At the thought of his young scribe, Gnochi shot to his feet, causing Ren to slump to the ground. He woke with a start and threw an accusatory glance at the bard, who mouthed, ‘Sorry.’
Outside the igloo, Gnochi saw why everyone was moving about in good spirits. The blizzard had all but stopped. Only the ever-present winteryear flurries remained falling. The wind, likewise, had died down. As he stretched the sleep from his limbs, he saw a few of the guards climbing to the riverbank and pointing. He followed suit.
“What’s got everyone in a tizzy?” Ren asked as he exited with sleep still plain on his face.
Gnochi motioned for Ren to follow up, then offered his hand to help pull him over the edge. The pair then glanced in the direction that the guards were pointing. There, not five miles away, was the edge of the swamp.
“Good news men,” Duke announced as he returned from scouting ahead. “We are looking at the entrance to the Lymar Swamp. Hundreds of miles of nasty water, and spiny trees calling that water home. Though, I suppose it’ll be all frozen over, like everything else. Or dried up. Anyway,” he said. “The prison is under two days march in the swamp, so we’re close.”
Chapter 27
After two days of traipsing through the dried swamp, Cleo still gasped every time she brushed up against a tree’s exposed bush of weed-like roots. The group soon realized that the swamp, like the rivers, had dried out as a result of the winteryear. No one complained though, as the previously swamp-watered ground catered more to their horses than the uneven upper ground.
Despite their having a map, she felt that the group was no closer to finding Gnochi than they were when they approached the swamp two days prior. They had taken to marking trees with charcoal in order to prevent trekking over ground that they had already scoured.
◆◆◆
As promised, the river, or the skeleton of where the river used to be, ran close to the prison. A dried-up dock and snowy path were the only indications from the river itself that civilization existed within the wilderness. Several of their guards let out weary gasps thick with exhaustion. Everyone sat while Hope relayed to the prison to get extra hands and they rejoiced at the prospect of a bed beneath their bones and a roof over their heads.
Gnochi watched Floyd with worry.
The Luddite refused to eat his rations in the morning and had not spoken in a day. A colorful bout of grim humor rippled through Gnochi’s mind. That’s my signature: not speaking. He snorted, drawing eyes, but hid his mirth by pretending to cater to a mouth overfilled with saliva. The smile disappeared from his face, when Floyd launched himself up and dashed down the river to the south.
“Sir?” Asbet asked, but Duke cut him off. He raised his pistol and sighted in on the running prisoner. For a moment, Gnochi thought that he might let Floyd run. A sharp crack echoed through the dried swamp.
Floyd jumped as if bitten. He fell to the ground, immobile. Dead. Asbet moved to retrieve the body.
“Leave him,” Duke ordered. “It will serve as a warning to everyone. That’s what happens when you try to flee.”
Hope and two new guards from the prison arrived at a run. They saw Floyd’s corpse.
“Bring the prisoners in,” Duke yelled. “Take him and put him in the quiet cell.” He pointed a finger at Gnochi.
Hope motioned for Gnochi to follow, which he did with reluctance. The path connecting the prison with the river was tended enough that no branches or brambles dangled within reach.
After two minutes, they arrived at the isolated building which sat nondescript in a humble clearing, surrounded close by snow-covered trees. Barred windows were the only indication that what they were looking at was even a prison. From the outside, it looked mundane. Thin siding painted shades of green might conceal it when immersed in swamp wildlife, but in the dead of the winter, it looked sickly. A speckle of frost adorned the walls and windows, giving off an abandoned air. It seemed to shimmer in the light flurry as if it would disappear if he stared at it long enough. Hope led him inside before he could test that theory.
Enclosed by walls and artificial heat for the first time in days, Gnochi heard hollow thumps as their boots rang out on the wood floor below. It seemed to him that the building had seen its share of wear, as long cracks decorated the plaster walls.
Hope walked him through a labyrinthian series of halls, all lacking any discernable markings. Each hall seemed to hold one single door, exactly halfway between the ends. Gnochi assumed these to be cells, though no numbers or markings identified any one cell from another. Finally, after another turn, the maze ended with a single door.
