Prince of Malorn (Annals of Alasia Book 3)

by Annie Douglass Lima

  Every now and then he tripped and sprawled headlong, occasionally feeling or even tasting blood when he struck his face against a rock. He could hardly muster the energy to scoop up a handful of snow anymore, but whenever he found himself flat on the ground, he reached out and scraped some into his mouth. The fact that it tasted like dirt meant nothing to him now. Die on my feet, Korram kept repeating, like a silent battle cry. Die on my feet!

  Each time, it was harder to force himself up after his falls. Finally the moment came when Korram’s shaking legs collapsed as he put his weight on them. He crumpled back to the snow, tried again, and crumpled once more. Die on my feet, he ordered himself desperately, but his legs felt like twin pouches of goat milk. Even the thought of Rampus’s leering face couldn’t make them any firmer.

  Then I’ll crawl. Korram rose to his hands and knees and pushed himself forward, the vision of Rampus triumphant driving him on. Die on my feet. Die on my feet. Of course, he wasn’t technically on his feet anymore, but that wasn’t the point, and Korram didn’t have the mental energy to come up with a new phrase. He could hardly think about anything except crawling forward.

  The going was easier now, with few obstacles low enough to strike him on the head and not much distance to fall when he did lose his balance. At some point the snow had turned to rain, which made the ground more slippery. But Korram hardly noticed anything around him except the slope under his hands and knees, thought of nothing except the four words that kept him going.

  The next time he collapsed, he opened his mouth and felt for a bite of snow as usual. But he ended up with only a mouthful of mud, and he had swallowed half of it before he realized the difference. Choking and coughing, he managed to spit out most of the rest.

  Long past caring, he raised himself on his elbows. That was all he could manage, so he crawled along on his belly, his face only inches from the ground now. Die … on … my … feet. Die … on … my … feet ….

  Part of a fallen branch stabbed him in the cheek, just missing his left eye. It took him three tries to crawl over the branch, and another sharp twig jabbed him in the belly as he did. He paused on the other side, gasping from the exertion, his limbs shaking. And then what little was left of his conscious mind realized with horror that he could no longer remember the words to his chant. Something about feet – and death – and Rampus – and goat milk – but how did it start? If he couldn’t remember, he couldn’t go on. The rest of his mind seemed to have shut down – permanently, for all he could tell – and that was the only thing he still knew for certain.

  But as he lay there, trembling and panicking at the certainty of failure, something else intruded into his consciousness. It was a sound, so faint that he hadn’t noticed it before, not that he was in any condition to notice much. Without really thinking, he began to focus on it. The sound was like a handle, something to hold onto that would anchor him to reality, like his chant. And though it grew no louder, it began to fill his mind, until it was the only thing that existed.

  There was a word for it, Korram knew, though he couldn’t remember what. He couldn’t even put the thought that a word existed into words in his mind. But the sound, the word that he didn’t know, pulled at him. He moved one leg and then the other, feet pushing for traction on the slippery ground, hands clawing feebly at the mud, dragging himself forward. Toward the sound.

  He had to stop for breath after every yard or so, but at last he reached it. First one hand splashed into shallow wetness, and then the other. With one last heave, Korram pulled himself forward and plunged his face into an icy stream.

  His whole life narrowed down to the thrill of drinking – of slurping the liquid in, gulping, feeling the icy lifesaving fluid flowing down his throat and chilling his empty stomach. Korram paused only to pull his head up and gasp for breath, shivering convulsively, before dipping his face into the stream again. And again, and again, and again, until he thought he couldn’t possibly hold that much and he would surely burst.

  Finally he dragged himself back onto the muddy bank and collapsed.

  Water, he remembered just before his eyes closed. And, Die on my feet.

  Death, surprisingly, smelled like wet dirt and pine. It sounded like a gurgling stream and the chirping of birds, and felt like the sun on his back.

  Disoriented, Korram opened his eyes.

