Yvane knew what she was doing in choosing that hollow for the night: reaching into a crack beneath a pitted boulder, she withdrew a sack of kindling and firewood.
'Better to have no fire,' Varryn said.
Yvane emptied the sack out and began sorting the wood.
'You can have no fire if you like,' she said, 'but I don't like the cold. If anyone is following us, they'll know where we are well enough with or without a fire.'
There was little talking after that. All of them were preoccupied by their own thoughts as the fire held their eyes and the night settled in, closing the world around them down into a small pocket of light.
It was as they settled to sleep that the sound came, as startling as the shattering of glass in the darkness: a brief howl. Moments later a second answered it. They seemed distant, but it was hard to tell.
'Might be glad we have a fire, if it comes to it,' was all Yvane said as the sound faded away and an unnerving silence descended.
The last thing Orisian saw before he passed into a shallow sleep was Varryn sitting straight and alert, bathed in firelight, his face turned out towards the night and his hands resting upon bow and spear.
In the morning Varryn was still seated where Orisian had last seen him, as if no more than a moment had passed. The weather had closed in. Yvane exchanged a few words with Varryn in the Fox tongue, but they said nothing to the others. At another time Orisian would have wanted to know what they discussed; now there seemed no point. There was, after all, nothing to do save press on, even if a score of Inkallim were treading in their footprints.
Their path now lay downwards and away from the highest peaks, but the Car Criagar would not let them go without one last reminder of its true nature. Low cloud, a hard wind and wet snow accompanied them. The further north they went, and the further from the heart of the range, the more characterless the slopes became. The dramatic rocks and screes of the heights were replaced by great featureless snow fields.
Orisian found himself striding along beside Yvane.
'How long to get to Koldihrve?' he asked her. It was hard work, fighting through the deepening snow, and he was out of breath, but the relentless silence of the mountains had begun to seem oppressive to him.
'Not long,' the na'kyrim said.
'That's a Kyrinin answer,' Orisian observed.
'Where is it you want to go, anyway? Not Koldihrve, I mean, but after that. What are you going to do?'
'Go to Glasbridge, or to Kolglas, if we can find the boat we need at Koldihrve. I have to fight the Black Road; restore my Blood. I have had enough of running, of hiding,' Orisian said. And of losing people, he thought.
'Be careful not to dress revenge in finer clothes than it deserves. You can't always get back what's gone. I wouldn't try to, if I was you; disappointment can do strange things to people.'
'You don't understand. The Black Road has destroyed my home, my family. They've taken our lands. I'm bound by oath to defend my Blood against its enemies.'
'Who is it you think is watching you?' said Yvane irritably. 'There're no gods now, if there ever were, so they'll not be your judges. Is it the dead? Better to leave that to the Kyrinin. What will you do when you've killed all of those who killed your dead? Sit back and wait for your own victims' children to arrive, knife in hand, at your bedside one night? Blood for blood, life for life down through all the ages. That's a kind future you're planning for yourself and your kin. Think how much happier the world might be if people sought approval for what they do from their children instead of their ancestors.'
'What would you have me do?' demanded Orisian. 'Run away? Hide in a cave somewhere?' He allowed anger to colour his voice.
'In truth,' sighed Yvane, 'I don't much care. All your Thanes and warlords always think they are the ones making everything happen, making the decisions. As often as not, they're plain wrong. Life has its own patterns, its chances and fortunes: they trip up great lords just as surely as the commonfolk. Whatever plans you lay, like as not they'll twist and turn in your hands. Just be sure why you do what you do. I long ago wearied of people who spend all their time digging up old hatreds and polishing them up for fresh use. The past's like a maggot in the heart of the present; it fouls it.'
Orisian looked down, watched his feet sweeping through the snow for a few strides.
'It's not revenge I want,' he said. He had tasted a little of vengeance, when that Tarbain's blood had splashed out over his hands. It had not soothed the ache within him, and it had not brought back any of those who had died. It had not even saved the woodcutter's family. 'I want ... to end it. It's the future I want to see changed, not the past. If you can tell me how to stop what's happening . . . if you can tell me how to stop that without taking up a sword against the Black Road, I'll listen. But I don't think you can. And I know as well as you that nothing will make the dead live again, but that's not the same as wishing they had not died. How could I not wish that of people I loved?'
