Sword bearer, p.2
Sword-Bearer, page 2
Sula wished to join her mother. I explained that at the rate the snow was falling, it might possibly be over her head within a few moments. Sula, having no idea what snow was, didn’t care for that explanation. I grabbed a small, coat-fattened arm before she could reach the edge of the seat. “Stay put.”
Del called, “I’m as far as I can go!”
I could barely see her. Snow was falling faster. I began to fear that if it kept up like this, we’d get stuck.
Sula struggled. “Stay put,” I snapped, mind on how to work reins and horses. Then an idea occurred. “All right. Don’t stay put. Come on, Sula. You can visit your mother after all.” I scooped her up in one arm and climbed down. Though Del is tall, I’m taller still, so the snow wasn’t as deep on me. I waded back to her, thrust Sula at her mother. “Here. I don’t want to have to worry about her while I do this.”
Del, brows knit, nodded, took Sula into her arms. I waded back to the front of the wagon, climbed into the seat, took up the reins. Made the traditional clucking sound, put pressure on the team’s bits, requested that they back up, trusting Del to shout a warning before I could squash her and Sula against the wall of tumbled rocks.
She did. Now there was room to begin the wide turn. The snow was heavy on the ground. Falling harder, to boot. And a wind came up, blowing stinging flakes into my hood. I squinted, concentrating on guiding the horses. Desert-bred, they had no more grasp of snow navigation than I did. “Trust me,” I murmured, hoping such trust wouldn’t be misplaced.
We managed a very careful turn. I knew the edge of the bluff was anywhere from inches to feet away; couldn’t see anything.
“Tiger?”
We faced back the way we’d come. But the road down to the flat was invisible.
I swore, then called, “Stay there, Del! I want to get the wagon down from here first, then I’ll walk back to you. I’ve got rope . . . I’ll tie it to the wagon and myself as a safety line, so we can find our way back in this mess!”
I slapped the reins on the snow-coated backs of the horses. The wagon inched forward.
Thunder. Thunder—in a snow storm?
It cracked again, this time right overhead. The horses spooked. We went off the edge of the bluff.
We being horses, wagon, and me.
I COULD SEE NOTHING but a vast white world as wagon, team, and I tipped over the edge of the bluff. No up, no down, no inside, no outside. I felt the wagon seat under me, and then it wasn’t. The horses floundered their way down the weather-terraced bluff as the wagon followed, winding their way through brush and trees and paying no attention whatsoever to the conveyance they were pulling. Nor did they pay attention to the man atop the wagon’s seat, trying desperately to slow them.
And then I grabbed the seat and just hung on with two gloved hands. Those hands were used to gripping a sword, of withstanding hard blows against that sword, but they weren’t accustomed to clutching at and holding a jouncing wagon seat as it was dragged down a bluff.
And then it didn’t matter, because I lost my grip and came off the wagon entirely on one of the bouncing crashes. I was still up and down and inside and outside and had no notion of where I was, or where the wagon and horses were.
I did have a notion of where the closest tree was, because I hit it.
I lay half-buried in snow, on my back, staring up at the sky. Still vast. Still white. And while the heavy snow muted everything, I did hear a prodigious crash of the wagon somewhere down below me, and then it ceased making any noise at all.
I patted my face with a gloved hand, then inspected the glove. No blood. I did not feel the heavy smothering bewilderment of a brain unhinged from the skull. I was perfectly aware of who I was, and where I was, and that the wagon and horses were downslope, and Del and Sula were upslope. I had arrived somewhere in between, and help from above was not forthcoming.
Hoolies, the horses.
I wiggled all four limbs and was relieved to find them attached. None flared abruptly into agony as I moved them, which meant all were intact. Attached and intact was a good thing. So I went about the business of climbing out of the heavy snow, which revealed that while my head and limbs had survived, my chest was less than pleased.
I clung to the tree I’d hit, pulled myself up, staggered against the snow. I realized I could see very little, because it was still snowing. My eyes stung from it even as I squinted. I had been in snow before, accompanying Del to the North, but I’d forgotten that when blown into the eyes, snow felt sharp.
