by S. K. Alden
"And the two below?" His voice was tight.
"Broken bones. Not as serious at these. We're bringing them up now."
Kirin looked at the crew with the lifting crane. They were nearly ready to send the rescue basket back down.
He raised a hand and walked forward, calling to them. "Give me a ride," he shouted, reaching for the chain and stepping onto the lifting basket's footholds.
He didn't see the crane workers glance at the guard captain in alarm, nor did he see the man shrug.
"Just be careful!" the captain called out, as much to the workers as to his prince. "The wind's gusty and getting worse!"
Kirin looked down. They had one watch lantern at the landing spot below, and one of the rescue crew below stood at the ready with a guide line to keep the basket steady in the wind. After a quick warning jerk on the chain, the rig descended rapidly with Kirin on board.
Kirin’s stomach lurched with the speed, but it was no different than riding the mining lifts. The basket hit the ground with a spine-jarring jolt, but Kirin stepped off easily and strode for the cneasaí and their patients.
“I can help,” he called, grabbing the head-end of a stretcher and helping to lift the next wounded guard to the basket. The patient was a grey-haired older warrior with a splinted leg and arm. The fellow had already been given a powerful dose of pain killer and looked more like he'd just survived a tavern brawl than an avalanche.
"Be careful laddie," the fellow said to Kirin when he recognized his prince. "I don't know what kind of ale they're servin', but it packs a powerful punch."
"Does it?" Kirin smiled at the oldtimer while two cneasaí strapped him into the lifting basket. "Let's raise a glass of it then, next time I see you. We'll judge how strong the stuff is together."
He met the senior cneasaí’s eye, wondering if the injured guard would be all right, but the fellow's expression looked grave. Kirin knew that meant the veteran's odds of losing a limb were fifty-fifty at best.
The cneasaí fellow turned to his partner. "Are you all right if I ride up?" he asked.
Kirin saw the second one nod in agreement. "Go," she said. "I'll finish and pack."
A lassie's voice. Kirin looked up to see Nÿr, the very one the young Lord of River Bend had just talked about, her braid covered by a blue hood.
"You're certainly everywhere today," he said to her in a level voice. Just this morning he would have been delighted cross paths with her again. Now he didn't know what to think. He shoved his mixed feelings aside, focusing on the more urgent matter at hand.
"Just my duty schedule," she answered, testing the buckles on the safety straps. "Luck of the draw for the holiday shift." She tugged on one last strap and stood back.
The senior cneasaí stepped into the footholds and signaled readiness. Kirin took the safety line and let it play out as the basket whisked upwards. He felt it bump to a halt at the top, barely able to see the crane swinging the basket to safety. The snow was really coming down now, he realized, and changing from flurries of small flakes to the large heavy stuff that would be knee-deep in an hour.
Knowing that time was of the essence, he turned to the last wounded guard, Skirfir. The junior archer was the least hurt but looked the most worried.
"Tell me what happened, lad," Kirin said as he bent to lend a shoulder to the younger warrior and help him up while Nÿr guided the empty carrier back to the ground.
"Commander, these rockfalls are not happenstance," Skirfir spoke quietly but looked at his prince with anger in his eyes. "Someone is setting them with some kind of blast powder. I saw them, just before the slide. Three of them, warriors none of us recognized, dressed in grey and black. Up there," he jerked his head toward the area Kirin had been looking at earlier. "They were dropping sacks. Red powder of some kind. We shouted and were headed up..."
Kirin's eyes narrowed at the mention of red powder. "Three warriors? No more?"
"Ask the Ravens. There was a small flock here raising a ruckus like no one's business. One tried to talk to me." Skirfir's head fell back, his frustration clear. "But I just can't understand them. I'm sorry..."
Kirin scanned the slope above them. Any self-respecting bird had roosted at sunset and was now hunkered down out of the wind. He wouldn't be able to ravenspeak until at least morning. He put a hand on the injured lad's shoulder. "Good lad, Skirf," he said, and then bent close to speak quietly. "Who else have you told about this?"
"No one."
