by David Cook
“Of course.” Vil stood to his full height. “You’re determined to go north, then?”
The Harper nodded.
Vil hung a pot of water on the firedog and swung it over the flame. “If you’re willing, I could guide you,” he offered almost casually.
“You?” Martine asked, realizing how she sounded even as she spoke. “I mean, I know you could, but aren’t you—”
“Too old?”
“—too busy?”
Vil chuckled. From him, it sounded strange. “In wintertime, there’s hardly a thing to do but split wood and hunt up here, and I can hunt at the glacier. I admit I know less about the north than the gnomes do.” The old warrior sat on the hearth and still managed to be taller than Martine in her chair. “But I know more than you.”
“You don’t have to do this.”
“I want to help.”
Just as she was about to voice another protest, Martine reconsidered Vil’s offer. There was no mistaking the earnestness in his eyes.
“How soon can you leave?” The question was cautious, designed to still give him an excuse to say no, but Martine could only remember Jazrac’s old advice about allies—that no one ever helps without a good reason. What was Vilheim’s reason? She wondered if the old wizard would have agreed to let him accompany her.
“As soon as you’re ready. Tomorrow?”
“Seriously?” It was Vil’s turn to nod. “Then tomorrow it is,” Martine agreed, still not comfortable with her choice.
The next morning found the pair airborne as Astriphie labored under the double weight of two riders. Vil sat behind Martine’s saddle, bloodless fingers clutching the saddle’s angled back. Although the wind was bitter at this height, it was more than the cold that made him shiver. Even with a rope lashed around his waist, the man clearly did not feel safe. Martine tried to distract him, but between the wind’s howling bite and the hippogriff’s labored pants, it was only possible to communicate by shouting. After a few minutes of that, Martine knew she had to stop or lose her voice.
Nonetheless, the woodsman’s ability to guide from the air impressed the ranger, considering that common landmarks seemed to transform themselves from a height of a thousand feet. At Vil’s direction, Astriphie was making a straight course for a low gap in the mountains to the north. Unlike the pass at the southern end of the valley, which had been a smooth, open snowfield that stretched above the timberline, the northern pass stood out dark green as the trees marched right up and over the crest of the ridge.
To the left and right of the gap, the mountains sloped down like weak shoulders till they joined the curve of pass. Below them, Vil pointed out the river that flowed from the pass, a churning white ribbon that cut though the green foliage. That, he shouted, was their path until they crossed over to the north ridge.
Gradually, pulling higher with each beat of Astriphie’s wings, the trio passed over the ridge, crossing from the gnome-occupied woods of the south to the cold and feral north. Beyond the ridge lay another valley penned in by mountains. It stretched out like a narrow finger to the north until it abruptly ended, truncated across its length by a sparkling wall that at this distance seemed to flow from between the mountain peaks like frozen treacle. In the morning sunshine, the distant glacial ice looked like a diamond set in silver. The wall’s many facets glittered and glowed, beckoning them forward.
“Amazing!” Martine leaned back as she shouted so Vil could hear. The Harper had never seen such a great wall of ice before. The jewel-like glacier rose over a bed of dark, brooding green, a virgin forest that seemed to shrink before the ice’s advance. The glacier towered over even the tallest trees and then stretched backward into the mountains until everything disappeared in a tangled horizon of smooth ice rivers and rock.
“Where to now?” Vil bellowed.
Martine realized she didn’t actually know what she was looking for. Jazrac had been long on explanation about his elemental rift, but the wizard had never really told her what to look for. He had said it was on the glacier, but that was all. Martine didn’t realize then how vast a glacier could be. Still, she couldn’t admit not knowing what to do after dragging her host this far into the wilderness.
“When we get there, look for some kind of a disturbance, something unusual on the glacier.” Although her answer seemed a safe bet, she was thankful that the yelling effectively hid any doubt in her voice.
“How long?”
“What?”
“How long for your mount to get us there?”
