In blind panic, he opened his mouth to breathe but he was still underwater. With mounting fear, he realized he was going to drown.
Nine – Gohem
The muscles in Wolf Tongue’s stomach solidified to stone. It felt as if his chest, caught somewhere in exhale, were a rock that dragged him through the air toward the river. The wind changed and seemed to thrash at his leggings and tunic. He could feel his legs kicking against nothing, his frozen lungs struggling to draw breath. His throat felt swollen and stiff as he plummeted, then, finally, he pried open his airway and sucked in a frantic breath.
Then the wind stopped and the water took him.
Wolf Tongue saw only black and felt only excruciating cold. Every muscle seemed to clench, though he thought of nothing but darkness and pain. Something hard slammed against his leg and the world of the living circled around him as he tried to hold on to snatches of the visions.
The hard thing against his leg was the river bottom. He fought against his lungs that now seemed to want to expel his breath and suck in the black water. His body swirled, tumbling across rocks.
Too cold.
The river.
Slowly, the wisps of reality coalesced into a solid panic in his stomach. The river was dragging him along its rocks, though how deep he was, he didn’t know. He struggled for a moment to slow his progress, scrabbling against the smooth rocks with stiff hands.
It was difficult enough to scale the cliff. Now I’m scaling the river.
Polished stones rolled under his fingers, giving him no purchase as he bounced along sideways with the current. He wanted to swim, to move, but he seemed to forget how. His leg slammed against a larger rock and he spun. His lungs coughed and half a breath escaped his lips before he could clamp them shut. Water rushed in his nose.
He shoved with all the strength he could muster against the riverbed, hoping solely to rise to the surface. It seemed that he moved less than half a body length up, though it was enough to separate him from the stones.
He suppressed another cough, and the sound of swallowed breath caught in his ear. He swam toward the surface, fighting as eddies pulled him sideways or spun him around. It did not matter which way he faced, he just needed to go up.
His chest screamed for air. His lungs shuddered and seared with fire while his legs and arms shivered with cold. The last of his breath flew from him with a cough that contorted his body like a kick to the stomach.
Then, his head broke free to the surface. The sound of the river and of wind howled in his ears, painfully loud after the muffled thrum beneath the water. He gasped and hacked, sucking in air in short, frantic breaths. The river pulled him under again, then he bobbed up again and sucked in another breath.
Wolf Tongue tried to swim, to push himself toward the shore. As he fought against it, the current twisted him, turned him around, dragged him under and released him for air, tumbled him against the rocks. His clothes dragged at his body like tethers to the world of the dead. He fought to find strength enough to just stay above water.
Between bouts of being underwater, he whispered out a scratchy prayer to the jogah of the river and the rocks that they might help him to shore.
It was then that he again felt rocks dragging at his feet. For a heartbeat, he thought of calling to the odhow who guard the dead, when he realized it meant he was in shallower water. He could just make out the outline of trees. With renewed strength, he pushed against the water, and the ground rose so that he could now find purchase with his feet.
Shaking with cold and dripping water, Wolf Tongue stumbled up the slope and onto firm ground. He slumped against a tree and closed his eyes.
His body ached from the effort of the night. His left leg felt bruised and battered by the river. His teeth chattered and a shiver ran through his entire body, making him wince in pain.
Then, a crooked smile lifted his cheek. It was worth it, he thought. Then, immediately behind it came his own voice. “As long as Storm-of-Villages dies and I don’t.”
With that thought, Wolf Tongue remembered back before the river. He opened his eyes and scanned the area for Hugh Pyke. The soldier might have come to the surface nearby, though he could not see any evidence of it. Gohem threw sheets of white through the woods. Sign of any passing would be easy to find, but would be soon covered with layers of snow. Wolf Tongue closed his eyes again. He could search for Pyke after another moment of rest.
Another shiver ran through him and he considered building a fire to try to warm himself.
