Above the Snowline

by Steph Swainston

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Epigraph

  TWO HUNTERS

  LIGHTNING

  JANT

  ZOYSIA

  REEVE MARRAM

  JANT

  RAVEN

  JANT

  RAVEN

  JANT

  RAVEN

  OUZEL

  SNIPE

  JANT

  LIGHTNING

  OUZEL

  SNIPE

  OUZEL

  JANT

  LIGHTNING

  JANT

  LIGHTNING

  RAVEN

  SNIPE

  RAVEN

  SNIPE

  RAVEN

  SNIPE

  RAVEN

  SNIPE

  RAVEN

  SNIPE

  LIGHTNING

  JANT

  Acknowledgements

  Also by Steph Swainston from Gollancz:

  The Year of Our War

  No Present Like Time

  The Modern World

  The Castle Omnibus

  Above the Snowline

  STEPH SWAINSTON

  Orion

  www.orionbooks.co.uk

  A Gollancz eBook

  Copyright © Steph Swainston 2010

  All rights reserved.

  The right of Steph Swainston to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in Great Britain in 2010 by

  Gollancz

  The Orion Publishing Group Ltd

  Orion House

  5 Upper Saint Martin’s Lane

  London, WC2H 9EA

  An Hachette UK Company

  This eBook first published in 2010 by Gollancz.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book

  is available from the British Library.

  eISBN : 978 0 5750 8676 0

  This eBook produced by Jouve, France

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor to be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  www.stephswainston.co.uk

  www.orionbooks.co.uk

  ‘There can be no hearts above the snowline’

  -Herman Melville

  TWO HUNTERS

  A stone rattled down the scree slope, bouncing and clacking, speeding up as it descended and dislodging further stones. It hit the side of a great boulder, ricocheted off and came to rest. Another followed it, tumbling past and sending up tiny puffs of the grey ground-rock dust that underlay the scree. Then a section of frost-shattered granite gave way under the boot sole of a Rhydanne girl. She was running down the steep slope with bounding strides and sliding crunches. She crossed the narrow stone chute diagonally, reached the larger slabs on its outside edge and turned to descend across it again. Behind and far above her, her husband was making his way down. She smiled, thinking: he never keeps up with me.

  She rejoiced in her speed. She loved the exhilaration of being nearly, but not quite, out of control, revelling in the feeling of leaving her feet behind her; in the co-ordination of her long legs; in her ankles and knees jarring when she planted a foot into the scree and jumped again. She knew how to find footholds so precarious, thinking ahead with such fast instinct, her grace would put a chamois to shame.

  She reached the bottom of the slope, a relatively flat terrace covered in gigantic, angular shards from cliff-falls and old avalanches. As the scree petered out onto grass she slowed to a halt and glanced back to see her husband still descending between the massive, uneven pillars of rock. In the distance his footfalls sounded tiny and high-pitched, as if the scree was broken glass.

  She crouched and tightened the laces of her moccasin boots, then pulled a strip of wind-dried meat from her pack and began to chew it. She popped the bung from her waterskin and washed the sharp pieces down with neat whisky.

  Her husband stopped beside her. ‘All right, Dellin?’

  She nodded. ‘Hungry, though.’

  ‘I’m starving.’

  She passed him one of the strips like stringy leather and as he munched it they pressed on, running in step between the boulders, picking their way with extraordinary rapidity. Dellin breathed deeply; the clean, cold air caught in her sinuses. Above the screes, the pure snowfields had taken on the dazzling blue of the early morning sky.

  They ran along a natural balcony, a plateau below the soaring needles of rock, covered in rubble vivid green with lichen, which sheltered mosses and tiny mountain flowers. They were searching for ibex but there had been few sightings of any game above the tree line for weeks and they were becoming desperate.

  ‘Do you think there’ll be anything over in Caigeann?’ Dellin asked eventually.

  Laochan bowed his head, meaning, the herders have left for the high pasture so there won’t be any goats.

