The Gauntlet Thrown

by Cheryl Dyson

CHAPTER THREE

  THE PASS

  Brydon awoke tired and foul-tempered the next morning. He and Toryn did not speak. Brydon assumed Toryn was berating himself for not having stolen away in the night, even though he would not have been successful. Every time Toryn had so much as twitched, Brydon had snapped awake, gripping his dagger-hilt in a sweat-soaked fist. What had seemed a noble gesture at the time had turned into a nightmare of taut nerves and sleeplessness.

  After a quick meal and some hot tea, they took to the road and climbed, reaching areas where patches of snow gathered in the shadows as if cowering from the sunlight. Water trickled across the road and ice rimmed the edges of the rivulets. The sky remained cloudless and though the sun’s warmth was welcome, Brydon considered it a mixed blessing since it would also cause snow to melt from the higher peaks. The mountains to their right were high, jagged, and nearly impassible, cutting Redol off completely from the road that edged its southern border.

  The trees thinned and the grass all but disappeared, giving way to sturdy evergreen shrubs dotted with wildflowers. The ground sloped away on their left and eventually became a steep, snow-covered cliff.

  The sun was high when the road disappeared. A waterfall cascaded from the mountainside. The impromptu river had eaten away at the road and created a yawning, steep-sided chasm fully twenty feet across and thirty deep.

  Brydon swore as he examined the canyon. Toryn said nothing; he merely watched Brydon through expressionless green eyes. Brydon could practically hear Toryn’s amused thoughts: Well, that’s it, then. Backtrack and take your chances with Akarska. I’ll just make my way back to Redol where I can gather reinforcements and hunt you down, now that I know the direction you’re headed.

  Brydon set his jaw and studied the problem. The nearest tree on the other side of the gap was close enough to hit with a rope, but Brydon had no grappling hook. He could tie the rope to an arrow and sink it into the tree, but he doubted that even the most firmly embedded arrow would hold the weight of a man. He examined the cliff face carefully and at last nodded to Toryn.

  "I think we can cross if we climb up there." He pointed to a spot a short distance up the hillside. "It’s narrow there and we can jump across using those two boulders. It looks like a fairly easy leap. And the descent on the other side does not look too difficult." The cliff wall was steep, but not sheer, and littered with large boulders and shrubs.

  Toryn shook his head. "I am not risking my life because an idiot Falaran wants to cross a stream. If you want to try it, go ahead. You might not fall." He gestured to the place where the water plunged out from the broken roadway and crashed onto the jagged boulders below. "But if you do, it will save me the trouble of killing you."

  Brydon grinned. "Actually, you get to go first. If you don’t make it, I will admit it was foolish, turn around, and seek an alternate route."

  Toryn’s face flamed. Brydon felt slightly guilty, but rationalized that if it was Adona’s will that Toryn fall, it would take one problem out of his hands. After all, he could not escort the damned Redolian all the way to—

  A particularly vile curse from Toryn severed his train of thought. The Redolian stalked to the cliff face and from there scrambled to the top of the nearest boulder. He climbed the first eight feet with the agility of a cat and Brydon watched in amazement. After a moment of thought, Brydon took a dagger from his pack and balanced it to throw, just in case Toryn decided to start lobbing rocks down on his head. Toryn paused once and looked down as if considering that very thing. A tense moment followed, during which Brydon wondered whether he could dodge a missile and then send the knife toward the Redolian. He had less than perfect aim with a dagger. Then again, if he could dodge out of reach, it would take but a moment to string his bow...

  Toryn must have come to the same conclusion. He turned and continued climbing until he reached the point where the water surged between two large boulders. A short gap spanned them.

  Brydon put away his knife and started to climb. He was not about to let Toryn cross safely while he followed at his leisure. He would be like a bug clinging to the wall while Toryn happily threw stone after stone at him.

