Winter Be My Shield (23 page)

A strange kind of calm had settled over her and Sierra knew, at last, what she had to do. Rasten wouldn't take her alive, not again.

And by the Black Sun, if she could, she'd take him with her.

Isidro crouched leewards of a listing tree, trying to keep his teeth from chattering. The cold and his cramped position were taxing his strength, and the memories he'd done his best to bury threatened to overwhelm him.

Mercifully, the tree blocked his view, but he couldn't stop his mind from conjuring images of what could cause those soft, wet sounds and the desperate, panicked breath of a man who was being butchered alive. The victim was silent except for the low, scuffling sounds of a futile struggle. Rasten had done something to keep him from crying out, and that meant that Isidro couldn't move a muscle, not even to shift his weight. Any noise could be enough to give him away.

He should never have come here — Isidro knew that now. Exhaustion had made him unwary and he had come within a few paces of stumbling into Rasten's path. It was only a matter of luck that Rasten had come across Mira's men first.

More than anything else in this world he wanted to attack, to strike Rasten down and finish him then and there, but that was impossible. Even if he were fully whole and able, it would be suicide. All he could do, crouched there like a hunted beast, was separate himself from the part of him that was overcome with fear, lift himself out of this shell of trembling flesh and become a dry and distant observer. Sierra was right, he noted dispassionately — the ritual chant Rasten was murmuring as he worked was in Akharian. With each cycle of the chant, each rise and fall of the cadence of the words, Isidro felt a tingling current of energy sweep through his limbs and close in around his spine, helping to keep the chill at bay. There was no denying it — those hours in Kell's tent had bound him and Rasten together in some way. At another time the thought would have disgusted him, but now Isidro saw it only as a
curiosity. If Rasten sensed he was losing even a minute portion of his power, Isidro would be the next one struggling in the ritual circle. So he kept his head down and stayed as still as a stone.

After what seemed like an age the ripples of power reached their peak and began to fade. When Isidro blinked, he saw a flash of vision through Rasten's eyes — a mutilated corpse lying in a circle of churned and bloody snow. The power he'd raised had made Rasten indifferent to the cold and he'd stripped off to his shirtsleeves. His arms were bloody to the elbows and he held the hunter's heart, steaming in the cold air.

The vision lasted for only a moment and then Isidro heard Rasten cleaning his hands with snow and dressing again. When he stamped his feet in the snowshoes to settle the straps and set off again, it took all of Isidro's will to remain unmoving as he heard the
yss-yss-yss-yss
of snowshoes as Rasten went on his way. Even after the sound had faded he kept his position, not quite daring to believe the danger had passed.

Presently, another sound reached his ears — it was an echo of the first, another pair of snowshoes moving towards him from the opposite direction. Isidro had been on the verge of easing his cramped position — now he froze where he was, though he took the chance of turning his head in the direction of the sound.

What he saw was another figure robed and hooded in white, holding a bow in one hand with an arrow nocked to the string. He stopped in view of the mutilated corpse lying on its bed of bloody snow and, after a moment of stillness, the figure raised a hand to sweep his hood back. It was Cam, his face white and bloodless.

Isidro stood. ‘Cam!' he called in a hoarse whisper.

Cam started violently and dropped his bow. ‘Issey? Oh, by the Black Sun … I thought that was you! I couldn't get a clear shot —' He stared blindly at the corpse at his feet. ‘I …' Words failed him and he grabbed Isidro in a rough embrace, pounding him on the back hard enough to make Isidro cough. Cam broke away with a wince. ‘Ah, sorry, your arm —'

‘Never mind that,' Isidro said. ‘Can't feel it at the moment, anyway. What are you doing here?'

‘What do you think I'm doing? What in the hells were you thinking of? Have you gone mad?'

Isidro sighed. ‘I must be. I couldn't just let her go, Cam.'

Cam shook his head. The remains of the corpse caught his eye again and he turned away with a whoosh of breath. ‘And you were there the whole time, just on the other side of that tree?'

Isidro nodded.

‘By the Black Sun, you must have the luck of the Gods. If he'd seen you —'

‘But he didn't,' Isidro said. ‘And now he's gone after Sierra.'

