Sanyare: The Winter Warrior (The Sanyare Chronicles Book 4)

by Megan Haskell

  Garamaen scooted forward, hovering a hand over Solvi’s face. He closed his eyes.

  “Rie, it would be good for you to observe this.”

  “Of course.” She was already planning on it. This was a skill that had been lost thousands of years ago, and Garamaen might be the only person in existence who still knew the old ways of the forest shaman. She would be a fool to ignore the opportunity.

  Rie closed her eyes and let her senses open to the magical plane. Colors and lights bloomed behind her eyes. She could sense Garamaen next to her, his aura a golden sunrise, dimmed only slightly by the remaining weakness from his injuries. Daenor was at her back, an intense red and orange from the fire in his blood.

  But the girl . . . the girl was being eaten from the inside out. Wicked tendrils of black slid beneath the white light of her aura, pulsing in time with her heartbeat. With each beat of her heart, the blackness grew larger and darker, consuming more of her essence, while the white dimmed and faded away. Her entire face and torso had already been smothered.

  It reminded her a bit of how Othin had trapped Turant’s energy and forced him into an unnatural rest.

  “Do you see it?” Greg asked.

  “It can’t be missed.”

  “I think the wolf is feeding off her energy, using her magic to fuel his own.”

  “Othin did the same thing to Turant, helping the Summer Realm keep him contained and quiescent.”

  “Interesting. And how did you solve it?”

  “I denied the trap of its food, siphoning away the good energy and injecting it back into Turant’s aura elsewhere, forcing the infection to retreat to its origin. Then I severed the connection. But I don’t think that will work here.”

  “Why not?” His voice wasn’t accusatory, but more professorial. He wanted to know how she thought.

  “Because this darkness is too far advanced into her system, and the tentacles are absorbing the magic from all directions. It actually doesn’t even feel like tentacles, that’s not the right word . . . it’s more like she’s being smothered by a blanket.”

  “Very good.” Garamaen pulled back from the girl. He turned to Felman. “Here’s what I need . . . .”

  CHAPTER SIX

  THE RUNNER RETURNED with the ingredients within a bell, including a mortar and pestle that Garamaen shoved into the fire to heat up. Meanwhile, he examined the pouches and containers in front of him, arranging them in a semi-circle around his crossed legs. Rie watched closely, memorizing every detail. This was old, ancient magic, and she was determined to master it along with everything else that was thrown at her.

  After a few long moments, Garamaen pulled the mortar from the fire and set it on the stone floor in front of him. Selecting three bright red berries from a pouch, he combined them with three drops of water and began to mash them into a pulp. Then a white mushroom of some variety was added to the bowl. A few more drops of water with a handful of oats. The last liquid added was some kind of vinegar—the aroma was so pungent Rie sneezed.

  Garamaen continued to circle the pestle around the bowl in a clockwise motion until the mash was little more than a thick syrup. A guttural rhythmic noise began to build, not quite humming, but not a mechanical sound, either. At first she couldn’t place it. Finally, she realized it was a throat murmur coming from Garamaen. Gradually, it got louder, and louder, until it became a wave of noise that crashed around the room. Rie hadn’t realized a single person could make that much sound. She would have to ask him how he did it.

  Still humming, Garamaen scooped a handful of the syrup from the bowl and began rubbing the mixture on Solvi’s cheek.

  The girl shrieked. She tried to move away. Calder stepped forward, but Rie lifted a hand to forestall him, even as Garamaen used the stump of his wrist to hold the girl’s head in place and keep her from squirming away.

  “It’s working,” Rie reassured the other men. “Her magic is growing stronger.”

  Even within the first few heartbeats, Rie could See the black struggling to find purchase in Solvi’s aura. A few more heartbeats and it was actively being pulled out of her system, revealing the underlying white light that was her essence. With every breath she grew brighter.

  Garamaen continued the circular motion, making sure to cover every inch of the claw mark with the blackish goop. He never stopped the noise. Even when the girl whimpered, he didn’t break the rhythmic motion of his hand nor was there a hiccup in the sound.

