“Okay!” said the man as he rolled to the side.
I let the tree sag back to the ground with a loud thump. The muscles across my back were on fire, and the pain from my legs made me want to vomit.
“Thanks, friend,” said the old man.
I nodded but stood there with my hands on my knees and a grimace on my face.
“Nasty curse, that,” he said.
“Rheumatoid arthritis. It sucks.”
The man shook his head and got to his feet. There was something in the easy way that he moved that set off alarm bells. He was short and skinny—maybe frail is a better word—but something about him felt like a threat. He dusted himself off, and I forced myself to stand up straight.
The pistols were tucked up nice and dry in the waterproof pocket of my pack. I hadn’t wanted to risk them in the snow, but as the hinky feeling about the little old man grew, I wished I had one in my hand.
He cocked his head at me. “I’m no threat to you, Hank Jensen,” he said in quiet tones.
“How do you know my name?”
He shrugged. “It’s a talent of mine. Nothing to be worried about, however.”
“You know my name, how about telling me yours?”
He treated me to a vulpine grin. “My parents called me Tyarfer-Burisonur.”
It wasn’t the whole truth, and for some reason, the evasion felt like a test. “And what do you call yourself?”
His grin cracked into a smile. “Smart.”
“Smart or smart-assed?”
He laughed. It was a booming, friendly sound, and some of the tension eased across my shoulders.
“Might as well ask if a brook can stop to take a rest.” He looked me up and down and held out his hand as if to shake. “Meuhlnir,” he said.
I took his hand and was amazed at the strength of his grip. “Hank, but you seem to know that already. Just Meuhlnir? No last name?”
He winked and gestured toward the path behind me. “My cabin’s just there. Let’s continue this by the fire.”
I looked up the path. “How far to the next village?”
“Far enough to kill you in this weather. Come,” he said, putting his hand on my arm. “You need my help, now, as I needed yours minutes ago. Let me repay the favor.”
Again, I looked up the path. Each hour I spent resting was another hour’s distance between my family and me. “Have you seen any other travelers?”
He applied firm pressure to my arm, turning me toward his cabin. “No. You are the only walk-in to come through.”
My shoulders slumped. I had been afraid of a trap back there in the cave, and maybe it had been after all.
“What’s troubling you, Hank?”
For some reason, it felt like Meuhlnir already knew the answer to the question, and it irked me. “Don’t you know?”
Meuhlnir nodded with a calm expression on his face. “Yes, but it’s considered polite to use conversation.”
I looked down at his smiling face. Something felt wrong about it, but I couldn’t place what. “Who are you, Meuhlnir?”
He shrugged and swept a hand at the woods around us. “I am the keeper of this place. I am Meuhlnir.”
“Are you supposed to be some kind of magician? A mind-reader or something? And where, exactly, is this place.”
“This used to be called the Snyowrlant Province before the empire fell.”
“What’s it called now?”
He shrugged and showed me a wry smile. “Cold. Snyowrlant is a word from the Gamla Toonkumowl that translates to ‘snow country.’”
“The game of what?”
His smile stayed on his face, but there had been a momentary twitch of impatience. “It’s the language of my ancestors, the old tongue. Gamla Toonkumowl.”
“Yeah? Winter sucks here in Snow Country.”
Meuhlnir chuckled. “It does, indeed, but this is spring.” He tugged on my arm, and reluctantly, I let him pull me back toward the cabin. “Too cold to stand around out here,” he muttered.
“You have blizzards like the one that rolled through here last night in the spring?”
He laughed and shook his head. “That storm had nothing to do with the season. It was a sterk task.”
“Starkblast? Like in the Dark Tower series by Stephen King?”
“I don’t know of King Stephen or his dark tower, but I didn’t say ‘starkblast,’ I said sterk task. It means ‘strong slap’ in the Gamla Toonkumowl. It’s a special kind of storm.”
“For being the language of your ancestors, it seems the Gamla Toonkumowl gets a lot of use.”