“An hour, maybe less,” the Harper answered as she scanned the valley floor, trying to gauge their distance to the ice wall. Just then she thought she spotted something below. “What’s that down there?” Used to traveling alone, Martine pulled Astriphie into a quick dive, prompting Vil to clutch frantically at her waist. “Hold on,” she remembered to caution tardily.
“Look down there,” she asked, pointing toward a small clearing as they leveled out once more. “What’s that?”
Vil strained, his eyes tearing against the cold, until he made out what had caught her attention. It was a thin stream of smoke rising from the edge of the clearing. As they swooped closer, he made out a cluster of long narrow huts in the shadow of the trees.
“Gnolls—this is their valley. They are the reason the Vani would not come here.”
“The gnomes were afraid?” There was no mockery in Martine’s question.
“Each respects the other’s valley. Usually there is no trouble. Besides, it is best not to rouse the hornet’s nest.” As he spoke, three figures darted from the huts for the dark shelter of the woods. “Best to fly high. They are skilled with the bow.”
Were she alone, Martine would have swept as low as she dared for a better view. Instead, she heeded Vil’s warning and pulled Astriphie back up.
“Are there many of them?”
“The gnolls? It’s not a large tribe, but more than the Vani … enough to be a threat.”
Vil’s answer sounded ominous. Although there were more questions she could have raised about the skills of the gnolls, their hunting patterns, and even their totems, Martine lapsed into silence, the cold and the shouting getting the better of her throat. There was a great deal you could learn about such creatures from things like totems, she thought idly. Take a bear totem—it meant the tribe respected strength and solidity, a good sign all in all, even in savage creatures like gnolls. On the other hand, if the totem were, say, an ice worm, that wasn’t a good sign. Tribes that chose totems like that were too often cruel and ravenous like their god.
Given the proximity of the glacier, she wouldn’t be surprised if this group had chosen the latter. The closeness of the ice probably made for sudden death. Hard lives bred hard gods.
A tug at her coat reminded Martine of her duty. “There!” Vil shouted at her ear to be heard over the wind. “Over there!” Tentatively easing his grip, he pointed to a swirling plume of ice, a jet of frozen crystals, that heaved and spurted like the irregular storms of the sea against the crested shore. The icy column rose up until it expanded like some swollen vegetable—a cauliflower instantly came to Martine’s mind.
“See it? Is that it?” Vil shouted again, uncertain if she had heard him.
“It must be. It’s certainly unusual,” she howled back. Martine had no doubt it must be her goal. What else but a geyser of hoarfrost would mark a rift such as Jazrac had explained? She understood now why the wizard hadn’t bothered to describe it. With a rekindled confidence that she could end this quickly, Martine leaned the hippogriff in a broad arc that would carry them toward the plume.
When they had less than a mile to go, the air around them changed, the temperature plummeting with ferocious suddenness. Bone-gnawing cold attacked every inch of exposed skin, even penetrating through the layers of fur that had managed to keep them warm till now. Astriphie rocked and struggled mightily against the increasing buffets of the frenzied gale.
The trio were close enough now to m
ake out vaguely, through the swirling gaps of wind-burning ice, the star-shaped fissure, crudely heaved upward in cracked blocks. The main ice jet, for now it was apparent there was a small group of lesser fumaroles, pulsed with the otherworldly tide that forced its icy discharge up from the center of the fissure and sent it flowing down one of the jagged arms. The tighter the gap became, the higher the plume shot as the pressure increased until it hit the end. Lightning couldn’t have raised greater thunder as the geyser broke over the splintered end, blowing out chunks of glacial ice visible even at a distance.
Vil shouted something, but most of it was lost: “—so close!”
Martine shook her head furiously at what she guessed he had said. “Closer. The less time on the ground, the better.” She hoarsely shouted her explanation, although it was unlikely Vil could hear any better than she. With a firm command, she pushed the hippogriff, its normally keen eyes now flashing with fire, closer and closer. “We’ll move in quick and—”
The concussive boom of the roaring flux devoured the rest of her words. Astriphie’s wingbeats faltered, momentarily pitching the group into an unplanned dive. Behind her, Vil’s weight shifted, threatening to overbalance the hippogriff. Dropping the reins from one hand, Martine thrust her arm back and levered the slipping woodsman back into his seat. The effort burned her throat in frozen gasps and triggered a fit of wracking coughs. The fire of ice scorched her lungs, left her mouth filled with pasty spit.
