleanly, perhaps by ice, or more likely by the edge of an escarpment as the dwarf swung upon impact; except that the damage looked for all the world like a cut induced by honed steel. And now the expedition to save Arrax was left in the wilds without a guide.

  XXVII. Corrigon

  Jammed shoulder-to-shoulder on the sloping confines of a ledge, the climbers raised voices in dissent. Indlvarrn's fall had splintered a unity flawed from the first, and while dwarves might suspect the safety line had been slashed by a human's knife, men swore the Corrigon was to blame. Arguments festered.

  The predator had not flown back for a second pass; if it had, Echend, from beneath, would have seen. "Indie made no outcry. Surely a man skewered by a monster would have screamed in pain or warning."

  "Not if the bird snipped his head off with that great, ugly beak," called a king's man. "Remember what happened to the bull?"

  The mountain born found this suggestion preposterous; they made their opinion plain by crossing to stand with the dwarves. More teams arrived. Angry men packed more tightly together, and as news of Indlvarrn's fall reached the newcomers, grudges resurfaced with freshened vigor. The king's men spoke of turning back. Whether by accident or design, the guide's death offered them excuse; the Hyadons by themselves were murderous, and the lair of the Corrigon too close. A thieving dwarf might slip by alone, but not a company of fifty men. Any fool could see that the town beyond the ridge was inaccessible.

  The dwarves shook their fists. "Murderers! Slave trappers!"

  Other less savory insults mingled with rejoinders from the mountain born, who scorned that the rations for starving kinfolk should be squandered by soldiers who had no better honor than to flee home to the hearths of their mothers.

  The trailing teams reached the ledge just as the king's captain took umbrage and a fight started. Fhingold shoved forward to tear the combatants apart, and a bystander with a dagger took a slice at him. Fhingold ducked clear, and ducked again to avoid Korendir, just arrived, and driving through the press with bared steel. The offender with the knife was knocked sprawling, half paralyzed by a kick that had seemingly arisen from nowhere; Korendir had not unstrapped his crampons. Neither had he lightened his blow to compensate, but instead swept down his sword and laid the edge to the fallen man's throat.

  The soldier gasped in his pain, but carefully; each spasm of his windpipe drew blood against the blade that bore steadily against his flesh. He regarded the hand of the mercenary with his eyes ringed white with fear. The scrap between mountain born and captain ended abruptly of its own accord. Before the look on Korendir's pale face, even Fhingold edged back toward the warmth of his fellows.

  The mercenary's gaze swept them all: the dwarves in their grease-stained leathers, the tattooed features of the mountain born, and the surly lowland soldiers whose king had commanded them to a duty too harsh for the asking. Lastly, he glanced at the wretch on the floor whose bleeding leg and stifled, agonized sobs raised plumes of condensation in the air.

  "What a sorry pass we have come to," Korendir said. The sadness behind his words did not show, only the anger, cold as death, and as pitiless. He did not appeal to reason, for generations of prejudice understood none; neither did he plead for reconciliation. What rapport he might have fostered with king's men had withered on the Graley, when urgency had disallowed pause for a funeral rite.

  The silence stretched on and became brittle. Korendir had no intention of inviting dissent by volunteering his opinion. Stung to disadvantage by a command tactic he knew all too well, the king's captain spoke in defiance. "I say we strive for a useless cause. The people of Arrax cannot possibly last the winter on our pitiful store of supplies. If we survive to reach the town, what then? We couldn't leave. Only offer ourselves up to starve, or add to the mouths taking food from children. If, I say, this Neth-forsaken mountain and the Corrigon don't kill us first." The captain raised his stubbled chin. "The dwarves and the Arrax born may do as they wish, but no man in my company will die of foolishness. We lost our luck on the Graley and now we have no guide. By my order, the king's men-at-arms go no further."

  His determination rooted a new brand of quiet in the party gathered within the ice cleft. Argument could not reunite them, Korendir sensed at once; to speak of suffering children would just wed each side the more firmly to a course that must end in disaster. Instead, in nerveless detachment, the Master of Whitestorm sheathed his sword. The offender sprawled at his feet acce
pted reprieve with a whimper. He scuttled to rejoin his fellows where, pointedly solicitous, the captain helped him to his feet.

  Korendir rejected the inuendo, that misdirection had brought them to impasse. "A dog team can reach the coast in five days," he contradicted crisply. "Relief could reach Arrax in a fortnight, and properly rationed, the supplies we deliver might be stretched to last for a month."

  "All true," the captain allowed, but smugly. "Except for the Corrigon, of course."

  Korendir returned a look like a whetted blade. He gave no sign that his patience was spent. Always more loner than leader, he announced his own style of counter-measure. "Then by dawn tomorrow, I'll give you the Corrigon's death. Failing that, you may each do as you please. Otherwise, as a company, you shall all press on to Arrax."

  The captain gained no space for rebuttal. Korendir gathered up crossbow and quarrels, a quarter flask of ale, and an ice axe. He slipped out into the whiteness of the storm before anyone present had fully grasped the impact of his promise.

  Fhingold was first to recover. "My ancestors would weep for shame, that one man should be left to go these cliffs alone. Will we stand here stunned while he tries to slay that horror by himself?"

  "Won't find me stopping him," retorted the soldier whose leg stung yet from the effects of Korendir's reflexes. "If that madman from Whitestorm seeks death for the glory of Arrax, I say let him."

  Fhingold disdained answer and reached for his tattered gloves. He was joined by Echend, and after a moment, by the steadfast presence of Dalon. Quietly the three assembled their gear. The eyes of the others stared elsewhere; not a man or a dwarf in their number was not diminished by Korendir's brave challenge. Families might languish in slavery, or children starve, but dread of the Corrigon shackled all but one dwarf, one Arrax man, and one soldier who held a mercenary that kept faith in higher regard than his captain.