7 Folds of Winter

by Carolyn McCray

  “Aye, sir. The guards sent me as soon as they were past the gates.”

  Jory nodded. The commander had never met the travelers, but he knew of them and that they brought no menace to the town.

  “Sir, shall I send an arrest party?”

  “Nay.” Jory was about to dismiss the boy but realized the guard expected some type of action taken. The commander could not appear lax, not during this trying time. “Send two guards to request Madame Hesper to vouch for her new guests.”

  “Request? Vouch?” The young man looked astonished.

  Jory’s tone took on its usual crisp manner. “You think a healer and her adolescent charge are a threat to this town?”

  “No, sir, I just —”

  “You just thought to question my authority. The next time, it will be you I send out an arrest party for.”

  The soldier blanched. After saluting, the young man nearly ran from the room.

  So much the better, Jory thought as he sat down upon his unyielding chair.

  Tonight was the night. He could feel it deep in his marrow. The stage was ready for the grand performance. The players had been auditioned, and the casting was complete. The props were in place. They only needed the curtain to be raised for the real spectacle to begin.

  *****

  CHAPTER 12

  “The Winter King knows no rules. He knows only of force and hunger. He ranges the Plains searching for his next victim. Whether it be a holly bush, a snow hare, or a man, he cares not...”

  It was amazing the things that came to your mind when you least needed them, Traven thought as the wind whipped the snowflakes into a flurry. It seemed the Winter King was close upon his next prey. Once again atop Lauger, the Hero was out on the endless snowfields. This all had to be some kind of divine joke. Traven had gone his whole life, surviving three campaigns, fighting innumerable duels, and had managed to stay conscious the whole while.

  Now in the course of a day, he’d been knocked out twice. Worse, Traven was fated to be the first Hero to find a Fold, only to become the only human in recorded history to be summarily thrown from one.

  Traven’s mentor at the Shrine, Master Quinn, would have quite the laugh if the old man knew of the Hero’s current plight. The scholar had nagged Traven constantly about always taking the most circuitous route around a problem. Traven was fairly certain that he’d topped even himself in that category. There did not seem to be a quick end to his misadventures.

  His head hurt, his back was sore, and already his stomach growled. The Hero might have believed the entire Fold was nothing but a memory if it had not been for the thin gold thread braided throughout his horse’s mane and tail. That, and the spring to Lauger’s stride that told of hours of rest and good hay.

  Traven’s only hope was that the Faery had been decent enough to point him towards the west. The Hero might have a slim chance of making it to the Climbing Tier. Of course, such a place was not listed on any map, but his Granny had spoken of it commonly. At this point, the Hero was ready to trust his grandmother’s old wives’ tales over any cartographer.

  Lauger danced a few steps to the left and snorted loudly. Traven surveyed the horizon but could find nothing to spook the horse. The storm was working itself into a blizzard, but Lauger had trotted calmly through far worse weather. It was then that Traven heard the scream. So ear-splitting that the Hero had the sensation it might have just been his imagination. Lauger, however, jumped at the sound and bolted to the right. Traven tried to rein him in, but the horse was near frantic. Lauger trembled at sounds Traven could not even hear, let alone identify.

  Traven struggled to stay seated as the horse lunged and bucked at unseen threats. Normally, horse and rider moved as one, but Traven could not anticipate Lauger’s moves until it was almost too late. Yelling over the howling wind, the Hero tried to calm his panicked stead, but the poor beast jerked more wildly.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Traven saw a glimmer of light, blue and cold. Before the Hero could wield around, the spark blossomed into the transparent shape of a haggard man. The phantasm flew at Traven’s head, freezing the air so bitter cold that Traven could not take in enough breath to scream. Instead, the Hero gave Lauger a kick, and they surged forward, just out of their attacker’s path. Even with Lauger’s renewed vigor, there was no way they could outrun this supernatural creature.

  There was no doubt in Traven’s mind, the disembodied spirits that shrieked their hunger were the Winter Wraiths — poor souls who had died out on the Plains but had rejected Father Winter’s cold embrace.