“This one is yours,” Hope said. “Don’t worry about Duke. He speaks all this nonsense about isolation, but after a week or two, you’ll rejoin the group and won’t need to worry about getting executed.”
The door opened to reveal a dark, small cell with a padded mattress, a blanket, and a covered hole for the toilet. “You’ll get three meals a day. Two warm. Don’t expect to get out of here until Duke deems you rehabilitated, so, try not to start any more snow fights and you should be out of here before the mice even come out to nibble.” Hope closed the cell’s door. The hollow thumps of his receding footsteps echoed through the cell.
For an hour, Gnochi lay on his cot, staring up at the dirty ceiling. He stood and stretched to touch the wrinkled paper peeling off its surface but found that his height prevented that potential escape. He jumped off his cot and ran his hands along the wall opposite the door. It felt warm against his palm. Testing a theory by placing his hands along the other three walls, he assumed the whole prison to be heated. His eyes roved through his small cell. They snagged on a cut-out shape on the floor between the toilet and the wall.
Gnochi peered into the hole in the floor. He could not see too far into it, but stooping over it, he felt the warm air pushed out from its depths. The heating vent was too small for him to even consider sneaking through, so he returned to his cot and rested. His lazy eyes closed, though he could have easily fallen asleep with them open. The darkened room matched exactly the inside of his eyelids. Within minutes he had eased into sleep.
The boom of a deadbolt drawing back from its place in the door tore him from his rest. He had no idea how long he had been asleep, though the sharp pang of hunger in his gut told him that it had been hours. The door opened and admitted Hope, bearing a tray of food. It steamed.
He felt a mass of saliva pooling in his mouth.
“I know you’ve got some extra work to eat. I went ahead and minced everything smaller and soaked it earlier, so it should be tender.”
Gnochi bowed his head in thanks and poked his heart.
“Don’t mention it. Just slide your tray under the door when you’re done.” Hope pointed to a slot on the bottom of the door. He unlatched it. “This should let some light into your cell too.”
Gnochi again nodded in thanks. The sound of a dozen hounds barking echoed through the cell as though coming from the heating vent. Hope made to leave, but Gnochi tapped his shoulder and pointed to his ear.
“It’s our dog team,” he answered. “They must’ve just returned from a weekly supply run. No worries.”
Hope exited the cell. He had left the slot open on the bottom of the door, and as promised, a small stream of light peeked in from the hallway. Gnochi surveyed his food. A steaming bowl of broth sat before him. Floating inside, like a mighty iceberg, was a tender dumpling.
Gnochi spooned the broth into his mouth, relishing the homey taste as it swirled over the stump of his tongue. The elixir warmed his entire body as it trickled down his throat. For the first time in months, he had filled his stomach and could relax in total warmth. He sat on his cot, stretching and nesting like a cat. His eyes invariably came to rest on the flicker of light under his cell-door. He wondered if they would come to snuff out the candle during the night.
With his stomach full, and a sheen of perspiration lining his forehead, he dozed off. Sometime later, he woke when a thick cough forc
ed itself from his throat. As he sat up, he realized that swallowing evoked pain in his throat. He did not remember burning it on the broth.
The light under the door drew his eye. Even though the fire outside his door danced more aggressively than when Hope had left earlier, it did not seem to be brightening the cell; a quick glance around netted the reason. Thick smoke, grey as the overcast sky before a blizzard, hung heavy in his cell. It poured consistently out of the vent on the ground.
To stave off further aggravation on his throat, he wrapped one of his extraneous pelts over his mouth and nose, then crawled over and peered into the vent, not surprised to see light from some distant flame illuminating the ductwork. Backing into the center of his cell, he wished for a window. All four walls felt hot to the touch, but in his daze, he could not recall if the walls had been that warm when he first felt them or if the fire superheated them.
