I SHALL RETURN WITH WINTER
Page 12
Suddenly, something large appeared on the water in front of them. A swan the size of their boat and blacker than the murky depths materialised.
“Ethra…” Ortho murmured, his face pale and his lip trembling.
It drifted, silent as a ghostly galleon. It looked down on them with hard, red eyes; its glossy down glimmered in the luminous mist. Then it flapped its great wings, pushing the boat backwards with solid waves of air. Four feathers came loose, spiralled down and floated upon the jostling water. It turned, and just as quickly as it had arrived, it departed.
“Quick, the feathers!” Grinchell barked. They shook themselves from their trances and leant over to scoop up the long plumes.
By the time they sat back on the bench, Rak was gone.
They cried out his name and desperately scanned the featureless waters of the lake. A solitary pike circled the boat, then returned to hunt in the reeds.
17
QUEST FOR THE GIANT’S BANE
Oben felt Rak's absence with every sodden step back to Threlwich. It was dawn, snowing, miserable. Blin stared at the ground in front of her. Ortho looked at every frozen stone and shrub as if he would scoop them up and inhale their earthy majesty. Gadziel, Lief and Tre rode out on a pack sled to meet them. Tre greeted Grinchell with a slap on the back and a full skin of wine. Oben very nearly asked for some, but the blond Taliskan who had trained him in Eisalhelm had shunned him since Mako’s death.
Grinchell rode the rest of the way back with his cousin, Oben struggled to keep up. His limbs were stiff, and his missing toe ached. He repeated Fara’s name, over and over in his head, just in case he ever made it back. But having found no body, it was difficult to accept that Rak was truly gone. He craned his neck as they arrived at Threlwich, half expecting to catch a glimpse of the Taliskan’s red hair. But if he did live, then Threlwich would be the last place he would go, and after a while Oben stopped looking.
* * *
Griz met them and led them directly to the main lodge. Gulmorgon waited on the dais, Kavark standing by her side.
“You’ve done well, southerner… Oben.” she said. “Now, you have my attention,” She looked them over, her gaze lingering on Grinchell. “I notice you are short one, which tells us we read the auguries correctly. Kavark, take the feathers. Do your part.”
“At once.” the blind seer hissed from beneath his cowl. He accepted the four black quills from Grinchell and shuffled to a lectern in a candle lit alcove between two of the carved pillars.
Oben scowled up at Gulmorgon.
Heartless bitch. She didn’t give a shit about Rak.
“Sit,” she instructed, gesturing to a bench before the dais which had not been there on the previous visit. “Drink with me. I’d hear of your journey.”
Griz, ever-efficient, handed out the cups. Blin finished hers before Oben had taken a sip, and held it out for more.
They spoke of the pike, of the visions, of the Swan, though words did them no justice. It felt surreal to speak of it now, in the warmth of the lodge’s long firepit. Unpleasant as it was to recall the events, Oben found the wine helped. Oben told them that he had seen a man with his own face hanging from a gallows, a punishment only dished out in Edale. Did that mean he would make it home? That he would be hanged by his own people? Impossible. Not after all he had endured to protect them. It must be a mistake. Just like the prophecy, it was open to interpretation.
Ortho spoke of a cage and of a great stair, but said it made little sense and did not seem overly concerned. Grinchell muttered something about a battle or a fight, but was sparse on details; and Blin said she would die of thirst, and then waggled her empty cup in Griz’s annoyed face.
* * *
When they were done telling Gulmorgon of their journey, she walked over to a window and spoke with her back to them, her golden braids shimmering in the firelight.
“You mourn your companion, but you should not. Save your energy for what is still to come. There is something you should know that may assuage your grief. An interpretation that is consistent in all studies of the writings.” She turned and looked them over, one by one. “All of you will die, before the end. It is only a matter of order.”