  Brydon climbed—no easy feat with a full backpack, a bow, quiver, and two swords strapped to his body. He paused to watch as Toryn tested the boulder and then hopped easily across the gap, using every available handhold for additional stability. Toryn started down the other side and Brydon hoisted himself to the top of the large boulder on his side of the stream. It did not seem nearly as large now that he stood upon it. He paused a moment to catch his breath and spared a glance at Toryn. The Redolian clung to the opposite wall, not moving. Was he taking a breather?

  Brydon watched Toryn for a moment or two longer, and then gripped an overhanging bush and stood at the edge of the gap. He looked down at the swiftly flowing water and the space between suddenly seemed like an infinitely huge breach. Still, Toryn had made it look easy.

  Brydon took a deep breath and leaped across, grabbing at handholds for only a moment before he looked for the safest way down. As he stepped down onto a lichen-encrusted rock, he felt it shift slightly. Brydon’s heart jumped immediately to his throat and he froze, wondering if he had imagined the movement. Rather than hesitate to see if it happened again, he launched himself downward, gripping each outcropping of rock so tightly he drew blood from his fingertips. The climb down was not as steep, although one portion was deadly. What had looked like a section of flat ground was actually loose rock and shale, which yanked Brydon’s feet out from under him. He knew why Toryn had been clinging to the wall.

  Brydon crossed slowly, gripping the same handholds Toryn must have used, and set his feet down gently, as though he trod on eggshells. During the nerve-wracking exercise, he tried not to wonder at Toryn’s position. One prod from a long stick and Brydon would plummet into the raging cataract.

  Brydon finally reached a solid outcropping of rock. His arms ached from the exertion. He threw himself upon the stone gratefully and muttered a brief prayer of thanks. After a moment, he climbed to the top and peered over the edge. Toryn sat on a boulder beneath him; he looked up at Brydon wearily.

  "I came down here to get something to throw at you, but I was too tired to climb back up."

  Brydon nodded, understanding. His arms trembled and his fingers were slick with blood; Toryn’s were likely the same. Brydon levered himself over the outcropping and dropped down next to Toryn, grateful for the patch of snow that somewhat cushioned his landing.

  Toryn immediately rose and picked his way back to the road. Brydon followed. The descent was much simpler than the climb had been, as the boulders were widely spaced to create more accessible passage.

  When they reached the road, Brydon said, "Well, that wasn’t so bad."

  Toryn glared at him.

  While they examined their damaged fingers, a horrendous, loud scraping sound startled them. The grating screech turned into a rumble, followed by a thunderous crack, and the sound of something very large plummeting down the chasm.

  Brydon hurried back to the ravine with Toryn on his heels. They stood well back from the edge and stared at the empty space where the largest boulder had rested. It had broken free and taken a huge portion of the cliff wall with it. Where the crossable gap had been was now a breach of twelve feet or more.

  "It seems we’re not going back that way," Toryn said with an edge to his voice. "You had better hope there is nothing even more unpleasant ahead."

  "Let’s get moving," Brydon said.

  Toryn turned and stalked down the icy road without another word.

  Two hours later, they stood at the edge of a snowy field that stretched out of sight. The road was completely covered by drifts of snow, though its path could be traced by following the slope of the hillside. Brydon sensed Toryn’s intense scrutiny, but he thankfully made no comment.

  "I do not have the equipment for us to spend the night in a snow bank. It will be cold enough sleeping here, even with a fir
e. We will start across at first light and hope to reach the end of it before nightfall." Brydon kept his concern to himself. He knew Toryn was likely worrying, as well, about the depth of the snow, the potential pitfalls concealed, the possibility of frostbite, and the chance of losing the road altogether.

  They scoured the roadside for as much wood as possible and stacked their findings in a semi-sheltered alcove that would reflect the fire’s light and heat. Brydon blew on his fingers before he kindled the fire. Already, it was cold. Thank Adona there was no wind or they would likely freeze to death.

  When the fire blazed, Brydon dug in his pack and handed Toryn a thick wool shirt. When Toryn made no move to take it, Brydon snapped, "I will not watch you freeze while I have the means to keep you alive. Put it on."

