Энтони Райан - Queen of Fire

“And I thought the Black Wind the harshest in this world,” she said, forcing a smile as he hurried to her side, lifting her clear of the snow that had collected around her and the pony.

Vaelin surveyed the company, finding them all now nearly enveloped in the bubble, the blizzard still raging beyond its confines. Orvenʼs guardsmen were the last to receive its shelter, many stumbling to their knees in shock as they struggled free of the stormʼs fury. He saw Alturk moving amongst the Sentar, dealing out cuffs and harsh rebukes as they stood staring in wonder and fear, forcing them back into motion. Vaelin went to Wise Bear and Cara, the shaman still holding her hand whilst she stood in serene indifference, her gaze distant, face free of any sign of fatigue. “How long can you do this?” he asked.

“As long as there is power to share,” the shaman replied, pointing his staff at the other Gifted. “Hope storm ends first.”

It took another day and a night for the storm to fade, the Gifted taking turns to share their strength with Cara. She was kept in the centre of the group, now tightly bunched to stay within the limits of the bubble she had crafted, moving east at a slow but steady pace. Whilst Cara showed no sign of weariness the sharing took an evident toll on the others, Marken sinking to his knees when his two-hour shift was done, wiping a trickle of blood from his beard before stumbling on as Vaelin hauled him up, providing a shoulder to lean on until he recovered sufficiently to walk unaided. Dahrena and Kiral were even more drained, rendered unable to walk and sagging pale and listless on the backs of their ponies. For some reason Lorkan proved the most durable of the Gifted, lasting a full three hours at Caraʼs side and only consenting to release her hand at Wise Bearʼs harsh insistence.

The storm ended as quickly as it had begun, the wind dying and the last flurries of snow falling to reveal a bright midday sun. Cara swayed a little when Wise Bear released her hand but otherwise seemed unharmed by her exertions, though her initial triumph at the feat dimmed at the sight of her companions. “I… didnʼt know I had taken so much,” she offered to a pale-faced Lorkan.

He just smiled and shook his head. “Take all you want.”

She shifted a little in discomfort at the directness of his gaze and turned to Wise Bear. “We should be cautious. There will be a price. There always is.”

He nodded and thrust his staff through the snow to touch the ice beneath, angling his head as if straining to hear a distant sound. He stood unmoving for some time then straightened and turned to Vaelin with an urgent light in his eyes. “Need move fast,” he said. “Much fast.”

They covered another six miles by nightfall but Wise Bear permitted no rest, hounding them on with impatient wafts of his bone-staff and tirades in his own language, unintelligible clicks and grunts that nevertheless conveyed the clear message that to linger meant death. Although cold enough to freeze misted breath, the air was calm now, barely touched by a breeze, the sky clear and bright with stars and the occasional flurry of Grishakʼs Breath. The atmosphere took on such a depth of silence that, when it came, the sound was enough to make Vaelin lift his hands to his already covered ears.

It was more a boom than a crack, a tremor thrumming the ice beneath his feet and making Scar rear in alarm. The entire company was forced to halt as the other horses gave shrill whinnies and sought to break free of their mastersʼ grip. The booming crack went on unabated, the sound at first seeming to surround them on all sides but soon becoming concentrated on the westward floe they had just traversed, Vaelinʼs eyes picking out a curtain of shattered ice rising from the surface and moving from north to south so fast his eye couldnʼt track its course.

The sound ended without warning, leaving a vast but brief silence soon filled by a great grinding, almost beastlike in its intensity; as if the ice itself were groaning in pain. Another tremor shook the ice, this time with enough force to tip many from their feet, the surface beneath rising and falling in a great heave as the grinding faded. About a half mile to the west a fog of displaced snow and ice had risen, lingering for long enough to make Vaelin wonder if what he looked upon might be some trick of the eye; could the ice really be moving?

As the fog faded, the truth of it became clear; a huge expanse of ice was adrift, snow trailing from its jagged flanks as it detached from the main body and began a southward voyage. It must have measured at least five miles across, a newborn island where they would have undoubtedly perished as it bore them away.

Kiral woke him whilst the sky was still dark, shaking him from Dahrenaʼs slumbering embrace with insistent shoves. “My song is dark,” she said. “Something to the north.”

He followed her to the northern flank of the camp where they found Alturk kneeling amidst a broad patch of red-stained ice, gloved hands tracing the marks left by a brief but furious struggle. Vaelin had enough tracking skill to discern the meaning of the surrounding marks, the amount of blood and the furrows leading away into the blackness beyond the firelight. “How many were taken?” he asked.

“One, and his pony.” Alturk, rose to his full height, heavy brows knitted in mingled anger and puzzlement. “These marks I do not know.”

Vaelin looked down at the impressions left in the snow: a paw print, large enough for a black bear but not a brown.

“Not a bear,” Kiral said, tracing an outline around one of the marks with the tip of her hunting knife. She rose to unsling her bow. “My song will find it soon enough.”

“No.” She turned at the sound of Wise Bearʼs voice, the shaman striding closer to prod at the bloodied prints with his staff. “Sent to leave a trail so you would follow.”

“Something hunts us,” Alturk said.

Wise Bear said something in his own language, mouth twisting in disgust as if the words stained his tongue. He caught Vaelinʼs enquiring gaze and provided a terse translation, “Cat People.”

“I hoped they had all perished.” Dahrena sat close to the fire, extra furs heaped on her shoulders, clasping hands with Cara and Lorkan. “They were so few in number after the battle.”

Vaelin resisted the impulse to ask her to forget this; shared strength or not, her gift always exacted a heavy toll and the prospect of once again confronting the Ice Horde no doubt stirred ugly memories. She saw his concern and gave a reassuring smile. “A short flight only. Wise Bear assures me they canʼt be far.”

She closed her eyes, body stiffening and her face taking on the expressionless mask that indicated she had flown free, Cara and Kiral both issuing a gasp at the sensation. “She takes much,” Kiral said with a grimace.

“What is this?”

Vaelin glanced up to find Alturk at his side, gazing at Dahrena with deep suspicion. Like all the Lonak his distrust of the Dark was obvious, but so far he was the only one who dared enquire as to its nature.

“She seeks our hunter,” Vaelin told him.

The Tahlessa paced back and forth as Dahrena continued to sit immobile, his face betraying the only sign of fear Vaelin had yet seen in him. “There are Gifted among your people,” he said, nodding at Kiral. “She serves the Mahlessa, as you do.”

“As she should, for such things are only for the Mahlessa to know. Children like her are taken to the Mountain. If not they grow to be varnish, or worse.”

“What happens to them at the Mountain?”

Alturk shrugged. “Some come back, some do not.”

Vaelin returned his gaze to Dahrena, recalling her tale of the wolf and the men who had come to lay waste to her village. It took her away, before she could journey to the Mountain. Was it saving her from death or from something worse?