by Hondo Jinx
Chundra rode inside his jacket. Braddock couldn’t hear his squeaking voice over the roaring wind, so instead of talking, Chundra occasionally tugged on Braddock’s beard to get his attention.
Braddock would squint and follow the direction of his furry little arm. They trekked south atop the ridge and didn’t leave the meadow until it folded into the valley they were hunting.
Reaching the forest, Braddock unfastened his snowshoes and slung them over his shoulder and started walking again.
The trees provided some protection from the wind, but the shattered gales spun icy particles up into their faces.
Following Chundra’s lead, he came to the river. The edges were frozen solid, and the rest of the river had iced over during the storm, but Braddock wouldn’t be fooled by the snow and thin ice beneath.
The river had receded since the terrible flood, but there was still fast-moving water under there. If he fell through, it would pull him under the ice, where he would quickly freeze to death, weighed down by his boots and clothes.
They labored alongside the death trap until they came to a place where timber left over by the flood jammed a narrow patch of river. Crouching low and holding onto the deadfall, Braddock climbed onto the logs and crept slowly across the makeshift bridge.
A short time later, he spotted the weak illumination of a fire beneath the trees. Drawing closer, he saw shapes huddled around the flames, but the wind was blowing too hard for him to hear voices even at fifty feet.
He had never heard a rat person speak, but he didn’t reckon that mattered, thanks to the magical powers of communication he had gained from Philia. “Ho there!” he shouted at the figures. “We are here to help!”
A scowling one-armed rat man a foot shorter than Braddock staggered out into the storm, flanked by a pair of skinny young rat men with spears. Their bodies resembled those of small humans, save for the long, hairless tails that twitched anxiously back and forth. Their long, narrow faces were covered in fine fur and blended human and rodent features.
Despite the spears, there was no menace in these people. Only desperation and astonishment.
“Help?” the one-armed echoed, sounding awed as Braddock drew close enough to see the snow and ice building up on his furry face.
“Yes,” Braddock shouted to be heard over the wind. “My people live atop that ridge. We are here to help.” And he extended his hand.
The man shook his hand with a surprisingly strong grip, considering his size and miserable state, and an incredulous smile split his snowy beard. “Thank you,” he laughed. “It’s a miracle.”
He and the young spear bearers led Braddock back under the trees, where twenty-some emaciated men, women, and children huddled together beside a pitiful fire. Braddock had never before witnessed such a miserable collection of souls.
These people knew nothing about surviving in the wilderness. They had cleared the snow beneath them, exposing the hard-frozen ground and hadn’t even set up windbreaks.
The refugees stared at him with broken expressions, too played out even to hope.
The sight of their withered bodies and furry, cadaverous faces summoned the fears of his women.
They’ll eat us into the grave, Esper’s voice echoed in his mind.
A voice spoke from where a white-bearded rat man lay upon a crude stretcher, half his upper skull wrapped in a helmet of dirty bandages.
“Have you come from Black Harbor?” the injured man asked, and despite his white beard and poor condition, his voice yet held steel.
“No, my people live west of here, atop a ridge meadow three miles distant. We don’t have much ourselves, but we can offer shelter and food. My name’s Jedediah Braddock, and this is my friend Chundra.”
Chundra popped from his coat with a squeak and a wave.
And just like that, the people around the fire rallied, offering tears and cries of gratitude.
The old man spoke up. “My name is Willet Sleen. I am the leader here. Second in command is my brother, Ragget Sleen, whom you have already met.” He gestured toward the one-armed man. “We would be eternally grateful for any assistance you might offer.”
“Sounds good,” Braddock said, pulling off his gloves and tucking them into his coat beside Chundra, “but first let me warm my hands over your fire. In the meanwhile, gather your things.”
Other than those on stretchers, the refugees rose. The women were small, perhaps four feet tall on average. A few of the rat folk wobbled coming to their feet. One woman toppled over and had to be helped up again.
There were several children too young to walk through the deep snow and a newborn wrapped in the remains of someone’s jacket. Knowing one of these refugees had sacrificed his or her coat in this biting cold reminded Braddock that he was doing the right thing here.
Right or wrong, however, getting these miserable souls from here to the cabins was going to be rough. Some would die. Perhaps many.
But if they didn’t leave quickly, they would all die.
These were Braddock’s thoughts as he rubbed his numb hands over the fire, watching the refugees talk among themselves. Their fire was mournfully inefficient, with no reflector, just a pile of fast-burning fuel out in the open. And from the looks of it, they were burning the last of their fuel. Everything else was snow and suffering.
They were not prepared for this weather. Most were dressed only lightly, as if they’d been driven from their homes during autumn, which Braddock supposed to be the case. Apparently, they hadn’t had much luck hunting, because he saw no furs. Most had tied dead, brown hummocks of river grass to their clothes.
Anything to add some warmth. Or at least the impression of warmth.
“We are prepared to leave,” Willet announced. “We have no possessions but those we carry on our persons.”
Feeling was returning to Braddock’s fingers. He slipped them into his pockets and withdrew food, parceling out bits.
