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10A God of Threes

It was a full nine days later that we left the brigands’ lair and made for the mountain called Three-Head. The sky above us was an unlikely blue, the blizzard having let up, but we’d had to dig our way out of the lair, and we had to squint against the glare of the sun on all that crystalline white. Our snowshoes crunched and squeaked, but otherwise we avoided talking and made as little sound as possible to avoid an avalanche. We had seen one in the distance, a fall of powder followed by a great rumbling, like thunder with a long tail. It was an awesome and beautiful thing to see from far away, but it was no mystery that one of those would do for us if we got beneath it.

Soon I began to wonder at something even farther away, so far away I thought it must be impossibly large.

“What do you reckon that is?” I asked Galva.

“Looks like … smoke?”

She narrowed her eyes, craned her head closer, like those few inches would help when whatever this was looked to be so far away we could only see it because it was impossibly large.

“Are they burning a whole city?”

“Perhaps a pulcanta.”

“You mean a volcano?”

“That is the Holtish word, I think. You have these in Holt?”

“Not that I’ve heard of. But yes, that’s the word for a big fuck-off mountain on fire.”

“Volcano,” she said.

“Pulcanta,” I said in my most affected Ispanthian accent.

On we trudged.

We’d keep that smoky bit on our right, the rising sun behind us, toward sunset and the unknown west.

I started to wonder if even the several days’ march to the Temple of the God of Threes would be too much for us—snowshoeing is no easy business and uses wee bastard muscles that, having been rarely called on in a decent day’s business, quickly fatigue. But, having little other choice except to stop and make snow castles until we froze or some of those wanking great owls found us, we kept on as best we could.

“I miss the donkey,” I said.

“Yes.”

“I mean not just for carrying our shyte. Donkeys are mostly good-natured. Have you noticed?”

“No.”

“Sweet eyes on them.”

“Hmm.”

“Long lashes. Nice to have someone to talk to as well.”

She said nothing.

“Someone who listens, I mean.”

“I have noticed that you will talk regardless of whether someone listens or not. Perhaps if you put a hat on a stick, you could talk to that and leave me to walk in peace.”

“It’s peaceful in there, is it?” I said, indicating her noggin.

“When I am not being spoken to for no reason, yes.”

“So you’re saying, ‘Be quiet’?”

“Hmm.”