Authors: Steph Swainston

Tags: #Fantasy

Above the Snowline (2 page)

BOOK: Above the Snowline

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The air was rich with the smell of damp humus and deep-textured bark. Meshed branches softened the ice-bright sunlight to an aquamarine glow that dappled the ground. Dellin and Laochan’s light tread made no sound on the compacted needles as they ran past ferns, ant mounds, and the trees’ roots covered in inedible red-capped fungi. She was alert to every sound, yearning to hear the scuffling of a deer fleeing, but nothing came to her except the fluttering of small birds in the branches.

She swung her arms, loving her spear’s perfect balance. Its steel tip arced to and fro at the edge of her vision. Laochan’s spear bounced against his back in a tubular bone holder.

Notches had been freshly hacked in the larger trunks. Laochan slowed and sent Dellin a worried glance, but she simply ran on and he had to follow. They peered down between the trunks to the trading post road. A new track left its nearest hairpin bend, leading up towards the top of the promontory. It was freshly scuffed and very wide, with two ruts where wheels had churned the pine needles muddy brown.

Laochan whispered, ‘It looks too
used
.’

‘Don’t worry. We can spot the horses without leaving cover.’

They ran alongside the track until the forest stopped abruptly. Laochan threw his arm out to warn her and crouched behind a rowan bush. She sank down beside him. The track curved out in front of them and where the forest had been was nothing but stumps, the boles of recently felled pines, pale chips and branches all over the ground as if strewn by the most terrific storm of all time. The wheeled sledges, like boxes with arched canvas roofs, were lined up at the end of the track. Behind them, a high wall with a gap in it surrounded the buildings.

Laochan darted horrified glances around. ‘Have they built all this since last time?’

‘They must have. No! Don’t dash off! I’m hungry.’

‘What are they doing?’

‘I don’t know. Look.’ The horses were grazing on the other side of the track inside a sort of large pen, an enclosure like the ones goats are kept in, but
huge
, so huge Dellin couldn’t see across it. Eight, nine, ten brown mares were tugging mouthfuls of dry grass from a manger in the centre. One magnificent black stallion stood apart, swishing his tail and raising his head to sniff the air. Laochan watched them with a fascinated light in his eyes. ‘They look strong.’

‘Yes, but they’re easy pickings. No claws or horns to gore us, and they won’t dive underground.’

‘Where are the featherbacks?’

‘I’ve no idea. They must be in their pueblo.’

He nodded. ‘They’ll probably be drinking if they’ve trapped this much food.’

‘Then let’s take some.’

They glanced at each other. They had hunted together for so long he easily read her expression. He nodded seriously, took his spear’s detachable bone point and eased it in its socket to make its string run free, then ran his beautiful hands over the bolas cord wound around his waist. He met her eyes and said, ‘Wait for my call,’ then slipped round the bush and was gone. He ran, stooped, across the track and circled around the pen to approach from upwind. He reached the wheeled sledges, gave a frightened glance at the height of their roofs, then dropped to hands and knees and crept between them.

Dellin snaked out and down to the near side of the strange pen. It seemed to be circular, more than a hundred strides across, and its far side almost touched the cliff edge. She squirmed closer on her belly, holding her spear off the ground. The damp grass brushed the front of her parka and grit pressed into her palms.

The male horse whinnied. Shit, she thought, he’s scented us already. The mares bunched together, holding their heads high, rolling their eyes and flaring their nostrils. The cold breeze lifted hairs from their manes and tails, turned their every puff of breath to wreaths of steam that hung around them in the pale air. Lumps of dry mud clung to their hooves. Dellin wondered at the mud - it wasn’t the thin soil of Carnich, it had come from somewhere else entirely. She picked out one of the mares but they were clustered near the manger with the enormous stallion pacing round and round.

He’ll be better eating than squirrels and toadstools, she thought, but the pain in her belly was so intense and she felt so weak, she knew she was better choosing one of the mares. She crouched and waited, ignoring the strain in her knees, thinking, come on, Laochan.

She heard his low whistle on the other side of the enclosure and sprang up - grabbed the rail and vaulted it, shouting, ‘Hey! Hey!’

He leapt the fence, spear in hand, landed and dashed at the horses. Dellin’s mare bolted with the rest towards the barrier and she thought they’d all jump it, but frightened by the precipice they swerved and ran alongside, Dellin’s mare in the middle.

She raised her spear beside her cheek, its point steady in front. She balanced it in her hand, steering the shaft with her thumb. She ran faster, halted and hurled the spear with all her strength, all her momentum, the whole long fulcrum of her body. She tipped forward, started running, watching its flight.

The spear arced up, descended point first and plunged into the horse’s hindquarters, sinking in two thirds of its length. The horse stumbled, incredibly regained its footing, but the others raced past and left it behind.

It ran after them, its back leg jolting the shaft back and forth, sawing the spear point and cutting its flesh. A second later the point emerged under its belly, shining with blood. The wound widened and a pad of intestine protruded and slipped out until two loops hung down.

A kill, Dellin thought. A kill in one throw! The mare was tiring - it still tried to keep up with the herd, but hampered by pain and the dragging shaft couldn’t lift its hooves as high. Dellin smelt its terror and howled with excitement.
I’m going to catch it
! She bounded forward and pounced. She buffeted into the hard wall of its shoulder, threw her arm over its neck, jolted and dug her nails in. The horse lifted her off her feet and dragged her along.

Her toes bumped on the stones. The mare’s tough hair rubbed her cheek, but before it could turn its head to bite, Dellin grabbed its mane, flexed her arms and pulled herself up to sit astride. She was riding!

‘Hey!’ she cried. ‘Hey, Laochan!’