Gnochi tried the handle on his door to no avail. He rushed at it with his shoulder, though it stood fast and the jarring pain that bloomed on his side forced him to the ground.
A flicker crossed the light, the shadow stretched deep into the cell. Gnochi turned and bent down so he could peer out the slit. The hazy air stung his eyes, bringing tears that streaked through his grime-coated cheeks, though they offered little relief from the smoke. He stretched his hand through and began waving it around, frantic to catch the shadow’s attention. He thought to expose his mouth to the slot in the ground for hope that the air outside would offer respite, but it too was tinged with sooty smoke.
“Elp! Ummone elp!” To his hears, his voice sounded like pumice stones grating together. He could not even know if the sounds he heard were his own voice, or mere tricks played by an oxygen-deprived mind.
His mind grew weary. His eyelids felt heavy and his breathing slowed. The ground beneath him felt soft. It beckoned him into its caring embrace.
◆◆◆
In the swamp’s prematurely dark evening, Cleo abandoned the light and warmth of the group’s campfire to clear her head. She took to the numbing cold with feigned indignation. Though it chiseled into her face, she savored the pain. At the edge of what they thought was the central river, she noticed a mass of footprints forming a straight line that tracked due north.
A strong gust of roaring wind picked up, carrying, at first, the sharp sting of light snow to her face from the north. She soon became aware of a strong scent of wood fire on the tails of that same current. Cleo narrowed her eyes, partly to shield them from the whipping wind, but also to spy some distant fire. She expected to see the flames or a column of billowing smoke but only caught the entanglement of dead tree limbs and the glitter of snow.
She rushed back to her camp, yelling when she got within view. “Everyone, we must be close!”
Four tired humans eyed her, most with concern. The horses seemed to look at her as if she was crazed.
“What?” Roy asked, finally breaking the silence.
“We have to be close to the prison.”
“How can you know?”
“I smelt a fire.”
“Our campfire is right here?” Kiren said, weary ire evident in her voice. “How do you know you didn’t smell ours?”
“I was too far away. Over by the area that we thought might be the river. A gust of wind came from the north, not from our direction. Smoke was thick. Something was burning. More than simply a cook fire.” She considered her next words. “Plus, we heard that gunshot earlier.”
“You heard that shot,” Harvey corrected. “We didn’t.”
Cleo took his words as one would a slap to the face. “I know what I heard. We have to be close!”
“Good,” Aarez said. “Should make easy traveling tomorrow morning when we’re all well-rested.”
“We’ve been trekking through the swamp all day,” Roy said. “The prison can wait another night. It’s not going anywhere.”
“Cleo.” Harvey took her hands and attempted to placate her with a sincere gaze. “First light tomorrow, we will pack camp and follow this trail to the north. But if we rush there now, when we are all at less than peak levels, we are putting both ourselves, and Gnochi, in greater danger. Let’s take a rest. Tomorrow, we deal with the prison.” His words were stern, and commanded a power that ensured no room for her to wiggle another option in. “I don’t want you on watch tonight,” he said, seeming to read her mind.
Feeling a tear creep up the back of her eyes, she rushed over to the edge of the camp and laid down with her back to the group, offering no further comment.
Later in the night, during the change between Harvey’s watch and Roy’s, she heard them whispering to each other.
“You all right, Harv?”
“Yeah, why?”
“I know you. The look on your face says I just swallowed a pint of poison.”
“I was just thinking,” Harvey said.
“About?”
“Pike’s Cathedral. It caught fire and Dorothea forbade us from going to help. If we had gone, maybe Jacob wouldn’t—”
“You can’t think like that,” Roy said. “Plus, this is different.”
“The only difference,” Harvey said, “is that if we get there tomorrow and someone is dead. If Gnochi is dead. I won’t be able to hide behind the excuse that I was following orders. If something happens tonight, that’s on me.”
Chapter 28
Before the first tendrils of dawn light had illuminated the thick overcast sky, Cleo woke and prepared herself for travel. She had even saddled and fed Perogie by the time the others finally stirred. Everyone seemed to notice her anticipation and her eagerness to make tracks, though no one commented.
