“Don’t be a fool, Behn,” Petrük told him coolly, giving him a sidelong look. “Even you and I can’t argue that to be the case.”
The older Priest flushed an embarrassed pink, and fell silent again.
“Are we all in agreement, then?” Jofrey asked the group, meeting each gaze one after the other. Most nodded at once. Jerrom and Elber took a moment of reflection before doing so, as well as Petrük and Argo—though Jofrey suspected their delay was more out of stubborn willfulness than any thoughtful deliberation.
“Unanimous,” Jofrey said with a nod after the old Priestess had finally indicated her agreement, feeling a sort of chilly relief fall over him as the plan settled into place. “In that case: Petrük, get me the most recent census of our residents. Re’het, wake some of your older acolytes and make me a detailed inventory of what exactly comprises our winter reserves. Argo, go with her, and see to it that we’ve enough of everything else we might need. Wood, blankets, medicine, everything. Kallet, fetch your brother, and return here. I’ll need his input on the readiness of our Priests, and yours on the state of the furnaces. Elber and Forn, take as many of the most gifted you can find and set to casting the wards. And Jerrom… Go to bed. In the morning, help with the spellwork.”
The orders were given, and each member of the council hurried off to their own tasks, leaving one after the other out the room door. When they were all gone, Jofrey sat down heavily, falling back against the chair as the rush of strength and confidence he’d momentarily found drained away. Suddenly he felt cold, shivering despite the warmth of the chamber, and turned to look out the diamond-paned window into the night. The storm raged, ever present even in the darkness, melting slush streaking the glass like grey paint against a black canvas. It had started to hail, the ice striking the window with staggered pink pink pinks that were rapidly intensifying in both volume and frequency. By morning Jofrey suspected the air itself would be nothing more than a churning white sea falling ever downward.
His greatest fear, though, was that the storm that assaulted them from above was nothing as compared to that which threatened them from below.
Lifegiver, he prayed, closing his eyes and seeking out the power that lay behind the raging wind outside, lend us your strength. See us through this, so that we might know another cold winter, another cruel storm. See us through this, so that your greatest Gift is not extinguished from these halls that have, for so many of us, been a home when no other place could satisfy.
When he was done, Jofrey sat for another minute, listening to the groan of the coming blizzard.
Then he got up, and set off to prepare Cyurgi’ Di for war.
CHAPTER 11
“Despite breathtaking mountain ranges, magnificent coastal seascapes, and even the wondrous dark reaches of the Arocklen Woods, the Dehn Plains are perhaps the most enchanting of the Northern lands. A sprawling sight dancing with rolling hills of grass and flowers in the summer months, it is no less beautiful in the freeze. A singular lolling slate of white against the swirling grey of storm clouds in the heavens above, one feels almost suspended over an angry ocean, churning and calling out its hunger with thunder and wind. There are times, in fact, when it is difficult to keep at bay the irrational fear of falling up up up into those ravenous dark waters…”
—The Eloquent’s Guide to Northern Geography, author unknown
Raz barely kept his feet, all strength drained from him as he stared out at the queer reflection of a world he had so long ago left far behind.
He stood along the precipice of the tallest hill he’d been able to find in the dark within easy walk of their small camp, having just crested its highest ridge. Ahna was at his side, hanging loose from one hand with her blades sinking down into the foot of snow that surrounded him, and the thick hood of his heavy furs was pulled up so that only his snout suffered the abuse of the buffeting, biting gales. Above him the sky was streaked with the white of thin clouds against the interlacing colors of dawn, themselves shifting like water as the Sun began to show itself over the eastern edge of the world. For a time, it seemed, they were going to get a reprieve from the storms that had dogged them for the last week, slowing their horses and making it impossible to bear witness to the scenery about them.
Now, though, for the first time in what seemed like a small eternity, the day was clear, and Raz reached up with his free hand to pull his fur hood slowly down, not wanting so much as a strand of hair between his amber eyes and the quiet country spread out before him.
“By the Sun…” he whispered hoarsely.
Time, by its own strange plans, had returned him to the desert. Instead of sand there was snow, and instead of devouring heat there was nothing but a cruel, cutting chill, but in all other respects it was as though the Cienbal had painted itself across the land, drawing inspiration from Raz’s own memories. The sway of the earth, up and down like the fluttering of cloth left to dry in a lazy breeze. Lines on lines of distant hills layered atop themselves, so that the horizon was interrupted by the bump and sway of the earth. There were even edges along the ridges of those hills where snow had caved under its own weight, tumbling into the valleys in small avalanches just as the sands had from atop the dunes. Icy wisps flicked like lines of smoke over the otherwise perfect stillness, pale and white rather than the reddish brown of dust, but carried off by the wind all the same.
Even had Raz found more words to express his awe, he would have tamed them in reverence.
For a long time he stood alone atop that hill, shin deep in the snow, welcoming the steadily brightening light of the Sun that marked the new day. al’Dor’s woven magic—reworked every other day or so—held in Raz’s boots, keeping his feet and legs warm and dry, and the thickness of the furs did the rest. His ears, vulnerable to the cold in their bareness, ached before long, but he ignored the pain, allowing the delicate membranes to stiffen and eventually go numb.