  To punish those who disrespected his nature, the old god refused them entry into the Beneath. For centuries, these wraiths haunted the snowfields, consuming anyone foolish enough to wander too close.

  Lauger’s hooves pounded into the snow, sending icy shards into Traven’s calves. The Hero would take the pain if it bought them escape. Unfortunately, the disconcerting wail only intensified. Traven fought to remember the wards against such creatures, but the sound refused to let any thought through.

  Traven heard a keening scream. It felt as if someone had buried an icy sword in his back. Agony ratcheted through his body as the wraith passed through. It was as if the Hero’s soul had been frozen solid, then shattered.

  As the pain passed, Traven tipped forward, feeling near death, clutching his saddle horn. The Hero was shaken, but it was Lauger that was possessed. The horse bucked and kicked, but no longer at an enemy. Instead, Lauger was intent on dismounting Traven. Head spinning, Traven clutched a handful of braided mane, but it was not enough. With another leaping heave, Lauger threw Traven from his saddle. The swirling voices laughed in delight.

  Within a moment, Lauger was upon the Hero, steel-tipped hooves striking Traven’s back and legs. The Hero rose up, and with his first bit of luck, his fist caught Lauger’s jaw. The horse reeled back and pawed at the ground. Blue light glowed from Lauger’s eyes, but Traven could detect his steed’s valiant struggle to free himself from the ghost’s control. Too many times the horse had saved the Hero’s life, fighting off entire mobs with his hooves alone. If Traven had survived this latest attack by the wraith, it was because a part of Lauger still lived and fought against the ghost.

  Taking advantage of the wraith’s confusion, Traven charged his horse. It was obvious the possessing spirit had not expected this move, since Lauger’s body did not even sidestep. Using every ounce of his pent-up rage, Traven slammed into Lauger’s shoulder. The horse stumbled to the side as the Hero grabbed Lauger by the neck and twisted his head back towards the saddle.

  If Lauger had been in full possession of his body, the horse might have been able to keep his feet and loose Traven’s hold, but the wraith was ineffective.

  Horse and man crashed to the ground. Traven scrambled out from under Lauger’s huge frame. Before the horse could regain its footing, the Hero wrapped his legs around the downed horse’s neck. Keeping Lauger’s head cranked to the side, Traven was able to keep his horse on the ground. The Lauger’s feet flailed and churned but could find no purchase.

  Sweat stung his eyes as Traven rode out the worst of the turmoil. Soon, even the wraith must have tired, for Lauger’s legs stopped kicking, and the horse’s breath came in great heaves. Traven took a chance and freed one hand to fish his knife from his boot. The ghost tried to take advantage of Traven’s maneuver, but in one smooth motion, Traven drew the blade to Lauger’s neck. A blue eye rolled back and stared at Traven, daring him to make the cut. Traven’s hand shook as he prepared to kill the only true friend he had ever known.

  ***

  Ornery loosened the last of the cinches on Nutmeg’s harness. The barn that Miss Emmert had led them to was both large and cramped. It was filled with hay and clean water, yet the smell of decay hung in the air. The evening’s earlier mystery had only deepened. The guard had quaked at the mention of Madame Hesper, yet Miss Emmert shrugged and told Ornery it was nothing to worry about when he asked who she was. Instead, Miss Emmert wa
tched the streets intently, her hand on the small ax they kept by the wagon seat.

  It was strange that they had not approached the looming black house first. Instead, they had headed straight for the barn. They had not even obtained permission to use the stalls. Miss Emmert acted as if she owned the place. Ornery desperately wanted to ask all manner of questions, but Miss Emmert’s quick actions, and the set of her lips, warned him off. The tiny wrinkles on her forehead spoke of her deep concern, and he had learned long ago not to interfere when she was in such a mood.

  Ornery jumped as the side door opened, letting in a frigid breeze. The doves in the rafters fluttered and complained as a tall man draped in black strode in. Funny, he had a vaguely familiar face. Ornery took a step back as the man’s slate-black eyes turned his way. Miss Emmert had no such reaction as she rushed into the man’s embrace.

  “Holt!” Miss Emmert warmly called the man, as she gave him a kiss on the cheek.

