by J. V. Jones
The Great Want could not be mastered or explained. Ancient sorceries had scarred it, time had worn away its boundaries, and cataclysmic disasters had scoured it clean of life. The Want was no longer bound by physical laws. To attempt to traverse it was folly. The best you could hope for was rite of passage. Somehow Bear knew this, knew that relinquishing—not asserting—control would carry one farther in this place.
Every night since they had left the fortress the pony had stumbled upon a suitable place to set camp. She found islands elevated above the vast mist rivers that flowed across the Want at sunset, sniffed out caves sunk deep into cliff faces, and hollows protected from the harsh morning winds. She’d even located a riverbed where ancient bushes had been sucked so dry of life juice that they burned as smokeless as the purest fuel. The hill pony hadn’t found drinkable water yet, but Raif knew that out of the two of them she had the best chance of discovering it.
That, and the way out.
Frowning, Raif scanned the horizon. A constant bitter wind blew against his face, scouring his cheeks with ice crystals and filling his nose with the smell of ozone and lead; the scent of faraway storms. Part of him was content simply to drift. As long as he was here, at the Want’s mercy, he need make no decisions about the future. Questions about whether to return to the Maimed Men or head south in search of Ash had little meaning. In a way it was a kind of relief. The past three days were the most peace he had known since that morning in the Badlands when his da and Dagro Blackhail had died.
That sense of peace would not last for long. Mor Drakka, Watcher of the Dead, Oathbreaker, Twelve Kill: a man possessing such names could not expect to live a peaceful life.
Kneeling on his bedroll, Raif reached for the sword given to him by the Listener of the Ice Trappers. The once perfectly tempered blade was warped and blackened, its edges blunted and untrue. Plunged into shadowflesh up to its crossguard, the sword had been irrevocably changed. It would never be more than a knock-around now, the kind of blade a father let his son train with until the boy developed a proper degree of skill. Raif began to grind the blade regardless, using a soft shammy and a makeshift paste of limestone grit and horse lard. The rock crystal mounted on the pommel flashed brilliantly in the rising sun, and Raif found himself recalling what the Listener had said when he handed over the sword.
It should serve you well enough until you find a better one.
Strange how he hadn’t given the words much thought until now. This sword had once been the weapon of a Forsworn knight, its blade forged from the purest steel, its edge honed by a master swordsmith. To most clansmen it would be a prize to be treasured; oiled lovingly every tenday, drawn with silent pride for the inspection of honored guests, passed through the generations from father to son. Yet the Listener had hinted that for Raif there would be more.
Abruptly Raif resheathed the sword. It was time to move on.
Today was a good day in the Want. A sun rose, traveling at a constant speed and arc, and banks of low-lying clouds moved in the same direction as prevailing winds. Well, almost. Raif shrugged as he hiked along a limestone bluff. He’d take small discrepancies over big ones any day.
The bluff was rocky and hard going, riven with cracks and undermined with softer, lighter chalkstone that was crumbling to dust. Gray weeds poked through holes in the rock. They may have been alive; it was hard to tell. In the distance Raif could see a range of low-lying mountains, spinebacks, laid out in a course that fishtailed into the bluff. Realizing he was in for a steady climb, he reached for the waterskin.
Straightaway he knew it was a mistake. His mouth and stomach were anticipating water, his throat muscles were contracting in readiness to swallow, yet he could not take a drink. The waterskin was as good as empty. Nothing could be spared. Swallowing the saliva that had pooled under his tongue, he tucked the waterskin back into its place behind Bear’s saddle. When his stomach sent out a single cramp of protest, he ignored it. He had to think.
Why am I going this way? Any other heading would lead him off the bluff and away from the mountains. No climb involved. So why accelerate his thirst? Why not simply head downhill and take the easy route? Chances were the Want would shift on him anyway. A day from now those mountains could have melted into the mist.
