They’d built a mound of snow on the hillside and were alternating digging their way inside.
“Your turn,” Daenor said, waving a hand toward the hole.
“What are we doing, exactly?” Rie asked.
“Digging,” Garamaen replied, as if that wasn’t obvious. Rie couldn’t help but notice how he rubbed a hand over the site of his wound, the knife injury still knitting itself back together. She worried he was making it worse.
“Take your cloak off before you go in,” Daenor suggested, drawing Rie’s attention away from her mentor and back to the immediate problem. “You’ll be cold for a moment, but as soon as you start digging in there, it’ll get hot, and the fur will get in your way.”
“We’re already up to the second level. When you get inside, we need to form raised platforms for sleeping,” Garamaen added.
“Raised platforms?”
“Snow beds.”
“Uh huh.” Rie had no idea what they were talking about, but assumed she’d figure it out when she poked her head inside.
Rie set her cloak in the pile with Garamaen’s and Daenor’s gear, finding the other pixies cuddled inside the layers as if it were their nest.
“Niinka and Hiinto are hunting in the rocks over there,” Rie said, pointing toward the fire. “You might want to join them if you’re hungry.”
Daenor lifted an eyebrow. “What’s there to hunt out here?”
“Some kind of white furry creature.”
Garamaen glanced at the rocks, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. “Might be a warren of alpine weasels.”
“So things really do live up here,” Daenor said, gaze wandering around the dimming landscape. “I was starting to doubt it.”
Rie grinned, then crawled into the tunnel entrance. Barely wider than her shoulders, and just tall enough for her to crawl on hands and knees, the entrance required some careful maneuvering to avoid damaging the walls. Once her head and shoulders were inside, the tunnel veered up a few feet, then leveled out again.
The men had poked a small ventilation hole overhead, and that was the only illumination for the small space. Feeling claustrophobic, Rie almost couldn’t stand being inside. Again. First the underground tunnel out of the city, and now a survival shelter made out of snow. But she forced herself to stay calm, examining the room with the analytical part of her brain instead of the screaming hindbrain.
A channel had been dug out through the center of the space. On the right side, Rie could see that headspace was now being removed from above a flat snow pile. It had to be the bed. There was only about a foot of clearance.
Rie began digging, a careful scraping with her knife to avoid caving in the snow overhead. Within moments she knew why the men had removed so many clothes. The space was getting warmer the more she moved, and the energy of digging threatened to bring on a sweat. Rie didn’t know much about surviving in the winter wilderness, but she knew it was not a good idea to be wet in these temperatures.
Slowing her pace slightly, Rie worked until her hands lost all sensation, then she backed out of the shelter to warm them by the fire, pushing the loose snow in front of her. She’d made good progress, but the second platform was still a bit shallow for sleeping.
“I’ll take first watch,” Garamaen offered, already seated next to the fire. “You two get some rest.”
“I’ll take second shift,” Daenor shot Garamaen a significant look, then grabbed his coat and headed inside.
Rie wondered briefly what that look was all about but set it aside. If Daenor and Garamaen were having some kind of disagreement, she really didn’t want to get involved. And if there was something else, she was sure Daenor would tell her in due time.
“We’ll stay out here,” Niinka said, emerging from a blood-stained pile of white fluff near the fire. The lazy way her eyes opened and closed, Rie knew she was blood-drunk. They must have decimated the entire warren.
Tiik popped his head out. “Could we borrow a waterproof covering? So long as we don’t get wet, I think we’ll be quite comfortable. This fur is surprisingly warm.” Less hazy than Niinka, he looked like he might be the one in charge of tonight’s nest building efforts.
“I don’t know why you’re surprised,” Rie replied. “The animals live here year-round. I imagine they would need a solid layer of insulation.”
“Yes. True.” Tiik grinned, revealing serrated teeth. “Their fat content was quite high as well.”