  ‘Well, let’s follow them.’

  ‘If we get any hungrier we’ll have to. But it’s a long way and unless we eat first we might not be able.’

  Dellin showed all her teeth in a smile that was more a grimace. She loved preying on the goats of those Rhydanne who lived as herders. She liked to swoop in, take what she wanted and run away pursued by the stupid, exasperated goatherds hurling stones.

  Since the start of the melt season, the deer had become scarce and now the smaller prey also seemed frightened and elusive. Dellin and Laochan were not sure why, they hadn’t met any other hunters and the weather had been fair. But they knew that if they did not make a kill soon, they would starve.

  Their pace matched exactly as they ran, sparse and concentrated. They even breathed together, leaving identical puffs of misted breath on the air. The rocks underfoot were no longer sealed together with ice and the footholds were treacherous, but Dellin jumped from one to the next, picking them out with perfect judgement, scarcely needing to think.

  Rhydanne are to humans as cheetahs are to alley cats, as grey-hounds are to lapdogs, as hares are to rabbits and as falcons, the swift-winged cutters of the air, are to blackbirds whose predatory instinct extends only to worms and insects. They are lithe-limbed, cat-eyed and pale. They were human once, unlike the winged Awians, but millennia of evolution in the extreme mountains had adapted them to altitude and to the cold: it had keened their senses, honed their bodies and charged their speed. They are solitary, independent and, although they hunt in pairs, cannot even conceive of acting as a society. They are the ultimate hunters. They are also drunk nine tenths of the time.

  A cliff top jutting out from the terrace formed a promontory and good lookout point. Dellin jogged onto it and gazed out over the contours of the slope. The mountainside curved away, pastel green and grey, but she could see no movement, no sign of deer. She leant on her spear for support, turned and looked back up-slope to where Carnich Glacier knuckled its way down from the high summits. Its spiny projections and rugged surface smoothed towards the snowfields. And far beyond them, a wall of jagged black pinnacles too sheer to hold snow cut against the sky.

  The meltwater torrent leaving the glacier plunged into a deep ravine; even at this distance its roar made Dellin’s ears ring. It emerged much lower down in a series of waterfalls that seemed solid, like white veils, and poured into the top of a pine forest where it disappeared from view. Condors were sailing, broad-winged, over the topmost spires of the pines.

  On the other side of the ravine, the balcony jutted out onto a great crag. De
llin cried, ‘Laochan! Look!’ The top of the crag was bare. It was below the tree line and should have been forest, but its flat summit had been stripped. Rocks were showing in the grey-yellow scar. She could just distinguish the trunks of the pines at the edge of the felled area. She squinted and discerned piles of lumber, looking no bigger than tinder spills. There were square mounds of stone there too, all larger than any trading post she knew, and penned in with fences and walls as if they were goats. ‘Someone’s cut all those trees down. And they’re building huge huts!’

  Laochan tapped his spear butt on the rock apprehensively. ‘Could it be Karbhainn?’

  ‘Karbhainn couldn’t do that. It must be Awians.’

  ‘Aliens?’

  ‘Awians. Featherbacks. They build, don’t they …?’

  He tried to tell the huts from the rock. ‘It’s bigger than Scree pueblo … It’s like three pueblos joined together …’

  ‘On our hunting ground.’

  They stood for some time, watching the bald promontory and the forest lapping up around it. Its cloak of pines descended unbroken into a thick cloudbank. Some gaps far out in the cumulus showed flatter ground and vague bistre and green shapes, framed by the cloud as if floating. There was nothing of interest down there.

  She nudged Laochan and pointed. Some white boxes were emerging from the margin of the trees, on the Turbary Track. One by one they turned off the track and slowly crawled like ticks onto the top of the promontory, where they stopped in a line. ‘Wheeled sledges. They are flatlanders. Can you see any?’