Oben exchanged glances with his companions, and for once even Blin did not react. Gulmorgon looked at Grinchell, but the big man looked down into his cup. Who knew what was going through his head? To have his affection unrequited was one thing, to be doomed by that same hand, another. Oben almost felt for the man. Almost.
Blin and Ortho were likely revisiting the vision they had seen on the river, just as he was. Thinking how they might change it.
“It is as feared,” Kavark said, returning from the lectern. Oben had forgotten the man was even there.
“To the point, seer,” Gulmorgon said.
“If the Conduit is to fulfil his role, his greatest task lies ahead, for we are all at risk. I have seen a great battle: Threlwich in flames, blood and bones, sticks in splinters.”
“You mean Kai?” Gulmorgon asked.
“The very same. He comes for the Conduit.”
Gulmorgon nodded. “It was only a matter of time before we had to deal with him. We cannot take the South whilst dissent lingers in Skaligar. Let him come.”
“It’s not that simple.” Kavark said.
“The Tanda are numerous, but even they cannot hope to defeat us in Threlwich. They’ll break on the fortifications.”
“He does not come alone, my lady.” Kavark hesitated.
Gulmorgon sighed. “Say what you must say, Kavark. The disciples have proven they can be trusted so far.”
“As you wish.” Kavark said, but still sounded reluctant. “Kai has enlisted powerful foes to fight besides him. Giants from Tretheim.”
Giants! Oben might have laughed had not the very foundation of his scepticism been shaken since he'd entered Skaligar. He felt his stomach tighten at the word.
Gulmorgon asked: “What must be done?”
“The Conduit must seek Gillad’s horn.”
“The Giant’s Bane?” Gulmorgon asked, and for the first time Oben noted something human beneath her façade. Something of awe.
“Forgive me,” Grinchell said, shifting his bulk on the bench. “But the horn was lost.”
Gulmorgon looked at Oben.
“And shall be found.”
Oben suddenly wished he had more wine in his cup.
“What horn?”
“It’s a stupid legend,” Blin said. “I suggest we get out of Threlwich before the giants get here.”
Kavark spoke as if he had not heard her.
“Gillad carried it with him to Skaligar, some three centuries past. Accounts tell of Gillad’s journey to a cavern at the foot of Skarvor. He never returned.”
“Never heard of the place,” Blin said.
Kavark turned his blind eyes on her. “It’s some weeks north of here.”
“Weeks?” Ortho snapped.
“How much time do we have?” Gulmorgon asked.
“The vision was vague but I noted the position of Ythgid in the heavens. I’d say we have one moon at most.”
“Then they must leave at once.”
“And if we refuse?” Blin said.
“You’ve already seen your fate. Do you wish to cut ahead here, Tanda, in my hall?”
Blin smirked and drained her wine.
Oben looked into the firepit and thought of Rak. He wondered how the big man might have reacted. He had been the counterpoint between Blin’s snarky defiance and Ortho’s constant complaining. Gulmorgon’s earlier words not to grieve began to make sense. Rak might have gotten off lightly.
“You’ll have resources,” Gulmorgon said. “Go, sleep, eat, wash. In two hours there will be a sled prepared. You’ll have eight dogs and eight men. It’s all I can spare, in case you don’t make it back.”
* * *
Oben had time to dunk his head in a barrel of cold water and get some heavier furs. He ate a large breakfast of fish
stew, and even managed to get another cup of wine. By noon they were back in front of the lodge. As promised, sled, dogs and men awaited.
Gulmorgon reminded them of the gravity of their quest, then stood back and watched as they passed through the northern gate. One guide walked ahead of the pack sled, eleven men walked behind it. When Oben had heard about the sled, he had hoped he would be on it, but it was loaded now with food and furs.
* * *
They rode through snow and fog, over ice and rocks and, at one stretch, over a vast frozen lake. They camped at night wrapped in their furs in threadbare tents.
Keleb was their guide and walked ahead. A mysterious man, not only because he was shrouded in the snowy distance for most of the days, but at night when they rested, he was sullen; his beard and bushy brows gave him a bear-like appearance in those fire-flickering moments when his hood was down.