Raif squinted at the sun, thinking. It was a winter sun, pale and crisply outlined against the sky. When he looked away its after-image burned in front of his eyes. As it cleared he became aware that his breath was purling white. The temperature was dropping. The Want had two degrees of coldness: bitter and glacially raw. Since leaving the fortress Raif had counted himself lucky to have encountered only the first. Bitter he could live with. Bitter was the normal state of things for the clanholds in midwinter. It gave you chilblains and sometimes frostbite in your ears and toes. As long as you were bundled up and well fed you could live through it.
Raw was something else. Raw killed. It froze your breath the instant it left your mouth, coating every hair on your face with frost; it numbed the most thickly wrapped hands and feet and then when it had numbed them it turned them into ice; and it altered the working of your mind, made you think it was hot when it was deadly cold, that you just needed to rest awhile and everything would be all right.
Raif shivered. He decided to stay on course, but could not say why. At his side, Bear blew air at force through her nostrils, forming two white clouds. The little pony had been bred to live at high elevations in the far north. Her coat was thick and wiry and her leg hair formed shaggy skirts around her hoofs. She would probably fare better than him, but he wasn’t taking any chances. He unrolled her blanket and threw it across her back. As he fastened the toggles beneath her belly he contemplated for the first time having to kill her. He would place his sword here, well below her rib cage, and thrust up through her first and second stomachs to her heart. It was the swiftest death he could give, the instant cessation of blood pumping from her heart to her brain.
Heart-kill, it was called. All hunters aspired to it: that perfectly placed, perfectly powered, blow that would stop all animals in their tracks.
Oh gods. Why am I even thinking of this? Straightening up, Raif slapped Bear’s rump, encouraging her to walk on.
For a while after that he did not think, simply walked. They fell into a rhythm, Bear matching him exactly in speed and rate of climb. Occasionally she would nudge him. Sometimes he nudged her back. As he walked he savored the pleasure of working his body hard and forcing his lungs to expand against his chest wall. It could last only so long. They had no water, and he had no choice but to consider his responsibility to Bear. She was his animal. He owed her food, water, shelter and safety. In the event of injury or sickness he owed her a swift death. Tem, his father, would have stood for no less. “You have an animal, Raif—I don’t care whether it’s a dog or a horse or a one-legged flying squirrel—it gets fed before you get fed, watered before you drink, and if it’s sick you take care of it.” Even then as a boy of eight he had understood all that his father had meant by “taking care of it.”
Raif held himself back a moment, let Bear walk ahead of him on the trail. He wished it were that simple. Wished that he hadn’t felt a small thrill of anticipation as he contemplated running his sword through the hill pony’s heart.
Kill an army for me, Raif Sevrance, Death had commanded him. Any less and I just might call you back.
Ice cracked down as they headed Want-west along the bluff. Clouds disappeared, abandoning a sky that had grown perfectly blue. The landscape clarified. Rocks, mountains, even the distant horizon became sharper and more easy to read. The wind had died some time back and the air was diamond clear. Raif could see for leagues in every direction, and spun round to take it all in. He saw a vast dead volcano rise from the valley floor, saw boulders as big as roundhouses strewn across a dry lake bed, spied thousands of gray stumps rising from the headland, a forest of petrified trees, and spotted a deep flaw in the landscape where a vast shield of rock had been pushed up by unde
rground forces. None of it was familiar. And there was no telltale glint of water.
Raif licked his lips and winced in pain. He wondered if they’d turned black. It had to be midday by now and he hadn’t had a drink since dawn. The day before he had allowed himself only a cup of water. Time was running out on him. He knew some of the dangers of dehydration from his time spent on longhunts. There was little freshwater to be had in the badlands of Blackhail. The majority of standing pools and lakes were brackish, thick with minerals percolated from the bedrock. Running water was little better, mostly sulfur springs, salt licks and leachfields. A man had to be sure where his next drink was coming from. Dehydration could make your eyesight deteriorate and your muscles cramp, and just like the cold it could play tricks with your mind and have you seeing things that weren’t there. Raif smiled grimly. One way or other he would likely be insane by the end of the day.
