Shannivar

by Deborah J. Ross

She lifted her head. Tears blurred her vision, but she made out a tower of smoke shooting upward from the fire and then spreading. Bennorakh chanted under his breath, his words too hushed for her to make out.

  Leaning on Zevaron, she straightened up and rubbed her eyes. Seen through the smoke, the rent in the sky shifted its appearance. A shadow blotted out the stars, a vast, dense coldness. Something moved within that utter absence of light. She could not have told how she knew, only that she felt it the same way she felt its chill.

  “Olash-giyn-Olash,” she whispered. The Shadow of Shadows.

  Zevaron stepped away from her, peering through the haze of the smoke. Lifting one hand to his chest, he moved toward the smoke. Just as he reached it, Shannivar shouted in warning. The next instant, the smoke fell away like dust, leaving only a heap of embers. One of the Snow Bear men rushed to build the fire up again.

  In the sky, the shadow had grown until it now eclipsed the glowing curtain. No stars shone in its depths. As Shannivar watched, the last remaining sliver of brightness flared and went out. For an instant, the entire northern sky turned dark. A Snow Bear man prayed loudly for Tabilit’s protection, and another made a sign to ward off evil.

  Shannivar searched the sky for any hint of light. What madness had caused Zevaron to disrupt the magical smoke? And what now might be the consequences of that rash act?

  Then, slowly, the stars began to come out. The Snow Bear men greeted with sight with expressions of relief, but it seemed to Shannivar that the heavens’ brightness was diminished, as if they had been wounded.

  “Outlander! Infidel! Heretic! Fool!” Bennorakh seized Zevaron by the shoulders. Shannivar had never seen him or any other enaree threaten physical violence to man or beast. Rarely did they touch another person. Bennorakh’s features twisted as he peered into Zevaron’s face.

  Zevaron did not resist. He seemed bewildered. Something had happened to him in those few brief moments. “What—?” he stammered. “What was that thing?”

  “Do you not know?” There was no hostility now in the enaree’s voice. He released Zevaron. “Do you truly not know? Then may Tabilit and Onjhol and all the gods of your own country spread their mercy upon you.” With these words, Bennorakh disappeared into his jort.

  Shannivar rounded on Zevaron. “What did you think you were doing, interfering with Bennorakh’s spell? Are you mad or has the stone-drake’s curse stolen your wits?”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—

  “You could have gotten us all killed! Or opened the way for the Shadow to cast itself over all the sky and land!” When she saw Zevaron’s expression, still dazed, and the way he recoiled from her words, Shannivar’s anger softened. He was an outlander, after all, not born to the ways of the steppe. Then she remembered the relentless way he had been drawn to the stone-drake, in defiance of the taboo. Then, as now, he acted from ignorance, not malice. If he were to succeed in his own quest, he must be brought to understand the dangers. Darkness was not a good time to discuss such matters.

  When Zevaron started to speak again, she laid her hand upon his arm. “It is late and the night will be cold. Come to bed, beloved. We will speak further about these matters in the daylight.”

  * * *

  Shannivar woke suddenly, in darkness. She shivered as she sat bolt upright, her blankets in disarray around her. She had no idea how long she had slept, and was not sure if she was truly conscious or dreaming. At her side, Zevaron murmured in his sleep, broken phrases in Meklavaran.

  Moving with a warrior’s silent caution, she reached for the case with her bow and arrows, and found it, as always, beside her. Noiselessly, she slipped on her trousers and jacket, shoved her bare feet into her boots, and strung her bow. A quick jerk on the cord loosened the door flap.

  The wind had died down, and the stars cast a weak light across the camp. Everything looked as it should: Bennorakh’s jort standing like a solitary sentinel among the tents of Snow Bear men, the dimly glowing embers of the cookfire, and beyond it, the forms of the horses and reindeer. The Snow Bear man on watch nodded to her and went back to surveying the camp from one side to the other, his posture one of heightened vigilance

  Although she could not see the horses clearly, Shannivar sensed them moving about. Her ears caught their breathing, faster and deeper than normal. A hoof stamped, muffled. In her mind, she saw Eriu’s head come up, ears forward, the flare of his nostrils, tasting the air.