Cam went very still and then slowly straightened. ‘There's two men here. How many did Mira send out?'

‘Three,' Isidro said. ‘Sierra killed the first one a little while ago.'

‘How d'you know?'

‘I felt it, the same way I did when Rasten was fighting a few days ago.' Cam was shaking his head with a frown, but Isidro went on. ‘Look, I know you don't understand it. In your place, I wouldn't know what to think of it either. But I know what I felt.'

‘If you say so,' Cam said. He circled around the corpse, searching out the tracks Rasten had left in the snow. ‘Can she take him?'

‘She didn't think so,' Isidro said. ‘He's got ten years of training on her. We have to help her.'

Cam's head snapped up. ‘Help her? How? He just made mincemeat out of two of Mira's finest men. By the Fires Below, Sierra can take on a dozen warriors all by herself — if she doesn't believe she can best him, how are we going to help? We couldn't even slow him down!'

‘I can help her,' Isidro said. ‘I can feed her power —'

‘Can you? I saw what she did at the cache and from what I know it'll be hours before it's worn off enough to give her any real boost. It's likely all you'd do is distract her!'

‘Well I'm not going to sit back and do nothing! By the Twin Suns, if Rasten takes her alive, we're finished. You know that, don't you? They've gone easy on her up until now, but once they really get to work, she'll tell them everything if it'll spare her a few moments of pain. Trust me, I know what I'm talking about. It'll be the end of the Wolf Clan as well as us.'

Cam heaved a sigh. ‘I hadn't thought about that.' He fell silent, staring off into the night, and ran his hand over the stiff white fletching of the arrows in his quiver.

‘Cam,' Isidro said.

‘She didn't want to be taken alive. She said it herself, more than once. Kell and Rasten together are bad enough. If they bring Sierra around to their ways she'll be a horror like nothing we've ever seen.'

‘Cam —'

‘If she were here now what do you think she'd say? She's better off dead than in Rasten's hands. It would be better for everyone.'

The words struck Isidro like a blow to the gut. He'd known her only for a week. He couldn't have fallen in love with someone in a week, that would be ridiculous. And yet the thought of losing her struck him with a physical pain that made it hard to breathe. But Cam had it right. Every night he'd slept beside Sierra she'd woken in a cold sweat after dreaming that Rasten had found her.

Cam laid his hand on Isidro's shoulder. ‘I'm sorry. You shouldn't be here to see it. Head back to the camp —'

‘No.' Isidro drew himself up. ‘Let's think this through. What happens if you succeed? If Sierra dies at Rasten's feet, there's no power in this world that will keep him from seeking revenge. The only upside I can see is that he'll be too far gone in fury to take you back to Kell — most likely he'd kill you on the spot.'

‘It's got to happen sometime,' Cam said. ‘The chance of us lasting a few more years is small; even if this grand plan of Mira's works, we're all headed for the next world. If I can tear Kell's ambitions to shreds on the way I'll consider my life well lived.' Cam shrugged. ‘But there's a chance I can kill him too. It's unlikely anyone will ever find him such a good target as he is now. And if I put an arrow in Rasten's back early on, Sierra might well be able to finish him herself.'

‘Well then,' Isidro said. He pushed his hood back to scrub his good hand through his hair. ‘If Sierra puts up a fight we try to tip the scales in her favour. If Rasten takes her down quickly, we make sure he doesn't bring her in alive.'

‘What's this “we”? You're no good to me out here. You're heading back to Mira's camp.'

Isidro shook his head. ‘Mira's plan has me hiding out in a temple for the next ten years. I can just about do it if I know there's a chance of finding my way out again, but if Rasten does for you, then my value to Mira goes with you.'

‘Mira wouldn't abandon you —'

‘No, but without you I'm as good as worthless. I'm no help to Sierra back at the camp, but if I go with you I might be able to skew things in her favour.'

Cam thought it over with a frown. He still thought he was invincible, that he could clear any hurdle in his path. Isidro knew the signs well — he'd felt the same way not so long ago.

‘Alright,' Cam said. ‘But I want you to hang right back. If Rasten knows you can send power Sierra's way he'll kill you on sight.'

