“Mince!” He heard Elbright and felt hands shaking him. “He’s over here! The little idiot fell asleep on the ice. Wake up, you fool!”
“What’s he doing way up here? I found the bucket a half mile back.” Kine’s voice was more distant and out of breath.
“It’s almost dark. We need to get him back. I’ll carry him. You run ahead and tell Renwick to get a fire started.”
“You know what he’ll say.”
“I don’t care! If we don’t get him warm, he’ll die.”
There were the sounds of feet on snow, sounds of urgency and fear, but Mince did not care. He was warm and safe and still remembered the music lingering in his head, calling to him.
When Kine returned to camp, only Brand was there—Brand the Bold, as he liked to call himself. It was a bold boast for a kid of thirteen, but no one questioned it. Brand had survived a knife fight, and that was more than any of them could claim.
“We need to get a fire started,” Kine said, returning to the Hovel. “We found Mince and he’s near dead with cold.”
“I’ll get kindling,” Brand replied, and ran out into the snow.
Kine got the tinderbox from the supplies they had not touched and cleared a space near the front of the shelter. Brand was back in minutes with a sheet of birch bark, a handful of brown grass, tiny dry twigs, and even a bit of rabbit fur. He dropped the treasures off and set back out. As he did, Kine spotted Elbright carrying Mince on his back. The boy’s head rolled with each step. It reminded him of how deer looked when hunters brought them in.
Elbright said, “Make a bed, put down lots of needle branches—pile them up—we want to keep him off the snow.”
Kine nodded and ran out of the shelter past the horses—two more were lying down. He entered a grove of spruce trees, where he tore the branches from the trunks, getting his mittens sticky from the sap. He made four trips, and when he finished, Mince had a thick bed to lie on.
Elbright had a small, delicate flame alive on the birch sheet. His mittens were on the snow beside him. His bare fingers were red, and he frequently breathed on them or slapped his thigh as he squatted in the snow. “Fingers go numb in seconds.”
“What are you doing?” Renwick said, coming up the slope from the south.
When Mince had not returned after going for water, they all went searching in different directions. Renwick took the southern riverbank and returned only now that the sky was darkening and the temperature plummeted.
Although he was also an orphan, Renwick was not one of their gang. He lived at the palace, where his father used to be a servant. While really no more than a page, the boy had served as squire to Sir Hadrian during Wintertide. All the boys were impressed by Hadrian’s spectacular success during the games and this admiration spilled over to Renwick. The boy was also older—perhaps a year or two Elbright’s senior. Unlike those of the rest, Renwick’s clothes fit him properly and even matched in color.
“We have to get a fire going,” Elbright told him even as he fed the tongues of flame little sticks. “We found Mince on the ice. He’s freezing to death.”
“We can’t build a fire. Hadrian—”
“Do you want him to die?”
Renwick looked at the growing fire and the tendrils of white smoke snaking from it, then at Mince lying on the spruce bed. Kine could see the debate going on inside him.
“He’s my best friend,” Kine told him. “Please.”
Renwick nodded. “It’s getting dark. The smoke won’t be visible, but we need to contain the light as much as we can. Let’s bank the snow walls higher. Damn, it is cold.”
Brand returned with more wood, larger branches and even a few broken logs. His cheeks and nose were red and ice crystals formed around his nose and mouth.
“You need to keep him awake,” Elbright told him as he tended the fire as if it were a living thing. “If he stays asleep, he’ll die.”
Kine shook Mince and even slapped him across the face, but the boy did not seem to notice. Meanwhile, Renwick and Brand boosted the windbreak wall, which not only contained the light, but also reflected the heat. Elbright coaxed the fire, cooing to it like it was a child he had brought into the world. “Com’on, baby, eat that branch. Eat it, that’s right, there you go. Tastes good, doesn’t it? Eat all of it. It will make you strong.”
Elbright’s baby became a full-grown fire and soon the frigid cold fell back. It was the first time in days any of them had known real warmth. Kine’s feet and fingers began to ache and his cheeks and the tip of his nose burned as he thawed out.
Beyond the mouth of their snow cave, darkness fell, made deeper by the bright light of the fire. Renwick grabbed a pot from the supplies, filled it with snow, and set it near the fire to melt. Elbright refused to let him put it on his fire. They sat in silence, listening to the friendly sound of the flames.
Soon the shelter was warm enough that Elbright took off his hat and even his cloak. The rest of them followed his lead, with Kine laying his over Mince.
“Can we eat now?” Brand asked.
Renwick had established a firm rule that they ration their food and they all ate together to make certain no one had more than his share. Like the cups of water, they kept their meals inside their shirts, up against their skin, since it was the only way to keep the food from freezing solid.
“I suppose,” Renwick said passively, but looked just as hungry as any of them.
Brand pulled out his stick of salt pork and set it near the fire. “I’m having a hot meal tonight.”
The rest of them mimicked him, and before long, the smell of hot meat filled the cave. They all waited to see how long Brand could hold out. It was not long and soon everyone was ripping into the pork and making exaggerated smacks of ecstasy.