Her impatience almost bubbled over as she watched them eat. For her part, she only nibbled on a tough piece of smoked meat. Once everyone finally suited up and mounted, Cleo and Perogie led the group keeping a brisk pace that put her several horse-lengths ahead of Harvey, who rode next.
Upon reaching the dried-out river, they discovered fresh tracks in the center. Many small paw-prints filled the path. Two straight bold lines, constant and evenly spaced, split the mass of prints in half.
Cleo looked to back at the others. “Coincidence? I think not. I know I saw these prints last night, but it was dark, and the drifts were already evening them out.”
Harvey dismounted and stooped, investigating the tracks. “These are traveling south,” he observed. “Away from where we believe the prison to be.”
“How do we know that it wasn’t Gnochi escaping?” Roy asked.
“Or it was guards out on patrol,” Aarez said. “No way to know without following them.”
“We will continue to the prison,” Harvey decided. “Odds are, this is unrelated. If we follow it now, we could add days to our journey. Dog teams travel fast.”
“What if we split up?” Kiren asked. “Or we could just send one of us to follow the dog’s path while the rest continue to the prison.”
Cleo had been mulling over similar words, but her heart, timid and queasy from the restless night, feared the results of such words. “Who would go off by themselves?” she asked.
“I will,” Roy volunteered.
“No, it must be me,” Kiren said. She tightened the scarf around her neck. Only her fierce green eyes shone through. “Roy, you need to be here in case you have to fight at the prison. You, Harvey and Aarez too. All of your skills as fighters are better served here than following a cold trail.”
“But you don’t have a horse,” Aarez argued.
“All the better. Once you find out what you need to find in the prison, you’ll be able to find me quick. I won’t stray from the path unless I make my movements obvious. Though I doubt I’d ever willingly go into the swamp. If I had to bet though, I’d say this team is going to head right out to the tundra.”
“At least take my horse,” Aarez offered. “You’ll be able to cover more ground. I’d feel better about you out there if you had a horse.” Aarez insisted when Kiren shook her head. “P
lease, Nora. For me?”
She finally relented, taking Slipper’s reins and hopping back into the saddle.
“Stay safe,” Aarez offered.
“You too.” Kiren’s eyes pinched as though she was smiling, or crying, then she kicked off at a brisk gallop, following the path and its tracks.
“All right, let’s go,” Cleo said, helping pull Aarez onto Perogie’s back. The three horses and their four riders took off, heading north. She could tell that her companion was upset, so she turned slightly and said to him, “Whatever you do, Aarez, don’t put life into this wolf pelt. Last thing I need is the wolf trying to take a bite out of my face.” She laughed, and Aarez offered a smile.
◆◆◆
A sharp bark and a cold jolt under his feet thrust Gnochi back into the waking world. Bright light, reflecting from the swamp snow seemed to shine directly into his weary eyes. A strong wind whipped at the few loose strands of hair that escaped his cap, and it tore at his rough beard. He strained to shield his eyes from the sun’s bright reflection but found both hands tethered to a bar at his waist. A second pair of gloved hands rested besides his. It was only then that Gnochi felt a rhythmic wave of warm air brush against his neck. As his mind further woke, he became aware of another person’s arms alongside his own.
A slow minute passed before his eyes adjusted to the light. Once acclimated to the bright sun-reflected snow, he learned that the wind whipping his face was no natural wind, but manufactured by movement. His hands were bound to the front of what appeared to be a sled, and before him, on the ground were a dozen dogs, all leashed-to and pulling the sled. The dogs appeared to pull the sled with little effort; it glided through the snow as easily as if it were rolling on wheels. Occasionally, one of them would yip or let loose a rough bark, but they seemed content to pull the sled in silence.
As wake flooded the extremities of his body, he stretched his muscles as much as his restrained limbs would allow. Finally feeling warmth return to his ears and face, he turned his neck. The sight of Ren, smiling, greeted his still-tired eyes.
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