  He was lying on his belly on a mat of muddy pine needles. A few inches away, a tiny brook bubbled past. From all around, birds chirped in the trees and bushes, and shafts of sunlight slanted through the branches, turning the forest floor to gold.

  Korram struggled to a sitting position, so stiff he could hardly move. His fingers – the knuckles bruised and scraped – were clenched around the shaft of his spear, which he didn’t remember still having with him. Come to think of it, he didn’t remember much about last night. Something about a never ending journey through darkness and the repeated command to die on his feet.

  But I didn’t die. Take that, Rampus!

  Unclenching his fingers from his spear with an effort, Korram reached up to brush away the twigs and pine needles that still clung to his hair and face. They came away stained with blood. Looking down at himself, he saw streaks of blood all across his tattered, mud-caked clothes.

  It didn’t matter. He was alive. Crawling forward, Korram dipped his face down into the stream again and sucked up long, delicious mouthfuls. Flavored with dirt and bits of pine needles though the water was, he thought it the best drink he had ever tasted.

  Food. That was next. Though he felt a little stronger, thanks to the water, Korram’s limbs were still as wobbly as bags of milk, and he wasn’t sure he could make it to his feet. But he didn’t need to. Clutching his spear once more, he crawled on his belly downhill beside the stream, turning his head from side to side to search for anything edible. It was a painful process, bruised and scraped as he was after yesterday, but before long he found a patch of wood sorrel. Korram ate every one of the little plants, plucking them up with his lips where they grew, just as a goat would have.

  For several minutes afterward he just lay there, his cheek pillowed on one arm, staring at the forest and luxuriating in how amazing it felt to be alive. But he was still hungry. Finally he struggled to a sitting position and then, slowly, painfully, to his feet.

  His body ached all over, and his legs wobbled alarmingly as soon as he put weight on them. But his knees and shins were so bruised that crawling was painful, and he was determined to walk on his two feet once more. And so Korram took one tottering step at a time, using his spear as a walking stick, stopping after every few steps to lean against trees and rest.

  Ahead of him lay a rotting log, and he sank down gratefully beside it. With some effort he was able to pry the edge up with his spear, and he smiled to see the squirming grubs underneath. Long past caring what he ate, he reached for them as eagerly as though they had been delicacies from an appetizer platter.

  And so he continued his journey a few steps at a time, stopping to devour wood sorrel and grubs whenever he found any, downing long drafts of water in between. His stomach longed for something more substantial, but the brook was too small for fish and he couldn’t find anything else.

  Still, grubs and wood sorrel do provide sustenance when you eat enough of them, and gradually Korram felt a little of his strength returning. When he could finally focus on something besides filling his stomach, he began to gather firewood once more. Thanks to the sunshine, there was plenty of dry fuel around now.

  Judging by the position of the sun and the lengthening shadows, he must have slept through the morning and well into the afternoon. But all he could think about now that he had eaten and drunk was warmth and rest.

  Korram chose a spot close by the water’s edge and scraped away the pine needles that carpeted the ground. Arranging his wood in the bare patch, he dumped out what twigs still remained in his pockets after yesterday’s ordeal, added handfuls of the dry needles to them, and fished out his precious f
irestones.

  It took at least fifty tries, since his hands, like the rest of him, were clumsy and sluggish. But a spark finally caught on the dried lichen that clung to some of the bark. The tiny orange flame rising to greet him was one of the happiest sights Korram had ever seen. He was almost surprised that it didn’t go out as he carefully blew life into it and fed it with pine needles and bark. At last he was able to sit back, sagging against a tree in satisfaction as the friendly little fire flickered over a pile of sticks and began to lick hungrily at the side of a thick branch.

  Now that he knew he would be able to warm up again, Korram peeled off his jacket, rolled up the sleeves of his tunic, and dipped his hands and forearms into the icy creek to wash them. Maybe I should have washed before I ate, he thought, picturing how horrified his mother would have been as he scrubbed the dirt and dried blood off his skin. Splashing water over his face, he rinsed it off as well as he could without a mirror. Then, shivering, he crawled back to his fire and huddled over the flames to dry.