  Rie watched the magical spectrum with intense interest. With every circle of Garamaen’s hand, the black retreated from Solvi’s aura. Meanwhile, the poultice glowed red, like a furnace burning the infection to ashes. As the black retreated, the girl’s struggling abated, and the fire of the healing magic began to dim. When the embers burned away to blackened coals, Garamaen opened his eyes to examine his handiwork.

  Tears streaked through the mess of goop on her cheek, but she sagged in visible relief.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I feel almost whole again.”

  The inflammation and redness already looked much better. Most of the bruising around her eye was even gone. Not entirely healed, but certainly better.

  “I’ve burned out most of the infection, but there are a few tendrils still remaining. We will need to make a trip out to Fenrir’s lair, but before we leave this realm I will return to complete the healing. It should only take one or two more treatments, three at most.”

  “What will happen to her in the meantime?” Felman asked.

  “Use the remainder of this cream as a poultice. Pack it on top of the physical wounds and bind it. Fenrir’s poison will spread again, but more slowly, and the wound won’t fester.”

  “And her lost eye?”

  The girl gazed at Garamaen, her wide eyes brimming with unshed tears. She beamed up at him as she clenched the heavy wool of her cloak.

  “I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do for that. As far as I know, no one alive can regrow lost organs—or limbs.” A wry twist of his lips gave away the irony.

  Solvi’s face fell, disappointment laying waste to hope. Garamaen placed his fingers under her chin, forcing her face up to meet his gaze.

  “But once the treatment is complete, you’ll have full use of your magic. Your eye may be gone, but remember, a handicap is only a handicap if you let it become one. At least you can wear a prosthesis and no one will even notice.”

  Garamaen patted her shoulder with the stump of his wrist and a small smile lifted the corners of her lips.

  “Now. About the barbegazi village. Is Bjergtopp open?”

  “The mountain pass is, but spring has not yet fully arrived in the upper climes. More snow is likely, and the path is treacherous. The herds won’t be moved for another month or more. Is that where you’ll go?”

  “It’s the closest village to Fenrir’s lair, or it was the last time I was here. If we move quickly, we might yet stop the wolves from their next attack.”

  “Then you won’t simply present yourself as his prisoner?” Felman asked, a grim smile darkening his expression. “I’d hoped you might find the guilt irreconcilable.”

  “I’m not giving up hope of a peaceful resolution. So no, I’ll not surrender myself to his justice just yet. But I promise, the violence against the barbegazi will end.”

  Felman nodded, resigned. “Very well. Let’s get some warm food in your bellies and get you on your way.”

  ***

  The barbegazi brought bowls of some kind of warm stew for the party to eat, the three white bearded men and the injured girl all sitting down with Garamaen, Rie, and Daenor, while the older woman—presumably the leader’s wife—served from the kitchen. Solvi tried to get up to help a few times, but the woman just smiled and encouraged her to sit and relax, to recover from her ordeal.

  Rie waited to eat until Garamaen and Felman took their first sips, following the protocol of the Upper Realm. She didn’t know if etiquette was as strict in this realm, or with the barbegazi, but it never hurt to err
on the side of courtesy.

  Felman held the bowl to his lips and took a deep swig. He smacked his lips appreciatively, then nodded to Garamaen to give it a try.

  “My wife makes the best lichen soup in all the realm,” he grinned.

  “Mmm,” Garamaen lifted his eyebrows and smiled in gratitude. The smile didn’t reach his eyes. In fact, if anything, he squinted in distaste but was too diplomatic not to give the soup a try. “Yes, I remember this well from the early days. Your wife’s soup is much better than your great-great-grandmother’s, however.”

  “She’ll be pleased to hear it. The recipe has been handed down through the generations, but it’s always nice to improve on the past.”

  Rie looked into the bowl. A skim of green floated on top of a thick gray liquid. Chunks of some kind of dark brown meat floated like icebergs in a murky sea. She swallowed, suddenly not very hungry.

