Victim of Fate (20 page)

Garrick wasn’t her concern, at least not at
the moment. She admired Alto’s determination and focus, even as she
wondered if he’d ever felt that way about her while he rode north
with Winter. He might have started a farm boy, but he was far more
than that. He wasn’t a warrior either, or not simply a warrior.
Alto reminded her of the stories Namitus had told her of ancient
knights in faraway lands.

But Alto wasn’t a knight. He wasn’t a noble.
He was just a common man and little better to her than a servant,
even if she wished otherwise. Patrina sighed. Did she wish
otherwise? She kept letting herself be carried away around him,
even though she knew such a thing should never be. She shook her
head and saw Alto looking at her, one eyebrow raised in
confusion.

The door to the hut opened, sparing her from
embarrassment. They turned and saw Tyrus standing in the doorway.
"Elgar will speak with you; he’s our chief."

They filed in and waited for the last of the
gathered Snowbear hunters to step inside and shut the door behind
them. Elgar stared at them from his wood and bone chair. He frowned
before speaking. "You threaten the arrangements I’ve made and then
you ask me for a boon such as this?" The Snowbear chief slammed his
fist against his thigh as he spoke. "Take them to the northern
coast; if they survive the cold, the wolves will have them."

"Wait!" Alto cried out. "You don’t
understand! Do you know what you made a deal with?"

The chief stood up from his chair and walked
up to Alto. The two men stood face to face until Elgar smashed his
fist into Alto’s face and knocked him to the ground. Patrina bit
her lip to keep herself from crying out, but it didn’t halt the
sharp intake of breath through her nose.

Alto struggled to force himself back to his
feet, trying to use his broken and useless hands. Patrina stepped
beside him before she could think better of it. She helped him find
his balance and climb back to his feet. By the time he’d risen,
Elgar had turned away.

"Give them to the men in the mountains."

"I want the girl."

Elgar spun and glared at Garrick. "I heard
she bested you."

"She tricked me."

Elgar laughed. "That’s because she’s a woman.
That’s what they do."

Patrina scowled but found she was ignored.
That was the other thing she’d heard of the northern savages; they
valued their women but treated them as prized possessions to be won
from one another in contests or battles.

Garrick frowned and opened his mouth but Alto
interrupted him. "Elgar, what do you think all these men are coming
for? How many has it been? Two hundred? Three hundred? More?"

Elgar turned and saw Alto standing. His eyes
narrowed but he stood his ground instead of pounding the young man
back to the floor. "A hundred of your men are no match for the
Snowbear clan."

"No? What about a thousand goblins? A few
hundred mountain trolls and just as many ogres? Mountain wolves and
the saints know what else? Do you know who’s in charge of these
men?"

"You seem to know an awful lot. How is that?
Deserter?"

"I killed Barador, the man who led the siege
against Highpeak," Alto said.

"I don’t care about your Kingdom," Elgar
spat.

"And the Kingdom cares little for you," Alto
said. "But neither the king nor the duke sent me. I’m here because
my father has a farm south of the mountains and he was hurt by
goblins sent raiding. With the help of my friends, we stopped them,
for a time, but we think they want to try again. They captured Jarl
Teorfyr’s daughter and then me. They’re massing armies to try
again! And why would they be happy with the northern reaches of the
Kingdom? Will you be servants to these creatures? Will you do their
bidding or will they come for you next?"

"We’re no man’s slave!"

"The creature behind this plotting is no
man," Alto stated. He turned and looked at all of them. Patrina
gave him an encouraging nod to go on. He turned back to Elgar and
said, "Their leader is a dragon named Sarya."

Everyone in the chief’s hut fell silent for
the span of several breaths. Finally a man wearing a leather thong
about his neck with countless animal teeth hanging from it spoke.
"You have seen this?"

"One of my companions was hiding while Sarya
spoke to Barador."

"Is this true? Are you who he says you are?"
Elgar said to Patrina.

Patrina thrust her chin up before saying, "I
am Lady Patrina, daughter of Teorfyr, Jarl of Holgasford. And yes,
a companion of ours, a friend of mine for many years, overheard the
conversation he speaks of."