  It wasn’t even dark yet, and Korram had only been awake for a few hours. But he was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to lie down and sleep in the warmth. Rolling up his jacket to use as a pillow, he tucked it under his head and curled up on the ground.

  I’m too stubborn to die out here, he thought proudly, relieved that he could think clearly once again. And if I can survive this trek, I can survive anything Rampus can throw against me; any other difficulties I might face in the Lowlands after I return. Succeeding in the Rite of Acceptance doesn’t just prove I’m worthy to be one of the Mountain Folk. It proves I’m worthy to be king.

  Of course, most of his people would never know that. His accomplishment up in the Impassables would mean nothing to the citizens of Sazellia. If only we had some sort of Rite of Acceptance for the Lowlands – some way I could show everyone there that I’m capable and ready to rule. Well, perhaps he could come up with something, but that was a problem for later. For now, it was enough that Korram knew. He fell asleep wondering if Father would have been proud of him.

  Chapter 13

  When he woke the next morning, Korram still felt stiff and weak, but standing up was easier than it had been yesterday. He forced himself to stretch his limbs, wincing as his sore muscles complained, and then knelt by the creek for a long drink.

  I’ll stay close to the bank while I look for breakfast, he decided, picking up his spear. He had had enough of going thirsty. Hobbling stiffly downstream, he reminded himself that the end was in sight. He was in Horse Valley; now he just had to actually find a horse.

  After only a few minutes, Korram spotted something that filled him with joy. Off to the left, a cluster of trees stood loaded with yellow-green fruit. He stumbled toward them, delighted to discover that they were pear trees.

  A doe and her fawn, both feeding on fallen pears, lifted their heads to stare at him and then turned and bounded away as he approached. Squirrels scurried for the safety of higher branches, and a fat brown rabbit raised itself to its hind legs, nose twitching, before turning casually and lolloping into the bushes.

  No ripe fruit was growing within reach, though Korram could see the birds happily feasting on plenty of it higher up. Perhaps deer or even horses had stripped the lower branches. But he bent and seized a pear from the grass at his feet. It was small, and some animal had apparently nibbled at it already, but he didn’t care. It tasted delicious.

  After he had taken the edge off of his hunger with another piece of the fallen fruit, Korram grew more selective. Reaching up with his spear, he knocked pears off of the higher branches, gathering them in a heap when they fell. They were smaller than the pears he was used to back home, so he knew it would take more to fill him up. When he had a sizeable pile, he sat cross-legged on the grass to enjoy his juicy banquet.

  He was comfortably full when a rustle from across the clearing caught his attention. He looked up to see a dapple gray horse watching him from the shadows between two trees.

  A horse! Korram froze, and the two of them stared at each other for a moment. Then, moving slowly, Korram picked up one of his pears and tossed it in the animal’s direction.

  The horse stepped forward and ate the fruit enthusiastically. It lifted its head again and regarded Korram once more.

  Slowly, Korram rose to his feet. But at the movement, the horse turned and disappeared among the trees.

  Korram’s heart was pounding. After everything he had been through, the end of his quest was so close! He just had to find that horse again, or another one.

  But how did one go about catching and taming a wild horse? It suddenly occurred to him that he had been so focused on getting here that he had never stopped to consider how he would accomplish the last step.

  I’ll keep following the stream for now, he decided, and eventually I’m bound to find more horses. He would wait to see how shy the rest of them were and make a plan from there. And since they seem to like pears, that could be a way to win them over. Kneeling beside his pile, Korram filled his pockets with as much of the fruit as they would hold. Then he returned to the stream and continued his trek downhill.

  It wasn’t long before his innards began to cramp. Perhaps eating that much fruit all at once on an empty stomach hadn’t been such a good idea. When the pain grew worse, Korram sat down and doubled over, clutching his midsection and grimacing at his own stupidity. I’ll be more careful next time, he vowed, no matter how hungry I am. He should have remembered what had happened with the raw lumjum. I’d better make sure not to give any horses too much fruit either.