Garamaen pulled a bag out from under his cloak. Emptying the contents—a random assortment of first aid and survival supplies, including the red box with the white cross he’d used to heal Rie’s leg so long ago—he gave the entire sack to Tiik.
“That will be perfect. Much appreciated.”
As a group, the pixies began shoving the white fur into the bag. Some were more mobile than others, but it wouldn’t take long for them to create their preferred sleeping arrangement.
Wrapping herself back up in her fur cloak, Rie waited for Daenor’s feet to disappear inside the shelter. She knew it was going to be tight but figured they could work a little more together before closing their eyes.
“I’m in.” Daenor’s voice was muffled by the surrounding snow.
With her hood over her head, Rie tucked herself inside.
The room was dimly lit by a tiny straw and twig fire that Daenor must have started as soon as he entered the space. With the light fading outside, the interior of the shelter was already dark. Now he was digging out a little more of the second platform, pushing the snow out and down to the lower section. Rie moved to help him, but he waved her away.
“Lie down. This will only take another moment.”
“So what was that all about?” Rie asked. Okay, so she wanted to know more. She couldn’t help it. “With Garamaen, I mean.”
The muscle in Daenor’s jaw twitched. “I disagree that we should have wasted our time here, building a shelter out in the open, easy targets for anyone looking. We should have gone on ahead, found safety in the village.”
“Greg knows what he’s doing. He’s been here and done this a thousand times before. And maybe he knows something we don’t.”
Daenor shook his head, frustration pulling his lips down. “We have no idea what we’re walking into, or when the enemy will attack. All we really know is that they will, and soon, because neither of you can See a thing. We’re exposed and vulnerable.”
“I haven’t been able to See anything, that’s true, and I believe Garamaen when he says he can’t either, but his sister once told me that even as a child he had an uncanny knack of preparing for disaster without knowing why. She said there was one incident where he started storing water months in advance of having all their drinking water poisoned. It was the only thing that saved them when other families perished. He swore he hadn’t had a premonition, but all the same, he knew. Maybe that’s happening here, too. I’m going to trust in his judgment until I have reason not to.”
Daenor frowned. “Your mentor is a good man, and means well, but I worry that his skills and judgment aren’t what they once were.”
“Are you suggesting he’s getting old?” Rie grinned. Garamaen wasn’t just old, he was literally ancient. One of the oldest of the mortal fae.
Daenor laughed, the hearty chuckle bubbling up from deep within his chest. It was a nice sound, one that Rie hadn’t heard in quite a while. She was glad to have given him at least a moment’s levity.
When the laughter finally subsided, Daenor blew out a gust of air. “That’s as good as this shelter’s going to get.” He pushed the last of the excavated snow out of the entrance. “I suppose we’d better get what sleep we can. It might be our last opportunity for a while.”
“You’re not actually planning to sleep over there, are you?” Rie asked. “I’m pretty sure in sub-freezing temperatures, it’s better to share body heat.”
Daenor smirked, the corner of his lip turning up in a half smile. “I thought we’d put my coat on the snow and
use your cloak as a blanket.”
“Mm. That sounds like a solid plan.”
Rie moved off the snow bed, giving Daenor enough room to spread out his coat, fur side up. He lay down on his side, his back to the wall of snow, lifting an arm in invitation. Rie snuggled in close, pulling her cloak over the top of them both. The fur of the hood tickled her nose, but wrapped in Daenor’s arms and covered with the fur, she finally felt at least marginally warm.
“It’s been a long day,” Daenor murmured in her ear. “Who would have thought drinking coffee this morning that our night would be spent in a snow cave?”
“Not me.” Rie turned her face up to look into her chosen partner’s eyes.
Chosen partner. She liked that turn of phrase, and the way Garamaen had said it so casually to the barbegazi leader, as if Rie and Daenor were more than just lovers and would continue to be so. Did her mentor know more than he was sharing?
Daenor flicked a finger at the palm-sized pile of straw they’d been using as a lantern. The flame vanished, and their shelter descended into full dark.