Yvane smiled sadly. 'You couldn't. No one could ask you to.' She glanced up at the listless sky. 'We have to forgive ourselves for all the ways we failed the dead, you know. And forgive them for all the burdens they leave us; all the ways in which they failed us. Especially for dying.'
Orisian felt a tightening in his throat, and had to close his eyes for a moment. They strode on without speaking.
They had been walking for what seemed like hours when Rothe stopped. Orisian followed his shieldman's gaze and saw why. Above and behind them, on a low ridge they had crossed less than an hour ago, the wind had whipped the snow up into twisting curtains that danced along the crest. Through those veils, a vague figure could be seen. It flickered in and out of sight as the cloud and snow washed around it. Orisian narrowed his eyes. It might have been an outcrop of rock, but no ... it shifted slightly, parted. Up there on the ridge, a tall man was standing with a great hound at his side.
'It's the Hunt,' Rothe murmured. 'It must be.'
Yvane began striding with greater urgency through the ankle-deep snow.
'Keep moving,' she shouted over her shoulder. 'It's not far to the tree line. There's no sense in trying to hide out here.'
They fell in behind her, following a course diagonally down the slope. Rothe drew his sword. Low cloud came across the hillside, enclosing them in a dampening mist. They were alone again, struggling across the snow field in the midst of a grey sky. It was worse, in a way, to know what was behind them but not be able to see their hunters. Their pace picked up a little. The backward glances were more frequent, more urgent, but told them nothing.
'Have a care, have a care,' muttered Rothe, as much to himself as to anyone else. The mist deadened his voice.
'Faster,' Yvane called out, and stretched her stride. The snow hampered them, clinging to their legs as if it did not want them to leave its domain. Orisian wondered how long they could keep this up. He wanted to run, but knew that would only bring exhaustion. Without thinking about it, he pulled his knife from its sheath.
'They are on us!' Ess'yr cried. She and Varryn spun around in the same moment, springing apart and hefting their spears.
'The cloud's thinning,' Rothe said, and in that same moment the beast was there.
Orisian had only half a second to take in what he was seeing: a great hound, massive and wild as a boar. It erupted out of the concealing mists in a flurry of snow. Ess'yr was the closest, and it rushed straight down upon her. She sank a little lower at the hips, her thighs tensing. Varryn made no move to help his sister: he was staring fixedly back up the slope in the direction from which the dog had emerged.
The hound sprang. Ess'yr swayed to one side and flung it aside with the butt of her spear. The animal drove a great furrow through the snow as it slithered on down the slope.
'Get back,' Orisian shouted to Anyara.
Rothe took a great bound forwards, seized Anyara's shoulder and threw her away as the hound rolled to its feet. It was far too agile, too quick, for its size, Orisian thought.
Rothe lashed out with his sword. The hound shied away from the blade, gathered itself and leapt for Rothe all in the blink of an eye.
Varryn shouted something in the language of the Fox. Orisian glanced at him, in time to see the Kyrinin duck his head a fraction to avoid a crossbow bolt that flashed out of the misty vapours and as quickly vanished back into them. Varryn dropped his spear and swung his own bow over his shoulder.
Rothe was crying out in rage or pain. He was thrashing on the ground, the hound's jaw locked on the wrist of his arm. His sword was gone, flung away in the frenzy of shaking and pulling. Anyara was shouting too as she flailed at the dog with her walking staff. The crack of wood on bone said she found her mark more than once, but the beast ignored the blows as if they were gnat bites to a bull. Orisian threw himself across the hound's back. He felt the immense strength of its neck as it shook its head back and forth, smelled its musty, thick hair. He stabbed it in its ribcage, again and again, until it went limp.
He looked up in a kind of numb surprise, and saw the Hunt Inkallim coming an instant before even the Kyrinin did. The man seemed to solidify out of the clouds, but did so at full speed, flying light-footed through the snow directly for Ess'yr, brandishing a quarterstaff that was bladed at both ends.