No. He needed to get away from Storm-of-Villages’ camp and meet Pyke. More importantly, he needed to stay warm, stay moving. A fire was too dangerous, would bring Storm-of-Villages down on him.
He needed to move. Movement meant warmth. And, in the right direction, it meant dry blankets lashed on the horse. He wasn’t far from there now, he thought, he should be there soon.
With a shuddering breath and a grunt, he pushed himself from the tree and staggered through the snow into the forest.
***
Wolf Tongue felt something cold and sharp against his face. His eyes fluttered open to reveal a blurry swirl of glistening blue and black. He forced them closed and held them tight until he could hear the blood rushing in his ears, then pried them open again. This time, his vision was clearer and he recognized the color of snow in the night along the forest floor, its dull shimmering broken by the dark stands of tree trunks.
He pushed himself up to a sitting position and looked around. He must have fallen as he stumbled toward the meeting point, but how long ago, he could not tell. The snow still fell, heavy and thick, though the winds had eased enough that the flakes did not batter his eyes as they had earlier.
He brushed a sprinkling of flakes off his shoulders and face, thinking he must not have fallen long ago. There was little snow accumulated on him.
Just a little nap.
With slow, deliberate movements, he unfolded himself from his snowy bed and stood. His clothes still felt wet and sticky against his skin, though they seemed to have released the cold. Even though he did not feel the freezing sensation he had earlier, his body seemed reluctant to move. His toes dragged behind him, plowing marks in the snow. When he saw it, he grunted in frustration. Fearing pursuit, he reached at his belt for his tomahawk, only to find it gone.
Pyke has my tomahawk. I wish I had it.
He gaped at the empty space for a moment. His eyes unfocused, making his own body seem ghostly in the night’s light. He blinked and continued to shuffle through the forest.
Where’s Pyke? He has my tomahawk.
Wolf Tongue stumbled and fell onto his side. A flash of pain erupted in his bruised leg and he grimaced. Then it was gone.
He forced himself up again. Was that movement ahead? The nicker of a horse? He looked around. He was close now. Just ahead.
Fire’s too bright. Just get the blankets. Sleep till dawn.
Leaves crackled and twigs snapped. Wolf Tongue looked around for a moment before he realized the noise was him traipsing through the fresh snow, stumbling against tree branches.
I could sleep. Just close my eyes for a bit, gather my strength. I’ll meet Pyke soon. I’m warm enough for now.
The ground seemed to rise up suddenly and slam against his knees. Wolf Tongue accepted it and leaned forward on his hands. The snow felt soft, cushioning. He eased down and closed his eyes.
Pyke has my tomahawk.
Ten – Proof of the Deed
Pyke’s lungs spasmed in rebellion, and he gulped a mouthful of icy cold water. The flood of river in his lungs only made him cough more, as his body tried to expel the water that was drowning him.
The river carried him ever onward. He rolled with its current and frantically paddled his arms and kicked his legs. His throat opened again, and more water poured in. The pressure on his chest was excruciating.
The Lord is punishing me.
He reached what he thought was skyward, but could not tell if his hand had broke
n the surface of the river. Everything was cold, even his innards.
Please forgive me my debts.
Instinctively, his mouth tried to open again but he clamped it shut and fought against the spasms of his own body. The river seemed to slow. His foot scraped the bed, and he realized this was it: he hadn’t been climbing to the surface, he’d been sinking this entire time.
In one last-ditch effort, he put his feet on the riverbed and pushed off. In the murky darkness of the river, he could not tell how far the surface was, but he reached out for it, certain he would be dead in a matter of moments.
His fingertips were stung by the cold air.
Rejuvenated, he kicked furiously and his head crowned. He tilted back and took a good lungful of air. Or tried to. His lungs were still water-logged, so instead of a nice clean breath his body racked with coughs.