  “Go ahead,” Felman encouraged. “Give it a try. That’s a bit of goat meat, the first of the spring slaughter.”

  Rie held the bowl to her lips, making the unfortunate mistake of taking a deep breath at the same time. The scent of old grass and dirt mixed with a gamey grease twisted her stomach. Burying the desire to put the bowl down, Rie forced her hands to tip it up.

  It tasted as bad as it smelled. Bitter and sour, she felt like she’d stuck her face in a recently plowed field and taken a bite. She forced her throat to swallow. If it wouldn’t kill Garamaen, it wouldn’t kill her.

  “Mmm,” she said, nodding toward Felman. “Delicious.”

  She glanced at Daenor out of the corner of her eye. He also seemed to struggle to swallow, but made a few appreciative noises.

  “Oh good, I’m so glad you like it. Eat up.”

  Garamaen held the bowl to his lips, forcing down another sip, then set the bowl in his lap.

  “Tell me about the guards.” It was a rather abrupt change of subject, but then, he probably needed an excuse to talk instead of eat.

  “Guards?” Felman asked.

  “At the portal and in the market and stationed throughout the city. We had to take a circuitous route to avoid being followed.”

  Felman waved away the concern. “It’s just because of the Battle of the Arches. My sources suggest that the general was concerned that the Shadow Realm, or King Othin, would want to take this opportunity to invade since we were defeated and lost so many soldiers.”

  “Who would want to conquer this realm?” Daenor asked, then grimaced at his undiplomatic question. “No offense, of course. You are after all, attuned to this climate, but the dark elves certainly have no desire to live in such cold, nor can I imagine the high elves wanting to leave their comforts and temperate climates.”

  “No offense taken,” Felman replied. “In fact, we count on that disinclination to settle. This land cannot feed a large population.”

  “It’s why the market is so large here, the frost sidhe have to import most of their supplies and foodstuffs from the Autumn and Upper Realms,” Calder said, the implication of weakness strong in his tone. He didn’t seem too fond of the frost sidhe. But given the violence in his gaze with every glance at Garamaen, he wasn’t too fond of the elves in his presence, either.

  “I think the general is being overly cautious. But that’s his job, isn’t it?” Felman added.

  “Perhaps,” Garamaen mused. “Regardless, they can’t know we’re here. The frost sidhe still support King Othin, and he’ll do what he can to thwart our efforts, regardless of the needs of the barbegazi or the risk of Fenrir.”

  Felman nodded. “Not to worry. We’ll get you out of the city without a problem.”

  Rie found that a little hard to believe, but nonetheless hoped he was right.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CLOAKS WRAPPED TIGHTLY about their bodies, hoods hiding their faces, the team left the barbegazi townhome and headed out into the city. The weather had gotten worse. If winds had been blustery before, they were now a downright gale force.

  The barbegazi didn’t seem to mind the inclement weather. They simply skated forward on the icy terrain as if their bare feet were cross-country skis. Rie shook her head. It was hard to believe these people could handle that much cold on exposed skin, but it seemed they were designed for winter. Which made sense. They had evolved here, after all.

  At first the way was clear and open, the only pedestrians a few other barbegazi. But as they neared the main thoroughfare at the center of the city, activity levels exploded. The market was still open, vendors hawking their end-of-day wares to bargain hunters. But many stands were shutting down, their non-native stall-keepers racing to pack up and get through the portal before the center of the storm reached the city and temperatures really dropped.

  Rie was not looking forward to the next few hours.

  They needed to cross the entire city to exit on the road to Bjergtopp. Felman thought they wouldn’t have trouble, what with the market chaos and the herds still in the city, but they were leaving on a rather unorthodox path, especially for greater fae who didn’t often venture outside the city walls.

  “Where are we going, again?” Daenor asked, his voice muffled by the fur around his face, but still intelligible.

  “Bjergtopp,” Greg replied. “It’s the nearest village to Fenrir’s lair, built into the cliffs of the mountain pass. Or it was.”