  By day, you are my wings,

  By night, you never fail me.

  Skirting the fire, Shannivar made her way toward the horses. Something moved at the corner of her vision, black against black. She whirled, arrow nocked, but saw nothing. Her heart pounded. Her nerves sharpened, as if on the brink of a battle. The man on watch came to his feet, his own bow ready. For a long moment, nothing more happened, beyond the restless movement of the animals.

  Eriu nickered, low and throaty, at Shannivar’s approach. He danced a step sideways, as far as the hobbles would allow. Radu, always the quieter of the two, crowded up against Shannivar. The mare was sweating, trembling. The other animals were jittery, too, even the normally placid reindeer. She remembered how the reindeer had reacted to the stone-drake, the wildness in their eyes.

  Moments passed without any sign of present threat. Yet something had made the horses nervous, perhaps some taint of the Shadow. The danger was close, but not immediate. The horses could see and hear and smell danger long before she could. She trusted their senses even more than her own.

  One by one, she unhobbled the horses and led them into the center of the camp. After a brief discussion, the Snow Bear guard agreed with the prudence of safeguarding their animals and took charge of the tundra horses.

  Zevaron’s brown mare dipped her head to lip some bits of dry grass, trampled during the set-up of the camp. Eriu relaxed a little, although his head stayed up, ears and eyes alert. Shannivar put the hobbles back on Zevaron’s and Bennorakh’s horses, but not her own two, and went back for the reindeer and ponies.

  Two of the ponies were missing.

  This puzzled her, for usually the equines stayed close together, preferring the company of their own kind. Ponies were usually imperturbable, more so than horses. Perhaps something had startled them. Why would only two of the ponies have wandered off? They could not have gone far, hobbled. Shannivar cursed softly as she peered into the dark expanse. The wind tore at the flickering torch.

  She returned to camp with the remaining pones, to find that the other animals had quieted. Whatever had disturbed them was gone now. She could tell that much from Eriu’s posture.

  She told the Snow Bear man about the missing ponies, and they discussed what to do. No natural predator could have spirited them away, the Snow Bear man said. He was frightened; she heard it in the careful way he avoided any mention of Olash-giyn-Olash, and the way he said it would be foolhardy to pursue the ponies before daybreak. In this, she did not argue with him. Even with a torch, it would be impossible to track the ponies, and a few hours would in all likelihood make no difference. Either they had broken their hobbles and bolted, or they were already dead. She returned to her jort for whatever sleep was left to her.

  As usual, and even with the disturbed night, she was the first to rise. The sky was a sullen, slate gray, as if the sun had lost its potency. She built up the fire for a morning meal and heated water for tea.

  In the strengthening light, Shannivar went alone to search for the missing ponies. She bridled Radu, pulled herself on the mare’s bare back without taking the time to saddle her, and continued her search.

  Of one pony, she found no sign, not even broken hobbles. She spotted the other some distance to the north of the camp. Its body lay in a tangled heap, so that she did not recognize it until she was almost upon it. Radu, normally easy-tempered, snorted and arched her back, clearly unhappy about approaching the distorted carcass.

 
Shannivar slid to the ground and went up to the body. The pony lay with its stiffened forelegs extended in one direction and hind legs in another, as if its spine had been completely dislocated. Its hide was mottled with irregular black patches that appeared to be charred, yet rimed with frost. It smelled of burned hair and more, something dank and sodden.

  She did not want to touch it or force Radu to drag it back to camp, for fear of exposing the mare to whatever had killed the pony—some evil spell or disease. It looked as if a terrible convulsion had broken the pony’s back. And those strange sores . . . She had handled livestock all her life and had never seen their like. What could have caused the pony’s skin to be both burned and frozen?

  The answer whispered through Shannivar’s mind: A stone-drake, a creature of Fire and Ice?

  * * *

  Shannivar watched Zevaron’s face as he bent over the dead pony, and she knew he thought the same thing. He rubbed his chest in that gesture she was coming to recognize. It had something to do with his awareness of uncanny, magical things.

