by J. Thorn
But where now? she wondered. Where can I go? The winter had come, and it had beaten her to Wytheville; she knew it was at least four more days’ travel. Four days in the blizzard. She would not get very far and then she would die.
She wondered, as she sat looking out at the blowing wind and snowdrifts building up against the foot of trees nearby, if anyone would ever find her, and the thought made her feel miserable.
How was Roke now? How were they all? Would she ever see any of them ever again? Would Roke and Gaston and the others die from sickness? Had Jonah managed to lead the clans to Eliz for the winter? She would never know what happened to any of them if she died there.
After maybe ten minutes of sitting there, waiting for the feeling to come back into her limbs, she forced herself up and out into the winter storm, pushing aside the dead branches and trudging out into the snow. It had already risen to six inches deep in some places.
She still followed the road, glancing behind her every now and then, wondering if the wolf still followed her.
Maybe that will be my fate, she thought. Food for the wolf. And maybe that was why it followed her. She pulled her bow from her shoulder, shaking hands struggling to notch the arrow, and continued forward, leaning into the wind and squinting as the snow brushed her face. She would at least be ready when the wolf came, even if her hands felt like they would fail her if she tried to use the bow.
Six hours later, nearly frozen, she slowed and looked around. She needed shelter; she could go no further that day. The snow was getting thicker as she travelled, and several times she had wondered if she should not just turn back and cast her fate to that of Gaston; maybe hope she could catch them up. Would sickness be a better way to die than freezing? But it was too late to turn back, and it felt like it was too late to go on. There was nowhere to run.
It was as she stood there, undecided, that she happened to glance down and see the paw prints in the snow leading away from the road. She glanced in the direction that they led and then crouched to look at them more closely.
They were the wolf’s paw prints, definitely, but as she looked she noticed that there were two different sizes. One large, and one smaller.
Two wolves, then.
The paw prints headed into the woods, veering far from the line of the path. If she continued, leaving them behind, she knew she would be able to avoid meeting the creatures, but the path led into deep trees and she could see a hundred yards away along the narrow path that the snow was thinner. The wind and storm wouldn’t reach the deeper area within the forest.
So what now? she thought. Go on and you’ll probably die of frostbite and exposure, but go in there and you’ll have to face wolves. Not really a much better choice.
But it was better than dying on the road, better than lying down in the snow and freezing when she had no more strength left in her. The trees would offer some shelter from the wind, and maybe—just maybe—she would get lucky and find somewhere to build a shelter, possibly even a fire.
She turned, finding herself stiff already, and stumbled toward the tree line, feeling relief from the cold wind almost immediately as the trees enveloped her. The air in the forest was almost still, but she could hear the wind howling above her in the treetops. This was the winter that everyone had spoken about. This was the freezing cold that had killed anyone foolish enough to consider staying and not heading to the south and east. And now she was one of those fools.
I’m not going to die, she thought. I’m not going to let this beat me. I can win. I can survive this. I can.
The ground among the denser trees was harder than she expected, and as she struggled forward, shivering, aiming the bow ahead of her, she noticed the snow shift slightly underfoot. Seren stopped and glanced down at the shiny stone under the snow, then shifted some more of it away. Then she frowned.
It was a path. A very old path.
She looked up and peered further along the track, where it started to slope downward into darker woods, and realized that some of what she had presumed were broken tree stumps lining the path were fence posts. Her frown deepened, but she pushed onward, wondering what lay ahead. This wasn’t all just wilderness after all. Someone had lived here, maybe long ago. And that meant hope.
The path meandered down the slope, winding between the larger trees and twisting around rocks as it went farther down the hill. After four hundred yards she walked around a large tree and past an overgrown patch of berry bushes, stripped of their wares.
She stopped and stared at the bushy area. It had grown wild over many years and was easily thirty feet across and a dozen feet high. And it was definitely the same kind of black berries that grew in the clearing near the reservoir.
And it had been stripped bare.
Someone had been here much more recently than she had expected.
Seren blinked and stared down the path. She found herself looking at a gate in the middle of a fence. Beyond that, almost hidden by the overgrown bushes and the branches of trees, was a large, ramshackle building built from stone.
She rushed forward, forgetting the wolves, and kicked open the gate, hurrying across the short stretch of open ground toward the front door.
The body of a man was stretched out across the ground in front of the entrance, frozen solid by the bitter cold. Seren stopped just a few feet away and stared down in horror at the mess before her. There had been a struggle, she could see that. A broken spear lay nearby, coated with blood that she didn’t think was the man’s, but it was hard to tell.
A wolf has done this, she thought, but was then puzzled. If wolves killed the man then there would be little left of him, but that wasn’t the case. His left leg was nearly torn from his body, and the mess around his neck spoke of another equally-fatal wound. There were many smaller bite marks across his body and torn patches of clothing.
And there was a trail of blood leading into the forest. She pulled back the bow, resisting the urge to run into the house for shelter and to escape the scene. The thought of being trapped in there with the wolves out here was terrifying, but the blood was only a few hours old, she thought, and if she followed the trail now she may be able to kill it before it could get very far.