  He slitted his eyes against the breeze. ‘Amazing. Sledges never come up this far.’

  ‘Laochan! Trust your own eyes!’

  ‘Yes, I trust my eyes, but I trust my nose more. Can you smell burning?’

  She stood breathing in the scents carried on the cool breeze: woodsmoke, pine resin, and something stronger, too, something she couldn’t identify. Faint noises came to her - stone being hammered and a man’s shout - cut short when the gust died down. ‘So much noise. No wonder the ibex are scarce.’

  ‘Ibex! They could wake a hibernating bear.’ He stared intently at the promontory, moving his head slightly from side to side, the way a hawk does when it focuses on prey. Dellin glanced at him, so he pointed out some brown blots on its summit, on a patch of sparse grass. ‘What are they? Deer?’

  She shaded her eyes. ‘Horses. They’ll be horses. A larger type of mule.’

  ‘Why aren’t they running away?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She gave him a fleeting look. ‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’

  He licked his lips. ‘Think so!’

  They turned and dashed back to the slope. They sped past outcrops of bulging rock onto a cliff and jumped down its ledges, using their spears to balance. Dellin’s nails rasped when she dug them, like pitons, into cracks. They descended through almost-sheer swathes of tough grass and bilberries. The ragged scatters of stunted pines at the tree line brushed their trousers. They raced between them and into the forest, among taller and taller pines until the great conifers blocked out the sky.

  The air was rich with the smell of damp humus and deep-textured bark. Meshed branches softened the ice-bright sunlight to an aquamarine glow that dappled the ground. Dellin and Laochan’s light tread made no sound on the compacted needles as they ran past ferns, ant mounds, and the trees’ roots covered in inedible red-capped fungi. She was alert to every sound, yearning to hear the scuffling of a deer fleeing, but nothing came to her except the fluttering of small birds in the branches.

  She swung her arms, loving her spear’s perfect balance. Its steel tip arced to and fro at the edge of her vision. Laochan’s spear bounced against his back in a tubular bone holder.

  Notches had been freshly hacked in the larger trunks. Laochan slowed and sent Dellin a worried glance, but she simply ran on and he had to follow. They peered down between the trunks to the trading post road. A new track left its nearest hairpin bend, leading up towards the top of the promontory. It was freshly scuffed and very wide, with two ruts where wheels had churned the pine needles muddy brown.

  Laochan whispered, ‘It looks too used.’

  ‘Don’t worry. We can spot the horses without leaving cover.’

  They ran alongside the track until the forest stopped abruptly. Laochan threw his arm out to warn her and crouched behind a rowan bush. She sank down beside him. The track curved out in front of them and where the forest had been was nothing but stumps, the boles of recently felled pines, pale chips and branches all over the ground as if strewn by the most terrific storm of all time. The wheeled sledges, like boxes with arched canvas roofs, were lined up at the end of the track. Behind them, a high wall with a gap in it surrounded the buildings.

  Laochan darted horrified glances around. ‘Have they built all this since last time?’

  ‘They must have. No! Don’t dash off! I’m hungry.’

  ‘What are they doing?’

  ‘I don’t know. Look.’ The horses were grazing on the other side of the track inside a sort of large pen, an enclosure like the ones goats are kept in, but huge, so huge Dellin couldn’t see across it. Eight, nine, ten brown mares were tugging mouthfuls of dry grass from a manger in the centre. One magnificent black stallion stood apart, swishing his tail and raising his head to sniff the air. Laochan watched them with a fascinated light in his eyes. ‘They look strong.’

  ‘Yes, but they’re easy pickings. No claws or horns to gore us, and they won’t dive underground.’

  ‘Where are the featherbacks?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. They must be in their pueblo.’

  He nodded. ‘They’ll probably be drinking if they’ve trapped this much food.’

  ‘Then let’s take some.’