  The rest of the Snow Bear men mumbled among themselves, shaking their heads. To them, this was only one more unnatural occurrence. If what Chinjizhin said was true, they had seen far worse in the bodies of their own dead children.

  Bennorakh spent a long time crouched beside the carcass. On his orders, the others cleared the ground of grass for many paces around and kept their distance. Chanting, he covered the body with chips of resin and colored powders. Chinjizhin handed the enaree a stick lit from the morning fire. Bennorakh touched it to the twisted spine. For a moment, Shannivar thought the carcass would not burn. The flame at the tip of the stick fluttered, shifting from yellow to the dull red of an ember. The next moment, the carcass ignited. Perhaps the incantations fueled the resin chips.

  Flames, white and blue, shot skyward. Billows of steam, glowing like clouds before a summer sun, filled the air. Shannivar recoiled as the sudden blast of heat stung her face. The Snow Bear men retreated to a safe distance. Only Zevaron lingered, his eyes gleaming in the brightness. Bennorakh raised his arms and shouted. Shannivar did not recognize the words, only the gesture, half summoning, half supplication.

  The carcass was quickly reduced to bits of bone and ash, and the tang of the resin lingered in the air to counteract any residual evil. Although she was not cold, Shannivar shivered, remembering how close she had came to the mutilated body.

  They broke camp after redistributing the disassembled jorts between their remaining pack animals. The reindeer were much more even tempered than a camel. The ample forage and easy pace of the journey thus far had done much to restore their strength.

  Shannivar kept waiting for the sky to lighten, but it never did. Through the morning and well into mid-day, it seemed no brighter than in the hours before dawn. The watery light cast blurred shadows. Only the passing of the terrain and her growing hunger marked the shift to afternoon.

  * * *

  Dusk came swiftly, as if on the wings of an enormous vulture. They had barely enough time to choose a site and put up their shelters before darkness swallowed them up. The western horizon flashed red, and Shannivar’s spirits lightened in anticipation. If the luminous curtains returned, Bennorakh’s magic had prevailed. But the colors died away, stillborn. There were no more patterns of light across the night sky, no trace of Tabilit’s Veil. The shadow had eaten them up, leaving the sky as dark as if they had never existed.

  A wind quickened as the temperature fell. The cookfire sputtered out as snow drifted down. Huge wet flakes swirled more thickly with each passing moment. Everyone scrambled to make the camp secure. In the center of the camp, the animals huddled together, horses and ponies and reindeer, their tails turned against the burgeoning storm.

  “This is no natural snow!” Zevaron said as Shannivar handed him an armful of rolled carpets.

  One of the Snow Bear men darted past the hissing coals. His wail pierced the sound of the wind. Shannivar could not at first make out who it was. She watched, horrified, as he toppled to the earth. Mother of Horses! It was Chinjizhin.

  As Shannivar reached the Snow Bear chieftain, his arms and legs flailed wildly, scattering snow. Instinctively, she flinched away. His head was thrown back, and even in the heavy snowfall, she could see gleaming crescents of white, all that was visible of his eyes. His skin turned blue-black as one paroxysm followed another. For a long moment, she did not think he was breathing.

  Zevaron pushed past her and threw himself to his knees beside the convulsing man. He had snatched up a blanket, which he now placed under the chieftain’s head.

  “Stay away!” one of the Snow Bear men shouted.

  “What are you doing, fool of an outlander? He is demon-touched!”

  “Get back, or the demon will seize you, too!”

  Clearly terrified, the other Snow Bear men backed away. Some made warding signs against evil. Only Chinzhukog remained beside his father, his face a mask of alarm.

  Zevaron showed no sign of fear. Calmly he removed his sash, folded it, and slipped it between the man’s teeth.

  “Zevaron, please! The risk!” Shannivar pleaded. “Remember the purification ritual! Do not make things worse for yourself. You cannot help him with foolhardy heroism. Come away—”

  “There is no need for alarm,” Bennorakh said, coming near. “Tabilit smiles upon the man of compassion, even an outlander.”