In the midst of their revelry, Mince sat up.
“Supper?”
“You’re alive!” Kine exclaimed.
“You’re not eating my share, are you?”
“We should!” Elbright yelled at him. “You little idiot. Why did you decide to take a nap on the ice?”
“I fell asleep?” Mince asked, surprised.
“You don’t remember?” Kine asked. “We found you curled up on the river, snoring.”
“You should thank Maribor for your life,” Elbright added. “And what were you doing so far north?”
“I was watching the elves.”
“Elves?” Renwick asked. “What elves?”
“I saw the elven army crossing the river, a whole line of them.”
“There were no elves,” Elbright declared. “You dreamed it.”
“No, I saw them on horseback, and they played this beautiful music. I started listening and—”
“And what?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, you fell asleep is what,” Elbright told him. “And if I hadn’t heard you snoring, you’d be dead by now.”
“He would, wouldn’t he?” Renwick muttered, looking out at the dark. “The elves—you said they were all on horseback? None on foot? How about wagons?”
“No, no wagons, just elves on horses, beautiful horses.”
“What is it?” Elbright asked.
“He didn’t see the elven army.”
“I know that,” Elbright replied with a chuckle. “It was a dream.”
“No—no, it wasn’t,” Renwick corrected. “He saw elves, but it wasn’t the army. It was only the vanguard—the advance patrol. I heard the knights talking—the elven army travels at night, but hardly anyone has ever seen them and no one knows why, but I think I do—I do now.”
They all looked at Mince.
“He’d be dead,” Elbright said, nodding. “But that means the army is—It’s night!”
They all looked at the fire, which had melted down a half foot into the snow so that it burned in its own little well. Elbright was the one who kicked it out. It made a dying hiss as the snow swallowed the flames. They all worked to bury the embers until it was a small mound of dir
ty brown with sticks and grass sticking out.
No one said a word as they felt around in the faint light for their cloaks and mittens. Silence hung in the air. Since it was winter, they did not expect the sounds of birds or frogs, but now not even the wind breathed. The constant rustle of naked branches was absent, as were the random cracks and snaps.
They poked their heads out of the cave, lifting them attentively above the blind and around the bundle of pine boughs. They could not see anything.
“They’re out there,” Renwick whispered. “They are crossing the frozen river and sneaking up on Aquesta from the south. We have to warn them.”
“You want us to go out there?” Elbright asked incredulously. “Where they are?”
“We have to try.”
“I thought we had to stay here and watch the horses.”
“We do, but we also have to warn the city. I’ll go. The rest of you stay here. Elbright, you’ll be in charge. You can explain to Hadrian why I left.” As he spoke, he moved to the gear and began picking supplies. “Keep the fire out. Stay inside and…” He paused a moment, then said, “Cover your ears if you hear any music.”
No one said a word as he slipped out. They all watched as he inched nervously to the horses. He picked the one closest to the middle of the bunch and saddled it. When he was gone, all that remained was the deep silence of a cold winter’s night.
CHAPTER 17
THE GRAND MAR
The party had stopped again. Since they’d left the library, their progress through the ancient city had been tedious, as Royce was pausing frequently. Sometimes he forced them to wait for what felt like hours as he scouted ahead—the rest of them sitting among the rubble. This time, he had left them in the middle of what appeared to be an alley with tall buildings towering on either side. Arista sighed and leaned against one wall. Someone ahead of her had stepped on a piece of fabric, the boot print revealing the faded colors of blue and green. She bent down and picked a small flag from under a thick coating of dust and dirt. This one was a handheld version, the sort people waved at celebrations. Looking up, she spotted a window, and hanging from that was an old and faded banner that read FESTIVIOUS FOUNDEREIONUS!
“What does that say?” she asked Myron, but she was certain she already knew.
“ ‘Happy Founder’s Day,’ ” the monk replied.
Next to where she found the flag, she noticed a small object. Reaching out, she found a copper pin in the shape of the letter P. Now more than ever she wished she could remember the dream from the night before, but the more she tried to recall, the more it slipped away.
Royce returned, waving them forward, and then he led them in a circle back to the boulevard. Here they began to see skeletons. They were in groups of twos and threes, lying crumpled to the ground as if they had died right where they stood. The only way to tell how many there were was by the number of skulls in the piles. As they progressed, the bone count increased. Skeletons lined either side of the road with skull counts of ten deep.
They entered a small square, a portion of which was flooded where the ground was cracked and sank away at a dramatic angle. The same green light that illuminated the sea lit the square and revealed a raised platform on which was a great statue of a man. He stood twenty feet tall, with a strong, youthful physique. A sword was in his right hand and a staff in the other. Arista had seen similar statues several times throughout the city and in each case the head was missing, broken at the neck and shattered.
Royce stopped again.
“Any idea if we are getting close to the palace?” he asked, looking at Myron.
“I only know that it is near the center,” the monk replied.
“The palace is at the end of the Grand Mar,” Arista told them. “That’s what they used to call the boulevard we’re on now. So it is just up ahead.”
“The Grand Mar?” Myron said, more to himself than to her, and then nodded. “The Marchway.”