  They glanced at each other. They had hunted together for so long he easily read her expression. He nodded seriously, took his spear’s detachable bone point and eased it in its socket to make its string run free, then ran his beautiful hands over the bolas cord wound around his waist. He met her eyes and said, ‘Wait for my call,’ then slipped round the bush and was gone. He ran, stooped, across the track and circled around the pen to approach from upwind. He reached the wheeled sledges, gave a frightened glance at the height of their roofs, then dropped to hands and knees and crept between them.

  Dellin snaked out and down to the near side of the strange pen. It seemed to be circular, more than a hundred strides across, and its far side almost touched the cliff edge. She squirmed closer on her belly, holding her spear off the ground. The damp grass brushed the front of her parka and grit pressed into her palms.

  The male horse whinnied. Shit, she thought, he’s scented us already. The mares bunched together, holding their heads high, rolling their eyes and flaring their nostrils. The cold breeze lifted hairs from their manes and tails, turned their every puff of breath to wreaths of steam that hung around them in the pale air. Lumps of dry mud clung to their hooves. Dellin wondered at the mud - it wasn’t the thin soil of Carnich, it had come from somewhere else entirely. She picked out one of the mares but they were clustered near the manger with the enormous stallion pacing round and round.

  He’ll be better eating than squirrels and toadstools, she thought, but the pain in her belly was so intense and she felt so weak, she knew she was better choosing one of the mares. She crouched and waited, ignoring the strain in her knees, thinking, come on, Laochan.

  She heard his low whistle on the other side of the enclosure and sprang up - grabbed the rail and vaulted it, shouting, ‘Hey! Hey!’

  He leapt the fence, spear in hand, landed and dashed at the horses. Dellin’s mare bolted with the rest towards the barrier and she thought they’d all jump it, but frightened by the precipice they swerved and ran alongside, Dellin’s mare in the middle.

  She raised her spear beside her cheek, its point steady in front. She balanced it in her hand, steering the shaft with her thumb. She ran faster, halted and hurled the spear with all her streng
th, all her momentum, the whole long fulcrum of her body. She tipped forward, started running, watching its flight.

  The spear arced up, descended point first and plunged into the horse’s hindquarters, sinking in two thirds of its length. The horse stumbled, incredibly regained its footing, but the others raced past and left it behind.

  It ran after them, its back leg jolting the shaft back and forth, sawing the spear point and cutting its flesh. A second later the point emerged under its belly, shining with blood. The wound widened and a pad of intestine protruded and slipped out until two loops hung down.

  A kill, Dellin thought. A kill in one throw! The mare was tiring - it still tried to keep up with the herd, but hampered by pain and the dragging shaft couldn’t lift its hooves as high. Dellin smelt its terror and howled with excitement. I’m going to catch it! She bounded forward and pounced. She buffeted into the hard wall of its shoulder, threw her arm over its neck, jolted and dug her nails in. The horse lifted her off her feet and dragged her along.

  Her toes bumped on the stones. The mare’s tough hair rubbed her cheek, but before it could turn its head to bite, Dellin grabbed its mane, flexed her arms and pulled herself up to sit astride. She was riding!

  ‘Hey!’ she cried. ‘Hey, Laochan!’

  His face turned up in astonishment from beside a brown mound - his prey was lying quivering, and he was trying to work his spear free.

  Under Dellin’s thighs the mare’s shoulders surged and thumped. Its mane swished her trousers and its hooves threw up clods of turf. She wasn’t satisfied with a messy kill; she wanted to make it clean. She drew her knife, grasped it in both hands and stabbed it down through the tough neck.

  Blood whipped back, splattered her and pattered on the ground. The foam around its mouth streaked with red. Bits flew back and stuck to her. She pushed and the knife disappeared up to its hilt. The mare’s legs buckled, it pitched forward and Dellin jumped clear. She landed on hands and feet, was up again in an instant and saw the mare lying on its side. It rolled onto its belly and tried to pull itself up by its straight front legs, then collapsed completely, breathing heavily.