by Rose Estes
“Pray,” Brandtson replied with a short barking laugh, and then, whooping into the wind, he was gone, followed immediately by Saxo, their voices trailing behind them as they descended into the dark night.
Still Braldt hesitated, holding fast to a rough icy outcrop, afraid to let go. Then the attackers were there above him, swords flailing the air in an attempt to reach him. One assailant, bolder than the rest, leaned far out over the edge and struck at Braldt. Braldt could easily have slain him had his blade been drawn, but it was sheathed and pinned beneath his leg. The steel struck the ice beside his head, and a shower of icy chips flew up as the blade clanged off, rebounding and passing so close to Braldt’s face that he could feel the wind of its passage.
He could hesitate no longer, yet opening his hand and letting go was one of the most difficult things he had ever done. No sooner had he released his grip than he began to slide. His first, automatic inclination was to sit up and dig his heels in, but Brandtson had specifically cautioned him against doing such a thing.
The angry voices faded behind him as he picked up speed, plummeting down the face of the mountain with dizzying speed. He could see nothing; the world was a blur of blackest night, white snow, and gray ice. He could only begin to guess at the rate of his progress by the feel of the ground passing beneath him. It was a terrifying and rough passage, and yet after the first rush of fear he began to feel a sense of exhilaration, and almost without thinking, he let loose a joyous whoop that was instantly returned to him in the wind, although whether it was an echo or an answer from his companions, he could not have said.
Faster and faster he hurtled down the steep incline, bouncing from one icy projection to another, at times actually leaving the ground and flying through the air before landing heavily and picking up speed once more. He struck no actual rocks and he could only guess that they were safely buried under a layer of snow and ice. The days were warm enough to melt the uppermost surface of the snow layer, which promptly froze again at night, providing them with the means for escape.
The voyage seemed to last forever and he could not help but wonder how it would end. Then suddenly disaster struck; his feet struck a ridge of snow and ice and he felt himself changing direction, sliding sideways, losing what little control he had possessed. For one frightening moment he was skidding down the mountain sideways. Then his shoulder struck a mound with a jarring blow and he tilted still farther, unable to free his hands from his cloak to try to brake his impetus. Then, somehow—he was never quite certain how it had happened—he flipped over in midair and landed on his stomach, racing down the mountain headfirst!
If the journey had been scary laying on his back, there were literally no words to express the terror of flying forward face-first with his hands pinned beneath him, tangled in his cloak.
He was traveling so fast that he could no longer tell whether it was snowing or whether the flurry of flakes shooting up alongside his head was caused by the speed of his passage. He raised his head as high as it would go in a futile attempt to see what was coming, but obstacles loomed up out of the blurry darkness and were gone almost before his eyes and mind could comprehend them, much less think of a way to avoid them. The night had become oddly clear and he could see the dark night sky sprinkled with glittering stars stretching above, calm and peaceful and still.
The voices of the enemy had long since vanished in the night; he could hear nothing but the whistling wind and the schuss of snow beneath him. Then out of the darkness there arose some sort of barrier stretching before him in an unbroken line. He could not tell what it was, but it was unmoving and it seemed quite likely that he would meet it with great force in the next few seconds if he did not manage to somehow stop his furious descent.
He struggled against the folds of cloth now stiff with cold and an accumulation of ice and snow. He dug his toes into the snow and did his best to drag them, to slow his progress, but they too were numb and stiff with the cold and obeyed his commands sluggishly, only to be battered and bruised by the rough surface and a multitude of unseen obstacles.
The barrier was approaching ever more swiftly and fear rose in his breast as he struggled to free himself and halt his descent, but his clumsy attempts merely sent him spinning ever more swiftly. Fear rose up in his throat like a dark wave. He screamed.
