by J. V. Jones
The birches ended with such abruptness you could have snapped a chalk line on them. Stands of blue spruce faced off against the birches like an armed camp. A no-man’s-land of gray weeds, perhaps fifteen feet across, separated the two colonies of trees. Despite the unsavory look of the weeds both horses were tugging them from the snow. Ash’s gelding was so excited it didn’t actually swallow any, just let the stalks hang from its mouth as it trotted about looking for more. Even the snooty stallion was in high spirits, coming over to head-butt Ash before galloping down the strip of no-man’s-land as if it were a racecourse.
Ash grinned, delighted. She was out of breath and so hot in her lynx cloak she thought she might faint. Shucking it off, she ran into the middle of the no-man’s-land and collapsed into the snow. Her heat quickly melted the new snow and she could feel the back of her dress getting wet. She intended to get up but then the gelding wandered over and began lipping her face and the whole thing was so funny and . . . good . . . that she just lay there, kicked up her feet and laughed.
Footsteps crunched in the snow and then Lan Fallstar appeared in her line of view. He was carrying her cloak. “Take it,” he said, thrusting it toward her. “We must go.”
That had been four days ago. Traveling had been harder since then—the birch way was flat and had no hills, rocks, fallen logs or water to circumvent—but Ash had liked it a whole lot better. She loathed birches—and all trees that looked like them. She couldn’t think of any offhand but birches couldn’t be the only trees that grew as straight and slender as bars.
It had been good to see the purple, blue and silver of the pines. On the first day out she’d been driven giddy by their resinous scents. If she had been with Ark Veinsplitter and Mal Naysayer she doubted whether she could have stopped talking. There were so many questions to ask, so many unusual things to comment on. Why were the trees so big? What made the strange sideways tracks in the snow? Why were there halos around the sun and moon? What were those ruins in the distance?
As they’d ridden east, the sounds of snowmelt running and dripping had chimed through the forest. Day owls growled, and sometimes Ash would hear the low moans of big snow cats. So far they had not crossed paths with any other Sull, but Ash had seen signs of them: horse tracks, blazes, clearings, blood-streaked snow. When she spotted these things she felt a tightening in her gut. Here was where Sull lived and hunted. Yesterday she had seen a line of blue smoke on the southern horizon and she thought they might head toward it, but Lan had altered their course northeast.
Ash wished she had paid more attention to her foster father’s maps. She had only the most shadowy ideas about how the Racklands were laid out. Rumor had it that no outsiders knew the location of the Heart Fires, but her foster father’s maps had contained some details of coastlines, rivers and watchtowers. The deepwater gulf of the Innerway, where the Easterly Flow and the Great Shadow River emptied into the Night Sea, might not be far away, but she could not be sure. Once she and Lan had emerged from the birch way she imagined they would head south, if only for the reason that on her foster father’s onionskin maps the legend Here be where Sull are most fierce was always writ across the stretch of land that bordered the Stonefields of Trance Vor. The Stonefields were a long way south of the Flow; she knew that much.
Spying something ahead in the water, Ash worked her way closer to the shore. As she hiked along the bank, thin panes of ice underlain by gravel cracked beneath her boots. The air temperature was dropping and the lake had begun to steam. A few flakes of snow drifted in the air as she leaned over the water and looked within its depths. The ledge was deeply undercut here and some stray current had dragged piles of animal bones into the bowl-like depression. Skulls, mandibles, rib cages, pelvic girdles, scapulas and chunks of spine formed a boneyard beneath the water. Every one of them was a bright, livid green. Ash blinked. One of the skulls looked human.
Cutting away from the shore, she headed back to Lan Fallstar and the horses. The sense that she was no longer in territory claimed by Man created strange tensions in her chest. She had a feeling that if she were to look at anything closely here—animal tracks, snow, fallen logs—secrets would be revealed. This land was old. Its trees were old, and its lakes could turn bones green. Again she noticed the sideways tracks in the snow, odd disjointed curves that headed from the lake to the trees.
