Snowtear

by S. B. Davidson

  “Sage?” Gabby interrupted hesitantly.

  “Aye, darling?”

  “It’s a good story, but…what has it to do with the other little girl named Sage?”

  Sage smiled. “Just this: young Sage was so enamored with Teni Jilt’s recounting of his uncle’s amazing feat that she swore to herself that one day she would become an even greater illusionist, that she would someday know the glory in her heart that Mon Jilt must’ve felt that historic day.”

  “Oh,” Gabby said. “Did she?”

  “In a way, little one, in a way. Young Sage did become an illusionist. That’s why she traveled to Burden to study at the same Foundation as Mon Jilt.”

  “And was she just as powerful?” Tessa asked. Sage was thankful for the happy tone to the girl’s voice. There was so little of it most of the time.

  “Nay, Tessa, she never was,” Sage said, a trace of regret seeping out before she could catch it.

  “Why?”

  “That’s…a tale for another time, little one,” Sage said. “I’m tired now, as I’m sure you all are. We should get some rest. When we wake, if you want, I’ll tell you of Anna of Villa Manson. Would you like that?”

  “Aye, very much,” Wilma said.

  “Then sleep, darlings.” Sleep, and forgot about this terrible place, if only for awhile.

  After three of the loneliest weeks of Riken’s life, the group finally surmounted Pristinus and was on their way down its slopes. The worst of the range’s pitfalls and hazards were behind them. With little hardship and no loss of life or limb, they’d come through reasonably unscathed.

  Payton had gashed his leg up pretty rough in one of their attempts to scale an icy ledge. The wall had been at least a hundred feet, mostly straight up. There had been no way to maneuver around the lofty impediment without sacrificing over a week’s time, so they’d been forced to put their hooks and ropes to good use. Happy to be contributing for what seemed like the first time since they’d departed from Crabtree’s house, Riken had instructed the horses and mule to go around the ledge and meet them at the top.

  The going had been good until partway up when Tawny’s boot had slipped on a patch of black ice. With no time to react and fingers too numb to grip the cord, he’d gone flailing backward. Illter, stalwart and quick-witted as ever, had braced himself for the impending jerk, as he’d been tied to the opposite end of Tawny’s rope. Illter’s swift thinking had saved both their lives, but on his way down, Tawny had rammed Payton into the side of the cliff. A jagged rock had eaten into the side of his leg, rendering him unable to finish the climb of his on capacity. Luckily for him, Uther had been his rope partner. Tugging his injured companion up the rest of the way, Uther had almost had to exert as much energy as the rest of them had the entire climb. Once they’d reached the summit of the ledge, Payton had medicated and wrapped his leg on his own.

  Without the hindrance of riders, their mounts had been able to navigate the detour in just three days, and by that time, Payton’s leg had been well enough to travel on.

  Despite his help with securing their animal’s continued support during the journey, Riken continued to feel completely useless on this leg of the trek. Dexter and Abby did all the hunting, providing them with enough daily meat so that they didn’t have to dip into their supplies. Those they’d need once they left the bountiful mountain and crossed into Black Earth, a tundra so devoid of life that Riken wasn’t entirely sure how the roaming nomads survived there. Payton, in tandem with his expert navigating skills, cooked as well as any innkeeper Riken had ever known. Illter and Uther kept the group’s cookfires overflowing with wood, and Tawny, with his fibra in amplification, was already cutting their traveling time by a fourth. Once they reached flat ground, that would increase fourfold. What could Riken contribute? Witty insults?

  Worse still, he’d managed to wholly alienate everyone with that first night’s tantrum. Well, that and the one he’d thrown the next morning, and the morning after that. By the third day, none of the group was speaking to him, and it had remained that way hence. He’d thought a couple of times about apologizing to Uther, but whenever he made up his mind to do so, he remembered that conversation, how blindsided he’d felt, and he just couldn’t swallow his aggravated pride.

  The others, excepting Abby, might have congregated with him if he’d given them a chance, but his mind was such a wash of pain and guilt that he never even attempted. During the days, he rode in silence, and at night, he ate his meals alone and retired to his tent. He’d lay awake listening to the raucous, communal merriment just outside his leather walls, until he fell asleep to be tormented by consecutively worsening dreams.