Giving in to his thirst, he held the limp waterskin above his head and squeezed a few drops into his mouth. His tongue felt big and clumsy, barely able to register the wetness of the water. Bear, noticing the waterskin was in use, trotted over and butted his chest. He shook the skin. So little liquid was left that it didn’t make a sound. Raif glanced at his sword.
Not yet.
Prying open Bear’s jaw, he thrust the waterskin spout deep into her mouth and then collapsed the skin with force, ejecting the last of the water. He was taking no chances: Bear was a sloppy drinker.
His spirits lifted after that. Bear’s wounded expression made him laugh. The sun was shining. He could even see where he was going—no small mercy in the Want. The bluff gradually broadened into headland and they began to make good time. Directly ahead the mountain ridge loomed closer, and Raif could now see that its lower slopes were mounded gravel. He tried not to let that bother him. Experience had taught him that climbing loose stone banks was hard work. Still, it would keep them warm.
And make them sweat. Raif blinked, and noticed for the first time that his eyes felt no relief. He was out of tears.
What are we going to do?
Three days back they’d passed a narrow canyon that had contained ice. The frozen liquid had been the color of sheep urine, and he just couldn’t bring himself to pick it. Water hadn’t seemed like much of a problem then. One thing the Want never seemed short of was ice. Now he would give anything to return to that canyon . . . but in the Want there was no going back.
Raif scratched Bear’s ear. There was nothing to do but carry on.
As the day wore on the cold deepened. Hoarfrost glittered on every rock face and loose stone. Raif’s fingers began to ache and the tip of his nose grew raw from constant rubbing—ice formed every time he took a breath. Bear’s muzzle had to be removed. Metal was a lightning rod for frostbite and could not be left resting against skin. The hill pony seemed grateful enough to be free of the bit, but Raif could tell she was growing listless. Instead of walking abreast of him, she had fallen behind, and she was becoming less particular about her footing. Twice now she had stumbled when a front hoof had come down on loose scree.
It wasn’t long before their pace began to slow. Raif lagged, allowing Bear to catch up with him. He leaned into her and she leaned into him, and they bumped against each other with each step. The corners of Bear’s mouth were in a bad way—the edges crusted with little red sores—and her tongue had started to swell. Raif’s throat was swollen. When he swallowed, saliva no longer filled his mouth. His teeth were so dry they felt like stones. The worst thing was the drifting. He caught himself doing it from time to time, allowing his thoughts to float away, light as air. He thought of his little sister, Effie, of her shy smiles and serious gaze. He and Drey had taught her to read, though neither of them had been scholars so they probably hadn’t done a very good job. She’d probably overcome it. Effie Sevrance was smarter than both of them combined. How old would she be now? She had been eight when he left the roundhouse. It upset him when he couldn’t decide whether she was still eight or had turned nine.
And then there was Drey. There was always Drey. An image of his older brother came to Raif immediately, the one that never went away, the one of Drey on the greatcourt that winter morning, stepping forward when no one else would. I will stand second to his oath. The words burned Raif even now. He had broken that oath and shamed his clan. Yet the worst was that he’d let down Drey.
Drey . . .
Raif’s thoughts drifted into a dark place. Falling, he thought of the men he had killed: some named and many nameless. Bluddsmen, city men, the lone Forsworn knight in a redoubt filled with death. Thirst followed him down, gnawing, gnawing, like a rat at the back of his throat. His lips had shriveled to husks and when he smiled at something playing in the darkness they cracked and bled.
Pain brought him back. Blinking like a man shaken suddenly awake, Raif looked around. The Want had shifted. Something subtle had changed, a rotation of perspective or a shortening of distance: he could not decide which. The mountain ridge that they’d been heading toward all day was now upon them, looming dark and rugged and barren. Part of Raif had been hoping to find glaciers in the high valleys but from here he could tell that he’d badly misjudged the ridge’s elevation. What he’d imagined were mountains were little more than spine-backed hills.