  Toryn snatched the shirt and obediently pulled it over his head before he huddled again under the leather cloak. Brydon wrapped himself in his own warm cloak. The sun would not set for at least an hour, but they ate for lack of anything better to do. The dried boar meat was salty and tough.

  "Will you renew your promise of last night?" Brydon asked.

  Toryn grimaced as he tore off a bit of the meat. "Where would I go?" he snapped.

  "You will not try to kill me in my sleep?"

  "I won’t need to. Because we are both going to die, out there, tomorrow." He flung out a hand to indicate the snowfield, though it lay around the bend from their contrived shelter.

  "I think you are overreacting," Brydon said.

  "We have no equipment for crossing miles of snowdrifts," Toryn said. "And neither of us is properly dressed. I don’t relish frostbite."

  "I have crossed this pass before," Brydon assured him. "The summit is not far. We should be free of the snow by tomorrow evening."

  Toryn chewed his meat in silence and then ignored Brydon by curling up as if to sleep. Brydon built up the fire and scrounged even more wood in hopes that the heat would last most of the night. Though he was tired, he prodded at the fire long into the night before dropping off to sleep.

  Brydon woke well before dawn, feeling cold and stiff. The embers of the fire still glowed, so he added more wood and blew the coals into flame. Toryn huddled under the cloak like a curled-up kitten. Brydon walked to the snow bank and filled a pot with snow. The brief exercise got his blood flowing a bit and he hurried back to the fire to melt the snow and boil the water for hot tea.

  Toryn sat with hands stretched over the flames. Brydon did not bother to ask how he was feeling, especially after he met Toryn’s sour glare. Instead, he brewed some peppermint tea and made it extra strong. He possessed only one cup, so he let Toryn drink first. The Redolian held the metal cup in both hands to warm them. His breath fogged the air and mingled with the steam from the tea.

  Brydon’s morning prayer was heartfelt. "Adona, giver of life and breath, fire and water, I give thanks for your protection and ask your guidance on this day. Grant us strength and wisdom, and provide us safe passage if it be your will. I pledge myself to your service. So be it."

  Runoff from the previous day’s warmth had frozen on the ground. Brydon had no doubt there would be a thin sheet of ice covering the snowfield, which would make for even more difficult walking. He wanted to get moving, so he cut up the last of his cheese and gave half to Toryn along with a handful of dried berries and a piece of cold meat.

  After gulping a steaming cupful of tea, he tossed the dregs and returned everything to his pack before tugging the cumbersome thing onto his back. His load was more awkward with the addition of his quiver of arrows. Normally worn upon his back, he had modified the quiver to ride just behind his right hip, strapped to his waist like a sword belt. His sword rested upon his left hip, as usual, which left Toryn’s sword to be awkwardly carried. He had finally wedged it into the pack, scabbard and all, with the point sticking upward. Though it put the load somewhat off-balance, it was easier to carry than to have the weight of two swords dragging about his hips. He thought about chucking it, but assumed Toryn would lose all control and strangle him to death if he tried.

  Brydon’s bow remained clutched in his hand. It made a decent walking stick and, in addition, he could easily string it if danger threatened. He staggered slightly as he shifted his shoulders to distribute the weight.

  "Would you like me to carry something?" Toryn offered. "My sword, perhaps?"

  "I can manage."

  Before they left the campsite, Brydon rubbed a finger across a piece of charred wood and smeared a stripe of soot beneath each of his eyes.

  "Do it," Brydon advised. "The sun will be out today and this will prevent snow-blindness." Toryn, skeptical or not, followed suit and they started off.

  The sky was barely tinted by dawn when they took their first crunching steps onto the snow. It was crusted with ice, as expected. The snow was deep in many places where the wind had piled it against the cliff and they moved slowly in those areas. Brydon had no compunction about letting Toryn break the trail. Even with that assistance, his legs burned with exertion.