The shuddering gasps left her unable to steer, and by the time Martine recovered, it was too late. Astriphie, uncontrolled, had panicked and plunged iceward while attempting to wheel away from the fissure, the source of the beast’s terror. Just as the hippogriff slipped into a steep-banked turn, the geyser spewed forth another shuddering blast. The great pinioned wings were spread almost full against the outrushing force of the wind, catching it like the swollen sails of a yacht leaping before the ocean breeze. Frantically sensing the danger, Martine pitched her slight body hard into the rushing wind the way a sailor on that same yacht would lean himself as a counterbalance against the tipping hull. Understanding the need for her move, Vil leaned with her. For a perilous moment, they held the balance, the arc of a perfect parabola suspended between the shattered white ground and the roiling sky. We can make it, Martine exulted.
And then it was over. Astriphie’s voice, a whinnying screech of pain, sundered all hope. The hoarse cry barely drowned out the sickening popping noise as the hippogriff’s uppermost wing crumpled, flexing back over Martine and Vil to angle in directions it was never meant to point. The imaginary parabola collapsed as the rushing wind seemed to roll the crippled hippogriff completely over.
Suspended time was replaced by a whirling blur of snow and sky as the hippogriff tumbled from the heavens. The beast frantically beat at the air with its remaining wing, the other flopping uselessly with each roll, feathers raking the Harper’s face as she struggled to guide her frenzied mount down. Behind her, Vil could do no more than cling to whatever purchase he could gain, more than once finding himself suspended helplessly by the single safety rope around his waist.
Loosing the now useless reins, Martine lunged to the side, flattening against the hippogriff’s unsocketed wing as the fall righted the creature. The agonized screech from the pain she caused echoed in the woman’s ears, but the great wing responded and struggled to spread itself full once more. It was barely enough time, for the ground, all icy barbs and jagged ridges, was speeding up toward them. There was no hope of slowing their furious glide, indeed barely any chance of remaining righted. As the glacial landing field swelled closer, Martine knew it meant the death of her brave steed and almost surely its riders.
“Cut free!” she screamed, one thick gloved hand fumbling for her knife. “Cut yourself free and jump!” With the jagged ice splinters that lay below, it wasn’t much of a chance, but it was their only one.
Martine heard a sharp twanging sound behind her, and the plummeting hippogriff lurched as its load suddenly shifted. The Harper thought she heard a human howl, and then it was lost in the sweeping gale.
The ranger’s mittened hand closed on the handle of something she could only hope was her knife, and with a blind slash, she hacked at the saddle’s restraining belts. Half her body, suddenly freed of its bonds, swung upward as if it had lost all weight. Instantly she lost her position, and the hippogriff’s wing folded, slamming against her with a force that almost knocked the blade from her grasp. Beating back the feathers with one hand, Martine slashed furiously at the last strap. As she was still sawing at the leather, she tumbled away from the doomed mount, and at the same instant, the last strap gave way. She flew off the rump of the hippogriff, her feet flying over her heels just as Astriphie’s wings cracked into an upthrust sheet of ice. The roar that filled the glacier was superseded by the squealing, popping, pulpy grind as the hippogriff gouged a bloody track across the dirty white snow.
Martine saw none of this, however, for in the instant Astriphie hit, she was twisting futilely in midair in an attempt to land on her feet. Then all at once the white was upon her—tearing, ripping, and beating as she smashed through the frozen crust and sank into the needlelike snow beneath it.
Three
Martine’s next recollection was of darkness—a blessed darkness that numbed the raging fire coming from somewhere inside her body. She floated back in the light cocoon where she had been hurled and tried to pinpoint the source of the pain that dreamily eluded her understanding. Even so, the fire became steadily stronger, and with it came awareness. The pain settled over her the way autumn leaves accumulated on the ground, slowly spreading throughout her body but primarily in the legs, a frightening combination of raw, shredded nerves and cold, soothing numbness. The here and now struggled through the agonizing haze, bringing a view of a queer, phantasmagoric world, exaggerated and tilted. Shades of white, lathered red, and pink resolved themselves into angles of ivory all splattered with blood and gore.