He cursed and turned to Garrick. "She does
have fire," he admitted. "But you cannot have her."

Garrick scowled. "Heal the warrior then and
send them on their way. I will go with them and bring word
back."

"It’s no simple thing you speak of!" the man
wearing the necklace said. "The meat is frozen and dead. There is
danger in asking for such a boon; it’s no mere mending of split
flesh."

Elgar walked up to Alto and stared into his
eyes again. Rather than shy away from the expected blow, Alto met
his gaze and asked, "Are you going to hit me again?"

Elgar smirked. "This will test your mettle,
farmer. Succeed with Arcan and you earn your freedom."

"If I fail?"

Arcan chuckled. "Fail and you won’t need to
worry about it."

"Do I get the girl then?" Garrick asked.

"Think you can beat her in a fight?" Elgar
asked, inciting laughter amongst the gathered barbarians. When it
quieted, he waved his hand, dismissing them. "Take them. Return
when you have news."

Alto and Patrina were led out of the hut.
Arcan walked ahead of them, taking them to another wood and stone
hut with smoke rising from the chimney. He led them in, with
Garrick following in behind them.

Arcan moved around in the hut and gathered a
cup and some leaves. He stepped outside with an iron bucket and
returned a moment later with it filled with snow. He winked at Alto
and said, "Don’t worry, no yellow snow."

Alto turned to Patrina and she saw the
frightened look he wore. He turned back to the healer as Arcan set
the bucket over the fire in his hearth. The healer muttered a chant
and ignored his guests while he stirred and prayed over the bucket
of melting snow. Patrina saw Alto looking around the hut and took
the opportunity to do the same. It reminded her of a less chaotic
version of the lab of the troll shaman, Thork, they’d found under
the Northern Divide. He’d called it Trolwerkz.

Arcan poured the steaming water into the cup
and then crumpled up the leaves in his hand and tossed them in. He
let them steep a few moments before he turned to Alto. "Drink
this," the healer said and handed Alto the cup.

"Are those Razorberry leaves?" Patrina
interrupted after noting the serrated edges of the dried
leaves.

"Yes, now hurry," Arcan urged him.

"But they’re poisonous!" she protested.

"Only a little."

"Only a little?" Alto asked.

"You’re a big strapping young man; you can
handle it," Arcan snapped. "Now hurry up and drink it all, before
it cools."

Alto held up his hands and showed the shaman
their mottled and broken appearance. Arcan sighed and turned to
Patrina. "You do it then, hold it to his lips. I cannot; I must
tend to the ritual communing with Saint Preth."

Patrina took it and looked at Alto. She shook
her head slowly, urging him to not do it.

"I have to," Alto said. "It’s my only
chance."

"You can live without your hands!" she
hissed. She wasn’t sure what he’d do, but he’d be alive and maybe
that was enough.

"Perhaps, but others may die. Make me drink
it all."

Patrina nodded and blinked away the sudden
moisture in her eyes. Alto tipped his head back and opened his
mouth, waiting for her to administer the tea. She lifted it up
slowly until it touched his lips. Then she tipped it up and held it
steady while Alto swallowed the stream of steaming water and
leaves.

She pulled the cup away and turned to set it
down on the table. She heard Arcan chanting again but the sound
seemed distant. She saw Alto turn his head to look at the healer
but before he could find the barbarian priest, he dropped to the
ground as though he’d been felled by a stone club to the head.

* * * *

Alto climbed to his feet and looked around.
He couldn’t remember how he’d come to be in a snowdrift at the edge
of a line of trees. He glanced down at himself and saw he was
wearing white and gray animal furs. Wolf fur. He felt like he
should remember something about wolf fur, but beyond a sense of
familiarity there was nothing.

He looked past the furs to the snow-covered
ground beneath and around him. The remains of a thick branch lay on
the snow. He knelt down and picked it up, his fingers squeezing
around it and hefting it to test its balance. Alto stopped and
stared at his hand. There was something about his hand that didn’t
feel right. He twisted the club to study his hand and fingers,
trying to figure it out.

