Hinterland

  Brant circled off in the direction Malthumalbaen had indicated. He easily found the tracks of Sten and his men. It would not be hard to follow their trail back to the frozen forest.

  “Mayhap you should stay in Oldenbrook’s shadow,” Malthumalbaen said. “Skies turning. Best not challenge on foot. Leave your hunt for another day.”

  Brant shook his head. It could not wait. “I will return by the first evening bell.”

  Dralmarfillneer shrugged, his eyes rolling at Brant’s foolishnesss.

  “Ock!” his twin called to Brant as he set out. “If you should come across any scrawny bits of snowhare, I could use some new gloves!”

  Brant pulled up his hood and lifted an arm in acknowledgment. As he trudged across the snow-swept ice field, he heard the brothers arguing about who needed the gloves more. When he was a good half a league off, he still heard a barked laugh echoing out to him from the pair.

  Shortly after that, as he followed the trampled tread of Sten’s hunting party, his only companion was the wind. It whistled and moaned, kicking up. It was easy to grow weary, especially with the sun reflecting in a blinding glare. The only relief was found in the patches of fog in sheltered gullies between upended cliffs of ice.

  As he crossed through one patch, Brant was reminded of the mists of his homeland, of the cloud forests of Saysh Mal. Unlike the cold here, the mists of Saysh Mal were all dripping leaves and steaming heat. He allowed the memory to warm him now—despite the pain that came with it.

  He could still remember the day he’d heard of his father’s death; he’d been killed by a she-panther. It had marked the beginning of the end of Brant’s life. His mother had died giving birth to him. But the Way extended to the people of Saysh Mal as well as to the forest. No child was left to starve or beg. The god-realm was a rich one. The forest fostered an endless bounty, with a prosperous trade in wood, fur, and incenses.

  Brant had been taken in by the school in the shadow of the Huntress’s own castillion. It had been a good life: surrounded by friends, challenged by his schooling, and always near the forest, ready to hone eye, ear, and nose. It was out in the forest that Brant’s father came alive for him again. Sometimes he swore he could see his father’s shadow shifting through the bower. More than anything, the forest helped him both mourn and heal.

  It was also the Way.

  And as time passed like a panther through a dark wood, Brant was discovered to be quick of mind, especially for one so young. He rose to the attention of many of the learned masters and mistresses, and eventually to the Huntress herself.

  Then it all ended.

  Brant had to stop his hand even now from clutching at his throat, at the stone buried under his leather and furs. If only he hadn’t been so dull…if only he hadn’t found himself bowing a knee before the Huntress…if only he had kicked that cursed stone away when it had been rolled to his toes by a burning god.

  But he had bowed his knee. He had threaded the stone and made a necklace out of it. How could he toss it away? The stone was as much a talisman of his father as any rogue god. They had come upon it together. It was their secret. Brant had carried it with pride.

  Then he had met the Huntress, god and mistress of Saysh Mal.

  And his life had truly ended.

  A new noise intruded on this painful memory. It came from ahead, cutting through the drone of the wind. A sharp popping, like breaking bones, along with a dry rattle. The forest. The gusting winds were shaking the trees, crackling ice and frozen limbs.

  Rounding a tall shelf of ice, Brant spotted the dark line at the edge of the lake, thick with clinging fog. Even the rising winds seemed unable to shred the mists away.

  Brant followed the tracks toward the forest. He welcomed reaching the shadowed bower. His eyes had begun to sting and water from the glare of the sun off the ice. He hurried toward the shore of the lake.

  The mists ahead lay thick, as if the winds were some storm-driven sea and the fog were a tall surf, pounded and driven into the forest.

  Brant tossed back his hood, despite the cold. He wanted nothing muffling his ears. He knelt a moment to string his bow, bending the taut wood with practiced ease.

  Within steps, the lake vanished behind him, the sun became no more than a glare above, and even the trees seemed to fall away and disappear. He could barely see more than a handful of steps ahead of him.