His face turned up in astonishment from beside a brown mound - his prey was lying quivering, and he was trying to work his spear free.

Under Dellin’s thighs the mare’s shoulders surged and thumped. Its mane swished her trousers and its hooves threw up clods of turf. She wasn’t satisfied with a messy kill; she wanted to make it clean. She drew her knife, grasped it in both hands and stabbed it down through the tough neck.

Blood whipped back, splattered her and pattered on the ground. The foam around its mouth streaked with red. Bits flew back and stuck to her. She pushed and the knife disappeared up to its hilt. The mare’s legs buckled, it pitched forward and Dellin jumped clear. She landed on hands and feet, was up again in an instant and saw the mare lying on its side. It rolled onto its belly and tried to pull itself up by its straight front legs, then collapsed completely, breathing heavily.

Dellin ran to its back, out of the way of its frantically kicking hooves, grabbed the waving shaft and pulled it free. Then she raised the spear above its eye and for a second saw the point reflect on the shining brown orb. She thrust the spear, jumped onto the shaft, and felt it sink home.

She released her weight from the shaft and stepped back. She loved taking an animal’s movement and stilling it. She loved being able to see closely all the details of its body, and the rich smell of its sweat was making her giddy. She stroked its flank. The coarse hairs felt silky when smoothed along their grain. Underneath, its muscles flickered in their last spasms.

Dellin’s hands were sticky with the tremendous amount of blood pouring freely from its neck. She retrieved her knife, slipped it into the suede sheath on her thigh, settled back on her haunches and meticulously licked her fingers clean. Then she leant over the horse’s bulk and poked her tongue into the wound, where the hair-bearing skin had pulled back from the slick red flesh, so wet and warm. She bit the flat expanse of its neck, feeling her teeth slide over the hard hairs. She pressed her lips against them, relishing the overpowering scent, and breathed it in through nose and open mouth - filling her lungs with it, filling her mind as if she had become part of it. She felt the horse relax and its smell changed from enticing prey to fresh meat - it was dead.

Food at last! Dellin bowed her head and sucked, sucked at the wound. She drank her fill, then looked to Laochan. He had not made his kill as cleanly as hers, since he stubbornly still used a bone spear, and its uppermost back leg was twitching. Behind him, the other prey stampeded round and round, crazed with fear and streaming ragged scarves of breath.

The handsome black stallion caught Dellin’s eye. It was indeed a prestigious beast. If she killed it, she could thread one of its teeth on her necklace. Her strength was flowing back now; the mare’s blood was so wholesome she lusted for more. She fancied she could smell the blood of the stallion coursing in its very veins. She wrenched her spear from the mare’s skull with a pull and a twist, then gave a double whistle.

Laochan looked up, his mouth and chin shining red. Dellin pointed at the stallion. He wiped his sleeve across his face and grinned. He stood, digging his thumb under the bolas cord coiled around his waist, loosened the knot and unwound the three cords, releasing the stone balls that had been bound at his hip. He gracefully lifted the handle so they hung loose at the end of each cord, and whistled he was ready.

Dellin whistled, ‘I’ll chase it to you,’ and leapt forward over the tussocks. Her soft boots were silent but her bangles jangled and inside the neck of her parka her strings of beads rattled. The stallion sensed it had been singled out. For a second she thought it might turn and attack her. But it continued racing its fastest, neck stretched and head thrust forward, as if it would burst through the barrier and go tumbling, mane, tail and hooves, down the cliff.

She manoeuvred between it and the fence, matched speed with it and turned it towards Laochan. Few animals had ever outrun her, even when they were fleeing for their lives. She put on a spurt and made it charge quicker, ecstatic that her reflexes were so much faster, she could turn it whenever she wanted.

The stallion saw Laochan and tried to cut in front of Dellin to escape, but a jab of her spear forced it closer. He slipped the three round weights off his shoulder, let them drop free and swung them to and fro. Then he raised the handle and twirled the bolas above his head.

She halted and let the stallion race on. As Laochan’s hand swung towards the horse he released the bolas. The three balls on their ropes spun through the air, looped into the stallion’s legs and tangled them together.

It went over hard onto its withers and head, thumped back onto its side - Dellin heard a leg break - and lay struggling, lifting its head, arcing its body, thrashing its hopelessly wrapped-up hooves. She pounced, her knife drawn like a single talon, and shredded its throat so thoroughly its eyes were already beginning to glaze by the time Laochan sprinted over.

His shadow cast across her and striped the stallion’s broad body. She looked up, seeing the wind ruffle his long hair. His eyes reflected the sunlight and shone with joy. He smiled with blood in the corners of his mouth and Dellin beamed back. ‘We’ve enough meat for weeks!’

‘We can’t carry it all,’ he said. ‘We’ll have to make a cache . . . At least one.’

Dellin nodded. ‘The tall spruce is best. Remember the one above the ravine? If we tie our packs in its branches the wolves won’t get them. Oh, this is just like last summer!’ She went down on hands and knees and examined the horse’s incisors; great yellow plaques, with chewed grass and mashed blue flowers between them. Small bubbles of saliva clung around its pulled-back lips. ‘Good,’ she said. ‘I’m going to take a front tooth.’ She found a rock and began to bash its gums.

Laochan bent a leg and examined its hoof. ‘Look! Look! It grows metal underneath. Wow. Metal hooves!’

She wiggled an incisor free and drew out its very long root.

Laochan poked his finger into an old spur-scar over its ribs. ‘What’s this?’

‘Some kind of thorn scratch.’

‘Wait till they hear how I brought it down . . .’

‘They’ll think you’ve grown ten dicks. Hurry up! We have to butcher it before the wolves appear.’

BOOK: Above the Snowline

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