The refugees crowded around, burbling thankfully, their sunken eyes shining with deep hunger.
There wasn’t much, of course, and each refugee got only a small amount, but they were grateful to have it.
“We will travel single file. I will take the front. Ma’am?” Braddock said to the rat lady holding the newborn. “If you wish, I will carry the baby inside my coat.”
Under different circumstances, a new mother would surely hesitate to hand her infant to a complete stranger; but as testament to how much these poor refugees had suffered, the woman rushed forward and wept with gratitude as she handed him her tiny child.
Braddock unbuttoned the tails of his wool shirt then pulled it up and tied off the end, making a sort of hammock that, along with Chundra, held the baby in place.
In a loud voice, Braddock said, “Each person hold onto the belt or cloak of the person in front of you. Otherwise, you will get lost in the storm and die.”
The refugees nodded and started to arrange themselves in a long and doddering line.
There were four young men in the group, including the two who had earlier flanked Ragget, and three young women.
The youths were clearly in much better physical condition than most of the other refugees.
They took up the stretchers of Willet, a woman who moaned miserably when hoisted, and a third invalid who didn’t even stir when one of the youths stumbled and dropped the stretcher.
Leaning close, Braddock saw the man’s empty stare. The eyes didn’t even blink as snowflakes struck them.
Nonetheless, Braddock slipped off a glove, slid a hand under his jaw, and felt for a pulse.
“He’s dead,” Braddock said, pulling his glove on again. “Leave him.”
A woman cried out in protest.
Without bothering to even look at her, Braddock said, “We leave him, or he will cost us more dead. If anyone finds that too painful to withstand, you are welcome to remain behind with him.”
“Please, Lord,” the woman’s voice begged. “At least allow us to bury my uncle.”<
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“No,” Braddock said. He felt bad for her but couldn’t afford to let that show now. Sometimes, sympathy kills. “Even if the ground weren’t frozen solid, lingering would cost more lives.”
She offered a strangled cry but protested no further. The others nodded and looked toward the river.
“And while we’re at it,” Braddock said, knowing he had to set things straight before they took one step together, “as long as you are with me, you are under my command. That goes for this trip and once we reach my home. You will treat my people and property with respect and abide by all my rules and commands or face banishment. Is that understood?”
The refugees nodded, save for one young man, who spoke up, looking angry. “So we’re your slaves?”
“No,” Braddock said, “because unlike slaves, you will be free to leave anytime you wish. But so long as you are traveling with me or living on my land, yes, you will do exactly what I say, when I say it. Understood?”
“We understand, Lord Braddock,” Willet said, and swiveled his feverish eyes in the direction of the suspicious young man, “and we gratefully accept your terms.”
The young man quailed beneath that gaze and nodded along with the others, his former surliness gone.
“Let’s go then,” Braddock said, and strode into the white death.
34
They struck out in a long line, the young mother clutching Braddock’s belt, and trudged through the snow with torturous slowness, the stretcher bearers following close behind.
Crossing the rough river bridge was a treacherous business that ended poorly when a man slipped from the log, smashed through the ice and was soaked through before they could haul him to shore.
Four others fell along with him but didn’t fare so poorly.
As the storm raged all around the miserable party, they reformed the line and got moving again.
The man who had fallen into the river would die, Braddock reckoned. He needed a fire. But they didn’t have time for a fire. So they pushed on, and an eternity later, they reached the lowest edge of the meadow, where what seemed like a fresh foot of snow had already piled up.
Heading downslope in the meadow atop snowshoes had been hard enough; walking uphill through hip-deep snow was nigh on impossible.
And they had three miles to travel.
But Braddock kept on, turning to bellow at the refugees whenever the train ground to a halt.
“If they can’t walk, leave them!” he shouted. He knew this sounded incredibly cruel, but he also knew that doing anything else would multiply the deaths.
Unbroken by trees, the fierce blizzard wind whipped across the open meadow, slicing their flesh with its icy grit. Visibility was so low Braddock had to tilt his head forward every time Chundra tugged his beard, redirecting their path.
Without Chundra’s help, they would surely have perished.
The cold was a monster. It pressed at them from all directions, snuffling, looking for any way in, any way to steal the warmth of these struggling, living things. The cold pushed through Braddock’s warm clothing and slipped into the slightest openings, chilling him to his center.
He couldn’t imagine what the refugees were going through, but one thing was for sure: they were a tough and determined people.
Occasionally, Braddock heard Willet’s voice rise above the blizzard like a second storm, spurring his people onward. He was obviously a proud and respected leader, pushing through his pain and weakness to do his part in getting his people to safety, and Braddock had to wonder what the man was like at full strength.
They struggled up the slope, battered by the raw wind. Stumbling through a swirling white world of biting cold, they plodded on with excruciating slowness, stopping often as people fell.
All the while, Willet barked at his people, telling them to get up and keep walking. At times, he shouted, “What would Red Eyes think?”
That seemed to motivate the rat folk when nothing else would. Braddock guessed that Red Eyes must be their god.
Even with gloves and boots, his hands and feet lost feeling. He couldn’t imagine how much the others were suffering. More to the point, he couldn’t allow himself to imagine it. Because if he took pity and paused for a rest as some begged, more refugees would die.