  Still, he had a well-beaten trail to follow—both into the forest and eventually out again. He was careful from here to step where Sten’s men had trod. That hid his own trail and was easier than crunching fresh tracks into the ankle-deep and icecrusted snowfields.

  He moved silently, ears straining.

  Once he was away from the edge of the forest, the winds died. The rattle and pop slowly faded. A dread quiet settled as thick as the mists.

  Brant continued onward. The only sign of the larger world was the track of Sten’s hunting party. But even this trail shortened as visibility shrank. The fog continued to grow thicker and higher, shielding the sun into a twilight pall.

  And the silence seemed to grow even deeper.

  He smelled the blood first. A loamy ripeness to the air. He followed the tracks to the slaughter.

  It appeared like some fetid bloom in a snowy field. A glade opened, slightly brighter with the open sky above. In the middle, blood splashed in frozen streaks, as far as the treeline.

  Brant paused at the edge.

  She had fought. The first blow had not been a killing strike, whether done for the cruelty or merely drunken aim. Brant bristled at the pain.

  In the center, blood had pooled and iced around the abandoned and frost-rimmed carcass. They had not even taken the meat, only the hide. They had skinned her here. Off to the side, they had scraped and trimmed the hide. Brant leaned down and shifted a pile of scrap. They had cut away her belly skin, too thin of fur to be of value. He spotted the abandoned heavy teats. Brant’s jaw muscles tightened. Sten’s butchers must have noted the same, known she was nursing whelpings.

  But to them, all that had mattered was her pelt.

  Brant slipped out his own skinning knife, cut two of the heaviest teats away, and gently slipped them into deep pockets in his heavy coat. He would bury them later. The rest of the bruised and frost-blackened flesh he would leave to the hungry forest. While Sten’s men might waste good meat, it would fill the bellies of other scavengers.

  Straightening, Brant continued on. He suspected it was only the scent of men that had kept the hungry denizens of the winter wood away so far. Brant had noted the unburied shite and piss left by the drunken men. And in another spot, a pile of upturned stomach, smelling still of ale.

  Had it been the ale or the slaughter that turned the man’s belly?

  As he had suspected earlier, a glint of metal trailed from a rear ankle of the carcass. Razor snare. The trapped ankle was twisted at an unnatural angle.

  Brant took a deep breath through his nose. There was nothing he could do to lessen her pain now. Sten’s butchers knew nothing of the Way, of honor and responsibility between hunter and prey.

  But Brant did.

  As he circled, he noted the smaller paw prints, mere scratches in the crusted snow. They were too small to leave true tracks. Except for a few bloody prints, bright against the snow.

  The cubbies had come out of hiding, come to their mother, nosed her cooling form, smelled her blood and pain. Brant knew that pain. There was nothing he could do to lessen that ache—only end it swiftly.

  He slid an arrow from the quiver on his back. He warmed the frozen fletched feathers with his breath. He would make their ends swift. Better than to let them starve and freeze, locked in grief. He would finish what Sten and his man failed to do.

  Brant moved away from the other men’s trail for the first time, following a new one now. Scratches in the ice. He would find the pair together.

  Who else did they have?

  Brant rose from one knee. He had been fingering a broken and bent twig on
a bramblebriar bush. A pluck of black downy fur clung to it.

  Frowning, he straightened. The hunt had stretched longer than he would have expected. He was deep in the wood by now. The whelpings were still on the move. Had they heard him, scented him? Fell wolves were known for their cunning, but the pair of cubbies were still suckling. Surely they were not so wise to this strange forest, separated from their own dark mountainous haunts of Mistdale far to the north.

  Brant felt the pressure of time. Blind to the skies in the fog-shrouded forest, he had no way of judging the coming storm. But his nose sensed the snow in the air. He would not reach Oldenbrook before it fell.

  Still, he continued. Turning back was not a choice. If the Way led into the teeth of the storm, so be it.

  Clearing the patch of bramblebriar, he noted a dart of shadow ahead, a flicker from the corner of his eye. He froze in place, not even turning his head. He stretched his senses. From the edge of sight, he saw a flash, close to the ground, a pair of eyes.