Not ivory, Martine corrected herself. Ice … I’m half buried in ice tinged with blood. The crimson stains captured her attention, a clarion call to warn her of the danger of her condition—the steady glaciation of her limbs if she didn’t get moving, and soon. Floundering in the broken snow, Martine twisted about to view her own body, make sure it was intact, only to have the constant fire give way to stabbing pain. The darkness swirled back, threatening to overwhelm the dim light of her world. Martine held it at bay by focusing on her self, on her mission.
Using the strange clarity that torment brought, Martine drove herself further, seeking to learn what had happened to her body. From the way her side hurt, one or more ribs were probably cracked. She had felt that pain once before, and the woman knew she could survive that. Elsewhere were more cuts than she could guess. Blood trickled down the ice crystals on her brow and clouded the vision in one eye. Reaching up to wipe the warm smear away, the Harper discovered that her arm throbbed fiercely. She remembered with absolute clarity hitting the snow with her shoulder.
After that pain, Martine gingerly put the rest of her body through a mental inventory. Although every move caused pain like fire to play along her bones, nothing seemed to be broken, other than perhaps her ribs. Ice-clotted, black-red scratches scored her once sturdy winter gear, but overall the woman was pleased she had no great gashes or dangerous wounds, at least so far as she could tell. Frantically she remembered Jazrac’s stones as if they, too, were part of her body. A quick pat assured her that these had also survived unbroken.
Satisfied that she was bloodied but in working order, Martine stiffly floundered out of the trench her body had dug. She had to find Astriphie and Vilheim. To her relief, she found that at the glacier’s surface, the howling wind had eased considerably, although the thundering booms from the fissure still shook the crystalline ground. It seemed that for every four steps she took, the ground would suddenly heave and tremble in response to the rift’s violent shifting.
Finding Astriphie was no p
roblem. The hippogriff’s body was splayed across the glacier, smears of its blood trailing, sledgelike, in the beast’s wake. Astriphie had struck the top of an ice cap, shearing that away in a neat gouge. Pinion feathers decorated the bloody grooves where the animal had slid, and Martine could see clearly the long scratches where the beast had clawed the ice in its death slide. At the base of another mound lay the hippogriff, its mighty wings ripped and pierced by jagged splinters of ice. The beast’s eaglelike head was twisted around at an impossible angle. Below the neck, the left half of the mount’s feathered rib cage was caved in; white angles of bone and tissue showed through the remains of the downy hide. Steam rose from the blood and viscera spilled onto the snow, partially held in by the tangled straps of the Harper’s saddle.
Martine suddenly felt the intense cold penetrating deep through her body. She collapsed to the ice, seized by violent trembling, and tears mixed with blood in her eyes. Breathing was possible only in lancing heaves that sucked in swirls of icy air. Her throat burned with each spasmodic gasp.
Even after the fit passed, Martine could not move for a long time. The cold ground, smooth-slick and red, sapped her energy, making it harder than before to rouse herself. It would be nice just to sleep here with Astriphie.… The thought whispered insidiously in her mind. Surely she could just lie here and rest a bit before doing anything else.…
Martine swore as she realized what was happening. It was a decidedly creative oath, laced with a sea dog’s salt and bitter references to geysers. The thought of what Jazrac might think of her less than ladylike tongue made Martine appreciate her cursing all the more. It helped immensely. Before she realized it, she was up on her feet, wavering unsteadily as she surveyed the crash site, looking for Vil.
Unsupported by snowshoes, her feet sometimes broke through the snow crust in places where the surface was a deceptive sheet of old snow. Every time it happened, the glacier seemed to try to swallow her whole. As she labored her way out of another snowy morass, she sardonically thought how fortunate she was to be on the smooth ice field here and not in the tangle of crevasses they had seen from the air.