He chuckled. “You don’t know the half of it, Hank.” He led me to a cut through the berm that I hadn’t spotted on the way to him and motioned me through it.
“Okay, I give. What is a sterk task?”
Meuhlnir shrugged. “Well, you lived through one last night. It’s a kind of super-blizzard. Cold enough to flash freeze moving water, fierce winds, yards of snow.”
“Strange weather here in Snyowrlant, Meuhlnir.”
“They aren’t limited to Snyowrlant. Sterk tasks appear all over the world. No one knows why, though there are more theories than stars in the sky.” He shrugged and made a motion like he was tossing something to the side. “End of the day, it doesn’t matter why. They happen. They are reality. Any fool can see that.” He pointed ahead of us. “Welcome to my home.”
Snow was plastered against the walls on the windward side of the cabin, covering it in white from the top of the drifted snow to its snow-covered roof. Long daggers of ice pointed at the ground from the eaves. Warm light shined through the leaded glass windows. Torches burned next to a pair of massive doors made from thick planks and studded with iron. Like the bridge, the doors showed scenes that would have made a Viking craftsman sick with jealousy.
Meuhlnir threw one of the doors open and invited me inside with a gesture. “Be welcome, Hank. Be at ease. Within these walls, you are under my protection, and in this land, that is saying a lot.”
The cabin looked smaller from outside. I thought it must have been some trick of the poor light and large drifts of snow surrounding the place. The thick wooden front doors were set into walls built from dry-stacked stone, tan and brown in color. The ground floor walls were built from large logs that had been stripped of their bark, but the second-floor walls were plastered up to the steeply-pitched plank roof. The floor of the cabin was made of six-inch-wide wooden planks, that matched the ceiling in color and texture. I would have sworn it was a one-story affair when I was crawling over the berm, but across the room from the vestibule, were twin stair cases leading up to a semicircular balcony with several doors set in the far wall. The great room had a massive stone fireplace on one end, and a hallway leading to other parts of the cabin on the other.
“Why have you come to this klith, Hank?”
“This what?”
“Klith. This side. This place. Snyowrlant.” He was busy unwrapping himself and getting the snow off his leggings so I couldn’t see his face.
“I didn’t have much choice,” I said, stomping my feet in the tiny nook that held his front door to clear snow off my boots. “I was…” I was at a loss for how to tell him what had happened.
He favored me with a knowing smile. “You came through the proo and then…”
“Proo? That’s the shimmery thing that dumped me out on the lake?”
Meuhlnir nodded. “Yes. It’s the way between the other klith and here. Pretty, yes? Like a rainbow.”
“Is there only the one then?”
“Oh no. There are potentially infinite numbers of them, I suppose. Proo means bridge in the Gamla Toonkumowl. The proo you travelled across was Kyatlerproo. In general, though, these things are called Pilrust preer. Preer is the plural of proo.” He bent and began pulling at the laces of my boots. “Let’s get you out of these and over to the fire.”
“Are there other preer to… to my klith?”
Meuhlnir shrugged. “Yes, anything is pos
sible, as it is possible to move preer and anchor them where you like. Like ten feet in the air over a frozen lake.” He chuckled into his beard.
“So, it’s not the normal place for Katterproo to end?”
“Kyatlerproo,” said the old man. “No, I haven’t seen that particular proo in a very long time. It popped into place two days ago. Maybe it spawned the sterk task.”
“Why would it cause a storm like that?”
“Kick those off and come sit by the fire.” Meuhlnir straightened, and I was again struck by how easily he moved—like he wasn’t as old as he appeared. “Preer are things of great power, Hank. Unimaginable power, really. Think on it—they span vast distances of space. They can be made to ignore the constraints of time. Some think they may even breach the boundaries of the universe. I’ve certainly been to a few places where the natural laws of this universe don’t seem to apply.” He sank into a leather-bound chair and put his feet up on the hearth stones. He closed his eyes and smiled. “Ah… That’s comfort. Come sit, Hank.”