“What are those tracks over there?” she asked Lan Fallstar with some force as she returned. It was stupid to be here and not be able to ask basic questions.
The Far Rider had been sitting on the folded tent skins carrying out maintenance work on his arrows. He slid them into his hard-sided horn case as she approached. Although he could not see the tracks she meant, he said, “Moonsnakes feed here. They move in ways that minimize contact with the snow.”
His reply took wind from her. She had been spoiling for a fight, she realized, yet hardly knew why. Fine snow had begun to fall and she hugged her cloak to her chest and asked in a softer voice, “How big are they?”
“The females grow to thirty feet.” The Far Rider stood. “On full moons they form covens to hunt and feed.”
She was surprised by how easily Lan answered her questions. This was not normal, but she would use it. “And the lake? Why are the bones green?”
He shrugged. “This Sull does not know.”
“How far are we from the Heart Fires?”
Muscles in the Far Rider’s jaw contracted and the golden skin tightened across his cheeks. With a sharp tug he pulled up the tent canvas. “We ride on. The Heart Fires will burn until we come.”
Ash looked at the flattened rectangle of snow left behind by the canvas. She did not move as Lan packed the stallion and slung his glassy longbow across his shoulder.
“It is unsafe to travel this land alone,” he said, mounting. “You will not find other defenses as passive as the birch way.”
He never used her name. Not even when he slid his man sex into her at night and accepted her tongue into his mouth. He had done her no harm and had guided her safely through the birch way, but she did not know what to make of him. He changed moods too quickly. Only an hour ago he asked for a lock of her hair. Now he was either scaring or threatening her—she couldn’t tell which.
“All Far Riders must return to the Heart Fires.”
And there it was again, another change. His voice was stiff, but she realized he had spoken to soften his earlier words. She wished it wasn’t so confusing. How could he give her so much pleasure at night yet be so cold to her during the day?
She let the falling snow swirl and sparkle between them. After a while decided she had nothing further to say to him, and went to mount her horse.
It was growing late and the gray sky was slowly darkening to blue. The snow captured and held the light, glowing on the forest floor and along the spruce and cedar boughs. The stallion took the lead at canter and the gelding had to stretch itself to keep up. Lan Fallstar rode effortlessly, his back relaxed, his fingers light upon the reins. As he moved in the saddle, the longsword and bow slung crosswise across his back slapped together, beating time.
Ash was glad to be riding. Bending low against the gelding’s neck, she savored the warmth of horseflesh against her chest as she raced after the Far Rider. Her lynx fur flared out over the horse’s rump and her hair streamed behind her, heavy with melted snow.
She became aware of movement so gradually that it barely registered at first. In her mind it was something black and distant between the trees. As the snow began to ease it occurred to her that the blackness was on a path to intercept with her own. A muscle below her gut loosened. Shortening the reins, she sent her full awareness toward the thing that was closing in from the south.
And knew instantly it was maer dan. It sucked at her, like air dragged into a powerful fire. When she turned her eyes toward it she felt her lenses elongate.
“Lan,” she called. The Far Rider had not slowed his pace and was some distance ahead of her, easily navigating a pa
th between a giant spruce and a cedar that was growing around a felled stump like a squid on a rock. He did not hear her, so called again, louder. “Lan.” It felt strange saying his name.
The Far Rider turned and looked at her. Whatever he saw on her face was enough for him to bring the stallion to a banking halt. Clods of dirt and snow sprayed the trees. Lan’s eyes met hers and she was surprised to see a question in them. He was Sull. She had assumed somehow he would have known.
“Something is coming from the south,” she murmured, her wet hair sending icy trickles down her spine. “Maer dan.”
Shadowflesh. Lan continued to look at her, his pupils enlarging. She had a memory of Mal Naysayer drawing his sword at such a moment, his face hard and terrible, his eyes burning like the cold blue stars at the farthest edge of the sky. She recalled feeling . . . not safe exactly, but protected. If anything wanted to reach her it would have to get past the Naysayer, and his six-foot longsword, first.