  “Look,” Tawny called from the head of the line.

  Bringing up the rear, Riken couldn’t see anything at first, but when he rounded a bend of brawny evergreens, a beautiful sight emerged before his eyes. Not beautiful in the strict sense of a blue sky looking over a meadow of lush, green grass and thousands of vibrant wildflowers, but beautiful in that it let the mind know that though the brutal part of their journey was yet to come, at least they wouldn’t be climbing or chancing perilous ledges much longer.

  “Thank the Wind,” Dexter said, leaning forward in his saddle.

  Riken did likewise, peering through an opening in the trees. Through the gap, a vast, flat land of dark plains stretching for miles and miles stared back at him.

  Black Earth, it was called, and rightly so. As far as the eye could see, the land was a deep onyx color, like it had been smothered in coal. The old stories told of a great battle that had been waged here between four rivaling clans of dragons. In the span of twenty days, hundreds of the winged beasts had wreaked havoc upon the disputed land, devouring every living thing in tremendous flame from their mouths, leaving the earth forever scarred. Since that time, the charred, rock-solid soil had never born fruit of any kind. No grass grew, no plants resurfaced. Only a parsing of wildlife remained, and what they used for sustenance, Riken had never heard. From what little he had heard, he didn’t relish the idea of running across any of their kind. He doubted they were sane enough for his fibra to be much use on them.

  Of course, Riken, along with any intelligent being, knew the juvenility of the Twenty Days of Fire story. Dragons had never existed, surely. But something had happened to this land. If any in Cryshal still knew the true origins of Black Earth’s recession into desolation, they weren’t letting others in on the information.

  “It’s so dismal,” Abby said. “Ominous, almost.”

  Her voice pulled Riken from the sight, stabbing into him like a dull knife. When he was sure she was looking the other way, he chanced a glance in her direction. Warm sunlight glistened off her curly chestnut locks. She sat low in her saddle, at ease. The daggers on her hips thumped her thighs with each stride her steed took. She looked so small compared to the robust beast, delicate even. Taking her in, an old memory surfaced, panging at a vacant spot in his chest, obliging him to look away.

  Uther had asked him, rather forcefully, why he’d seen fit to hire her on for this job. At the time, Riken hadn’t been able to offer a descent answer. Riding along now, his mind toying with the query in the midst of a dozen other troubling items that had set up permanent residence within his head, he still didn’t have an adequate response.

  Why had he wanted her along?

  I just did, he thought, depressed that he couldn’t even justify his decision to himself in anything other than vague connotations.

  Had he missed her? Perhaps. It had been a long while indeed since he’d set eyes on her. Could it be as simple as that? He’d just wanted to be near her again after all this time? Or was it more? Did he want more out of it? Was there some subtle, devious plot stewing in his mind that he wasn’t wholly conscious of?

  Doubtful, Riken thought. I’m hardly that complex.

  In regards to Abby Frain, he’d made his decision long ago, and had never regretted it. He liked his life the way it was, liked being on his own, an
swering to no one, doing as he pleased, with or to whomever he saw fit. It was a good life, not fantastic, but in keeping with his tastes. Why he’d ever considered altering it, he couldn’t fathom. It had been a mistake. Unfortunately, it was a mistake that Abby seemed to have paid for more dearly than he. But what of it? Was that his fault? She’d known him, what kind of person he was. She’d gone into it with her eyes open, but when the deck had collapsed, she’d played blind. Her error, not his.

  So why did he feel this way now? What in the Seven Layers was he feeling?

  “Looks like you can kick us up a couple notches, Tawn,” Dexter said. “Put some real wind into these sails.

  “Let’s just get down first,” Tawny said.

  “Aye,” Uther said. “We’re making good time. No need to press now. Won’t do anyone any good if we hit a low ledge too quick to see and break our horses’ legs.”

  “Hold off till we reach flat land,” Riken said. “We’ll be down by midday on the morrow. We’ll make camp in another hour or so. I don’t savor the notion of spending a night removed from the cover of this forest until it’s unavoidable.”

