Riven (The Arinthian Line Book 2) (16 page)

They repeated it together one more time in a quiet whisper, before coming together in a tight embrace.

“I haven’t forgotten it,” Leera said.

Bridget smiled. “Nor I.”

“I never will.” Augum let go, attached Burden’s Edge to his waist, and slung the bow and quiver of newly-fletched arrows over his shoulders. He felt thoroughly prepared.

“Oh, and we have something for you—” Bridget reached into the rucksack and withdrew their very last item of food—the black Leyan apple. “Catch.”

Augum caught it. They were giving him the last of their food. In a year and a few months, he will be sixteen-years-old and a man in the eyes of the world, yet he needed to be one now. He needed to come through. He needed to find game.

Leera punched him on the shoulder. “Get us a big ‘un,” and with those words, he departed.

Sticks in the Snow

Augum pushed through powdery waist-high snow, periodically stopping to listen. Other than the soft pitter-patter of fat snowflakes, there was the kind of stillness that could only come from a forest entombed in winter. Gray clouds hung low, the cold bitter, freezing his breath. The wolf coat provided excellent protection for all but his hands. He also had to keep his hood off in order to hear, even though his ears stung with frost.

He marched west, taking note of the trees as he passed, remembering the blinding power of the blizzard at Hangman’s Rock. What he wanted to spot were deer tracks, but he’d settle for rabbit or even squirrel. Movement was slow and tedious and he found himself wishing there was an arcane way to hunt.

He soon heard the distant ripple of the Summerwine. He pushed on, stumbling across thin gouges in the snow. At first, he thought they were just marks from felled branches, until he spotted the sweeps between each hole, as if sticks had walked by.

He froze, listening to the murmur of the river, concluding that it had to be some kind of tall-legged bird. Upon closer inspection, there was a drag line on top of the snow, as if someone trailed string or a piece of cloth. Maybe it was a heron with a fish?

He followed the meandering tracks northward for a good hour before he heard the sound of clacking. He ducked, unslung his bow, and prowled forward.

The shape of a person moved beyond the branches ahead, wandering as if lost. Back in Willowbrook, he might have called out, but this was southern Solia, unfamiliar land. The longer he watched the way it moved, the more reservations he had. It seemed to sway back and forth, a shadow beyond the trees, like some sort of deranged person.

Suddenly it stopped clacking and froze.

Augum held his breath, hoping whatever it was had not seen him. Snowflakes gently fell, the Summerwine trickled, but all he heard was the thump of his own heart. He watched the shape so long that he began to wonder if he was losing his mind and there was nothing there.

All of a sudden it sprinted for him, crashing through the branches. And then he understood why the thin tracks—the thing was a skeletal corpse! The clacking was its jaws snapping together, and the trailings were pieces of rotten skin and threads of burial cloth.

He fumbled for Burden’s Edge but the cadaver was too quick. It slammed into him, burying him in a plume of snow, and began to hammer his chest like a rabid blacksmith. He gasped as if drowning, unprepared for its speed and strength.

He used the last of his breath to shout, “SHYNEO!” and grabbed the squishy ribcage, but it was immune to his shocking touch. There was only one chance—Centarro, but in order to cast it he would need to get this thing off him. He tried to take a breath but only gulped snow. He tried to punch but it was like punching branches. The last thing he could think of was to buck it off, but its position directly over him, in this snow which hampered sidelong movement, gave him no leverage.

What vision remained began to quickly tunnel as the vibrations of each strike rattled his innards like a drum. There was a sickening crack in his ribcage.

This was it. He was going to die.

A final surge of desperation gripped him like fever. He flailed and screamed, as rabid as the thing itself, pushing it back just long enough to raise his head above the snow and grab a quick breath of air, before being pounded back into the suffocating winter ocean.

The black tunnel resumed its inward caving. And then Augum felt something he had not felt in a long while—the slowing of time. The space around him warped as if elastic, while he felt a familiar energy surge to every point of his body, seeking exit, like a wolf testing a fence for holes. Gasping his last breath, he recalled being carried away by a storm so long ago. Felt the sensation of tumbling amongst the clouds, far above the Tallows …

His hair stiffened and he tasted a peculiar tang on his tongue. Suddenly a monstrous bolt of lightning connected him to the sky, blasting through the living cadaver. For a brief instant, he was able to witness its bones vaporize before the walls of his vision collapsed.