Kirin squeezed the lad's arm. "Good. You've done well. But this is for King's ears only, do you understand me?"
Skirfir stared a moment, then nodded.
"We'll tell him together once you get patched up."
Skirfir nodded again as Nÿr stepped around the basket.
"Cross your arms like this and grip the straps," she said to the lad, demonstrating on herself, hands on opposite shoulders. "And hold tight."
Skirfir obeyed, blinking snow out of his eyes. He looked uncertain, but his expression was bravely stoic.
"Did I just hear a lass asking you to hold tight?" Kirin winked at the lad, trying to lessen the lad's worry with a bit of humor. It worked. He noticed the corner of Skirfir's mouth twitch up and the young archer looked a bit scandalized. Kirin suppressed a grin.
And then the strongest gust yet buffeted them with an icy blast and Kirin leaned over the lad to protect him. Above them, the lift's chain swayed wildly and beside him, Nÿr met his gaze when the gust subsided. The snow was coming down faster and heavier.
"You go up," he said, indicating that she should ride the basket up with Skirfir.
"Too gusty," Nÿr shook her head. "Send him up alone—it will be safer."
Kirin nodded. She knew her stuff, the lass did. That was indeed the safest way in gusty conditions. He nodded and patted Skirfir one last time on the shoulder for reassurance.
He double checked the chain and snap-hook, and then the safety line. A strong wicked gust buffeted them and he rocked back, ignoring the sharpening pain in the old dragon wound but shifting his weight off it just the same.
"Your ride might be bumpy," he shouted to Skirfir over the storm. He eyed the ropes, unable to see the cliff or the lights above now. "Let's hope the lads up there pull hard and fast. The sooner you're up, the easier it will be."
Kirin nodded to Nÿr to stand away and he grabbed the chain, yanked twice, and quickly stepped back, his gloved hands on the safety line. Above them, a team with a winch would jave their hands on the second safety line. The basket jerked and lifted just a little, the warning signal to clear for lift, and then shot upwards, out of sight. Kirin let the safety line play out but held it taut, hoping it kept the basket from dashing against the rocks in the wind.
The line was nearly played out when it stopped, seemed to jerk twice, and then went still.
He and Nÿr both stood, looking up into nothing but swirling snow as the safety line went lax, then came snaking back to the ground with a frayed end.
They looked at each other in shock.
Nÿr bent and lifted the sliced end. "What just happened?" she asked.
Kirin looked wide-eyed at the rope in her hand, then at the swirling snow above them. "Skirfir!" he shouted, barely holding back a surge of panic.
Of course, no one could hear above the wind. He strained to see—had Skirf fallen?
Several long moments passed. No part of the chain had come down...was the basket caught on the rocks somewhere?
The wind gusted, quieted, then gusted again with enough force to drive him against the Cneasaí lass and push both of them two steps to the side.
Then he saw it...a plump, round object too small to be a warrior, falling straight for them. He grabbed Nÿr's arm and pulled her aside just in time for a bundle to hit the snowy ground with a whump.
"What does this mean?" she shouted in the wind.
"This," Kirin called back, striding forward to retrieve the emergency pack and quickly interpreting a rune-code scrawled on its canvas. "Means th
e upper line held and Skirf made it, but there won't be any more rescue lifts tonight." He braced himself against the gusting snow and went back to her, holding out a hand. She looked at it, eyes wide.
"Come on," he shouted. "We need to stay together and find shelter!"
Chapter Eight
Blinded by stinging gusts of swirling snow, Kirin kicked up a pile of snow and gravel to mark their starting point, and then locked elbows with Nÿr and trudged to the wall of stone that marked the uphill side of the road—far safer to follow than the drop-off side. They found it when Nÿr stumbled against rock.
“There are a few old shelters along here,” Kirin shouted to her as he pointed into the dark away from the slide area. “Let’s hope we can find one...!” They stayed together, followed the wall, eyes narrowed against the wind and nearly blind in the darkness. Every few minutes he stopped to kick up another mound of snow and gravel.