The sound of wolves snarling and fighting
distracted him. He looked up and out onto the snowy field ahead of
him. Shapes moved across it, blurred by the wind that blew the
powder up in gales and twists. He stared and tried to make sense of
the shapes. From the sounds and their size, he knew they were
wolves.

Alto turned away. Wolves were dangerous. He
sought meat for his clan. Hunting another hunter wasn’t something
he could remember hearing. He took a step back into the woods when
a pain in his belly stopped him. He growled against it and glanced
behind him onto the plains. A large shape was running from the
wolves. They snarled and lunged at it but it kicked them away and
ran on.

Alto stopped to watch the game of life and
death. Another wolf dashed through the snow from ahead of it,
surprising his prey, and then he leapt and clamped his jaws on the
four-legged victim’s neck. Alto squinted until he could make out
more details. The hunted creature looked like a moose, save the
antlers were different than he’d seen. The rack looked taller but
more spindly and branch-like. Whatever the beast was, it soon fell
under the clinging jaws of the wolf.

Alto felt a lurch in his stomach again. Out
there was freshly fallen meat. He could take that back to his
village and feed them all. Without thinking about it, he stumbled
forward and was soon hiking through the snow as fast as he
could.

The wolves continued to snarl and growl at
each other. When he reached them, he saw the wolf that had killed
their prey standing and snarling over the body. Alto could tell the
wolf was old. He was scarred from many fights and had a look in his
eyes that spoke of experience.

The four other wolves snarled and paced back
and forth, each hungry and wanting the meat for themselves. Alto’s
stomach growled at the sight. He wasn’t as savage as the wolves but
his mouth watered at the thought of roasting the fallen beast.

He slowed and crept up behind one of the
distracted wolves. His makeshift club rose and fell, dropping the
wolf with no more than the sound of wood and bone cracking. The
other three turned on him and snarled, and then moved to surround
him instead of the elder wolf guarding the carcass.

Alto turned, keeping his eye on the wolves as
they circled him. One rushed him without warning, lunging from his
right. He spun and swung the branch, knocking the lunging wolf’s
snapping jaws away. The hunter staggered under the impact of the
wolf’s body but stayed upright.

Alto’s left arm was pulled away, pulling him
around and away as a wolf tried to tear into him. The other wolf
clamped its jaws onto his opposite leg and began to work its teeth
through the furs he wore. Alto stumbled and fell back into the
snow. He thrashed and rolled onto his right hip so he could deliver
a punishing kick with his left leg. The wolf yelped and jumped
back, giving him the chance to roll back and slam his fist into the
remaining wolf’s side. He pounded twice on the wolf’s ribcage while
it whipped its head back and forth and dug its teeth into his
arm.

Alto felt the dislodged wolf return. The
lupine predator snarled and tore at the furs he wore for warmth and
protection on his back and shoulders. Knowing he was nearly out of
time, Alto jammed his fingers into the thick fur around the throat
of the wolf that was fastened on his arm. He formed a claw with his
fingers and thumb and squeezed as hard as he could. The wolf fought
on, tearing his flesh and causing hot blood to run down his arm.
Alto wasn’t sure when the wolf let go and tried to get away but he
clung to the beast and rolled on top to trap the creature until it
stopped thrashing.

He rolled, forcing the wolf that had jumped
on his back and was tearing at his fur shirt to scramble away.
Before he could rise up, the wolf leapt upon him, snapping at his
face and neck. Alto felt one of the wolf’s teeth drag along his
cheek before he grabbed it with his hands and threw the beast
off.

Alto rolled away and stumbled to his feet
before the wolf returned, but only barely. The wolf slammed back
into him and knocked him back a step. Alto pushed back and drove
his knee into the wolf’s chest. Air and spittle burst out of the
wolf’s mouth. It fell away from Alto and limped off through the
snow, following the other wolf that he’d smacked aside with his
club.

Alto stood gasping for air in the bitter cold
field. He looked down to his hand and saw the blood dripping from
his fingers. He tried to curl his fingers into a fist but found
they wouldn’t obey him. Alto stared at it and felt plagued by a
sense of familiarity. He felt a dreadful sense that was something
right about his hand failing him.