Then, seconds away from disaster, he felt himself seized on either side, stopped with an abrupt finality that was no less shocking than the dizzying descent. His head spun and his senses were awhirl. He thought for a moment that he was going to be sick as his mind and body slowly adjusted to the fact that he was no longer moving, and to the even more remarkable fact that he was still alive and intact.
He felt himself hoisted to his feet and he tried to stand, staggering from side to side on numbed feet and legs that felt as though they belonged to someone else. Slowly, he became aware of the fact that his back was burning and it was painful to move. His cloak hung in tatters around him, the heavy fabric torn and shredded with great gaping holes that let in the cold. One elbow was throbbing insistently and a hip and shoulder felt as though they had lost serious arguments with rocks, although he had no specific memory of such incidents. Slowly, the world stopped revolving around him and the noise that was buzzing in his ears separated into words—words that had meaning.
Someone clapped him on the shoulder and shook him gleefully. He tried to share the joy, but it hurt too much.
“Ha! We did it!” Brandtson chuckled as he hugged first Braldt and then Saxo. Braldt stumbled forward and leaned up against what he was now able to discern was another balustrade, while Saxo and Brandtson clutched each other in a bear hug and hopped up and down, dancing joyously at their successful escape.
“What I wouldn’t have given to see the looks on their faces!” Brandtson cried as he shook his old friend gently and smiled at Thunder, who was less than pleased with the antics of the two elder statesmen.
“Remember when we used to do that at home, Brandt?” Saxo said with a chuckle, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes. “Remember how mad our mothers were? As I recall, we both had our bottoms warmed for ruining our storm gear, but it was worth it. None of these youngsters have ever done such a thing, nor would they have expected it of us!”
“Neither did I,” Braldt said under his breath, though now that the venture was over and done with and they were still alive, he had to admit a new feeling of respect for the two oldsters.
“Where are we?” he asked, interrupting the cheerful flow of conversation, for he had begun to shake, although whether from the cold or delayed reaction to the experience he could not have said. “Should we not be thinking about leaving before they figure out what we have done and work up the courage to follow us?”
“It’ll never happen.” Saxo chuckled and the two men burst out laughing anew. “You either have to have one foot in the grave already or be completely crazy to do such a thing. We’re quite safe for the moment.”
Braldt decided not to mention that he did not possess either quality himself, contenting himself with asking, “How can you know that they will not come at us from another direction?” It was becoming difficult to speak because his teeth insisted on clattering and banging together.
Finally Brandtson seemed to recognize the fact that Braldt was somewhat the worse for wear and, cursing himself and Saxo for ten types of old fools, he helped Braldt over the balustrade and together the three of them broke a trail. It was clear that the path had not been used for some time. The layers of snow and ice had melted and frozen many, many times and as they broke through with every step, the multitude of icy crusts sliced through their leggings until their legs were coated with a chill layer of their own blood.
There was no sheltering bulk of the mountain on either side, only waist-high balustrades which left them totally at the mercy of the freezing winds which battered them from all directions. All sign of levity was gone now as they put their heads down against the wind and forced their way forward.
The pitch of the path was extremely steep and, had it not been for the knee-deep drifts which plucked at their legs and seemed most reluctant to let them go, they might have taken several nasty falls.
At long last, the path took a sharp turn, doubling back against itself, and now the wind was at their backs, propelling them forward. It seemed forever before they stumbled against yet another balustrade and the three of them crawled over the wide stone ledge with legs that had lost all feeling and could barely support them. Here was the welcoming bulk of the mountain, and the cruel wind fell away to a whisper.
Both Saxo and Brandtson seemed to know where they were going, to have some destination in mind, for which Braldt was grateful: The sooner they got in out of the cold, the better. They slowed their pace and Saxo ran his fingers over the face of the mountain, searching for something. They crawled along, looking for whatever it was, until Saxo let out a joyful cry and the two men began tugging against something that seemed determined not to move.