It took longer than Kirin hoped to find a rough-hewn doorway carved into the rock. They kicked up one last pile of stones pointing to their shelter, and then Kirin ushered her inside. The foyer lacked a door, but they found and opening to a tiny, vacant inner room was at least out of the wind.
Kirin’s foot bumped something solid, and he bent to find a metal box of signal torches, not too old, and Kirin lit one with his flint.
Together, they got a good look at where they were—a square inner room, relatively clean and dry but for a little dust and debris and few odd stacked stones that might make a fire ring.
It would be remarkably cold, however, and they didn't see any wood.
"I wonder if there's a concealed entrance," Kirin said, holding up the torch and reaching out to test the stone walls. "Maybe there's a way in." He wanted to check on Skirfir, then report to his brother and have a chance at the saboteur in their midst before sunrise.
Nÿr pulled off one glove and let her fingertips trail along the stone. "No seams," she said. And neither of them found the kind of decorative ornament that often hid a latch.
"Just plain, solid walls," Kirin said. "I guess we're stuck here." Disheartened, his shoulders sagged. Any hope of getting the jump on his quarry now stalled while the storm raged on. "Hope Skirf made it all right."
Nÿr’s eyes were wide, her face solemn. "I'm sure they got him inside to the infirmary. His leg will mend—the break was clean. He's in better shape than the others."
Kirin nodded. "Thank you for helping them," he said quietly, putting the torch in a metal wall bracket.
She bowed her head once in return.
"You know, I remember you,” he said. “From the day Grauvale arrived." He unpacked the emergency bundle. "I..." He stopped and smiled in hopes of putting her at ease. He looked up to see her blush slightly, then ducked his head. “I think I never thanked you for cleaning Skirf’s eyes that day.”
He pulled a roll of padded blankets from the emergency bundle and handed it to her before realizing what it was.
“Cneasaí’s job,” she said. They both looked at the bedroll. She didn’t seem to quite know what to do with it.
"Let's unpack this and see what we have..." he changed the subject. Thankfully, they got past the awkward moment by going through the rest of the bundle together. Pack of dried fruit and meat, a small kettle, several small metal cups, and a sturdy sack full of treated wood—the kind steeped in long-burning oils.
"My Lord—are you limping?" Nÿr asked, suddenly very concerned when she saw him favoring his right side as he took the wood to a clear area and laid it down.
"It's nothing." Kirin tried to smile as he unbuckled his sword and set the weapon within reach before bending to light the fire. "Old injury. Acts up in the cold sometimes." The oil-soaked wood flared to life, the flames green-yellow and hot.
She looked skeptical. "I have my aid kit," she said, pointing to the leather satchel she'd brought with her. "Let me know if you need something..."
"Thanks," Kirin said. But he looked away. He was pretty sure that nothing in her kit would help him. Phantom injury is what the archdruid had called it, once it had become clear that the effects of the Night Dragon poison would revisit him every year. Some years the scars merely ached. Other years it laid him flat with a full relapse of fever and searing pain...and torturous nightmares full of a dark presence that taunted and tormented.
He tried not to think about it and poked at the wood with his long knife, spacing the pieces so they’d settle into a slow burn. He tried to tell himself that with the nàmhid gone from the Green Isle, the wound had lost its power, that a little soreness would be all he was due.
The war is over, he told himself. Over and done.
And he tried not to recall those last few years. As the nàmhid had gained in strength, so had the power of the wound. It had kept him unwell and close to Snowmount when others like his cousin Dyfed were free to travel the Isle and join the fray.
His thoughts broke when Nÿr took the kettle and went back to the outer doorway to fill it with snow. Kirin shook off his worry and busied himself with positioning a flat stone in the fire for the kettle.
But when she returned, when he stood to make room for her to place the kettle, a sharp jolt of pain shot through his hip, cramping the muscles. He leaned against the wall, clutching his right side, face clenched with agony.
Nÿr responded like any Cneasaí would—she leapt to assist. In moments she had his belt undone and his trousers pushed clear to expose the mess of scar tissue on his right hip. She took hold of his knee and forced him to lift his foot and change position—which hurt more at first, then suddenly abated.