  The entire group turned to face him, as if amazed that their leader could speak. They’d barely heard him utter more than a couple syllables at a time in the last three weeks. Tawny nodded, then the rest of them turned back to gaze upon the vast, unforgiving wasteland of Black Earth.

  “Ominous,” Riken breathed, taking a look across the barren plains for only the second time in his sixty-two cycles. Even the sky above it looked wounded. The high winds coming down from the mountain continuously sucked up the black dust from the parched ground and swirled it about in the air, creating a dull, greyish mist. Behind the veil of tinted sky, the futile sun loomed large. “It is that.”

  Riken awoke with a firm hand gripping his mouth. Instincts kicked in immediately, and he shook his head violently, grasped onto the arm holding him in place, and tried with all his might to free himself.

  “Shh,” his captor said, and when Riken opened his eyes, he saw Uther crouching over him. When he spoke again, his voice was an octave beneath a whisper. “Movement. In the brush.”

  Calming his exasperated nerves, Riken thought, Grand. Company.

  Uther slid his hand from Riken’s mouth, but didn’t move. Riken felt wind coming from the partially askew tent flap.

  Having worked together for many cycles, on many jobs, Riken and Uther had long ago developed a silent hand language, so that they could communicate inaudibly for circumstances such as this.

  With the secret idiom, Riken asked Uther how many were out there.

  Uther signed back that he had no idea.

  The others? Riken signed.

  Abed, Uther replied.

  A twig broke close by, followed by a muffled grunt. With their covertness eradicated, the intruders gave up any thought of taking the sleeping group unawares. Riken now heard a multitude of footsteps from just beyond the line of trees. By the approaching resonance, it seemed the camp was surrounded.

  “I suppose that means we can speak freely now,” Riken said, kicking out of his bedroll.

  Following his outspoken words, the intruders followed suit. Riken heard orders issued in some strange, simple dialect.

  Uther frowned at him and signaled his disdain in their hand gestures.

  “I think they know we’re awake now,” Riken said, grabbing his pants and pulling them onto cold legs.

  The foreign dialect uttered again, louder this time. Riken figured it was meant for them. He heard sudden shuffling from the other tents.

  When no answer to the intruder’s call came, a gravelly voice said, “Out.”

  As Riken pulled his shirt over his head, he smiled at Uther.

  “Well, they speak a little Common. If they mean to kill us, at least they’ll be able to enlighten us as to why in a tongue we understand.”

  “Always a plus,” Uther said, reaching beneath the throws of his bedroll and coming away with his giant battleaxe. He squeezed his fingers around the fat birchwood handle as if he’d missed its touch.

  “Well, we shouldn’t be rude,” Riken said, rising to a crouch in the small tent. “Let’s go out and greet our early morn guests.”

  Slowly, as not to stir his visitors any more than needed, Riken brushed the tent flap aside and stepped out into the clearing. Around the still simmering cookfire, there waited a line of haggard men and women. They wore clothing of animal skins that didn’t look as if any skilled hand had sewn them. All of the eight or so faces Riken could see without turning his head were so caked in dirt and grime it looked permanently stained on. Their hair – men and women alike – was irreversibly unkempt, hanging down past their hind ends. Most sported crude, makeshift weapons – shoddy spears with wooden tips, knotted clubs, axes with dull rock heads – though a few had rusted swords that looked as if they hadn’t met a blacksmith in ages. Sour expressions clad all.

  Thank the Father, it’s only a hunting party. If they’d stumbled into the territory of an entire clan, the situation would be considerably graver.

  “Afraid we haven’t begun breakfast yet,” Riken said, turning in a circle to judge the extent of their new dilemma. At least twelve, he counted, along with six mildly-contained wolves on leashes made of vine. Riken had to smile. “You’re welcome to wait, though. I’m sure our cook would be more than happy to oblige a few more.”

  A woman with fire red hair brandishing a club leaned close to the man next to her and whispered something in his ear. Too low to hear, Riken didn’t catch it, but from the look on the man’s face, the woman must’ve translated the gist of Riken’s statement capitally.