Not far below me I heard a chest-deep equine rumble of discontent that climbed in pitch until a full-fledged whinny broke through the smothering sound of the storm. At least one horse had survived.
Distantly, I heard my name called.
Del up, horse down. Sula up as well. Del could not fight her way down the bluff to look for me, not with a small girl-child in her care. Finding an uninjured horse was imperative. I braced myself against the tree, turned my body, and began attempting to break my way through drifts and layers.
I swore, because it made my chest feel better. At least, it made me think my chest felt better, because it distracted me. I was breathing like a bellows in short order, wincing against the occasional throb of sore chest.
Then I found wagon tracks, which were fast disappearing beneath falling snow, shoved my way through, and finally saw the dark shape of a wagon jammed sideways against a tree. I grabbed the back of it when I reached it, went hand-over-hand along the box until I reached the seat and found Horse standing there, still hitched. The single tree that usually linked the team was shattered, and there was no sign of Other Horse. But Horse was better than no horses at all, providing he was intact.
I pushed forward again, found and hung onto the traces until I made my way to his side. He knew I was there because I announced my arrival, and he bent his head around to greet me. I saw no blood in the snow. As I made my way around him I saw nothing that led me to believe he was hurt. So I hugged his head, patted his neck, gave his shoulder a thwack.
No sign of Other Horse, but there was no bulk of body lying nearby, no blood trail leading away from Horse and the wagon, and no horse standing on three legs while a fourth dangled.
Another call came down from Del. In the storm I couldn’t decipher her words, but the sound was relief enough. I shouted back as loudly as possible, then unlaced my coat to dig through layers of leather. Came up with my knife, and cut Horse free of the wagon. It wasn’t going anywhere, but I needed Horse to.
I turned him uphill. Didn’t bother to mount, or even attempt to mount, not on a steep uphill slope and with my painful chest. Took a hard grip on the reins without restraining his mouth, tongue-clicked and hupped at him, and he began to climb. I went up behind him.
As Horse and I made it up the last few feet and topped out on the bluff, I found Del waiting there holding Sula on one hip. When she realized the only arrivals consisted of one horse and me on foot, no wagon and no second horse, her eyes widened.
We had learned to shade our language while with our daughter if divulging something might frighten her, make her sad, or result in crying. I stood beside Horse and blew visible breath into the air until I had enough for speaking.
“Other Horse,” I said, “decided to view the countryside.”
“But,” Del said, and left it at that because a question might provide more information than we wanted Sula to hear.
“A lengthy view,” I added, “but no plans for sleeping. I’ll return tomorrow, see if he’s ready to come home.”
That eased her. Del nodded, grappled with Sula as our daughter made it known she wanted me to hold her now. “And the wagon?”
“Uncertain. Needs examination.” I ran a gloved hand down Horse’s face. “We had best head back. The snow is getting heavier. Give me Sula—you can mount and I’ll hand her up so she can ride in front of you. I’ll lead Horse.”
Del’s eyes sharpened. “Are you all right?”
“I am fine.” I waved a hand at her. “Come on, bascha. Hand her over.”
Del did, and Sula attempted to hug my neck through layers of leather. I put her down just long enough to grab Del’s foot and boost her upward, then I grabbed Sula and placed her immediately in front of Del.
Slow going. Cold going. I hung onto Horse for a while, leading him, then fell in behind him to walk in his hoofprints as Del directed him with cut, uneven reins. Horse showed no inclination to do anything other than plod through the snow.
I realized Del had halted Horse when I nearly walked into the back of him. I waded my way around to the side and asked her what she was doing.
“Trading,” she said succinctly. “Time for you to ride with Sula, and I’ll walk.”
I patted her knee. “Stay up, bascha. You’re lighter.”
Del slid off the horse with Sula in her arms. “No.”