The wolf lay just inside the tree line.
She stood over the heaving body as the injured creature lay there in the snow, watching her intently. It was a leg wound, she could see, and not fatal, if helped. As she stepped closer it lifted its head and growled at her in a low, deep tone, but then lay its head down again. She could see that it had little fight left in it.
It was the same wolf that had been following her, she knew. The same long white lines marked the top of its otherwise black head. And those deeply inset eyes watched her with an intensity that she found disturbing. There is hatred in those eyes, she thought. Or was it something else?
Seren lifted the bow and aimed, looking straight into the wolf’s piercing gaze.
* * *
The Leader That Was glared up at the Walking One Bitch and hated, hated, hated.
Killer of my sons, Taker of the pack. Ruiner of all.
He could remember the pain of the Flying Claws, the memory even now sending a twinge along his side. If she hadn’t been hidden the previous night he would have taken her then, taken her and eaten her while she screamed, but now it was lost. She had won.
But the young pup may still help me, he thought. The stupid little one. If she attacks and takes the Flying Claw then maybe I can still kill the Walking One Bitch before my life’s blood is all gone. I am lost, but I could make sure I do not go alone.
But he could sense where the cowardly little creature hid, even now, and knew that she may seem stupid and puny, but she was not that stupid. No help was coming from her. The one who had killed his sons would now end him, and the little whelp that annoyed him so much would sit there behind the trees and watch it happen.
All he could do was look in the Walking One Bitch’s eyes and await his end with pride.
&n
bsp; * * *
Thirty yards away, behind the cover of a trio of tall, thick trees, another pair of eyes watched the Walking One as it stood over the Leader That Was. The eyes peered intently at the tall figure with the strange Flying Claws, hoping that they would make the kill. The young wolf, barely older than a pup, knew that the Walking One female was dangerous, but she didn’t fear her at that moment. If the Walking One female killed the Leader That Was, then she would be free of his torment and bullying, even if she was then left alone. She would then be able to eat what she caught and not have to give it to him. No more waiting for the leftovers to pick over. No more biting punishments for reasons unknown.
But she should help him, she thought. He was her master. He would be Leader again, and she would be mother to his new pack when she was older. That was what he had told her. She should help. She should charge the Walking One and fight, giving the Leader That Was a chance. But would he fight or flee and leave you to die?
He already nearly killed you, thought the young pup, already nearly decided that you were food. And if you help him he will eat the Walking One female, she thought.He’ll eat her, and make you eat her, and you’ll feel sick and horrid. You didn’t eat the other ones because the smell was wrong—so wrong— but he will make you.
The young pup peered intently at the Walking One female, sensing, somehow, the same fears that ran through her own veins.
Please, thought the young one. Please end it now, because I cannot. I am not strong enough, and my fear is too great.
Chapter 32
As had become the clan’s habit, Leta led the circling of the carts. Jonah trusted her to do so and, with the watchful eyes and helpful hands of Solomon, Gunney and Declan, the Elk led the creation of the new camp. Ghafir and Rav helped the council elders, moving them from one spot to another until they were satisfied with a plot that they thought best represented their leadership position.
Jonah pulled his coat tight around his neck as the cold winds came from the north and rattled the tall grass. He knew the coming winter would not be nearly as brutal as it was on the shores of the Great Lake, but that didn’t prevent a chill from seeping into his bones. He smelled the first of the campfires, the fragrant scent of pine needles used as kindling. Soon, he knew, the warmth would come, and the season would change, and they could all stop shivering, knowing that the winter was in the west. The chills would stop and the warmer weather that always came to Eliz would make the days much easier to bear.
“We’ve made it. And you led us.”
He turned to see Sasha approaching from their tent. Her hair was bundled atop her head, and animal hides hid her thin body. They had all lost something on The Walk, some more than others. Sasha’s dark brown eyes chased Jonah’s chill away from the inside out.
“We’ve lost some.”
“We always do. But this season, we’ve gained some as well,” she said. Sasha looked around at the new faces in camp. The outcast clan, led by Ghafir, had begun to open up and talk to members of the Elk.
“How are the children?” Jonah asked. He winced, also thinking of Roke and Seren, whom he now wished he had formally adopted. He wondered where they had gone and if Gaston had made it to White Citadel. Jonah feared he would never see any of them again.
“They’re doing fine. And Keana is of age. This could be the winter she takes a partner.”
Jonah shuddered and then smiled at Sasha, remembering their early times in Eliz.
“I’m going to prepare the evening meal. The days are short now,” she said.
Jonah walked over and placed a kiss on her forehead. She drew him into her embrace and kissed him on the mouth. He stepped back, raised his eyebrows and winked. “The days are short and the nights are cold. We will need to stay warm through them.”
Sasha nodded and turned to skin whatever small game the hunters had killed during the day.
Jonah watched the clans he combined at Wytheville and the outcasts he brought in along the way. He thought of them all, co-existing here on the outskirts of Eliz, living together and protecting each other from the winter as well as the hunter clans on the periphery of their territory. He felt safe, and yet, a line of doubt began to form like a crack on a frozen lake come spring. That doubt went deeper, and Jonah walked away from his camp so that nobody would see it on his face.