When I didn’t move, he cracked open one eye and looked at me. “It’s hard to believe things you’ve been taught aren’t possible. Believe me, Hank, this is just the start of your awakening.”
I shook my head, fighting the headache that was building behind my left eye. “This is…a different dimension? Planet?” I sighed and sank into the chair at last. “I don’t understand any of this. How can I be here?”
Meuhlnir chuckled. “Those are all very good questions. Questions I don’t know the answers for. You’re here because you ran the rainbow.”
“Ran the rainbow?”
“Crossing Kyatlerproo.” Meuhlnir sighed and wiggled his toes. “You were going to tell me why you’ve come here.”
“My family… My family was kidnapped. I was a cop, and I investigated a serial murder case seven years ago. I found a note written by the primary suspect, a guy named Chris Hatton. He said that if I followed him, he wouldn’t hurt my family. There was a cave, and down at the bottom, there was the Kyatlerproo. The damn thing dumped me on the lake, but they must have come this way, too. You say no other travelers have been through this way. How am I supposed to find them? How can I follow Hatton if I have no idea where the fuck I am, or where he is?”
“There are ways,” said Meuhlnir. “A vefari of sufficient power could help you find them.”
“A vefari?” Irritation was burning in my mind, making my headache worse and worse.
Meuhlnir nodded. “Yes. A vefari of the strenkir af krafti—a weaver of the strings of power.”
I glared at him and sighed. “Magic.”
He favored me with a small, knowing smile. “My ancestors were a curious people. They plumbed the depths of the universe, stealing its secrets. One of those secrets is that there are strings of boundless power that underpin the universe. My people were given the power to manipulate those strings, to do things that would appear magical to the natives of your klith—”
“I don’t have time for this,” I said, lurching to my feet and ignoring the aches and shooting pains the abrupt motion caused. Frustration percolated in my veins.
“Hank,” said Meuhlnir in placating tones. “I’m just trying to explain things—”
“My family has been taken from me, Meuhlnir. I don’t have time for philosophical discussions. Or metaphysics, or whatever this is. I need help finding them. I don’t need a history lesson about your ancestors or your religion.” I took two jerking steps toward my boots and pack.
“Hank,” said Meuhlnir. “Leave now, and you will surely perish. How can you help anyone if you are dead?”
“So, I just sit here and spend the evening chattering away? Safe and comfortable in your cabin? Are they safe? Are they comfortable?”
“For the moment, the answer to all of those questions is ‘yes.’ If you run off half-cocked and die in the snow, those answers will no doubt change.”
“How do you know that?” I yelled. “How can you know these things? Are you a part of this?” I took a menacing step toward the frail looking old man, frustration and fury stampeding through me.
Meuhlnir stood and turned to face me. “Hank, I assure you that I am not part of this bad business. I would not participate in such nefarious affairs, except to put a stop to them. The question is simply whether I can help you or not. Whether I should help you.”
I couldn’t think of anything to say. I just stood and stared at the man.
“There are things on this klith that you need to be prepared for, Hank. This klith is vastly different from where you come from. Life is different here.”
“I’ll learn what I need to learn as I go,” I snapped.
“You will fail if you attempt this alone.” Meuhlnir’s voice was flat and matter-of-fact. “This place is beyond you. Things you will face here will beggar your imagination. They will make you question your sanity.”
I scoffed. “As if I’m not already doing that! Magic preer! Wizards! Giant fucking magical snow storms!”
“Yes,” said Meuhlnir. “Those are just the tip of the dog’s nose, Hank.”
“Look, Meuhlnir, I don’t have time to swap histories and learn about this place. I have a family to rescue! I have to—”
“Hank,” he said. “I won’t help you unless you deserve to be helped.”
That stopped me cold. “What does that mean?”
“It means exactly what I said. You must convince me that you are worthy of my help.”
“Well, I don’t have time for all this. I’ve got to go.” I stomped to my boots and started to shove my foot into one of them. “Thanks for letting me warm up.”