  They paused to rest often. Brydon knew that a man could starve for air in the higher altitudes. Luckily, they had no difficulty sticking to the road. The cliff that bordered it had become an even steeper grade. Snow piled high at the base of it and stacked upon the road, but the far edge was not as deep with it, scoured nearly clean in places by the wind.

  They trudged until midday. Brydon wondered time and again why he had not thought to bring gloves as he transferred the bow stave from hand to hand, and warmed the free hand beneath his cloak. Toryn had both hands tucked beneath his armpits to keep them out of the icy air. The sun glared off the snow, but did little to warm them. Thankfully, the wind was still.

  An ominous rumbling sound from above brought them both to a halt. Toryn looked at Brydon with something akin to panic in his eyes. The roar grew louder and Brydon cast about frantically for shelter, knowing it was too late. He heard Toryn swear and then the avalanche was upon them.

  The next few moments were an endless white blur. He was swept along as though with the tide of a raging river, tumbled and tossed. The bow stave ripped from his hand and his pack felt like it would tear from his back. He opened his mouth to cry out and snow rushed in, suffocating him.

  The ride seemed to last forever, but at last he stopped moving. He coughed snow from his mouth and spat partially melted ice crystals. His arms were free and he swiped the snow from his eyes, smacking his wrist into a nearby tree trunk with the movement. A bit more to the left and his skull might have been crushed against the tree. The rest of him was buried in a solid white drift. He was surrounded by pines, which must have slowed the dramatic rush of the snow slide, although the grade was also less steep.

  A quick scan of the area disclosed no sign of Toryn.

  Cold seeped into his bones from the powdery snow and Brydon set about digging himself free of the white mass, although he could barely move due to the twisted angle of his pack. As soon as he got the edge of his cloak free, he used it to partially protect his stiff hands from the snow as he struggled to liberate his legs.

  At last he shakily climbed free of the hole and looked around. The hillside was a broad expanse of churned snow that led back to the road an untold distance above. Brydon’s rattled thoughts finally spared a moment to wonder at Toryn’s welfare. Once again, he scanned the snow around him, alert for any sign of the Redolian.

  Brydon shrugged off the cumbersome pack and scrambled up the hillside, eyes roving from side to side across the torn landscape. He pushed through the snow for long minutes and spotted the wooden tip of his bow stave protruding from the whiteness. He jerked it free and found it miraculously unbroken. A sick feeling washed over him as he realized Toryn was likely trapped beneath the snow somewhere along the path of the avalanche.

  Brydon clutched his bow in both hands and forced himself not to panic. Running across the face of the hillside bellowing Toryn’s name would do neither of them any good. For a mere instant, he thought about leavin
g the Redolian buried, but an unbidden image of Toryn suffocating, entombed in snow, caused him to shudder. It was no way for anyone to die.

  He took a long, steadying breath and let it out slowly. "Concentrate," he muttered. "He’s got to be here somewhere."

  With eyes half-lidded Brydon began to walk, zigzagging across the hillside in a pattern that would have looked drunken to an observer. At last he halted and shoved his bow stave into the snow. Three-quarters of the shaft disappeared into the whiteness and then he could push it no further. Brydon left it as a marker and hurried back to his pack to remove his cooking pot. He rushed back to the spot and began to dig. As he burrowed, he muttered an intermittent prayer. The exertion kept him relatively warm as he scraped and tossed snow in a frenzied manner. Relief almost overwhelmed him when he uncovered a patch of the dark gray wool Toryn wore. The sight energized him and he dug tirelessly until he could scrape the snow from Toryn’s face, which was tinted a sickly shade of blue. Using every bit of strength he possessed, Brydon dug deeper and then dragged the limp Redolian out of his would-be grave.

  Dropping to his knees next to Toryn, Brydon breathed his own air into Toryn’s mouth, using several deep breaths and pinching Toryn’s nose to keep the air from escaping. He had been taught the technique years before and had once watched a healer revive a drowned child using the same method.