I was too sore and tired to argue with her. Del stepped out of the way with Sula, but held the reins. I grabbed a double handful of mane, backed up, then slung myself into the air and used my arms for leverage. There was nothing elegant about it, but it tossed me high enough so I could throw a leg across Horse’s very broad back. Del’s hand on his bridle kept him in place—wagon horses are used to being hitched, not mounted—and I settled myself upright as my chest thought unkind things.
Del handed Sula up, who was exceedingly happy that she now got to ride with her father. I folded the flaps of my coat around her, encircling her with my arms as I attempted to block the snow blowing right at us.
It was as miserable as I’d ever been, short of being stabbed or cut by a sword. Horse plodded through deepening drifts. Del, as I had, took up position at the rear when she tired of breaking fresh trail, and I learned that seriously annoyed me because I couldn’t see her. Del could fall flat on her face and be buried in pounds of snow, and I wouldn’t know.
But Horse was our keystone. And he brought us back to the canyon.
It was Mehmet and his people, the aketni, all my unwanted acolytes who considered me the jhihadi, their messiah, who saw us stagger our way off the road beside the creek. In his deep Desert dialect he shouted for everyone else to assemble, ran hither and yon to marshal his people to aid the jhihadi.
And so we were aided. Del and Sula were practically pulled off of Horse, then guided toward Mehmet’s low-built house, and I was patted, tugged at, and strongly encouraged to follow as Horse was led away.
Inside, Mehmet’s wife took Sula from Del as others began to strip us out of our snow-packed coats. We were handed cups of hot tea as various members of Mehmet’s aketni threw piles of blankets at the floor before the fire.
More tea. Sula fell asleep. Del and I, physically guided to lie down before the fire, stopped protesting and just let them do it. And then we faded. Just—went away.
We were warm. Dry. Sula was cradled between our bodies. The jhihadi decided sleep was the best idea he’d had in a very long time.
IT WAS THE rudest awakening I have ever experienced. One moment just beginning to become conscious, and the next buried in snow. Again.
I dug my way out, calling for Del and Sula as I scooped snow away with my hands. It was light, soft, and not difficult to fling aside. As she came free I grabbed Del’s hand and pulled her up even as she did the same with Sula.
From the little bedroom we heard Mehmet and his wife crying out, speaking deep Desert. Their half of the house appeared whole, safe from the snow. The front room, and fireplace, were buried beneath heaps.
Sula was crying. Del swept her up, perched the small bottom atop one bent arm while she stroked sleep-tousled hair with her other hand. Mehmet and his wife climbed out of bed and came into the front room, surveying the ruin of their roof. Snow lay everywhere. But nothing new fell, and as we all looked up into the day we realized the sky was blue and the rising sun shone brightly.
“The others,” Mehmet said, and made his way through to the front door. Which couldn’t be opened because it was blocked by snow.
I realized my feet were cold again. I realized, too, that my boots were not on them. Nor was I wearing much else, having stripped off most of my soaking wet clothes. I swore and went back to the pile of snow in front of the hearth where Del and I had slept, dug down with bare hands until I unearthed clothing and boots, which had been left near the fire for drying. Found mine, found Del’s, and made my way back to a place on the floor that was unencumbered by snow. I yanked on boots and clothing, then took Sula so Del, too, could dress. Then I handed our small girl back to her mother and went out through the door Mehmet had dug free.
Everywhere, snow. Thigh-high. The wind had sculpted it into drifts and rills. A cold dawn had brought a crust to it. Beneath the sun, it was blinding white.
Mehmet’s aketni had left their huts and stood outside gaping at the world. I at least had been to the North; I knew what snow was. These folk were from deep in the Punja. To them, no doubt, this was the work of magic.
And so it was. My body told me so. I felt the familiar roll of discontent in my belly, the shudder through my bones. Even a moment of disorientation.
Where am I?
And then I remembered. “Si’anasa,” I muttered. I considered trying to send it away, to make an attempt at taming it by using my own magecraft, but at once realized I might only attract the weather magic all the more.