It was a door, unused and immobile, fused by the ice and the cold until it was nearly a part of the mountain. Braldt joined in, using the tip of his blade to hack away at the ice, aching in every joint and growing ever more desperate with cold and fatigue. At last, groaning and creaking in icy protest, the door gave way to their blows and opened before them to reveal a velvety darkness and warmth that embraced them like a lover’s embrace.
Ragnar Ollesson hurried down the outer trail, wrapping himself warmly in his heavy cloak. He chided himself for being a fool as the bitter wind struck him. It would have been wiser to have taken the inner path, protected from the vagaries of the weather, but he had wanted to be alone, to think about the words he had heard that night. It would be too easy to be swayed by the enthusiasm of his companions. Here, alone, he would be able to think.
Ragnar Ollesson had given Otir Vaeng his pledge of allegiance many years before and although he had often had cause to regret his unswerving loyalty, one had to admit that Otir Vaeng had brought them through some difficult times. They had survived and that was all that really counted. Or was it? There had been times when he had nearly spoken out, cast his vote against Otir Vaeng in the Council of Thanes, but always, in the end, he had voted with the king. And what had happened to those who had opposed him? All were dead, or as good as dead. It always seemed a coincidence, but few would argue that those who defied the king either died or found themselves stationed on remote outposts far from the seat of power.
With the notable exception of Brandt Brandtson. He and his circle of associates had been taking a stand against the king recently and they were still alive. But Brandtson was old and powerful, securely entrenched in the council with his own circle of power; it would be hard to dislodge him and should he die or disappear, none would think it an accident. Otir Vaeng had not achieved the throne by being stupid; he knew that Brandtson was beyond approach and would not attempt to attack him openly.
Ragnar’s thoughts circled this evening’s business uneasily, remembering the flames as they were mirrored on the seeress’s naked flesh. In his mind he knew that she was only a woman like any other, but in his heart the mere thought of her carried a wave of cold fear. She was dangerous, no less dangerous than the king. If she pointed at you with a bone, you might just as well fling yourself off the side of the mountain, for she had marked you for death. All your friends would shun you for fear of being marked as well, and death would come sooner, rather than later. It was rumored that she made use of poison rather than the darker magics as she would have one believe, but what did it really matter? Dead was still dead.
Ragnar Ollesson shivered, and not from the cold, as he hurried down the side of the mountain, longing for the welcome warmth of his fire and the heavy weight of his down-filled blankets. If he allowed himself to think about it, there was much about the king’s plan that he did not like. Was it really necessary to slaughter all those who could not be brought to a new world? His mind cringed from the thought of the bloodshed to come. He squirmed uneasily as he realized that he and his family were safe from such a purge. As chief programmer of the interstellar computers, he was far too valuable to discard.
He bit his lip and tried to avoid thinking as the decision was made almost without conscious decision. Really, there had never been any doubt about it; he had little courage and no stomach at all for bloodshed and pain, especially when it was his own. Then there were the children to consider. Was it really fair to even think of opposing the king when there were the children to think of? Immediately he felt better.
He began to chide himself for having taken this cold, dangerous route when he could have been warm and safe inside. He hurried down the treacherous slope, nearly falling on a smooth stretch of ice. Then it happened; his feet slid out from under him and he fell heavily to the ground and slid a short way, coming to rest against a strange bulwark of piled snow. He put out a hand to steady himself as he got to his feet, wondering for a moment how and why such an obstacle came to be in the middle of the path. Perhaps it had fallen from the upper slopes. He raised his head to look.
There was a sense of movement, a darkness against the even darker sky, a large shadow that obliterated the sight of the stars and filled him with a sudden sense of unreasoning terror. He felt a hand upon his shoulder and for a brief second he relaxed, thinking that one of his friends had thought to frighten him. He grinned, thinking of the laughter at his expense that would surely follow the telling of this tale and he opened his mouth to speak.