  “There aren’t many still living there, especially now, in early spring,” Felman said.

  Rie glanced up at the sky, and the craggy mountain shadowed in the distance. “This is spring? I’d hate to see winter.”

  The barbegazi grinned. “I’m sure you’d be miserable. Most of your kind are. At times, we wish you all were, but that’s another story.”

  Though the words sounded bitter, the tone was light, almost playful. Rie wished she’d had time to study more of the history of the Winter Realm before coming to this harsh landscape. It sounded like there was ancient conflict that had worn down over time, the sharp edges of competition and discord dulled by forced cooperation.

  “In any case,” Felman continued, “Bjergtopp is the highest village on this continent, an ancient settlement in the cliffs of Mount Nordryggar. There are a few recluses who prefer the isolation in the winter, but most of the village come down to lower elevations with the goat herds when the first heavy snow falls.”

  “So an elder, a fire thrower, and an apprentice hike up a mountain to an abandoned village, high in the mountains. That’s sounds like the beginning of a bad joke,” Daenor said.

  Rie chuckled. “It does. Unfortunately, I think the joke’s on us.”

  At that moment Rie’s feet decided to slip out from under her. She landed on her hip. Hard. A grunt of pain escaped her lips.

  The barbegazi turned to see what had happened. Not one could hold back a smile. Even Garamaen seemed amused by the clumsy fall.

  Daenor helped her up. “That’s going to leave a bruise.”

  “Hmmph.” Rie rubbed her hip with the heel of her hand. Already she could feel the swelling.

  “Watch out for black ice. You won’t slip on the white snowdrift, but the ice slicks can be deadly.”

  “Thanks for the advice,” too little too late. She would never speak so disrespectfully to her master and ancient ancestor, but she sure could think it.

  “If you gently melt the ice before each step, you’ll get a better grip on the ground,” Garamaen continued. “If you can take it down to stone, all the better, but it takes less energy and is faster just to turn the surface into slush.”

  Rie looked down at the ground. Then down the path. The exit gate still wasn’t in sight, and though a light snow fell, the wind seemed to blow it away before it could collect on the ground.

  Rie lifted up her foot to look at the bottom of her boot. “Couldn’t we just wear shoes with better traction?” she asked. Her boots were high quality human manufactured footwear, but they had slipped as easily as if they didn’t have any traction at all. “Like maybe some spikes?”

&
nbsp; “If you brought some, put them on,” Garamaen replied. “But still practice targeting each step. It’ll be good to improve your precision with heat.”

  Daenor leaned over, as if to adjust her cloak, but whispered in her ear. “Don’t feel too bad, I’ve had a couple close calls and hadn’t thought of heating each step, either.”

  “Don’t we need something flammable to work with?” Rie whispered back. “Stone and ice aren’t exactly ideal fuel sources.”

  “I’m going to try heating the rubber sole.”

  “Ah.” Maybe that would work. With her leg still lifted to examine the tread, Rie concentrated on the rubber. She imagined a hot iron pressed against the bottom of her shoe. When she touched the rubber, her finger left an indentation and the material clung to her finger in a goopy strand.

  Too much. She grimaced, frustrated at her clumsy attempt at control. She was getting better with her magic, but precision was still beyond her. Pulling a horde of souls through the veil? No problem. Calling violent premonitions? Easy. But heating the rubber of her boot without completely destroying it, that was apparently too much to ask.

  Backing off the heat a bit, Rie found a temperature she thought might work to melt the ice without ruining her shoes.

  She stepped forward. Tried to slide her foot back and forth, but it seemed the method worked. The heat melted the ice and let the tread of the shoe get a grip.

  By the time she had a handle on her technique, the rest of the party had moved on. Rie struggled to catch up, but she didn’t slip again.

  They’d long since left the main market area behind and were now entering what could only be described as a ramshackle section of town. Instead of stone, these buildings looked like they’d been hastily constructed out of cheap imported timber. Some were little more than a roof supported with thick beams, while others had four walls but no door.