  The man scowled at Riken. His black hair hung in beaded strands in his deeply tanned, scarred face. He seemed to be the only one with beaded hair, a uniqueness that Riken assumed made him the leader of this squalid group. The parts of his body that weren’t concealed by a grey wolfskin tunic were hard and bulging. He said something to the redheaded woman, then returned his focus to Riken.

  “So, what?” Riken asked. “You joining us or not? Cook makes a mean badger stew. Make you swear off proper meat forever.”

  “Silence,” Beads said and stepped away from the pack.

  As he drew closer, the jewelry around his neck caught a beam of sunlight and flashed in Riken’s eyes. When he realized what the necklace was fashioned of, his stomach gave a slight lurch.

  By the Father, Riken thought. These are kin of the people awaiting Sage.

  The rumors winding through the inns for these many cycles, it seemed, hadn’t been exaggerated.

  “Others,” the man said, motioning to the rest of the tents. “Out.”

  “Everyone come out and greet our guests,” Riken called.

  As if they’d only been waiting for instruction, the remaining members of the crew emerged. Their heads swiveled around as Riken’s had. Only Tawny looked the least bit intimidated by the sight of twelve savages. When Uther materialized from the tent behind Riken, wielding his massive battleaxe, the line of savages actually took a step back, though they rebounded admirably.

  Riken met the eyes of each of the team, silently telling them to remain calm, not to do anything hasty.

  “What’s all this then?” Dexter grumbled, frustratingly missing Riken’s wordless instruction. “By the Fire, we had another good hour of sleep coming to us.”

  “Be quiet a moment,” Riken said.

  Dexter waved him off, then began walking toward the cookfire. In response, the savages readied their weapons, but they remained in position. Dexter, shirtless and cranky, it seemed, grabbed hold of a big log and dragged it closer to the fire, then set about rekindling the smoldering coals with nearby grass and twigs, as if he’d already forgotten the newcomers.

  “Horses,” Beads said.

  “Snowflake, sunbeam, barley,” Riken said. “See, I can say words too. Can you string together more than one at a time?”

  Beads raised by tarnished sword at Riken, circling the
tip.

  “Horses,” he said. “We take.”

  “We take,” Riken said. “Well done. Now say, ‘I would like to go to the store, please’. Try it.”

  When the redhead whispered in the leader’s ear this time, Riken was certain by the incensed demeanor that the man had missed the subtle nuances of the jest.

  “For fuck’s sake, Riken,” Dexter said, tapping coffee grounds into a blackened kettle. “Just handle these primitives so we can have breakfast already.”

  Beads growled a few commands in his own tongue, and the pack began inching forward. The leashed wolves snarled, revealing their teeth inside dripping mouths. One of the women, bone-skinny with a wicked scar running over her nose from one eye to her jaw, shrieked loud enough to send the birds of the trees scurrying and banged her club on a boulder. The ground crunched behind the tents.

  “Many thanks, friend,” Riken said.

  Beads halted, looked queerly at Riken for a brief moment.

  Riken elaborated. “Up to this very point, I felt like I wasn’t contributing a damned thing to this expedition.”

  The redhead began to lean into the man, but he pushed her away with a grunt. “Kill,” he shouted. “Take horses.”

  “By the Father, did you guys ever pick the wrong group to fuck with,” Riken said, then turned their own wolves on them.

  For the briefest of moments, the six beasts whined unilaterally, then fury erupted in the shallow clearing as the wolves betrayed their masters, instantaneously spinning and latching onto their owners’ prone limbs with insane ferocity. Piercing wails clogged the air as the assaulted savages fell to the ground underneath the vicious attacks of the wolves. A black wolf with a streak of white down his back like a skunk sank its teeth into the neck of a man in a bearskin tunic, coating its maw with the man’s lifeblood. The wolf continued to shake the man until he ceased the fight, then the animal raised its blood-soaked head to find another victim.

  The savages spared the unanticipated onslaught, spurred by Beads, slowly got their wits about them and rushed Riken’s crew.