“I’ve decided I’m not a fan of small spaces,” Rie whispered.
Daenor squeezed his arms around her waist, tucking her in tighter to his chest. “Even with me beside you?”
“This is nice.” Rie’s eyes were closed, not that she could tell the difference. Pitch black was pitch black. But somehow, Daenor’s lips found hers. His hand brushed across her cheek. Breath mingling, they found warmth in one another, if only for a little while.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
A HOWL PIERCED the night air. Rie rolled off the snow bed, landing in a crouch. She hadn’t thought it at the time, but now she was glad it had been too cold to take off much clothing last night. All she needed were her leathers and her knives, and she was ready. Daenor followed suit, sliding down to the lower level as soon as his coat was on.
Gikl zoomed through the tunnel entrance, wings buzzing with urgency.
“Outside.” It was all he said before zipping back out into the night.
Daenor exited first, sword drawn. Rie followed close behind. The cold slammed into her, drawing the heat from her bones before she could even take two breaths. She wrapped the cloak tightly around her shoulders, straightening to stand next to the men while her breath billowed out and froze on the night air.
The sight before her eyes dashed all thoughts of the cold from her mind.
Orange and red lit the night sky, brightening the distant mountain to near daylight. Rie couldn’t tell what was burning, but the cliffs themselves seemed to be on fire. A scream. Shadows loped through the wreckage, backlit by the flames. A figure on two legs was chased by another on four. The echo of a snarl. A shout. The words were incomprehensible, lost in the miles between them.
“We have to help them.” Daenor’s voice was fierce and unshakable. “We should have been there already.”
“And we would have died by their side,” Garamaen replied, sadly.
“Then why are we here? What are we supposed to do, if not help?”
Rie pressed her hand on Daenor’s arm, but he shook it away. The rejection stung. Especially after a night of finding comfort in each other’s arms.
“End this. But we do it on our terms, on our timeline. Not on theirs. They expected us to be there. They had set the trap with the girl in the city.” Garamaen shook his head, despair washing over his features. “I don’t know how to fix this yet, but I will.”
“This is the wrong choice. These people deserve better.” Daenor pressed his lips together, fury kindling the fire in his eyes.
“Perhaps.” Garamaen’s shoulders slumped. He turned away from the view. “But how do you choose one life over another? How do you take sides in a conflict between species? No matter what we do, it’s murder.”
“Stopping a murder is not the same thing.”
Garamaen sat on a stone he must have moved next to the fire. Dark circles clouded his eyes. “It was the arrival of the origin elves with an affinity for the cold that started this whole mess in the first place. When prey was scarce, Fenrir fed his family with the blood of the barbegazi. What would you do to feed your family, if they were starving?”
Daenor crossed his arms over his chest, not responding. His jaw remained tight, but a flicker of uncertainty softened his eyes.
“Of course, the barbegazi didn’t want to be considered prey. They demanded justice, demanded Fenrir’s death from the settlers in exchange for colonization. But that wouldn’t have ended the violence. His family still needed to eat. The only solution I could think of was to convince the wolves to leave the area completely, to travel to follow the herds to the distant tundras. They didn’t want to move. This was their home.”
“They’re wolves,” Rie argued. “They should want to go where the prey is.”
“They still had prey. The barbegazi raised goats and were—are—weaker than the giant wolves. Even with their magic, they couldn’t compete.”
“What did you do?” Rie’s voice lowered a fraction. She knew she wasn’t going to like the answer.
“I blackmailed them. I trapped Fenrir, chained him in his own lair. The pack was to leave the barbegazi and their livestock alone in exchange for Fenrir’s life. A life in captivity, but a life nonetheless.”
Rie’s gaze traveled back to the village, where the shouts and screams had ended but the fires still burned. “And there he remained for two thousand years, planning and plotting an escape . . . and revenge.”
“Fenrir is intelligent. He learned our language within months of the first settlers’ arrival.”