Kirin gasped with the relief of it as she rummaged in her healer’s kit and came up with an ointment that she slathered on the scar and then set to work on the muscle. The salve warmed his skin and her Cneasaí hands found exactly the right tensons to address. A few minutes of this and he found his thoughts clearing.
“Thanks,” he breathed.
“A little more,” she replied. “Work all of that out of the muscle...”
He didn’t object. Though after several more minutes, he had to admit, the sight of this lass with the sleek dark braid kneeling at his feet and rubbing a warming ointment into his hip made his brain stall. It was perilously close to other parts and this was all somehow quite more interesting than it should be, despite the pain involved.
Leading to completely inappropriate thoughts again. What are you thinking? He chided himself. He’d learned long ago that any warrior lass could put an unwanted amorous lad in his place faster than anyone would guess. He assumed that included cneasaí lasses.
He tried to distract himself from the feel of her hands on his skin.
She looked up to meet his eyes. “Is it true you killed a Night Dragon?” she asked.
“I was only nine years old,” he answered, unable to keep a tinge of humor from his voice. “My mother killed the dragon,” he said with more seriousness. “She was a formidable swordswoman, you know.” He looked away but went on. “She wounded it seven times...including one gash that had its guts spilling.”
“How...?”
“We thought we had escaped Nàmhid Keep without anyone knowing. Two days out we were close to the Fjord...and it found us. His magic-twisted Night Dragon. She fought it...probably an hour. She was exhausted, it was wounded...and it lunged at her, using its wing to try and scoop her into a place where it could bite. And it was a huge dragon, mind. We had all seen it bite hardened warriors in two. Our mother had told us to hide—Gill and me. She only fought it to protect us.” He paused. “But we saw the danger...and we ran forward—deflected its wing to give her a chance.”
Silence.
He let out a huff. “And it whipped its tail around. Gill ducked...I didn’t. And...” he shrugged. “Tail curled around my hip, stinger got me...here.” He ran his hand over the jagged part of the scar.
Nÿr’s expression became very solemn and very gently, she used her cneasaí touch to test the scar.
“It didn’t hurt at fir
st...” He told her the basics, recalling how the world had gone sideways as the Night Dragon’s tail knocked him aside.
Somehow, his muscles weren’t working right. It was a struggle to get up and grip his bow...and then he heard his mother’s cry of pain. He whipped around to look, saw Gill stab the beast in its breast, and he raised his bow and fired. The shot went deep into the eye and the creature reared back. But his mother...lay on the ground, her legs unmoving. She rose just enough to thrust her sword into its maw when it lunged for her...
The Night Dragon snapped the sword, reared back with a great roar and opened wide to devour their mother...but as it tried to close its jaw around the wounded Princess, she suddenly ceased to be a warrior and dissipated into a cloud of a hundred black feathers...that formed into a hundred sharp-beaked ravens...
Most of them swarmed the dying, half-blinded Night Dragon.
A dozen or so swarmed Gill and pushed him to the place where Kirin lay gasping in pain.
And Kirin found himself looking into the furious beady eyes of a great corvid that flapped its wings at him and clearly screamed, “Run!”
It was the first time he’d ever heard a raven speak.
Nÿr’s touch on his arm brought him back.
“Your mother didn’t survive,” Nÿr finished for him.
He shook his head. “No.”
In the flickering light of the small fire, he saw sorrow in the lass’s face. “She was a daughter of Queens. Of course she fought to save her children,” she murmured.
Kirin looked at her, so capable and calm despite their circumstance. “All Green Isle lasses,” he said with a certain reverance. “Are daughters of Queens.”
Nÿr looked at him surprised, but they both knew the very Wintermeet story his brother had retold just two nights ago, and she smiled at the reference to the old tale. She assessed the scar one more time, then dried her hands on a scrap of bandage and helped him pull up the waistband of his trousers.
Then, as mountain people generally did in survival situations, they wrapped the padded blankets around themselves and sat close to use each other's body heat.