  One pair.

  Where was the other?

  From the clouded skies, large flakes of snow shed downward. It started as if it had been snowing all along. First nothing. Then all around, the flakes fell heavily, silently. It was as if the ice fog had simply crystallized and begun to collapse around him.

  Flakes landed on his lashes, on the edges of his ears.

  Too cold.

  Rather than melting, they froze the flesh they touched.

  Before Brant could react further, a small hare skitter-pattered right past his toes, fleeing to the left.

  Farther in the forest, the fog broke enough to reveal a large buck bounding in the same direction, head low to the ground. Behind him, Brant heard something even larger breaking through the brush in a panicked scrabble.

  Heading in the same direction.

  South.

  Soon Brant spotted more hares. A pair of fat badgers, driven from their dens, hurried by, all but scrambling over each other. Off in the distance, snow crunched and branches cracked, marking the passage of more and more fleeing animals.

  Brant finally moved, obeying the forest.

  What was amiss?

  The snow fell thicker, burning with its cold kiss. Unnaturally cold. He might have missed it if he hadn’t stopped, his senses on edge. He dragged up his hood, protecting his face. He moved with a steady but swift gait. He didn’t know what had routed the forest with such panic, but he knew better than to ignore it.

  His trot grew quicker, his heart suddenly pounding.

  A pair of flicker deer flew past him, parting to either side of him. Something large growled farther to his left. Grass bear. But the anger was not directed at him; it was a blind warning to whatever had set them aflight.

  Brant found himself hurrying, boots pounding through the iced snow, dredging through occasional deeper drifts. He used his shoulders and back to keep moving. The cold rolled over him—sinking into him, drawn in with every breath.

  Ahead, a hare, which had been spearing ahead of him in zigzagging bursts, suddenly collapsed on its side. It skidded into the snow, shook a breath, then lay still.

  Brant ignored his own thundering heart to stop at its side. He touched an ear, blue and frosted. He nudged the body with a gloved finger. It was stiff and solid. Frozen to the core.

  Impossible.

  Brant stumbled onward.

  Snow blinded now. But he found more bodies in agonized postures or simply dropped in their tracks.

  This was no natural cold. There was something behind him, cloaked in the storm, something of Dark Grace and deadly touch. He could almost smell the taint in the air—or maybe it was just the fear in the forest. Then again, maybe it was one and the same.

  Then he saw them, off to the right. Two pairs of eyes glowed from beneath a leafless thrushberry bush. The cubbies huddled together, lost, panicked.

  He would have to hurry. Each breath was now ice in the lungs. But he had come to honor the Way. Even what lurked in the storm would not stop him.

  He notched an arrow, drew a full pull, and aimed for the first cubbie. He clutched the second arrow between his lips. Eyes glowed back at him. He saw their trembling, a mix of fear and cold. It spread to his aim. He tightened his grip to steady himself.

  Still, his fingers refused to let go of the string.

  Snow burned his exposed wrist where his coat sleeve had pulled up.

  Cursing silently, he relaxed the tension and lowered his bow. With an exasperated sigh, he dropped the bow and spat out the arrow. His actions were foolish, a waste of precious breath, but the forest had seen enough death this day.

  Brant undid the top hooks of his coat and used his teeth to pull the gloves from his fingers.

  By now, the forest had gone silent again. All the animals had fled past him already.

  He reached to his pockets and found the she-wolf’s teats, now thawed enough to squeeze. He massaged a bit of milk over his fingers, smearing them. Satisfied, he pulled his hands free and approached the cubbies’ hiding place. He held his hands out and made a small growled whine.

  The whelpings backed from him, deeper into the bushes. They were dark-furred except for white-tipped ears, the better to hide in a den or shadowed nest. They would gain a winter’s snow white pelt only when full grown.

  Brant held still. He had only the time to try this once. If they bolted, he would have to chase them down with bow and arrow. While he would honor the Way, mercy went only so far.

  He waited for a full icy breath. Then noted one of the cubbies’ nose shift, tasting the air.