  “Sele. It is good to see you,” the pocked man’s deep voice replied.

  The man’s face may have changed, but Ornery recognized the voice. “Mr. Skelt?” he asked tentatively.

  The man nodded but did not have time to respond as Miss Emmert badgered him with questions. “What’s wrong? Why are the stables in such a state?”

  “Sele. You’d best come inside —”

  “Holt, do not vex me. What is wrong?”

  Mr. Skelt glanced over to Ornery. Miss Emmert commanded, “Child, tend your cousins.”

  Ornery complied but first took off his muff, exposing his ears. Each word was as clear to Ornery as if he were standing in their embrace.

  “Sele...”

  “On with it.” Miss Emmert’s tone became sharp and stung even Ornery’s cheek. He snuck back around the corner to watch.

  Holt sighed. “It’s Mother... she is dying.”

  “That’s impossible. She is protected by —”

  Mr. Skelt placed both hands on Miss Emmert’s shoulders. “Sele, look at this stable. Would it be in such disarray if Ma was well?

  Ornery frowned. Miss Emmert and Holt were brother and sister. So those rendezvous were not romantic. They were more of these secret visits supposed to keep Ornery safe. His cheeks burned. Did they not trust him with even the knowledge that his caretaker had a brother?

  Tears choked Miss Emmert’s response to Holt, “How?”

  “A girl. We both thought her nothing more than a love-struck child... Mother read her cards and... Even I felt the Magickal Flux.”

  “Was she a Changeling? A Fell Sorceress?”

  “No, nothing like that. Mother is certain the Fates chose this time to usher —”

  “Where is this girl?” Miss Emmert demanded.

  “She’s gone home —”

  “Home? Get her back —”

  Mr. Skelt guided Miss Emmert to the side door and gave her a final hug before opening the door. “Sele, go see Mother. Make your peace with her while you still can.”

  Miss Emmert stood there, stunned for a moment, then drew her cloak to her throat. “What of Ornery?”

  Giving her a nudge, Mr. Skelt moved to close the door behind her. “I’ll care for him. Go, sister. Only Mother can answer your questions.”

  ***

  Traven’s hand shook against Lauger’s neck.

  Rage at the Faery and anger at his own helplessness battled within.

  The Hero knew what he was about to kill was not his horse, but the wraith that possessed Lauger’s form. Still, it meant losing his sole companion. Fighting back the tears, the Hero gripped the knife more tightly. A howl carried by the fierce wind made Traven’s spine quiver. Voices entwined with his thoughts, begging him not to do the deed, but the Hero did not have much time before the other wraiths joined the attack. The demon struggled as Traven dug the point into Lauger’s neck.

  From behind him, Traven heard the rushing of wind. He tried to turn, but it was too late. Brute force knocked him away from the horse.

  Instead of the wraith’s icy touch, the object on top of him was hot and panting. It took a moment for Traven to realize that it was the White Wolf. Before the Hero could shove the beast off, the wolf rose and faced Lauger with a low growl rumbling in his throat.

  Three Giants emerged from the swirling cloud of snow and surrounded the horse. Lauger had risen, and his eyes burned a bright blue. The horse snorted and pawed at the ground, but the Wolf kept him at bay.

  “He’s succumb to a wraith!” Traven shouted as he joined the circle.

  The smallest of the Giants, Grave, answered, “Aye, Pale smelled it before we crested the ridge.”

  “I was about to...”

  Grave nodded. “There is another way. But first —”

  Another Giant let out a soul-wrenching scream and arched in agony, slumping to his knees in the throes of a wraith’s attack. Finally, the man shuddered, obviously shaken by the violation but clearly still his own man. Traven empathized. He knew the sensation of another spirit trying to usurp his own.

  The Giant asked, “We need a circle of protection. Do you have the necessary talisman?”

  “No,” Traven said as he shook his head.

  Worry crossed the Giant’s face. “Pale was certain you obtained it from the Shaman’s room.”

  “I took nothing, I swear!”

  Pale’s thoughts entered Traven’s mind fast and furious. They had no time for doubt. Upon the wolf’s insistence, Traven checked his pockets. He pulled out a handful of the boy’s silly game pieces.