No other house had lost its roof. When Mehmet called out to his people, explaining what had happened, they all expressed shock and immediately fought through deep snow to join him. In a matter of moments all were inside the house, clearing snow and broken roof away.
In the South, we don’t use plank wood, but the ribs of the tallest of cactus, trunks cut from scrubby trees, trimmed brush. All is roped together, then mudded over with clay and fired bricks. But these were flat roofs, not the peaked roofs of the Northern longhouses, never meant to take the weight of snow at all, let alone the amount that had piled up.
Del came out of the house, following the deep tracks Mehmet and I had left as we exited. Sula was fussing. She wanted down. Del, exasperated, finally set her on her feet in one of the foot-flattened areas left by Mehmet and I as we pushed through heavy, crusted snow. It nearly came up to her head. Sula’s eyes widened, and she demanded to be picked up again by trying to climb her mother.
I bent to scoop her up, winced as it set the bruises to aching and roused a sharp pain in my chest. I lifted her high regardless and settled her on my shoulders against the back of my head. “See the snow?” I asked. “That’s the world your mother was born into. Fortunately she had the great good sense to come south, where it’s warm. Dry. And it doesn’t snow.” Del’s brows shot up, and I promptly amended the statement. “Well, usually it doesn’t snow.”
“We need to go home,” Del said. “Neesha’s there, Alric and Lena and the children. And Darrion and Eddrith, unless they are in town. We need to see how they have fared.”
I nodded. “And if our roof has collapsed?” But Mehmet’s aketni would soon set this place to rights, and likely ours. “We’ll take our horse for you and Sula, and Mehmet will loan me one of his.” I looked toward the field of deep snow to the west of us. “It will be slow going.”
Del’s reply was crisp. “Then we should get started.”
The creek cut through the canyon, dark and rushing and not the least intimidated by the snowfield. The morning was crisp, brisk, and otherwise chilly, enough that my nose and cheeks felt it, but the sun nonetheless convinced me it was warmer than it actually was. Visible breath shot out of the horses’ nostrils in twin gusts as they labored to break paths in snow to their knees. Sula was once again wrapped up in coat, small boots, plus blankets donated by someone of the aketni. Atop Horse, she was a huddle of cloth in front of Del, which displayed undulations from time to time suggestive of Sula trying to thrust arms out from under the blankets. I winced as Mehmet’s horse tripped and jarred me.
“You’re hurt,” Del observed.
“Well . . . coming off a wagon in mid-fall will do that. Or rather, landing after coming off a wagon in mid-fall will do that.”
“Broken bones?”
“Bruises.”
“I’ll look when we get home.”
“I think we’ll be too busy for that when we get home. Like, digging out the house. Checking on the horses and goats. Seeing if Neesha and the others have survived.”
“Goats are more important than Neesha?” When she saw my blank look, she said, “You mentioned goats before him.”
“Goat legs are shorter than Neesha’s, and thus at greater risk in deep snow.”
She did not appear to think much of that explanation.
At the mouth of our smaller, much narrower canyon, an offshoot from the big one, we paused to let the horses blow. They were far more equipped to handle deep snow than we were, but breaking trail was taxing nonetheless. They were no more accustomed to it than we were. Well, than I was; probably Del had lots of experience.
“How do you live in this?” I asked. “All of—this.” I gestured with a sweep of one arm.
Del looked at me, puzzled. “You were there. We went to Staal-Ysta, remember? In winter.”
I most definitely remembered. The Place of Swords, where sword-singers—the Northern version of sword-dancers—learned their craft. Made, and slaked in blood their swords. Staal-Ysta was the birthplace of my own blade, Samiel. But the memories of the North, of Staal-Ysta, were not shaped by an awareness of snow, but by the belief I had killed Del.
“We use sledges,” Del said. “Sleighs. Dogsleds. The snow is packed down into pathways. But yes, if we go off-trail the challenges are greater.”
“But summer is different.”
Del’s smile was wide. “Oh, indeed. Summer is beautiful.”
