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—Northern proverb
Fog thickened as the sun rose. Yellowing grass, falling ice, mist that distorted every tree into an enemy’s shadow—there are songs of the beauty of lost Nithraen in spring, and of the glory of colors in autumn when the great trees painted their leaves but did not lose them, the song of its fountains in coolness during summer-shimmer heat-haze.
We saw only its demise. Even then, as ice-freighted debris struck the ground like a child’s playful slap during a game of touchwell, there was a sad majesty to the forest, helped by its eerie lack of undergrowth.
Even I heard them before we saw aught, of course—creaking movements, broad boots crushing fragile ice, growls and shouts in a tongue bearing no resemblance to the Old or the southron its great-grandchild. They made no attempt to be silent; Efain gestured our small group toward a tumble of moss-grown boulders, dripping with mistbreath and edged with frozen fragments. I accomplished hiding with very little in the way of noise, though my heart threatened to thump through my ribs and my breath tore at my throat as if I were running instead of creeping in felted overboots.
The Northerners arranged themselves before Arn and me, and I did not need their grim looks at each other to understand the situation, for the voices in the fog were many.
I flattened my gloved hand against stone. Arneior’s freckles glowed and her woad glared, for the rest of her had turned pale. A shieldmaid does not necessarily quail before an uneven fight, but the sounds were a river dividing around us—a tramp of marching feet, clatter of metal gear and bits moving in rhythm, some manner of chant which approximated music but was perhaps intended to keep them shuffling in unison.
Hide us.I did not have strength enough to manage an Elder toy, but there was a great deal of mist—water hanging in air, and easy enough to thicken if I asked politely.Please. Just a little, and a little more.
My lips moved slightly, myseidhrnot quite painful but certainly stronger than usual. No doubt fear added to its potency. Thickening vapor-streaks slipped from my overboots’ toes, tiny curls rising. The strands wove together, a tapestry of smoke, and the mist swirled into heavy clots.
The Northerners did not seem to notice at the beginning, though Arn relaxed slightly and Efain glanced in my direction, probably thinking I was about to faint or make some sound.
My eyelids fluttered, turning winterlight to a candle’s flickering. Theseidhrintensified yet more; this time there were no strange half-seen figures in the fog, no lich-shapes or ghostly outlines running with cold blue radiance. Nothing but my own will, subtly adding embroidery to a woven screen.
Soft and gentle such sewing must be, and the necessity of silence made it more difficult yet. Still, my throat swelled, words running just under my motionless tongue, and I held to my task as the sun mounted. Left to itself the mist might have cleared in patches, but around our tiny shelter it turned to churned milk just upon the edge of butter.
Efain gripped Karas’s arm, for the son of Nareal’s jaw worked and his hand was knotted about his swordhilt. Gelad gazed at the mist as Arn did, yet without her relaxation.
Her faith in me was a bright comfort, much less distracting than the Northerners’ tension.
I shuddered, my mantle’s hem brushing mossy stone.Please, I pleaded, over and over.Keep us from their notice.
The stamp-shuffling oforukharmoving past lasted a long, long while. Their chanting worked against myseidhr, sawing at the strands; it took a great deal of concentration to repair the fraying. Mounting cold ate at me, though I sweated with effort under my mantle.
It was not the devouring fire of thetaivvanpallo, but I could not even feel grateful for such a mercy.
By the time the sound of marching diminished I trembled like a rabbit in a snare, driving my fingers hard against the green-clad skin of a boulder almost twice my height. My knees threatened to give, tipping me against Arn’s shoulder; the sense of warm breathing life she contained helped somewhat, though yet more mist-strands slipped from my mental grasp as it blasted through my raw, open inner selves.
She flinched, knowing the contact would distract me. It could even be fatal were I engaged in some different feat ofseidhr. As it was, her movement thrust me back upon the stone’s support, and my shivering exhale made the fog billow uneasily.
I sagged, icy-feverish, red coral beads digging into my scalp and my skirts quivering. I even laid my cheek against cold, gritty rock, my hood shutting out all daylight. It was still not as dark as the passage under Nithraen.
A faint scrape assaulted my ears, tender fromseidhrdespite the well-furred hood. I cowered as if struck, and there was a sound like an axe sinking into good dry cordwood. It faded into drywhistle croaking, like a grass-jumping insect rubbing its legs together.
It took all my strength to shove my hood back with cold-clumsy fingers, and turn.
Arn’s spear was buried deep in the belly of a rather largeorukhar. The deathshine upon its rolling dark eyes gleamed, and he might have cried our presence aloud as he died—save for Efain’s sword-tip in his throat, blocking the way. Theorukhar’s ashen fingers spasmed, his sword dropping free; Gelad lunged to catch its hilt, keeping it from clattering, and the huge fur-wearing thing’s left hand flickered for its belt.
It had not quite the strength to drag a long, wicked dagger free, though it tried mightily. Its gaze was fixed upon me, and when thestrange sheen upon its eyes faded I felt its life leave, a candle carried down a dark hall before winking out under a cold breath.
Its armor was iron, and cruelly spiked at shoulder and elbow; Arn’s boots slipped as she fought to keep sudden limpweight from crashing earthward. Gelad surged upright, Karas sprang forward, and they eased the corpse to the ground as Efain drew his sword-point free. A gout of blackish blood spilled down the thing’s front.
Theorukhar’s skin looked perfectly natural despite its greyish, sickly paleness.As natural as Aeredh’s ears, I thought, and a swimming weakness nearly leveled me. He was strongly built, his cheeks turning to wattles along the jaw, and there were marks of either laughter or grimacing upon either side of his wide mouth with its strong pearly teeth. His hands looked like my father’s despite their unhealthy pallor, callused and broad. One of his boots had a broken heel; a metal cap on the other showed what had torn loose.
Hel, take him gently.The prayer caught me by surprise; I almost spoke it aloud, for it is only right to speed a fallen foe along thus.Wingéd Ones, judge him surely. Allmother, may he rest with thee; may Odynn and Manhrweh welcome him.
Hel has many halls and countries; one of them might accept even the Enemy’s servants. If they are indeed twist-descended from the Elder, they might go to that place the Children of the Star never speak of to mortals, where rest from life’s labors is gained before they issue forth again, memory and spirit intact, at a time of their gods’ choosing.
I did not know. And it troubled me as I gazed upon the body amid filigreed leaves and yellowed, dying grass.
The Northerners attended to searching the corpse with silent efficiency; he had little enough—a waterskin, another skin containing foully alcoholic liquid, and hard waybread with a faint oily coating. His cloak was too rent to be of much use, and I was useless as well, for I had not hidden us well enough and furthermore could barely stand, let alone stagger unaided, for some while.
It was not the first time I had seen death, even of a violent sort. But I was… astonished, I suppose. The deadorukharin the lich’s party had not seemed so individual, so complete.