Then his feet were under him, and the current weakened. He tried to stand but all his strength was gone, so he flopped and splashed down into the river again. In the darkness, he spotted the shore and with his remaining energy swam for it. God must have given him strength, because he reached it and his hand took hold of tree roots through the slimy mud.
The water rushed around him. He had stopped.
Then his lungs seized and he had another fit. He coughed so much he gagged, bringing up water and then his stomach. He gagged and retched even after he had nothing left to expel. His head pounded, hot tears streamed down his face, and the weather assaulted him.
But he was alive.
Necesse est … he couldn’t complete the phrase in Latin. His mind was too muddled. He had to go on.
After the fit concluded, he pulled himself fully ashore and plopped down in the thicket of dead weeds. He had to get his wind quickly because Azariah’s men would be in pursuit.
Every few breaths, his lungs shuddered to remove the last drops of river water. In a moment, he was breathing again normally, though his heart thundered in his chest. Pulling himself up, he looked back to the cliff. Its height from here astonished him. Their fall had been long, appearing twice as high as the roof of his family’s original estate.
The wind reminded him how cold he was. On wobbly legs, he stood and leaned on a tree for support. It was time for quick maths.
Azariah would not send men over the cliff after them. His forces would have to take the long way or at the very least scale the cliff face, which would take some time. At worst, his pursuers were already on the ground; at best, he had another quarter hour before they were.
It was time to move.
Hugging himself, he hurried through the dark forest, through the howling wind and driving snow. The cold engulfed him. His teeth chattered. Each step felt a slamming of joint on joint.
Pyke dashed. He had to move quickly, because he was returning to the point where they’d landed in the water, closer to Azariah’s men.
***
He fixated on that other wintry night, when the depths of Dante’s hell had opened and the cold had all but killed him. He had not been long in the Province. A patrol on a snowy eve had made him lose his finger and two toes.
He recalled the hard-learned lessons of that night. A chill like this fooled a man.
Benumbed, he would begin to not feel the cold anymore. He would think himself warm, recovered. The brain would begin to feel tired, and the body would ache for sleep. It had happened to him. He had almost drifted off until Sergeant Davies had found him …
That was the important thing: not to fall asleep. Noli dormire.
And Pyke was beginning to feel warmer now, so he knew his body was lying to him and not to be trusted. His mind was groggy too, starting to feel the pull of sleep. He would be dead if he did not move.
He started forward quickly, trying to work up a sweat that would provide temporary warmth and solution to the chill. Moving with speed rather than caution, he made more noise than he wanted to. But to stay alive, he had no choice.
His breath heavy, Pyke slowed before he reached the rendezvous. The horse stood tethered to a tree, giving Pyke its profile. He stopped moving so as not to disturb it, for if Azariah’s men had already discovered the horse, they would be lying in wait here. It was the perfect ambush.
The horse nickered.
Pyke tensed and lowered himself into a crouch. His limbs shook from the cold, and he couldn’t feel his fingers. His missing finger ached, as did his missing toes.
The horse nickered again.
Someone was near.
Panic-stricken, he wondered if he was still armed. His musket was nowhere to be found. He didn’t know where his pistol was. He’d probably lost his grip on it during his fall or in the river.
It was a clumsy weapon in these thick woods, but he still had his sword. Thank God for that. And the tomahawk. He’d managed to rip it from the man’s neck and secure it to his belt before they’d rushed out of the tent. He felt along his back and found it, its steel freezing cold to the touch. He still had his knife too.
It could be Wolf Tongue hiding nearby. That had been their plan: to meet at the horse if separated. But it just as easily could not have been. It was a miracle Pyke had survived the fall and the river. He wondered at the odds of another man doing the same. And if Wolf Tongue had already reached the rendezvous only to find Pyke absent? The Indian would have already hurried off to find shelter. Any rational man would have done so.
Anyone would have done so.