The memory was worth suffering for, if even just a little.
The Sun had risen in truth when Raz decided it was time to return. The oranges and yellows of the early morning were rapidly giving way to clear, calm blue as he turned and made his descent carefully down the hill, digging his claws into the hardened earth and dead grass he could feel beneath the white. Ahna he threw over one shoulder, shifting to step sideways down the slope, trying not to slip as he moved.
About five minutes later he found the road again—visible only by his own tracks along a winding path of suspicious flatness between the hills—and followed it north. Soon he came to a particularly sharp bend and, still following the trail of his boots and tail, made his way up and over the outcroppings of rock that had sheltered their little party for the night. Coming to the stone’s edge Raz leapt down, spreading his wings momentarily to slow his twenty-foot fall, and landed lightly in the shallower snow at the mouth of their little hollow.
The shelter—which he’d found them the afternoon before when the storm had become too violent to brave any longer—was mostly of natural creation, a sort of divot in the earth beneath an overhanging ledge of slate and loose roots. Icicles, hung suspended over their heads when they’d first entered, were now long melted away within the heat of the complex protective wards the two Priests had spent nearly an hour working around the little nook and their horses. Even now the magic cut an odd line against the earth, the invisible, shifting sphere of warmth made distinct by a circular line of ice in the snow, the other side of which revealed brown grass and damp earth.
Stepping into the ward, Raz felt the tension of the cold leave his neck and shoulders, and he sighed audibly. Leaning Ahna against the earthen wall to his left, he smirked down at the pair of men still sleeping soundly beneath the low ceiling of stone, their bedrolls pulled close together, hands laying only inches apart atop their shared furs.
When they’d first set off, Raz wasn’t quite sure what to make of the men’s relationship, being largely unfamiliar with such romances. Similar inclinations existed in the South, of cour
se, but were largely shunned, or kept very quiet. The only remotely similar comparisons he’d been able to make had been the comforts some men discreetly bought from others of the same sex in brothels and whorehouses in and about the South’s fringe cities, or the predatory perversions animals like Ergoin Sass had harbored for younger boys.
Rapidly though, he’d realized such comparisons couldn’t have hit further from the mark.
At first he’d found it odd, being around the lovers in their element, enjoying the relative seclusion the road allowed from what he imagined were very busy lives. Raz had felt uncomfortable in his own skin, watching the pair, not quite sure how to act around them, or what to say. Quickly he’d learned, though, that there was no special way to act, no secret to keeping himself from interrupting or offending their relationship. They were simply two people, very much fond of one another, and with no desire or need to hide it from the world. Soon after he’d realized this, Raz had learned to take the relationship in stride, even going so far as to tease the Priests as one might tease young lovers caught in their shyness.
“Oy!” Raz shouted, shoving Brahnt’s exposed shoulder with a clawed foot. “Lovebirds! Time we’re off! Sun’s been up long enough as is!”
The Priest jerked awake, bleary eyes blinking open as he lifted his head to look about before squinting at the brightness of the Sun reflected off the snow outside the hollow. He grumbled, rolling himself onto one side and reaching up with both hands to rub at his face, muttering something about “mouthy reptiles” and “lizard soup for breakfast.”
Raz grinned, turning away to ready Gale and perform his morning exercises in the warmth of the Sun as al’Dor awoke in turn, yawning and stretching his wide frame to its full extent. The man called out “Morning!” after him, and Raz raised a hand in reply without looking back.
“Storm’s finally gone and blown itself out,” he heard Brahnt say, huffing and grunting as he struggled to get his feet on his bad knee. “Laor’s mercy… Carro, come see. Come see, dammit!”
There was the grind of stone and earth, followed by the crunch of snow caving underfoot.
“Oh my…” Raz heard the Priest breathe out in wonder after a short inhaled gasp of awe, and he knew the men were taking in the Dehn in all its wintery wonder.
“It’s a better view from the hills,” he called back over his shoulder as he hefted his saddle up with his good arm from where it had been draped over a small boulder by the entrance overnight, at the edges of the sphere of magical heat. “Go. I’ll get the horses bridled.”
Amusingly, neither of the Priests had to be told twice. They set off as soon as they’d finished scrambling to get their boots on, Brahnt leaning on al’Dor and his staff as usual, making use of the path Raz had already cut around the outcropping and wading their way through the snow in the direction he’d gone not an hour before. They took their time, which Raz neither minded nor intended to blame them for. Apart from having a good understanding of the sobering wonderment both men had to be experiencing, the solitude let him get Gale and the two mares ready in quick succession. The horses, originally skittish around him, had become accustomed to Raz’s form and presence within a few days, and even tilted their broad heads into him now in appeals for pats and scratches, which he obliged. After this, Raz set about his new morning ritual: working the cold out of stiff and sore muscles.