  “These?” Traven asked, dismay thick in his voice.

  “Aye. The petrified wood. You must speak the Words and disband the knot of wraiths. It is our only protection.”

  Traven still could not believe he had the game piece, let alone accept the fact that the tiny sliver of lumber could free them from this viscous attack. The Hero tried to pass the petrified wood to Grave, but the Giant shook his enormous head.

  “Nay, it must be used by the Intended.”

  “But I don’t know the Words. Can’t I intend for you to use it?”

  “Perhaps the Faery was right.” The Giant’s words hung thick in the air. Pale barked and shook the Giant from his thoughts. “If you are to be a Hero, it must be you.”

  It was futile to explain to the Giant that the Hero would gladly risk his life, even his soul, to get them out of this danger. Desire was not his problem. Talent was. The Hero had no more idea how to dis-spell a wraith as he did to stop the tides. Indecision gripped his heart. How could Traven try when he had not a single clue what was called for?

  “Speak from your heart, and the world shall listen.”

  Granny’s words resounded off his nearly frozen skull. Even her memory had the force of a bull. Having no other advice ready at hand, Traven followed hers. He raised the petrified wood to the sky and shouted into the blizzard.

  “Wraiths, beware my power! I... I kick you out! I want you to leave us alone!”

  The Giant raised an eyebrow the length of Traven’s hand but said nothing. Traven felt like a groping babe, silly and shouting at the deaf stars. What would Granny say? How would this story unfold if he were sitting at her knee?

  “I banish thee.” Traven shouted upward.

  The wraiths howled in protest but still circled the group. Anger rose in Traven. He had gone through too much for too long to be undone by these spiteful, long-dead savages.

  Fed up past the point of caring if he made a spectacle of himself, Traven yelled, “Get out!”

  It was as if someone turned a faucet off. Even the roar of the storm abated for a moment. Perfect stillness surrounded the group. Snowflakes froze in mid-flight, and the sweat born of terror suspended its trail down his back. Everything hung in time until Lauger charged, trying to break out of the circle.

  Traven dug into the snow to keep his footing as the wind buffeted again. Grave called out as Pale snapped and growled Lauger back into the center of the group. The Giant surveyed the horizons then gave a satisfied nod.


  “Not exactly how the Sealed Books prophesied, but we are rid of their company.”

  While was true of the rest, one Wraith still lived inside his stallion. “What do we do for Lauger?” Traven asked nodding towards his possessed horse.

  “Do you have the spool of black thread?”

  Traven thought it best to check his pockets before answering, “no.” There he found the small spool of thick yarn.

  “Yes.”

  “There is a ceremony, an exorcism, really.”

  “Tell me how... or am I already supposed to know that too?” Traven made a mental note to track down each of his instructors and give them an earful of grief so biting even Granny would be proud.

  “Aye. Do you know of the Cat’s Cradle?”

  “Where you make bridges of thread between your fingers? The children’s game?”

  “That is the one. It is taught to all youngsters so they are prepared for a moment such as this. The manipulation of the thread and the saying of the Verse binds the spirit to the body it inhabits.”

  “I thought we were trying to expel the demon.”

  “Aye. The wraith no more wants to stay forever in a mortal shell than those who are possessed by them.”

  “So, they flee before the binding is complete?”

  The Giant nodded, but his voice was grim. “Trouble is, the ceremony must be performed by the one possessed.”

  Traven glanced at Lauger. There was no way the horse, even under the best of circumstances, could do the necessary weaving. “Then it is hopeless.”

  “Nay. Just as you used the wood to scatter the wraiths, you can call one to yourself. Draw him from the horse’s frame into your own, so that you might perform the ritual.”

  Traven stared dumbfounded at Grave. He could not believe what he heard. The Giant wanted the Hero to voluntarily coax the demon into his body? Traven nearly convulsed at the mere memory of the wraith’s brief touch. He could not imagine how torturous being completely possessed must feel like — but Lauger did. Traven could see the muscles under his horse’s dark skin quiver and shake. Lauger appeared far more haggard than after a twenty-mile gallop.