  After what seemed an eternity, Toryn drew a raspy breath and Brydon murmured a quick prayer of relief. He unbuckled the leather cloak from around Toryn’s neck. They needed to escape the snow as quickly as possible and build a heat source.

  Brydon wedged the bow stave into his sword belt and then grasped the edges of the leather cloak. It made a fine sled and he towed Toryn’s unconscious form down to where his pack lay. Brydon shoved everything that he had dislodged back into place and retied the straps. It was not until then that he noticed Toryn’s sword was gone, lost in the tumbling ride down the mountainside. Brydon scanned for it for briefly, and then gave up and set the pack atop Toryn’s legs. It was easier to pull both Toryn and the pack together. He started through the trees, dragging his burden behind him.

  It was slow going. Brydon’s numb hands kept slipping from the cloak and he paused frequently to breathe into his cupped palms in an attempt to warm his fingers. The trees grew more numerous as they descended and thick outcroppings of brush appeared, although the snow remained deep. Eventually Brydon came to a steep drop-off surrounded by tall pines and large rocks. The descent was nearly double a man’s height and he was not certain how to get Toryn down the incline. Brydon could simply slide down the snowy bank, but Toryn would not be able to stop himself from hitting the boulders below.

  After a fruitless search for an easier way down, Brydon finally pulled his rope out of the pack. He wrapped Toryn in the cloak, shroud like, and tied it off with the rope. Toryn stirred when he felt his arms being bound to his sides.

  "What...?" he rasped.

  "Lie still," Brydon ordered. "You’ll be warm and dry soon. I hope."

  Toryn’s eyes fluttered shut, though whether he had heard Brydon at all was debatable.

  After he passed the rope around a tree, Brydon lowered Toryn down the embankment. He sent the pack down after Toryn and tossed his bow stave after. Brydon looked for the gentlest incline and pushed himself off, sliding down the hill on his back and feeling none of the exhilaration such a feat had brought him as a child; he was simply too tired. A jutting stone bruised his thigh but he reached the bottom in a cloud of powdery snow. He slapped at the caked-on whiteness on his backside and looked around. A possible shelter had been hidden by the overhang.

  He scrambled over a few snow-topped boulders until he stood before the jagged cleft of rock. It looked as if a huge slab of stone had broken free from the mountain and come to rest against the hillside, leaving a gap that was a natural lean-to. Brydon shouldered his way inside. The narrow opening hid a surprisingly large interior, hollowed out by runoff from above. A steady stream of water poured down the rock wall to collect in a small pool before it trickled out of the shelter via a similar, much more impassable, opening opposite of where Brydon had entered. The space was large enough—barely—for two men to sit. Brydon returned to Toryn and levered him into the shelter with some effort. He made a hollow on the pebbled floor near the pool, gathered some wood, and quickly built a fire. His watertight bag of oil-soaked fire-starters rags proved their worth by igniting the damp wood.

  Brydon steeled himself and pulled off Toryn’s icy, damp clothing. Toryn roused and tried to push him away.

  "You’ll freeze unless you put some dry clothes on," Brydon snapped.

  Toryn blinked at him for a moment and seemed to regain his senses. He awkwardly undressed and then wrapped himself in the wool cloak and huddled close to the fire, shivering.

  Brydon took off his own clothing and winced when his ice-cold hands touched the few remaining warm parts of his body. He donned a clean pair of breeches—his only other pair, actually. When he’d packed he had not expected to get soaked in an avalanche and subsequent trek down a mountainside. He put on a dry wool shirt and thanked Adona that he had brought along a couple of spares. He wedged sticks into cracks in the walls and hung their wet clothing up to dry before he sat down and pressed his bare feet and stiff hands close to the flames. He knew he would have to go back out soon and replenish their wood supply—the two dead branches he had dragged close to the entrance would not last long. He just hoped his feet would warm up a bit first. From the position of the sun, he judged the time to be about an hour before dusk.

  He looked at Toryn. "I should have known you would wake up as soon as I built a fire."