Without warning the wound in his right shoulder sent out a bolt of white-hot pain. Knee joints turning to jelly, he instantly dropped to the ground. The headland’s limestone had given way to softer chalkstone, and Raif fell into a bed of pulverized chalk. Massaging his shoulder, he hacked up freezing dust.
Bear came over, anxiously prodding him with her head. The little hill pony had a frothy scum around her lips, and her tongue was now too big for her mouth. It lolled to the side, black and bloated. Raif thought about his sword.
If not now. Soon.
Flinging his left arm around her neck, he allowed her to pull him to his feet. A queer tingle of pain shot along his shoulder as he dusted chalk from his cloak. It was losing its capacity to worry him. He needed water. Bear needed water and shelter—her exposed tongue would be frozen meat within an hour. Worry about anything other than those two things was becoming beyond him. Ignoring the pain, he moved forward.
The point where the headland joined with the ridge was a quicksand of chalk and gravel. Walking on the chalk was similar to walking on dry, powdery snow. With every step Bear sank up to her hocks, sometimes further. Initially the heavier gravel was suspended across the chalk like lily pads over water, and both Raif and Bear learned caution. The gravel might hold, suspended beneath the surface by more gravel, or it could sink so fast it created suction. Every step was an ordeal. Every couple of steps one of them had to halt to pull out sunken feet or hooves.
When his right eyeball started to sting, Raif realized he was beginning to sweat. Baked dry by the sun and stiffened by the frost, his cornea seized up the moment salty fluid from his temple slid into his eye socket. His hands and face were now numb, so when he ran a fist across his forehead and his glove came back wet it was a shock.
He was losing too much water. Swallowing hard, he forced himself to stop and think. Ahead, the gravel bank darkened as the charcoal granite of the spineback hills began to peek through. Farther along an entire ridge emerged, rising from the sea of stones and broadening into a rock mass that fused with the first hill. There, Raif decided. We’ll go as far as the junction. The high vantage point would enable them to see what lay ahead.
If there’s no water we’re damned.
It was the last clear thought he had until nightfall. Bear began wheezing during the climb across the gravel banks, a sharp little piping noise that sounded as if it were coming from a broken flute. And she shied for the first time. When they reached a deep chute filled with younger, sharper scree she refused to cross it, digging in her back hooves and weakly tossing her head. Raif went on ahead awhile, but she wouldn’t follow, even when he called her, and he was forced to go back. Light was beginning to fail, and more than anything
else he did not want to lose sight of her. He feared the landscape might shift while he wasn’t looking and the Want would cancel her out.
It was becoming hard to think. There should have been a way around the chute—he even saw it once, laid out like a treasure map before him—but he couldn’t keep the facts in his head. Bear didn’t want to walk through the jagged scree. The chute was narrow. Maybe they could double back . . .
He lost time. Standing on the hillside, thoughts stalled, he was aware only of the intense cold. Ice twinkled in his eyelashes when he blinked. Something—he couldn’t say what—snapped him back. For an instant he wasn’t glad; everything took too much effort here. It was easier to drift. Yet when he saw Bear he felt shamed. The little pony was standing where he had left her, shaking and making that little piping noise when she inhaled.
“Come on, girl,” he coaxed, trudging toward her through shin-high gravel. “Not far now. We’ll go down a bit and then around.” He didn’t know if they could make it that way, but it hardly seemed to matter anymore. Doing was better than thinking in this place.
Night fell in layers. The sun hung on the farthest edge of the horizon and smoldered. A dusk of long shadows made it difficult to see the way forward. Overhead the first of the big northern stars ignited in a sky turning deep-sea blue. Raif had taken to plowing the breath ice from his nose and chin and shoveling it into his mouth. The moisture it rendered wasn’t sufficient to be called liquid, but the sensation of fizzy coolness on his tongue was deeply pleasing. When he tried to perform the same service for Bear, she shied away from him. Blood was oozing from a cut on her back heel, and she’d started to carry her head and tail low. She wouldn’t go much farther, he realized.