  Eventually the discomfort eased enough for Korram to stand up and continue on his way. As he walked, he glimpsed deer three separate times, along with more squirrels and rabbits than he could count. Again and again he tried throwing his spear or stabbing at them, but they were too quick. I would stand a better chance with a bow. It seemed that grubs and perhaps fish were to be the only protein in his diet in the near future.

  After a couple of miles, the slope began to level out. The trees were spaced even further apart here, and, peering ahead between them, Korram could see what looked like a wide field.

  Emerging from the last of the trees, he realized that he stood at the edge of a meadow at the bottom of a long, nearly flat valley, green and lush. His stream emptied into a river that meandered lazily along the middle, autumn wildflowers dotting its banks in splashes of yellow, pink, and blue. The opposite slope, like the one he had hiked down, was sprinkled with trees, their leaves turning gold, orange, and red, until the elevation grew too high for them. Snow-capped peaks loomed on every side, mountain giants gazing benevolently down on this peaceful scene.

  And spread out across the valley, grazing or playing or drinking from the river, were horses. Hundreds of them, in all sizes and colors.

  Korram felt a strange lump in his throat. The sight of those horses – the goal he had been aiming for – at home in this idyllic setting, after all the difficulties he had faced, was strangely moving. He had to clear his throat and swallow twice before the feeling passed.

  So what do I do now? The time had come to figure out how to catch a wild horse. Perhaps he could throw a noose around one’s neck. But he had nothing to use as rope, except perhaps his belt, and that wouldn’t be nearly long enough.

  He recalled a conversation with the Mountain Folk about that very issue before he had left. “You will choose one, or one will choose you,” Thest had told him.

  But how does a horse choose me? And how will I know if I’m chosen?

  “You have to pick just the right one,” Charr had said. “The horse that will love you when it sees you, understand you immediately, and Accept you as no other could.”

  Korram frowned. Love at first sight from a horse? He had dismissed their words as superstition at the time. Surely it couldn’t really work that way. But for lack of a better idea, he began walking slowly toward a black horse that stood nearby.

  The animal raised its head to watch h
im coming, unafraid. But when he got close, it turned and began to walk away. It increased its pace when he increased his, but when he stopped, it kept going, trotting off to join some of its friends.

  Korram turned toward another horse, one that was already watching him curiously, ears pricked forward. “Don’t be afraid,” he said aloud, though he felt a little silly addressing an animal. “I won’t hurt you.” His voice sounded strange after so many days of traveling in silence, but the horse stood still, apparently listening.

  Korram moved closer. “I won’t hurt you,” he repeated. But the horse shook its mane, backed away and then turned and trotted in the other direction.

  Well, so much for that.

  But there were plenty more around, and though they were wary, they didn’t seem to be as afraid of him as he would have expected wild animals to be. Perhaps it was because the only humans who came here treated them gently and kindly.

  Korram pulled one of the pears from his pocket and dug his fingers into the soft flesh until it tore messily in half. Holding out one of the halves, he approached a third horse, speaking softly once more. This horse eyed the fruit with obvious interest, but wouldn’t let him come close enough to feed it to her. When he eventually tossed it in her direction, she ate it from the ground readily enough, but turned and trotted away when he approached with the other half.

  Again and again Korram tried, but although some horses let him come closer than others, none would allow him to approach within an arm’s length. This isn’t working, he thought, discouraged. None of them is going to Accept me. Finally he knelt to wash his sticky hands in the river and then sat back to think over his options.

  Let them come to you.

  He pondered the thought, wondering if it would work. Well, it wouldn’t hurt to try. Digging out several more of the little pears, he broke them each in half. He tossed the pieces around him in the grass, making sure some were just a foot or two away and others much further off. Then he sat down to wait.