“What are you babbling about?” Alric asked.
“There was said to be a great avenue in Percepliquis called the Grand Imperial Marchway, so called as it was often the site of parades. Ancient descriptions declared it to have been wide enough for twelve soldiers to walk abreast and that it was made up of two lanes divided by a row of trees. Imperial troops would march down the right side to the palace, where the emperor would review them from his balcony, and then they would return down the other side.”
“They were fruit trees,” Arista said. “The trees that grew in the center of the Grand Mar—fruit trees that blossomed in spring. They used to make a fermented drink from the blossoms called… Trembles.”
“How do you know that?” Myron asked.
She looked at him and pretended to be surprised. “I’m a wizardess.”
They paused to have a short meal on the steps of an impressive building off the main boulevard. Stone lions, similar to those that guarded the entrance to the city, sat on either side. A fountain stood in the street at the center of an intersection. The water no longer sprayed and the pool was filled with a black liquid.
“What books have you got there?” Alric asked, seeing Myron sift through his pack and pull out one of the five that Bulard had saved.
“This one is called The Forgotten Race by Dubrion Ash. It deals mostly with the history of the dwarves.”
“What’s that now?” Magnus asked, leaning over to look closer at the pages.
“According to this, mankind is actually native to Calis—isn’t that interesting? And dwarves started in what we know as Delgos. The elves of course are from Erivan, but they quickly occupied Avryn.”
“What about the Ghazel?” Hadrian asked.
“Funny you should ask,” he said, flipping back several pages. “I was just reading about that too. You see, men appeared in Calis during the Urintanyth un Dorin and would have—”
“Huh?” Mauvin asked.
“It means the Great Struggle with the Children of Drome. You see, the dwarves warred with the elves for centuries, nearly six hundred years, in fact, until the fall of Drumindor in 1705—that’s pre-imperial reckoning, of course—about two thousand years before Novron built this city. The dwarves went underground after that. As it turns out, the early human tribes would have failed—perished—if not for the contact they had with the exiled dwarves who traded with them.”
“Aha!” the dwarf said. “And how do they treat us for our kindness now? Ghettos, refusals of citizenship, bans on dwarven guilds, special taxes, persecution—it’s a sad reward.”
“Quiet!” Royce suddenly told everyone, and stood up. He looked left and then right. “Get ready to move,” he said, and leaving the lantern, he climbed down the steps, heading back the way they had come.
“You heard him,” Hadrian said.
“But we just sat down,” Alric complained.
“If Royce says get ready to move, and he has that look on his face, you do what he says if you want to live.”
They gathered their belongings back into their bags. Arista took one more mouthful of salt pork and a swallow of water before stashing the rest in her pack. She was just pulling the straps over her shoulders when Royce reappeared.
“We’re being tracked,” he told them in a whisper.
“How many?” Hadrian asked.
“Five.”
“A hunting party.” Hadrian drew his swords. “Everyone get moving. Royce and I will catch up.”
“But they’re just five,” Arista protested. “Can’t we avoid them?”
“It’s not the five I am worried about,” Hadrian told her. “Now go. Just keep moving up the avenue.”
He and Royce moved back down the road at a trot. She watched them go as a sinking feeling pulled at her stomach. Alric led them forward at a run, past the fountain and on up the Grand Mar.
This part of the city was familiar to her. This road, these buildings—she had seen them before. Gone were the brilliant white alabaster walls and brightly painted doors. Now they were din
gy and brown, cracked, fractured, chipped, and like everything else, covered in a layer of dirt. As in the rest of the city, the columned halls stood on misaligned stones.
Alric led them around a massive fallen statue whose head had severed at its neck and lay on its side, its features bashed and broken. They then leapt a fallen column, and as soon as she cleared it, Arista stopped. She knew this pillar; it was the Column of Destone. She turned left and saw the narrow road Ebonydale. That was the way Esrahaddon had gone to meet Jerish and Nevrik. She looked forward down the Mar. She should be able to see the dome, but it was not there. Ahead was only rubble.
“Arista!” She heard Alric calling to her and she ran once more.
Royce and Hadrian paused near the headless statue, where the algae in the water cast an eerie green radiance to the underside of all things. Royce motioned with two spread fingers that a pair were coming up one side of the street and two on the other. While the two pairs were mere shadows to Hadrian, the fifth was quite visible as he loped up the center of the boulevard like an ape hunched over and traveling on three limbs. His massive claws clicked intentionally on the stone as signals to the others. Every few feet he would pause, raise his head, and sniff the air with his hooked, ring-pierced nose. He wore a headdress made from the blackened fin of a tiger shark, a mark of his station—a token he would have obtained alone in the sea with no more than his claws. He was the chief warrior of the hunting party—the largest and meanest—and the others looked to him for direction. They all carried the traditional sachel blades—curved scimitars, narrow at the hilt and wider at the tip, where a half-moon scoop formed a double-edged point. Like all Ghazel, he also carried a small trilon bow with a quiver slung over one shoulder.
Heir Of Novron: The Riyria Revelations Page 56