He chided himself. That was cowardice masquerading as logic. Before he galloped away, he had to check the vicinity for his man. He owed Wolf Tongue that much. After all, it had been at Pyke’s insistence that they scale the cliff and murder Azariah in his sleep. Wolf Tongue had counseled against the idea, had urged Pyke to rethink the plan in fact, but out of some sense of loyalty, he had followed Pyke up that cliff into madness.
Yes. He would search for the Indian until he could search no more.
Pyke stayed low to the ground and began his circle of the perimeter. Under ordinary circumstances, he would have taken position somewhere and hunkered down on the watch for a few hours. But time was not a luxury he had. The cold would kill him if he did not find shelter and warmth. He had to act quickly.
The horse grew agitated and shook its head. Pyke stopped in his tracks: someone was very close. Then the horse strained against its tethered reins, trying to free itself. Pyke’s greedy and cold eyes spotted the dry blankets bundled and wrapped around the horse’s flank. He would kill an innocent for that warmth.
The thought stopped him like a knife to the gut. It was possible that he had killed an innocent. He had snuck into a man’s tent while he slept and cut him down like a murderer. The full realization sent a chill to his very soul.
Pyke shuddered and forced the nausea and the loathing deeper into his belly. Lord forgive me, he thought. I’ll pay my debts later if I can at least save the heathen.
He stayed still for another moment, listening for the sounds of men. He heard nothing over the moaning wind. Carefully, he resumed his sweep.
He almost tripped over the body. Even in the scarce light, he was certain it was the Indian. Wolf Tongue laid on his belly in the snow, as if resting on a soft, white quilt. Immediately, Pyke feared the man had succumbed.
A shallow, labored breath escaped the Indian’s lips. He wasn’t dead, but he would be soon. In fact, he seemed too far gone for Pyke to help him.
Pyke was about to hurry to the horse that stood twenty paces away to get the blankets, when he heard:
“Spread out! I won’t have you tripping over each other to find these two men!”
Pyke was startled by the strange familiarity of Azariah’s voice. The man sounded just like the Colonel and spoke with the same haughty authority.
Pyke flattened himself on the ground next to the Indian, keeping the tomahawk ready. With his other hand, he carefully unsheathed his sword a few inches to ensure it hadn’t frozen in the scabbard. Azariah’s voice had come from the direction of the river and sounded close.
He recalled the Indian’s words about sound not traveling far through the woods.
“A horse!” came a second voice, definitely of English parentage. “Over here!”
The stamp of feet crashing through the forest sounded. Azariah’s men were either untrained or being cocksure because of their numbers.
In the hellish darkness, Pyke tried to spot the men. He was close enough to the horse to see the one who’d called to Azariah. The man stood next to the horse, waving a tree trunk of an arm. He was a towering specimen, possibly the tallest white man Pyke had ever laid eyes on, also as broad as a seasoned blacksmith. This must have been the tall man they’d spotted earlier, before the scalpers had ruined their plans. Pyke tracked the giant’s gestures and searched the woods for the rest.
They appeared, several of them carrying torches. Azariah’s force was at least ten strong and armed for war. If it had only been a few men, he could have tried to overwhelm them. Maybe. He wasn’t in the best of conditions. But that was all academic anyway, because there were just too many for a direct assault. And they were close. Now Pyke had to hide and hope he wasn’t spotted. But with every second, the chill overtook him. Again, he felt the fluttering of his eyelids as his body begged for false sleep.
Azariah pushed his way past his men roughly and examined the horse. Pyke figured the man was looking for personal effects, so he racked his brain to recall if there were any identifying items. He didn’t think so. There was nothing that would give away his identity or their mission …
The Colonel’s seal.
After they’d tracked Azariah here, Pyke had left it with the horse, figuring he would not need it anymore.
Azariah ripped open the satchels on the horse and ransacked them. He quickly tossed aside Pyke’s plate, utensils, canteens, and tins of food. Then his frantic search came to a sudden stop.
In the faint torchlight, Pyke saw the man whirl from the horse, a parchment between both hands.
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