  Toryn did not take his gaze from the crackling flames. "I think I was awake a few times," he said. "I remember the sky and treetops moving above me. I thought I was dead." He looked at Brydon, finally. "I think I was dead. I was buried in snow. I couldn’t move and then... I couldn’t breathe." He looked away and coughed, as though the memory brought back a reflexive response. "You pulled me out, didn’t you? How did you find me?"

  "I probed the snow with my bow stave until it hit something solid," Brydon replied semi-truthfully. "Luckily, it was you."

  There was a long silence and then Toryn said, "I suppose you saved my life." Brydon nodded, but said nothing. He knew it was a bitter pill for the Redolian to swallow. Toryn grimaced. "Of course, it was your fault I was buried by the avalanche in the first place." He looked at Brydon hotly, as though daring him to contradict.

  Brydon smirked at him. "But if you had not decided to go Falaran-hunting, you would not have been forced to accompany me and," he stressed the word as Toryn began to interrupt, "if Eryka had not chosen me for this quest I would not have met you at all. And if my father had not been such a fine sword-smith we would not have lived near enough to the palace that the girl would even know of me; and if not for my mother, my father would never have taken up a hammer in order to better himself. So I suppose we can lay the blame for this entire predicament on my poor mother’s shoulders."

  Toryn listened in stony silence and then growled, "I assume that is your flowery Falaran way of suggesting I take responsibility for my own fate?"

  Brydon shrugged, but he had to smile. He had thought of all Redolians as barbaric heathens living in grass huts and sitting around bonfires worshipping strange gods, discussing nothing but ways in which to torment Falarans. He was surprised at Toryn. Not only was he intelligent, but he was also a man of honor, as evidenced by his adherence to the vow he had made. The only barbaric thing about him seemed to be his braided hair.

  Toryn glared. "As much as it pains me to suggest it... in fairness to you for dragging my carcass out of a snow bank, regardless of how it got there…" Toryn buried his face in the blanket for a moment. He cursed a few times and the wool muffled his choice oaths. Finally, he raised his head even though he did not look directly at Brydon. "Since I owe you my life, I will no longer try to kill you. I will not track you down, nor will I ai
d others in doing so. You are free to continue your journey with no hindrance from me. I will, of course, hope that you fall prey to wild beasts, brigands, falling rocks, lightning, or anything else that might slay you through no fault of mine."

  "Thank you," Brydon said. He could hardly slight Toryn’s bitterness, under the circumstances.

  "As I have no further designs upon you, will you allow me to return to Redol?"

  Brydon shrugged. "Yes, but not until we have traveled a bit farther." Toryn’s emerald eyes jerked to his and Brydon grinned wryly. "You may have vowed not to kill me, but all you need to do is go back to Redol and casually mention that the pass is uncrossable. Your countrymen will know immediately which way I have gone. I need no other bloodthirsty Redolians dogging my trail."

  "How do you know they are not lying in wait for you already?"

  "I was hoping you would grow to like me enough to warn me of any such arrangements," Brydon offered.

  "Not bloody likely!" Toryn huffed and Brydon had to laugh. His fingers and toes were beginning to thaw, bringing on the unwelcome burning sensation of renewed circulation. He placed some more wood on the fire and wished he could warm his backside at the same time as his front.

  Toryn looked terrible and Brydon was certain he did not look much better. The soot under Toryn’s eyes had smudged across his face on one side and partially washed off on the other. His braid had loosened and one strand of long, black hair had come free and hung listlessly beside his cheek. The bandage Brydon had wrapped around his head the previous day was long gone. A raw spot, dotted with blood, marred the side of Toryn’s chin, evidence of contact with ice or possibly a sharp stone.

  "How do you feel?" Brydon asked.

  "Better than I would expect after riding an avalanche and being buried alive," Toryn admitted. "Nothing is broken. I don’t think I’ll ever warm up, though."

  Brydon nodded in agreement. He tugged his wet boots back on and went to gather more wood. When he returned, Toryn was asleep.