A warning began to form on Orisian's lips but thought and voice could not hope to keep pace with a clash between Kyrinin and Hunt Inkallim. Even taken unawares, Ess'yr found the time to bring her spear up. Without slowing, the Inkallim veered sideways. The point of the spear went across his flank, caught in his deerskin jerkin and snapped him around. He leapt into a spin and his staff came in a huge arc, too quick for the eye to follow. Ess'yr was faster than any human could have been. Still, it was not enough; the blow took her below the sternum, flung her like a child's doll through the air to thump into the snow a few yards away. She lay still.
Rothe surged to his feet, spilling both Orisian and the hound's corpse as he rose. The shieldman clasped a hand about his bloodstained wrist, and took a lurching step towards the Inkallim.
Varryn hissed: an inhuman, piercing sound. The Inkallim flicked his head round. Varryn was motionless. He was perfectly poised in the still moment a hunter would seek: unbreathing, feet firmly planted, bowstring taut, the fletching of the arrow brushing his face. The Inkallim began to move. The arrow was released. In an instant it crossed the space between Kyrinin and human, and cracked into the Inkallim's cheek. The moment the bowstring snapped out of his hand, Varryn was rushing to Ess'yr.
'My sword,' Rothe cried.
'I can't see it,' Orisian heard Anyara shout.
The Hunt Inkallim turned unsteadily back towards the shieldman. Varryn's arrow stood rigid in his face, rooted in a nest of blood and bone. A mad, desperate grin split the man's face. Blood was spilling out over his lips. Orisian threw his knife: he was unskilled in the art, but it was made for throwing and it found a home high on the Inkallim's chest.
Rothe stretched out his uninjured arm towards Anyara.
'Your staff,' he said.
She passed it to him in silence. The Inkallim made to raise his own weapon, but all his strength and grace were gone. He was rocking on his feet. He watched limply as Rothe came up and struck him a great blow on the side of the head. The Inkallim fell. His legs kicked feebly as he lay face-down in the snow.
'Leave him, leave him!' Yvane was shouting. Already, she was heading off, straight down the slope. 'He wasn't alone.'
Varryn slung his sister's bow across his shoulders with his own and lifted Ess'yr. Her arms and legs dangled limply. Carrying both her and his spear, Varryn began to run after Yvane.
Rothe was scrabbling clumsily in the snow. Blood falling from his wounds left pinpricks of red in the whiteness.
"Where's my sword?' he cried, sounding grief-struck.
'Leave it,' shouted Orisian, hauling at his shieldman's arm. Rothe resisted for a moment.
'Rothe! Do as I say. Leave it.' Even to his own ears, Orisian's voice had an arresting edge of command to it.
Yvane cried, 'We must go!' back over her shoulder.
They took great leaping strides through the snow. Rothe held himself at the back, even though he had nothing now save a knife with which to defend Orisian and Anyara.
Their flight was wild, uncontrolled, but the attack they feared never came. When they broke free of the cloud's embrace they found themselves rushing down towards a distant dark line of trees. The snow was thinning, the ground more even.
Though he could hardly raise his eyes from the point of his next footfall, Orisian was aware of a great vista spread out before them. They had come out on to the northern flank of the Car Criagar and the Dihrve valley lay ahead and below. Beyond that broad plain, like a magnified reflection of the mountains behind them, the immense heights of the Car Dine rose up.
At last, coming to the first scrawny trees, Yvane allowed them to pause. Even Varryn was breathing hard as he knelt and laid Ess'yr down. A look of concern emerged through the fierce tattoos on his face as he leaned over his sister and listened to her breathing. Delicately, he ran his fingers over her side, feeling for injuries. Then he sat back and gently brushed strands of hair from her forehead.
'How is she?' Orisian panted.
'Broken,' Varryn said. He gestured at his own ribcage. 'Here.'
'Lamman root would be best,' said Yvane distractedly. She was looking back up the slope, her eyes narrowed. 'But we do not have the time to search for it now.'
Rothe was at her side, surveying the higher slopes just as she did. The distant banks of cloud that still cloaked the mountains were a blank, impenetrable wall. There was no hint of movement.
'Perhaps they will give up the chase now we have bloodied them,' he said.
'Perhaps,' murmured Yvane. 'Will you allow a na'kyrim to bind that wrist for you?'
Rothe nodded in agreement. He turned and watched Varryn as Yvane began rooting somewhere beneath her cloak for bandage materials. 'You have a keen aim,' he said.