After perhaps an hour, they reached the top of the hill, and Chundra tugged Braddock’s beard, pointing him across the swirling, white oblivion toward their home.
Halfway there, Braddock thought, and kept putting one foot in front of the other, struggling through the knifelike wind and constant white wall of sleet and snow.
The going should have been faster on level ground, but the refugees were in such a desperate state that the third mile took an additional hour.
But then, all of a sudden, Chundra was tugging Braddock’s beard, and the black walls of the enclosure, half-covered now with snow, rose up five feet before them.
Braddock had never been so happy to see home—any home—in all his life.
The gate swung open, Philia having sensed them and come out to help, and they staggered across the stone circle and into Braddock’s cabin, which was warm and redolent with the smells of baking bread and bubbling stew.
Braddock’s wife and mistresses clustered around him, pulling the snowy jacket from his shoulders and unbundling the baby and peppering Braddock’s numb face with kisses.
He shooed them and handed the baby to its weeping mother as the refugees collapsed like so many corpses around the cabin.
Across the room, Elizabeth stared at Braddock, wiping tears from her eyes, and offered a wriggling smile.
“Thank you, Lord Braddock,” Ragget said, shaking Braddock’s hand as best he could with his frozen fingers. “You saved us.”
Braddock’s women circulated through the room, offering blankets and food and elixirs with compassionate smiles, despite their earlier reservations. Braddock was proud of them.
The two tall boys carrying Willet set him down near the fire. The old leader’s voice had been silent for a time, but he spoke up now, calling his brother and Braddock to him.
“Thank you, Lord Braddock,” Willet said, echoing the words of his one-armed brother, but he was too weak to shake Braddock’s hand.
Braddock took one look at him, recognized what he saw from experience, and knew the man was teetering on the brink of death. His face was ashen gray and stiff looking. A weak fire yet burned in his eyes, a desire, Braddock reckoned, to say a few more words before he left this world.
“Philia,” Braddock called, “an elixir.”
His wife appeared immediately, but Willet waved her off. “Save it for someone else. My days are at an end. Truth be told, my time expired days, perhaps even weeks ago, but I held on for my people, hoping for something, for someone, to come.”
Refugees gathered around them, sensing Willet’s impending departure.
The old man said, “And you came, Lord Braddock. You came and saved us in our darkest hour. There is no way for me to express the depth of my gratitude, just as there is no way for my people to repay you.”
He called two of the tall youths forward. “When the weather breaks, you will head to Black Harbor and tell Red Eyes all that has happened.”
Willet winced through a series of hacking coughs and closed his eyes, and for a few seconds, Braddock thought he had slipped away, but Willet roused up again, fire burning weakly to life in his eyes once more.
Willet made a weak little gesture, seeming to take in the whole cabin with a brush of his frostbitten fingertips. “My people, Ragget is your leader now. But even he must answer to Lord Braddock, who shall remain your Lord and benefactor until you leave his domain. Do as he commands and make me proud, beloved.”
Then, having finally pushed past even his deep reserves of strength, the old man faded into unconsciousness.
A short time later, he was dead.
Nor was he the only casualty.
Counting Willet, they lost eight refugees. Twenty-one remained.<
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There weren’t enough healing potions to go around, but Philia and her handmaidens divvied the contents expertly, hauling several refugees back from the brink of death and bringing a healthy glow to the cheeks of another dozen.
Esper was equally careful in portioning out the food not only in the name of preservation but also to avoid overwhelming the shriveled stomachs of these long-suffering survivors, who wept and laughed and mourned their dead.
Lala sang sweetly, putting us all at ease, and the fire crackled merrily, reminding us of its blessed warmth.
A short time later, after using a heel of fresh bread to mop the last of Esper’s rich and savory stew from his bowl, Braddock finally relaxed. The weight of the incredibly taxing day descended upon him. His shoulders slumped, and his lids began to droop.
“Wait, Master,” Tilly said, zipping up beside him with a tiny thimble. “Please do not sleep until you have drunk this.”
Blearily, he waved her off. “Thanks, darlin, but I’m fine. No injuries worth healing.”
“It’s not a healing potion, Master. It is the first of the sprite wine. As Meadow Master, you receive the first taste.”
Braddock managed a tired smile.
For weeks, the women had been giddily obsessed with the impending party, the timing of which was wholly based on the maturation of Tilly’s wine. So why, suddenly, was wine available?
He took the thimble from her. “I thought it needed three more days.”
“Most of the wine needs three more days, Master,” Tilly said with a clever smile, “but this first batch is ready now. The rest I magically multiplied. It will mature over the next three days. But please, Master, take a drink. I can’t wait to hear what you think of it!”
Braddock could see how excited she was, so despite his incredible exhaustion, he raised the tiny cup to her. “Thanks, darlin. Cheers.”
A second later, Braddock sat up straight, blinking at Tilly as she laughed. He was completely awake, shocked by explosion of flavor and euphoric warmth that radiated from his stomach, filling him with energy and happiness and goodwill.