***

Augum awoke shivering, covered in a layer of snow, a sharp pain in his chest. He sat up, blearily wiping his face. The snow had melted around him in the shape of a large basin. Pieces of bone and rot lay everywhere and there was the distinct smell of burnt flesh. A tunnel punctured the evergreen canopy directly above, as if a fireball had rammed its way through. He gaped at the singed pine needle edges as the memory of what transpired slowly returned.

Nana had warned him about using it, but that was the third time wild arcanery had saved his life.

The pain in his chest intensified as he opened his wolf-hide coat, revealing a bloody stain on his robe. Wincing, he closed it up and stood, the act jarring his ribs sharply. Something had to be broken.

He fixed his gaze on a large bone stuck in the snow. Where had this thing come from? Had his father raised it using necromancy? Or did it crawl out of the ground on its own, like in those nightmare stories they tell children to scare them into behaving.

Studying the sky revealed the sun was to the far west. He must have been out for a while. Lucky there weren’t more of those things.

The Summerwine trickled distantly as snow continued to fall, the flakes tumbling lazily. He drew his hood and scavenged for his Leyan apple, taking cold bites with shivering hands. It reminded him that friends waited by a warm fire.

He needed to get back as soon as possible. The longer he stayed out here, the more dangerous it became. He reeked with the scent of blood, and who knew what else might come calling. He had failed his quest for food but at least he was alive, if injured.

“Horsemeat it is,” he muttered, throwing the finished core aside. He adjusted Burden’s Edge and picked up the bow and quiver, wincing from the sharp grating in his chest. The bow was intact but four arrows had broken in the melee, leaving him with only one. He slung the bow and quiver over his shoulder and began the laborious retreat back to the cabin. Every step sent a stab through his chest, forcing him to hobble at a worm’s pace.

He was halfway back to the cabin when he came across a set of prints he
did
recognize—that of a mirko. Mirkos were smaller and slower than deer, but they liked meat, so they could be dangerous to hunt, especially when they were hungry. When it came to mirkos, many a man thought himself the hunter only to find himself the hunted—and it was usually too late by then. Sir Westwood warned him he should never shoot one without being ready to cut it down with his sword, in case he missed. They were notoriously mean-spirited creatures too, sometimes following a man for days, tormenting him, before finally taking him when he tired and fell asleep. Luckily, they were solitary hunters, not pack animals like wolves. Augum studied the tracks and concluded the mirko was likely still near enough to warrant an attempt. The pain in his chest protested, and the cold was only deepening. He knew he could get lost if the clouds remained this thick, or worse, run into a skeleton again, in which case he’d be done for—yet the others desperately needed food, especially Sydo and Mya. He had to try.

He unslung his bow and painstakingly placed his only arrow to the sinew string, hands so numb the task took a dangerously long time to accomplish. The light dwindled as he tracked the mirko on a northeasterly path.

There was a rustle to his left and he froze, bow held in front. Something was slowly slinking his way. Still your mind, he told himself. He focused on his breathing, waiting for the right moment, as a dark shape prowled nearer in his peripheral vision. The bow shook along with his shivering body. He slowly drew the string back as far as it would go, wincing from the grinding pain in his chest. For a moment, he contemplated trying to cast Centarro, but should the spell fail …

There was a sharp snuffling and a scraping sprint. Augum whipped around, spotting dark brown fur and a grizzled snout. He grit his teeth and let his only arrow fly. It speared the mirko through its front quarter. The animal yelped and stumbled, giving him just enough time to draw Burden’s Edge. He sliced off its head in one clean swoop.

Sir Westwood would be proud, he thought, watching as the mirko head stained the snow with blood. There was no time to celebrate the kill, however, as the light was fading fast. He buried the head in snow, wiped his blade, slung the carcass over his shoulders, and retraced his steps.

Luckily, the forest allowed him to stumble back to the cabin unscathed.

Bridget opened the door as he dropped the carcass to the planks. “Thank all that is good! It’s dark out and we were so worried—”

The excitement of everything that had happened suddenly wore off, leaving only exhaustion and a grating sharp pain that sent him down to one knee.