Behind the sled and dogs were the brothers Joren and Fenra: big, blond men, with gap-toothed grins, ruddy cheeks and loud voices. If they were not twins, then they were as good as. When they made camp, Joren was the first to break into song, while Fenra tended the fire and cooked.
Next was the dogtender, Lorr, squat for a Taliskan, he was almost of a height with Oben. His muscles made up for this. He had one eye that stared off in another direction, which Oben learned had resulted from a blow to the head from his wife. He was normally the first lookout of the night, since it was joked he could cover two directions at once.
Usually walking behind Lorr, was the principal hunter of the group, Niflin. She was the only other woman besides Blin, though there was no solidarity between them. She was a crack shot with the bow, her hair was redder than Rak’s had been. The men flirted with her the first night, until she told Joren that if his hand strayed again, she’d cut his dick off in his sleep and throw it to the dogs. No one messed with her after that. When there was nothing big to shoot at, and the snow allowed, she’d shoot crows and take wagers.
The next in the meandering line was normally Ulg, an ogre of a man with no teeth and a vicious scar that cut through his thick beard. He seemed to be along for numbers. He rarely spoke, and nobody asked him to. No one looked to him for song or story.
Behind Ulg, trudged the doomed.
Grinchell, even though he was not Ixna, still held the highest rank among them. He sat and ate with Joren and Fenra and shunned Oben and his companions. He snapped at them when they annoyed him, he growled at them when they slowed. He grew more cantankerous with each day. But he had their backs. For now. On the third night Lorr had kicked Oben when he had reached for a second piece of meat.
“Fucking touch him again and we’ll be eating you.” Grinchell had warned the squat dogtender. No one had so much as looked at Oben wrong since. The Kazra was a good man to have on your side, Oben concluded. They still barely spoke to one another, but Oben felt safer with him around. Grinchell began to show his tenacity and just why he was a clan chief. When he spoke, others listened. When he gave an order, it was done. He was the last up at night and the first awake at dawn. Sometimes when the snow clung so thickly to his furs he looked like an ice giant himself, shambling through the blizzard.
Ortho continued to moan and fret, and Blin was still outspoken and sarcastic. Oben was a stupid bloody farmer, who should have listened to his wife and stayed at home. He limped along, glad he had the sled tracks to walk in.
Making up the rear-guard of the line, walked the bickering cousins, red-headed Reji and foul-mouthed Magfor. They could not agree on a thing, from who got the most smoke in their eyes from the fire to if the snow was going to blow sideways from the east or sideways from the west—at least they could agree it was going to blow sideways. Had done since they had left.
* * *
On the fifth night out from Threlwich, the first of their party died. The wind and snow were particularly violent, and the company's spirits at a nadir. They camped just off the trail in a stand of tall pine trees, where the trickle of a stream could be heard buried beneath the snow.
“Another song, Joren!” his brother called from the spit, turning the deer Niflin had shot through the heart.
“Hang on. Need a piss.” Joren said. Setting down his lute.
“You got a smaller bladder than the dogs.” Lorr said.
“And you’ve got a smaller dick.” Magfor said, never missing an opportunity.
“Been looking, have you?” Lorr said, winking.
“His eyesight ain’t that good.” Blin said. She had no trouble mixing in, even if she was a Tanda.
They laughed again, and Fenra began to pass out the food.
The bard staggered off to empty his bladder and did not come back. Sometime later his brother remarked on his absence. Grudgingly they took torches and searched the surrounding trees. Nothing. It was a long miserable night after that.
In the morning they found Joren’s corpse in a ditch not far from camp, frozen with his bearskin leggings around his ankles. He’d slipped mid-piss and broken his neck in the fall. The wine had done for him, it was decided. At least he had died drunk. Fenra wept at his brother’s passing, tears froze on his lashes as he walked.