He watched the Elk, the Bluestone, the Nebo, the Harpeth, the Clan of the Valley and all of the clans united at Wytheville. How long could he keep them in unison? They were so different, and the council elders were set in their ways. If things began to break apart, would he be able to stop it? The Walk gave everyone a purpose—a goal. But now that they had arrived, Jonah wondered if old gripes and deep tribal differences would rear up and ruin the greater collection he had gathered on the way to Eliz.
“I know you ain’t your father, but now you’re starting to look like him. And it don’t suit you much.”
The words broke Jonah from his own reflections. He looked up to see Logan approaching. The old man lumbered toward him with a flask in hand and his shoulders hunched. Jonah swore The Walk had shrunk him a few inches.
“What does that mean?” Jonah asked.
“Every time we reached Eliz, he looked like that. Like you. It was as if he carried one burden on The Walk and then another once we arrived. Not settling in the ruins? I don’t know…”
“You think we’d be safer there?” Jonah asked.
“No. I think this is the right call. But there is a great unknown on the plains, in the grasses. We’ve never spent the season here. We don’t know the ways of these hunter clans.”
Jonah sighed, knowing the old man was right but feeling powerless to do anything about it.
“Where do you think Gaston could be?” Logan asked.
“I don’t care.”
“Okay, let me ask that again. Where do you think Seren could be?”
“She is capable of taking care of herself,” Jonah said.
“I didn’t ask you that. I asked you where you thought she was.”
“I don’t know,” Jonah said. He put his hands on his hips and felt a grumble in his stomach. “She made her choice.”
“Aye. That she did,” said Logan. “I always thought she was more careful than that, but I forgot to take her love of her brother into account. Well, she always was one for adventure. Let’s hope that is what she found and nothing worse.”
Jonah waited, expecting a lecture from Logan, or possibly an epiphany wrapped in profanity. He received neither. The old man simply turned and walked away, leaving Jonah alone again as the clans bustled about him.
The sun burned on the western horizon, turning the tops of the grass a glowing orange. The sky to the east bruised purple, and Jonah heard laughter coming from the tents. Children ran through the grass, chasing each other and giggling like they did at their home on the shores of the Great Lake. Several members of the outcast clan began to play their flutes in unison, creating an aural landscape that hadn’t existed for generations. Solomon and Gunney walked the camp with flasks; Bira and Rav helped to dispense the fire water. Men slapped them on the shoulders, giving them subtle nods of gratitude.
Jonah wanted to join in the celebration and congratulate his clans on making it. But the ache in his stomach would not relent, and Jonah believed the dull pain would still be there even after Sasha’s dinner.
Chapter 33
“You are right to be sad. She is your sister.”
Roke looked up at Gaston through the swirling snow. The squalls coated Gaston’s face, making him appear as an old man with a silver beard and eyebrows. The sun stalled low in the sky, hidden by a blanket of thick clouds.
This isn’t right , thought Gaston.
“I miss her. I shouldn’t have said what I said.”
“As you should. But it was her choice to leave. Hers and hers alone.”
Roke nodded and wiped at his face. Gaston looked over a shoulder at the rest of his clan, lumbering down the middle of the fo
rgotten highway in the dark with tight bundles of rags and carts. Since they had left the factory—and the dying man with Seren—others had succumbed. Gaston knew they would lose some along the way, but it seemed as though their losses had been disproportionately high over the past few days. He had spent many moons on the road and felt as though he knew what to expect. This was not it.
“She will be okay,” Roke said.
“She will,” said Gaston.
The wind blew another wall of snow in his face and Gaston closed his eyes to let the cold burn his skin. He hadn’t mentioned it to the boy and nobody in their clan had asked about it. The snow. Gaston hadn’t expected the lands of White Citadel to be so barren, so cold. His paradise, the desire that had kept him going for so long, seemed at odds with his expectations. His thoughts drifted again to Jonah, and he wondered if Gerth had encountered the Elk yet.
“Where is it?” Roke asked.
“Less than a day’s journey. The hills will open into a valley and we will see White Citadel.”
“I see white but not much of anything else.”
Gaston shivered. The doubt in Roke’s words was most likely embedded in the rest of the clan. They would not believe in White Citadel until they arrived.
Do you?
“Let’s rest here.”
Gaston signaled the stop to the rest of the convoy. As if to comply with his wishes, the snow relented. A few renegade flakes floated to the ground, adding to the thin layer of dry snow that covered it. Gaston brushed it from the remains of an old cart left on the road. He sat down and called for the woman carrying the hot coals. A man walked with her, a bundle of scrap wood in his hands. Within moments they had a fire blazing and the clan gathered around to warm themselves. It had been days since they had seen any game and so there would be no meat roasting for this meal.
He turned his back on the fire and allowed others to crowd in closer to the flames. Gaston walked to the edge of the road and stared at the rolling hills to the west. In a few hours, they’d be clear of them and heading down into the valley of White Citadel. He would finally be there, would finally have a home. His home.