‘Don't worry about that,' Isidro said, and ran a hand over his splinted arm. ‘I'm well aware of what I can and can't do.'

Cam nodded and stooped to pick up the bow. ‘Let's go then.'

 

Sierra felt elated and as weightless as a thought. At last, all the fears and worries she'd carried with her were gone, as though she'd set them down along with the useless gear she'd left behind. This must be how the elders felt when they gave themselves to the winter, leaving behind the restraints of failing sight and senses and the burden of stiff and painful joints.

When she walked away from the sled she had left the Ricalan of humanity behind her as well. Now she was walking through the Black Sun's world. If the Bright Sun watched over humankind, giving her warmth to the crops and the herds and melting the rivers so the salmon could spawn, then winter was the realm of the Black Sun, when the land was given over to those other children of the Gods, the wild creatures who lived in mankind's shadow. The Black Sun was their Goddess, the cold and indifferent queen of winter, and Her mercy was swift and final, the numbing and somnolent touch of ice.

She had pressed on without care for where she was headed and her feet had brought her to the bank of a river. An open lead of water stretched before her, a dark gash in the winter's pale skin where the ice had retreated from the surface. It was black and oily beside the snowy bank, the surface as smooth as a mirror and utterly silent, without the gurgle or chuckle of water one might hear if the water level had dropped below the skin of ice.

The black water stretched upstream, back into the lake feeding the river. The great weight of snow deposited in the storm that aided her escape had pressed the ice down into the water beneath. Insulated by ice and snow, the water was warmer than the air above, and had melted the
ice away. In a few days the water at the surface would cool and the gash would heal over until the cycle started again.

On the far bank of the black river a hill rose up to command a view of the narrow valley she had crossed. Some years ago a wide swathe of the slope had been cleared of trees by an avalanche. The saplings that had sprouted in their place were all but buried, with only their tips peeking out from beneath the blanket of snow. If she could get across the water and wait for Rasten high on that slope, the mass of snow poised there would be enough to bury them both — and if that failed, there was always the black water waiting below.

Sierra turned downstream, aiming for a point below the tip of the lead, where the snow was stained grey by water flowing over the edge of the ice. As she made her way across, the ice beneath her rocked like a boat. While the water had seeped into the snow, a layer of powder over the top insulated it enough to keep the slush from freezing. As she crossed it, water wicked up into the prints of her snowshoes, leaving a stark grey outline against the clean white snow. If she stopped for even a moment, she would sink into the slush and the icy water would seep into her boots and liners, drowning her feet in a misery of cold. So long as she kept moving she stayed on the surface, but even then the wet snow clung to her snowshoes, weighing her down with a load of ice that grew heavier with each step.

Once she was on the other side, Sierra trampled a patch of snow and took the snowshoes off to brush the crusted ice from them with a mittened hand. Allowing herself a moment to catch her breath, she searched the bank across the black water for any sign of Rasten.

The hillside above her was bare, an ominous swathe of white reaching up towards the peak. The slope was relatively shallow when Sierra started up the middle of the white scar but as she gained ground it grew steadily steeper until she was ascending on her hands as well as her feet, each step displacing a drift of snow that dragged her back as far as she'd pushed herself forward. When she reached that point, Sierra kicked off her snowshoes and sat on them, burying her feet into the snow for warmth, and wrapped herself up in her fur to wait.

 

Cam set a cautious pace as they followed the tracks, wary of alerting Rasten to their presence. Even so, Isidro found it hard to match and Cam kept looking back to make sure he wasn't falling behind. Each time
Isidro gestured to Cam to go on, even though he was breathless and stumbling. His greatest fear was that they would arrive too late, when Rasten already had Sierra under his control.

They slowed briefly when they came across another corpse. Rasten had mutilated his victim with precision, each cut calculated and prescribed by ritual, but this one was like the other men Sierra had killed, butchered in a frenzy of wild, deranged slashes. ‘That looks like Sierra's work,' Cam said.

‘She can't control her power like Rasten,' Isidro said. ‘She told me she'd never done anything like it before Kell took her. Being part of their rituals has made her that way.'