* * *
On the seventh night, Ortho had offered to play the lute. Oben was surprised; apart from his impressive capacity to complain he had not known the handsome Deyma possessed any other talents. He had been sent to the Shriving for cuckholding a clan chief, however, so being a bard kind of made sense.
Fenra, still grieving, took offence.
“Nobody touches Joren’s lute, but me, got it!”
“Oh, cheer the fuck up.” Magfor said, “you’ve been a miserable bastard these last days. Let us have some music.”
“My brother’s dead!”
“Yeah, shame it was the wrong brother that fell.”
Fenra dropped the meat he had been cooking to the muddy snow.
“You ungrateful piece of shit!”
He lunged for Magfor, who jumped back and drew his axe.
“Stop!” Grinchell boomed. Everyone turned to the huge Kazra who was on his feet his own axe drawn. “If your weapons aren’t away in the next five seconds, you’ll both have to fight me first.” Magfor and Fenra eyed each other and then looked at Grinchell. They both decided to put their weapons away. Oben realised he had been holding his breath. Grinchell nodded, satisfied. When they were eating, he kicked Ortho’s leg.
“Well, whatcha waiting for. You gonna play something, or not?”
* * *
The next day the incident was not mentioned, but when they slowed for Lorr to fix a rope on the sled, they noticed Fenra was gone. They had to backtrack almost a mile before they found the spot he had thrown himself from the cliff. His blood was already frozen on the white snow some fifty feet below, and his brother’s lute lay broken next to him.
* * *
After that, things got even worse.
On the eleventh day while crossing a featureless plane, they came across a great bear and her cubs. Ulg was foolish enough to take her on instead of walking away silently like the rest of them. The bear gashed his stomach with its massive claw. Ulg didn’t have the good grace to die right away, but lingered on into the night, trembling and holding his entrails in his gut. Come dawn, they left him, and soon he was just another unremarkable snowy mound in the endless white landscape.
* * *
The steppe began to slope upwards, the trail became more difficult, the trees sparser, the wind colder and jagged rocky outcrops more frequent. The only respite came because there were fewer of them now; fewer tents and packs. They were each permitted stints sitting on the sled. Oben may have got marginally more time than some of the others due to his missing toe and slower pace, but he still groaned when they slowed and told him it was time to get off.
They spotted a herd of mammoths on a rocky incline in the distance and slowed to marvel at the loping creatures.
“They won’t attack, will they?” Oben asked Ortho and Blin who walked with him.
* * *
By the end of the fifteenth day it was clear they were halfway up some sort of mountain. A sheer cliff rose on one side of the narrow trail. Niflin shot at something that clung to the rocks above them, and it fell, tumbling, bringing down ice and rocks with it. She raised her hand for the others to stay back. The noise increased, the trail shook.
“Shit!” she cried and disappeared in a thunder of white. They searched for her most of the afternoon and found nothing but her boot, and a goat with a snapped arrow through its eye. It had been a good shot. They strapped it to the sled and continued.
* * *
The remainder of the company began to despair. The idea that they were cursed began to dominate every conversation. Kelab, Lorr, Reji and Magfor began to blame Oben and his companions. They sat on the opposite side of the fire and talked in hushed, voices. Even Grinchell was not welcome. The division felt sinister and Oben became convinced they were making plans to kill them and return home.
On the eighteenth day, when they stopped for a lunch of leftovers, Oben nipped off the trail to relieve himself behind a rock. He was finishing when he heard a scrape behind him. He turned to see Keleb approaching. They’d never really spoken, and Oben just nodded politely as he adjusted his trousers. But something about Keleb’s face made him wary, and suddenly the man’s hands shot out and grabbed him around the neck.
“Wait!” Oben managed, before his air was cut off. He kicked at the guide’s shins. His axe was on his back, but he couldn’t bring his arms up past Keleb’s thick wrists.
“Die.” Keleb grunted, his face red with the effort. “Then we go home.”