The ache in his back hand’t completely dissipated even after a week of travel, but it was far removed from the piercing discomfort it had been when they’d left the stunted walls of Ystréd behind in favor of the northern road. The makeshift sling Eva had supplied him with had been discarded three days prior, and Raz had since been working to recover the surprising amount of strength and dexterity that had wasted away during his illness and subsequent recuperation. Using his tail to clear himself a rough circle in the sunniest—and therefore warmest—spot he could find, Raz began with general stretching and flexing of the larger muscles in his legs, arms, chest, and back. Once he’d sufficiently warmed up, he drew the gladius from over his shoulder with his right hand and plucked the war-ax from his belt with his left. For a minute or two he went through the motions, building up a burn in his hands, wrists, and forearms with the slow, deliberate manipulations of the weapons’ weights.
Then, allowing himself a steady ramping up in speed and strength, Raz began to dance.
He moved with all the efficiency a life of the sword had managed to instill in him. The edges of his blades whistled as they cut the air in everything from long arcs to short, complex maneuvers kept tight to the body. His legs glided beneath him like liquid, his footwork carrying his weight back and forth, twisting his bulk about effortlessly even as he started moving faster and faster. Within a minute Raz was in full swing of the battle trance, spinning and jumping and somersaulting and pirouetting in order to dart and dodge out of the way of imaginary blows dispensed by invisible foes. Before long he lost himself completely, allowing instinct and experience to take control bit by bit, brushing away the pain between his shoulder blades until he felt it no more, ignoring fatigue and the burn of tiring muscles until they ached no more. Silently he waged war against his thoughts, kicking up snow and ice to glimmer in the air of the bright morning, settling around him like a drifting rain of shattered glass as he moved.
It was almost a half hour before the Priests returned, coming back around on the path, by which time Raz had long since built himself up and burned himself out, dancing until he could dance no more. They found him on his knees in the middle of his crude little circle, heaving in gasps of icy air, sword and ax limp in each hand, their blades resting against the ground.
They didn’t offer any comment on his position, just as he didn’t offer any comment on the sort of stupefied reverence plastered across al’Dor’s blonde bearded face that said that he—like Raz—had been hard pressed to turn away from the majestic, untouched perfection of the Dehn.
After a hurried breakfast of dried bread and salted beef softened with melted snow, they wasted no time on their departure. From horseback Brahnt dispelled the wards with a few waves of his hand and a flash of white light, then brought his mount around and led them back around the outcropping towards the road. Once they’d returned to the path, the three men slipped into their habit of riding abreast, Raz and al’Dor flanking Brahnt on the left and right respectively. The going was slow, none of them willing to push their horses into more than a steady trot over the treacherously hidden earth, but it was still faster than anything they’d managed in most of the week prior. Today, at least, vertical sleet wasn’t cutting at their hands and faces, nor was the wind buffeting them about so much that they kept running either into each other or off the road entirely. Even the Priests’ quick wards and warming spells, cast periodically throughout the day, never held up long against the blizzard’s constant battery, and a majority of their time had been spent hunched and miserable in their saddles, only looking up every few minutes to ensure they hadn't strayed far from each other or the road.
Now, though—while the cold kept slipping through the thinnest layers of their furs and cloaks and their lips were still cracked from the dryness of the air—the mood of the journey could not have been more different. After days of near-constant silence as they rode—not counting the sporadic yelling at each other over the storm to check they were still heading in the right direction—the three companions found themselves overjoyed with the prospect of distraction and discussion. Even Raz had grown tired of the pseudo-solitude, and took advantage of the clear day to strike up a conversation as soon as they found a steady pace.
“How much farther do we have?” he asked as they led the horses down a sharp incline in the road, one after the other. “Not that I haven’t thoroughly enjoyed myself the last few days, but if we get caught in another storm like that I’m turning tail and making for the South again, bounty be damned.”
Behind him, al’Dor chuckled. “A ways, yet. Another week at least, likely two. And I’m surp
rised you weren’t warned before making the trek up. If it’s sand and sunlight you were hoping for, you certainly picked the wrong direction.”
“Oh, I was warned,” Raz grumbled unwillingly, taking his habitual spot by Brahnt’s left again as the road widened once more. “I just apparently couldn’t quite fathom the extent of the natural disaster I was willfully wading into…”
“Speak for yourself,” Brahnt himself said, lifting a gloved hand from where it kept his staff balanced across his legs to scratch at his snow-flecked beard. “I’ve been in your lands, too, Arro, and I’ll take the cold and all its little bastard friends over the sweltering misery you Southerners call the ‘cooler seasons’ any day, and then some. Cooler, my foot! If it’d gotten any hotter I was afraid the bricks that held the roof up over our head were going to start melting.”
Raz scoffed. “Then don’t visit the fringe cities in the summer, old man. The days are so hot that women cook their meat on the underside of iron pots left in the Sun. The slummers become more of a nuisance by fighting amongst themselves for shade and water than they ever do just picking pockets and begging for scraps. In the desert, sarydâ wrap the hilts of their weapons in rough cloth, because the pommels and cross guards become so heated they’ve been known to sear the skin right from the hand.”
The Wings of War: Books 1-3: The Wings of War Box Set, Vol. 1 Page 85