'Kyrinin aim,' was Varryn's brusque reply, but after a moment he seemed to think better of his curtness, and he looked up at the shieldman. 'Not so keen. I went for the eye.'
'A good try, still,' replied Rothe. 'That arrow saved us a lot of trouble.'
Varryn shrugged; it was not as cold a gesture as once might have passed between the two. They rested only for a minute or two, and then resumed a more cautious descent. Ess'yr woke, grimacing in pain, her face whiter than ever it had been before. Varryn supported her as she hobbled down through the woods.
These forests were different to those of the Glas valley. Pines dominated them. Mostly they were small, cold-and windbent things, but in places they crowded so close together that they cast a black shade. The earth was carpeted with browned needles and wiry grass. Here and there tree roots had been forced to the surface by hidden rocks or stone faces. The place had a foreign feel, fit for the old tales of savage Kyrinin, watchful Anain or even the wolfish Whreinin.
They had crossed into a land where only masterless humans roamed, where the bloodoath or the concerns of Lannis and Horin meant nothing. Now more than ever, Orisian thought, they were in the hands of their inhuman companions. This was their land.
In the gathering dusk they made a camp of sorts amidst the trees. Varryn laid a fire against the foot of a sloping rock and then, once Ess'yr was settled by the flames, disappeared into the forest without a word of explanation. Orisian guessed he had gone to search for the root he needed to ease his sister's pain.
There was a great dormant ant hill a few yards from their resting place, a smooth mound of pine needles that bulbed up from the ground. Yvane was crouched beside it, probing it with a thin twig. The image was strangely familiar to Orisian. It was some time before he could recall why: the last time he had been alone with Inurian, the na'kyrim had been searching for sea urchins beside Castle Kolglas with a long stick.
"What are you doing?' he asked her, as he had asked Inurian then.
'Distracting myself
from our difficulties. Ants make good food if you are hungry enough.' She smiled at his involuntary grimace. 'Though I suppose we're not that hungry yet.' She set aside the twig and rose a little stiffly to her feet.
'I have not stretched my legs so vigorously for a long time,' she muttered. There was a touch of irritation in her voice. She disliked her own weakness.
'Mine are getting used to running,' he said.
'Well , we may be clear of trouble for now,' said Yvane as she led him back towards the fire. 'Hopefully we can walk the rest of the way to Koldihrve.'
Rothe was sitting on a stone, his unsheathed knife resting on his thigh, gazing into the fire. Orisian felt a twinge of sympathy for his shieldman. It would be a torment to Rothe to be without his sword; unable, as he would see it, to properly protect Orisian. And Orisian had, he glumly reflected, left his own knife -- the Inkallim blade -- behind, resting in the chest of their pursuer.
Anyara was already dozing, sitting against a tree trunk with her patchy fur jacket draped over her like a blanket. Her head nodded on her chest and every now and again she made a soft murmuring sound.
'We all need some rest,' said Yvane softly.
Orisian stretched out close to the fire. He should be afraid, he knew, of what might come in the night. It seemed he was too tired for fear, though, since he soon drifted off towards sleep with the soft crackling of the flames in his ears.
He came briefly to befuddled wakefulness in the depths of the night, roused by some sound. The fire still blazed and he could see nothing beyond its glare. From somewhere in the darkness, muted voices were coming. Drowsy apprehension had just begun to rise in his breast when he recognised them: Rothe and Varryn, deep in conversation. In the few moments before sleep reclaimed him, Orisian recognised that fact for the small wonder it was.
They woke to rain. It was a miserable morning. The fire died quickly. Varryn kicked earth over the embers and then spread them out with his foot. The rain grew heavier as they descended through the forest, but it was at least better than snow and biting wind. They found a rocky stream and drank from it. Ess'yr could not bend to drink, and Varryn raised water to her lips in his cupped palms. Orisian could well imagine the pain each step must bring her. The wound in his own side still made itself known every now and then, not by pain exactly, but a taut tenderness. To see Ess'yr struggling with her own injury brought home how graceful she had been before. He had almost stopped noticing her poise and precision; now that it was stripped from her its absence was glaring, like a bird that could not fly.
Godless World 1 - Winterbirth Page 42