Lan Fallstar reached for his bow. “Point,” he demanded, his voice terse. Light reflecting off the snow illuminated the hollows of his cheeks and the space under his jaw. With a fluid motion, he drew his first arrow. It had a hole drilled into its steel head, she noticed, but had no idea why.
Ash drew her own weapon, the sickle knife and weighted chain. “This way,” she cried, kicking the gelding into motion. She’d be damned if she was going to point.
The creature poured like liquid through the trees. It was accelerating, and she had the sense of powerful muscles bunching and unbunching. Something howled in a long single note that made the metal in her hand vibrate. Ash caught sight of a glistening flash of blackness plunging through shadows cast by the prehistoric pines. It was massive, and it had never been human. Not even close.
It moved on four limbs and it had thick shoulders and a small, frighteningly sleek head. She was reminded of hyenas and lammergeier—carrion feeders who plunged their entire heads into organ flesh. Its eyes were slits. Its clawed footpads ripped up the snow.
Ash made an uneasy adjustment to the reins, transferring them into one hand so she could be free to swing the chain. The gelding flicked back its ears but held its course. The creature was moving as fast as a big cat, its hip bone springing in a wavelike motion. Its howls hurt Ash’s ears. Carefully, as Ark had taught her, she raised the sickle knife above her head. The peridot weight bounced once against her buttocks before she whipped the chain into motion.
The creature was not heading toward her, she realized as the chain built up speed and began to whumpf. It was coming straight for Lan Fallstar. The Far Rider had followed her at a slower pace; she could hear the sound of his stallion blowing out air and the jingle of harness metal. Perhaps he was aiming the bow. She did not look round.
Squeezing the gelding with her thighs, she shifted her course. The chain was spinning so fast it had passed into invisibility. The peridots in the weight scribed a green circle in the air. As she judged distance and time, the creature closed in. Its elongated jaws sprang apart, revealing dense layers of inward slanting teeth.
Ash stood in the stirrups and yanked the weight forward. The beast leapt, its muscular hind legs propelling its body like springs. Shocked by its speed, she realized her shot had fallen short. Hot pain coursed along her shoulder as the weight reached the end of its tether with momentum to spare. It snapped with a crack. The chain crumpled in the middle as the weight shot back toward her. Ash flicked her wrist with force, sending tension back into the chain and throwing the weight wide of herself and her horse. As she did this she was aware of a series of soft retorts.
Thuc. Thuc. Thuc.
Three arrows were loosed in quick succession. The creature dropped as soon as the first one hit, collapsing into the snow with a dull thud. Its flesh began to hiss as the other two arrows struck the big ridge of muscle on its shoulder. The creature rippled. The outline of its body softened, as if it were somehow losing its form. Air crackled like a sheet of breaking ice. Ash breathed it in and wished she hadn’t. It was empty of whatever her lungs required for fuel.
A soft hiss escaped from the creature’s gut. All was still for a moment, and then shadow discharged from its carcass in an explosive rolling ring. The shock wave blasted Ash’s face and riffled through the fur on her cloak. It was cold in different ways than the snow, coating her skin with the substance of another world. Even as she struggled to make sense of it, the substance smoked away to nothing, tingling as it ceased to exist. It smelled like the thin air-starved atmosphere at the top of mountains.
Shivering, she turned her horse. Lan Fallstar stood on his stallion’s stirrups, resting his eared longbow. His chest was pumping rapidly. He had a fourth arrow ready and unused in his hand. He sat back in the saddle as Ash looked on and scooped up the reins from his horse’s neck. Slinging the bow over his shoulder, he said to her, “It was foolish to get so close.” His voice was low and loose, and she was glad to hear the fear in it. It made her like him better.
“It was a good shot. The first one. Must have been a heart-kill.”
His eyes went blank for the briefest moment before he nodded. “This Sull had a good arrow.”
Ash smiled at his modesty. She had traveled with Raif Sevrance: she knew all about the cost and difficulty of heart kills. “Come,” she said, drawing abreast of him. “Let’s make camp away from this place.”