“You’re injured!” Leera said, rushing to his side.

He was so tired he just collapsed into her arms. All the fight had gone out of him.

“Got a … big ‘un …” he managed to mumble, coughing and wincing. “Need to … get inside … smell of blood …”

“But what happened—”

“I’ll tell you … inside …” He glanced back at the dark forest one last time, half expecting to hear a clacking sound.

Leera and Bridget dragged him in, followed by the mirko carcass. Leera immediately set to removing his coat, gasping when she saw the giant bloodstain on his robe. He only grimaced, head lolling against her shoulder. He felt woozy and tired. All he wanted to do was curl up by the fire and sleep.

The girls removed his coat and his robe, leaving him in his undergarments. But he was too exhausted and in too much pain to be embarrassed.

Mya, forehead glistening, placed a hand to his chest and felt around, a serious look on her face.

“Ow!” he said as she prodded a sharp bone. As painful as it was, he trembled under her soft touch.

“His ribs are broken. They will heal on their own over a half a month’s time, unless we find an arcane healer first. He has been exposed to the cold too long. Make sure he gets plenty of water, rest, and warmth.”

“We will,” Leera said. She washed his bloody hands while Bridget bandaged him up with clean cloth and wrapped him in a blanket.

“Now don’t you dare try to get up and help,” Bridget said, tucking him in near the fire. “The mirko is in good hands. You did your part, now let us do ours.”

He tried to smile, hiding a wince.

Leera attended to the carcass, draining its blood, skinning it (“The hide will be perfect to barter with!”), and then butchering it (“Ugh—disgusting …”), before placing some cuts of meat on the fire. Bridget, meanwhile, made a pot of herbal tea and attended to the stricken foursome.

Neither Thomas nor the prince had woken upon Augum’s return. When Augum glanced at his great-grandfather, his heart dropped. The man looked every bit over a hundred years, skin pale and shriveled as if it had been under water for days.

“We chatted with your great-grandfather a bit, m’lord,” Mya whispered, suppressing a cough while raising her head.

Augum didn’t bother asking her to stop calling him that.

“He spoke of you and Mrs. Stone, of his daughter, and even of your father.”

“My father?”

Mya glanced to Bridget and Leera, who had suddenly gone quiet. “He said … that he missed everyone, and he … he asked us to make supper for the family as he was sure they were all returning for the new year’s feast.”

He covered his shaking hands so they weren’t visible. “Anything else?”

“He rambled a bit and … he said … he said he was sorry he could not help us more. Then he asked to be buried in the old way—in fire. He also asked … he asked for us to remember that he was Leyan, and to remember that he died a mortal death.”

He nodded slowly as Mya’s head returned to the pillow. For a time nobody spoke. Leera attended to the hearth and the mirko meat as Bridget cared for Mya and Sydo, putting damp cloths to their foreheads.

Augum’s teeth eventually stopped chattering enough for him to whisper about the encounter with the skeleton and how he slew it with some sort of desperate lightning bolt.

“ ‘Sticks in the snow,’ ” Thomas mumbled.

Augum sat up a little. “What’s that, Great-grandfather?”

Thomas’ voice was barely audible. “ ‘Sticks in the sand … sticks in the snow … reveal a man … dead long ago …’ ”

“I remember,” Mya said, eyes unfocused. “My mother once told it to me. She said it’s a rhyme that goes back to Occulus’ era.”

“Augum, I worry about this wild arcanery business,” Bridget said, handing him a cup of tea.

“It’s saved my life three times now.”

“He didn’t have a choice, Bridge,” Leera said.

“I know, I just … I don’t want him to use it if he doesn’t have to.”

“I won’t,” he said.

They debated on where the walker came from, what the trapper might do once he returned to find one of them injured and others ill, and wondered why he hadn’t returned yet.

Leera fed some logs into the fire from the stack then hung the mirko hide outside. Meanwhile, Bridget brought another pot of water to boil and made licorice root, elderflower and mint tea. She then gently woke Sydo up and offered it to him. He was so weak he needed her help to drink. She whispered soothing words, but he only scowled.