And then, as the hand tightened on his shoulder, he felt another hand seize his chin and a bolt of icy fear lanced through his bowels. He knew then in some intuitive manner that this was no friend and that he would never laugh and joke about what would happen next. He felt a sudden, sharp pang of grief for those he loved and an overwhelming sense of regret that merged neatly with the cold/hot tremor of agony that coursed down through his neck and body.
The body that had been Ragnar Ollesson slumped heavily to the icy ground, the blue eyes open and staring up at the stars, which were once more clearly visible. As he lay there, the life force slipping from his unfeeling body, he was glad that he could see them and he wondered to himself that perhaps the fear of pain and courage was far worse than the actual deed itself. Slowly, the stars dimmed and vanished.
6
Keri sat before the window in the darkened room, stroking the sleeping lupebeast and staring out into the dark night. The stars seemed much closer and brighter here. Sometimes it felt as though one could reach out and touch their cold, shimmering brilliance. Perhaps it was because they were different stars, shining down on a different world, so different from the stars she had wished upon as a child.
She smiled ruefully to herself at the thought of the naïve child she had been, such a very short time ago. Never would she have imagined, much less believed, that there were other worlds besides her own—many, many worlds with multitudes of races, all quite different from her own. In her naïveté she had believed her world and her people to be alone in the universe, and the goddess they worshiped to be the one true god. She sighed again, as much in sorrow at the loss of her world as at the loss of her own innocent beliefs. It had been a much simpler, safer life then. Knowledge was painful.
She felt a heavy weight rest gently on her shoulder, then squeeze it with compassion. She covered the hand with her own, feeling the rough coarse hair beneath her fingers, and smiled up into the darkness. “Your hand is cold. Have you been out?”
“Now, what would I be doing out in such weather?” Uba Mintch asked with a throaty chuckle. “This old man feels the chill of this world even indoors. No, I leave the roaming to Braldt and younger bloods.”
“You talk as though you are an ancient graybeard,” Keri chided with affection as she rose and crossed to the hearth, where a kettle of herb tea was brewing.
She poured two large mugs and moved to turn up the light until Uba Mintch stopped her with a motion of his hand. “Leave it, child, I find the firelight
soothing. Sometimes I can almost believe that I am home and convince myself that the baby will soon be tugging on my leg, demanding attention. Did I tell you that she was walking quite well before I left? Getting into everything, she was.…”
The sorrow was thick in the old Madrelli’s voice and he cleared his throat several times and looked away. Keri moved to his side and settled a heavy blanket around his shoulders, then stroked his head with the tips of her fingers. A heavy weight lay upon her heart, as well as a lump in her throat that refused to be swallowed. Tears sprung to her eyes as she tried resolutely to shut out the painful memory of her own family.
She knew all too well what Uba Mintch was feeling. She and Carn and his band of followers were all that remained of their people, the Duroni. Uba Mintch had fared less well, for no more than a dozen Madrelli had survived the death of their world.
Carn had been accepted with open arms by the king of Valhalla, for Carn was all too ready to believe that Otir Vaeng was some sort of deity. Nothing he had seen had convinced him otherwise, and nothing Keri or Braldt said swayed him from this conviction. Keri and Carn had never been exceptionally close, but now it was as though she were a stranger to him, perhaps even an enemy. Carn avoided her whenever possible and shut his ears to her words when she spoke.
He and Braldt had been raised as brothers, but Keri knew that while Braldt accepted the younger man and loved him as though they were born of the same flesh, Carn had always harbored a nagging jealousy and steadily growing bitterness. No matter what they undertook, whether it was sports or academics, hunting or merely partying, Braldt was always better than Carn, scoring the highest scores, bagging the best game, winning the most desirable women—it was always Braldt.
To make matters worse, Braldt never seemed to realize what the younger man was feeling. He gladly shared his game and his women and made light of his winning scores, never realizing that the ease with which he shed his prizes merely made the losing more bitter. Keri’s love for Braldt had only made matters worse, and now Carn included her in his hatred.