  Gathering her courage, Shannivar took a step closer. Zevaron seemed to be well enough as he continued tending to the stricken older man. Surely, if a demon meant to seize him, it would have manifested by now. Her curiosity roused. “What are you doing?”

  “Making sure he will not harm himself,” Zevaron answered. “The fit will pass and then he will sleep. As soon as we can, we must get him inside and keep him warm.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “I have learned many things in my travels,” Zevaron said, gently straightening the chieftain’s limbs. The chieftain’s thrashing was growing weaker, and his eyes were now completely closed. “The Denariyans say this condition sometimes begins with an injury to the head. It is an illness, not a demonic influence. There is no danger to others, only to the victim himself.”

  “This did not begin with an injury.”

  “None that we know of,” Zevaron pointed out. “Perhaps he took the hurt some time ago.”

  “Then he might be demon-touched, after all.”

  Bennorakh gestured to Chinzhukog and the other Snow Bear men. “Come, take your chief out of the storm, even as the outlander says.”

  They hurried to comply, perhaps more fearful of the enaree than of the man now lying as if deeply asleep.

  “Bring him into my jort. He will be warmer there than in his tent,” Shannivar said, despite her lingering suspicion that this was no natural ailment, any more than the death of the pony had been.

  Quickly, Shannivar divided her meager furnishings into the traditional arrangement, a women’s side for herself and a men’s for the Snow Bear chieftain. When Chinjizhin had been wrapped in blankets, the others retreated to their own tents. Only his son, Chinzhukog, remained.

  “I will keep watch over my father. Shannivar daughter of Ardellis, surely Tabilit smiled on the moment we met. May your horses ever be sure and fleet of foot. I thank you for your generosity. And you, too, Zevaron Outlander, for your quick thinking.”

  Bennorakh had watched the proceedings with a grave expression. After the others retreated to their various shelters, he gestured for Zevaron and Shannivar to approach him.

  “You have done well, Zevaron of the ancient race of Meklavar. You once asked my counsel, but the signs were not yet clear. Truly, you face a perilous journey. When the time is right, I will do what I can for you.”

  “I thank you for your help,” Zevaron said.

  “Help? I have none to offer. All help comes from Tabilit, Sky-M
other, Horse-Giver. Even an outlander must recognize that no merely human strength can match that which awaits you in the north.”

  Zevaron bowed his head.

  “I will not leave him,” Shannivar said, moving closer to his side.

  In the dim light, she caught a twinkle in the shaman’s eye. “Some things, even the gods cannot stand against.”

  * * *

  All night, snow-laced wind battered the sides of the jort. The thick felt walls kept out the worst gusts, but tendrils of shiveringly cold damp air managed to seep in through the seams and around the door flap. Shannivar slept alone that night, coiled in layers of blanket. Zevaron kept to the men’s side, along with the Snow Bear chieftain and his son. Before going to sleep, they had built up a small fire in the central hearth and banked the embers well, so the jort retained a measure of warmth.

  The next morning, Shannivar awoke stiff and cold. The lattice still quivered under the force of the gale. She sat up, shivering, and pulled on her jacket and boots. The embers had burned down to a drift of frozen ash. Zevaron was gone, but Chinzhukog sat at his father’s side. The older man did not rouse, although he snored gently.

  She stumbled outside to relieve herself, check on the horses, and exchange a few words with the others. Despite having passed the night in a trail tent, they looked well enough but grave. They gave her a pot of hot buttered tea and a few live coals to start her fire again.

  Zevaron came back just as Shannivar finished reviving the hearth fire. He carried an armful of deadwood, although some of it was damp. With the drier wood, the fire soon warmed the interior of the jort. Shannivar passed cups of tea to Zevaron and Chinzhukog, set another pot of snow to melt, then added a double handful of parched barley and slivers of bha.

  “Your father does not wake?” she asked Chinzhukog. It was more a polite statement than a question.

  “Not this whole night,” the young man said.

  Throughout the day, the snow came down and the wind had an edge like a knife. It seemed as if the Moons had been flung out of order, catapulting from Frost directly to Icefall.