  “That’s right—” Brant whispered gently. “You know your mama.”

  A whine escaped the second, scared, testing.

  The first cubbie, the one who tested the air, reached toward his fingers, sniffing and growling. The second huddled against it. Brant’s fingertips were at the first one’s black nose.

  A fast nudge, and the braver cubbie licked its nose.

  “You know your mamma’s milk,” Brant whispered with a growling whine of his own. “There’s no one you trust more.”

  The pair trembled, caught between panic and hope.

  Brant reached farther, sliding his palms between their flattened ears, filling their noses with their mother’s scent. The first cubbie continued to growl. Brant dared wait no longer.

  He grabbed each cubbie by the nape of the neck and hauled them to him. They growled. The first swung around and bit him in the forearm, catching mostly coat but also a pinch of flesh. He pulled them to his chest. The cubbies struggled, but just as weakly as the first one’s bite. The pair was thin, half a stone each at best, exhausted to the edge of collapse.

  He tucked one pup into his half-open coat, then shoved in the second. Using one arm to sling under them, he rehooked his coat.

  The cubbies took solace in the darkness and were reassured by each other’s presence. They gave up their fight and settled together within the warmth of his coat.

  Brant straightened. The forest had emptied out. The world was snow and tasted of ice. The distraction of the cubbies had helped calm his heart, allowed his wits to settle. He was done running blindly like an animal. Whatever came from the north flowed south, driving the beasts ahead of it. There was another path. Rather than flee from whatever death was within the storm, he could step aside.

  So Brant set off to the west instead, toward Oldenbrook, moving fast, abandoning quiver and bow to the snow. With his breath frosting the air, he fought the snow, underfoot and from the skies. He moved with an unerring sense of direction, swiftly, crossing frozen creeks and hurtling deadfalls. He flew as straight as an arrow.

  As time froze around him, he fought only to keep moving, to put one boot in front of the other. His face went numb and senseless, vanishing away, stolen by the storm. He was only a walking, gasping lung. The cold now sliced with each ragged breath. He tasted blood on his tongue.

  Snow continued to fall. He lifted his head, cursing the skies.

  Flakes se
ttled atop his upturned face—and melted.

  The icy water ran like tears down his cheeks. It took him another two breaths before he realized the significance. The snow fell just as thickly, but this was no cursed blizzard. It was simply ordinary snowfall.

  Relief surged through him.

  He had cleared the river of death flowing through the wood, reached its western bank. He stumbled on with a coarse laugh, sounding half-maddened to his own ears. In steps, the forest vanished around him, and the lake opened ahead of him.

  Free of the forest’s shelter at last, the winds blew stronger. Ducking against the onslaught, Brant headed out onto the ice fields. Ahead, Oldenbrook had been swallowed by the storm, but Brant trusted the tidal pull of his senses. He trudged onward.

  Still, his brush with whatever Dark Grace tainted the storm had weakened him more than he had suspected. He coughed into his glove and saw the blood. His eyes watered, freezing lashes together.

  He fought onward. Winds swirled and battered him, trying to drive him back into the forest. His legs trembled, and he could not stop his teeth from rattling in his skull.

  Must not surrender…

  Time slipped. He found himself suddenly standing in place. How long had he been frozen there? He stared ahead. The storm seemed lighter there. Was that the lamps of the city? Or was it merely the setting sun?

  He moved again.

  One boot…then another.

  Then he was on his knees. He never remembered slipping down.

  He craned up. Snow fell everywhere. The world was gone. Maybe it never existed. He coughed, wracking and loud, falling to one arm. Blood splattered the ice.

  Trembling all over, he pushed up. A glow in the storm wobbled ahead.

  He thought maybe he heard a noise that wasn’t the wind. He reached up and pulled down his hood.

  “…this way!”

  Brant blinked his frozen lashes.

  “Braaaant! Ock, Master Brant! Where are you?”

  Hope surged. He tried to answer, but another bout of coughing shook through him, taking him to his knees again.

  But someone heard him.

  “Over here, Dral!” a voice to the left called.