“Oh, sit down, you stubborn fool.” The little man’s voice snapped with authority. “You are alone. You don’t even know where you are. You will be lost within hours, and you have no provisions. You will die.”
I stood there looking down at him with blood throbbing in my temples. “I have some food,” I said.
“You need my help, Hank.”
Frustration beat against the inside of my head. I wanted to be moving, but he was right. If I went at this alone, in this strange place, I’d fail.
“Things are different here, Hank,” he said in a resigned tone. “There are far fewer people on this klith, and there is a rigid class structure. You exist outside that structure so it will be hard for you to find help from anyone, even if you are lucky enough to stumble through the wilderness to a village.
“If I help you, it will take planning. It will take provisioning. All of that will take time—not much, only a day or two, but there’s nothing to be done tonight.” He sank back into his chair. “I need to know what kind of man you are.” He put his feet up on the field stone hearth and turned his face to the fire. “But it’s your choice, you know. Leave now, or sit and tell me the tale of how you came to be here.”
All of a sudden, I felt too tired to stand, much less slog through miles and miles of snow in the dark. The knowledge that I couldn’t help my family without this little old man dragged like a millstone around my neck. With a sigh, I kicked my boot off and stomped to the chair and sat down, trying not to look like an impatient teenager.
I glanced at him askance, sure I’d find him watching me, but he was only staring into the flames. His face was passive—no sign of anger or even interest. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m just so frustrated and scared—”
“It’s nothing, Hank. I understand.”
With a sigh, I put my feet back on the hearth next to his. It was like heaven—luxurious warmth from the fire and warm stones under my heels. I sighed and said, “I worked for the New York State Police—to be more specific, for the Bureau of Criminal Investigation. That’s the detective branch. Part of the job was to assist local jurisdictions investigate major crimes.
“Seven years ago, two boys playing in the woods found the entrance to a small cave, and inside they’d seen a dead body. Their parents called the local sheriff’s department, and when the deputies stuck their heads
inside the little cave, they’d seen six bodies. That’s when the sheriff put in a call to the Bureau of Criminal Investigation, and I was assigned to head up the case. That turned out to be my last case as a New York State Trooper.”
“You were a toemari?”
“A what?”
“A judge. Someone who enforces the rules of law.”
“Not a judge, no. I was a police officer. Someone who investigates crimes and builds a case for the prosecution of criminals in a court of law.”
Meuhlnir stroked his beard. “That seems like a small distinction.”
“No, it isn’t. It wasn’t up to me to judge anyone, just find out what they did and pass it on to the prosecutors. They took the case before the judge and the criminal was allowed to defend himself.”
“But if you found out what they did, what defense is there?”
I shrugged. “I could be wrong.”
“Strange system,” grunted Meuhlnir. “Leave that for now. Tell me what happened in this investigation of yours.”
“By the time I got called in, the media had already broken the story.”
Six
“Six gruesome bodies discovered in cave! Bristol Butcher strikes!” was the headline of the Democrat and Chronicle that morning.
I drove south from my home near Rochester, marveling at the speed with which everything had transitioned from winter to spring. Just a week before, two-and-a-half feet of accumulated snow coated the landscape and temperatures had been in the low single digits. It was already in the mid-fifties, and the only snow left was heaped in old drifts too stubborn to melt. Crusty, gray, and shriveled looking, those snowbanks looked like so many abandoned toys.
The cave was in a ravine between Honeoye Lake and Bristol Mountain and couldn’t be reached by car. I pulled off the road and parked my cruiser next to the medical examiner’s van. A large white tent, like you’d see at a backyard wedding reception, had been set up beyond the cars. Crime-scene tape ringed the tent.
I flashed my credentials to the deputy sheriff keeping the log and signed in the right spot on his clipboard.
“Morning, Hank.”
I turned and saw Dr. Wilkes standing in the entrance of the tent. He was a short and heavyset man in his forties. His hair stood out in multiple directions like a rat and a gopher had staged a fight in it. “Hey there, Dr. Wilkes.”
Blood of the Isir Omnibus Page 7