Lan Fallstar returned the unused arrow to its case, and actually allowed Ash to take the lead. The gelding was panting and a bit scuddy around the neck so she spoke soft words to him and set an easy pace. She did not look back at the blasted remains of the creature in the snow.
As soon as they found a place away from the carcass, they set up camp. Ash picked a clearing between the cedars—the towering spruces made her feel too small. She brushed down both horses while Lan built a fire and prepared food. The stallion held itself perfectly still as she combed through its long silky tail. When she was done it delighted her by presenting its right foreleg for inspection. She checked and discovered part of a pine cone wedged under its nail. Using her letting knife, she winkled it out.
When she raised her head, she found Lan Fallstar staring at her through the flames. She smiled, and although he did not smile back she imagined she saw a softening in his face. His skin was deeply golden in the firelight.
He had pitched the wolfskin tent. The sight of it made heat come to Ash’s face. Water spilled from her cup as she drank. Fear had left her muscles and tendons humming. As she ate her simple meal of cured horse meat and wafers, she tried to calm herself. She’d felt better with the horses, she realized. Less jumpy.
Lan had heart-killed a creature that had forced its way out of the Blind, and somehow that meant she had misjudged him. It seemed more believable now that he was what he claimed: a Far Rider. Why had she doubted him when he drew the bow? What did she know about Sull and all the ways they had of fighting the Unmade? Mal Naysayer was a giant, solid as a block of granite and terrifying in battle, but she doubted that even he could have disposed of the carrion feeder more efficiently than Lan Fallstar. One arrow, shot at distance. She would not have been able to bring down the creature herself. It was too fast and strong to be held by a chain. It would have dragged her from the back of her horse. A Reach did not have physical power, it seemed. She could track the creatures of the Blind, but not much else.
Briefly she looked north and wondered where the Naysayer rested this night. She would have liked to talk to him just then.
Ash held her hands over the fire, letting its heat warm her palms. The cedar logs were riddled with pitch holes and the flames turned ameythst as they burned. Snow had stopped falling but ice crystals moved through the air like pollen. Lan Fallstar reached out and took Ash’s hands in his. “Come.”
He led her to the wolfskin tent where he had already laid out blankets and furs in a single pile. Light came from the fire; muted reds and golds that flickered on Ash’s skin. She stepped out of her cloak, unbuckled her belt, and pulled her
dress over her head. She could smell her sweat, salty and darkly sweet. Her stomach felt hollow and when Lan touched it muscles quivered. His hand pushed under her breast, forcing it out so he could close his mouth around the small hard nipple. His other hand slid between her legs. Ash gasped. Losing her footing she stumbled backward and Lan grabbed her hips and guided her down to the floor. As she lay on the furs he pulled off her boots. He was naked and his sex stood out from his body. When he had removed both her boots he lowered his head between her thighs and kissed her sex. Ash tensed, surprised. Slowly she relaxed as warm liquid heat rolled over belly and thighs. His tongue slid back and forth, wet and soft. Soon the gentle pressure was no longer enough and she pushed herself against Lan’s face. His tongue stiffened in response. She could hardly believing anything could feel this good.
She wondered why she kept seeing the shadow beast tearing between the trees. Lan’s tongue was moving along folds of tender skin and she stopped breathing as its rhythm grew more insistent. A single arrow to the heart. Such a small, compact head and it had stopped something larger and more densely muscled than a horse.
Ash grabbed at the furs as his tongue entered her. Urgent pressure built in her belly. She did not want him to stop.
Do not wake, the voice called from the darkness.
As muscles contracted in her thighs and stomach, she realized she had not seen the first arrow go in.
THIRTY-THREE
The Field of Graves and Swords
Vaylo Bludd rode his borrowed horse north to the Field of Graves and Swords. Mogo Salt, second son of Cawdo, and Hammie Faa were behind him. The wind was up and ragging, pushing high and low clouds across the sky. An overnight frost had crisped the receding snow and it cracked pleasingly when punctured. Vaylo’s horse was a fiery stallion, jet black, with a long, sculpted head. When he dug in his heels and loosened the reins, the animal raced up the valley slope at full gallop.