“So what do we do now?” Rie asked.
Garamaen sighed and rubbed his eyes once more. “I need a few hours of sleep. At dawn, we finish the trek to the village. Maybe there will be someone there we can yet save.”
Rie’s gaze returned to the distant fires. The weather had mostly cleared, only a few lonely snowflakes drifted from the sky. But the wind still whipped across her face, stinging her cheeks and bringing tears to her eyes.
At least, that’s what she would say if anyone asked.
***
They arrived at the village of Bjergtopp a bell or two after sunrise. Downhill and downwind from the caves, Rie could smell the destruction before they could see anything. Smoke and the scent of burning wood, with an undertone of charred flesh and putrid sick wafted on the air.
Rie covered her mouth and nose, gagging on the stench. Normally the cold would have minimized the smell, or so she thought. She dreaded climbing over the last rise into the cliffside plateau. She wrapped her cloak tight around her shoulders, holding it in at the neck as if the hood would protect her heart as well as her face.
She stopped, stomach in her throat. Took in the scene.
“Gods above and below,” Niinka whispered, even her tiny voice hushed in the face of so much chaos and ruin.
The village was utterly destroyed. A few fires yet burned in the stacked woodpiles near the cliff face, but most had been reduced to ash and rubble.
A door hung on its hinges, split in half from top to bottom, the ragged edges of wood pointing accusingly inside. A body sprawled at an awkward angle, its intestines curled and looped on the floor.
Rie turned away, but her eyes caught on the blackened skin of another body. This one was on its stomach, arms extended away from a still glowing pile of ash, as if it had been trying to crawl away.
She couldn’t think of the bodies as people, not and still stay sane. They weren’t men and women, they weren’t people. They couldn’t be.
Bodies were strewn everywhere, but none had been taken as meat.
No, the wolves were seeking revenge, not food. After two thousand years surviving on the tundra, they had clearly found enough prey to survive. They didn’t need to hunt the barbegazi or their goats—of which Rie saw no sign. Maybe this village didn’t have any, anymore. Felman had said it wasn’t heavily populated at this time of year.
“We need to canvass the village fo
r survivors,” Garamaen said. His voice was sad and resigned, but Rie agreed they still had to be sure.
The pixies crawled out from Rie’s hood and buzzed into the air.
“We’ll help,” Niinka said. “We’ll check the harder to reach areas of the upper cliffs.”
“Good idea,” Rie said. “There may have been a back exit or emergency way out.”
Garamaen shook his head. “I doubt we’ll find anything but death.”
It didn’t matter. While the pixies zipped off to scan the cliff-face, Garamaen still led the way into the interior of the mountain, passing through the broken doors and into the barbegazi homes. Rie and Daenor split off, choosing a different door to begin the search for survivors.
“This is madness,” Daenor whispered, aghast. “I’ve never before seen or heard of a creature who would do this kind of destruction outside of war.”
“This is war,” Rie said, finally understanding what Garamaen had been saying all along. The wolves brought the war into the barbegazi homes.
Rie, hunched over and heart pounding, kept moving through the cave system that had been turned into a home. Furnishings had been knocked over, books and belongings scattered across the floor. A finely knit wool rug lay bunched in a corner like a discarded rag.
She found her way into a bedroom. A spray of blood coated one wall like paint. The couple lay in bed, the man sprawled across the woman as if trying to protect her. Their throats had been torn open.
Rie lifted a hand to cover her mouth. For one brief moment, she imagined what those final moments must have been like. The terror of waking to find a wolf above you, snarling and threatening your life. Weaponless, struggling to protect the person you love the most in this world. Rie’s breath hitched, her shoulders shaking as she fought to retain control.
Daenor wrapped his arms around her from behind and Rie turned around to bury her face in his chest. His hand rubbed slow comforting circles into her back.
Long heartbeats later, Rie managed to regain her composure.
Sanyare: The Winter Warrior (The Sanyare Chronicles Book 4) Page 7
