She groaned, her eyes fluttering for a moment . . . and the shield fell.
The cold was like a hammerblow, raising a pained groan from every throat as the travelers shrank beneath its weight, pressing together in instinctive need. Vaelin held tight to Scar’s reins as Dahrena wrapped her arms around his waist and Kiral huddled against his back, chanting softly in Lonak, the words unknown but the lilting tone familiar: death song. The horses and ponies screamed as the wind lashed them, some bucking and rearing in terror, tearing free of their tethers to flee into the storm. Scar snorted and stamped, the reins pulling taut in Vaelin’s grip as the warhorse gave a great whinny of protest, threatening to pull him free of the company. Vaelin gritted his teeth and pulled hard on the reins, dragging the horse closer and pressing himself and Dahrena against his side in the hope the faint warmth might reassure him. Scar whinnied again but calmed, probably more from the weakening effects of the cold than any instinctive loyalty.
Time seemed to elongate as they endured the storm’s assault, every second a test of endurance. The horses started to die after the first hour, slumping down in silent exhaustion, their riders huddling behind the soon-frozen corpses. Vaelin could hear other Lonak voices raised in the same lilting cadence, more death songs gifted to the wind, fading as the endless minutes dragged by.
He had begun to sag when he felt the storm weaken, a sudden removal of the blade-like chill. He released Scar’s reins, stifling a shout of pain at the sensation of life returning to part-frozen fingers. Dahrena stirred next to him, a weary smile visible through the swaddle of furs. To his amazement Scar was still alive, though slumped to his knees with snow piled on his flanks, blinking dolorous eyes at Vaelin as he scratched his ears.
Taking stock, they found half the Lonak ponies dead along with a third of the guardsmen’s horses. Four of the Sentar had also perished, all veteran warriors a decade or so older than their comrades. In what appeared to be a Lonak custom, Alturk gathered the belongings and shared them out among the other Sentar as they gathered around the bodies. No words were spoken; their only outward regard for the dead was a brief glance at the corpses before moving away.
Vaelin went to Wise Bear’s side, watching as the shaman’s gaze roamed the ice on all sides, a worried frown on his brow. “Which direction?” Vaelin asked.
Wise Bear continued his survey for another moment then lowered his gaze. “None.”
“But the price . . .”
“Ice breaks all around.” The shaman made a circular motion with his bone-staff. “Nowhere to walk. This time we all pay price.”
? ? ?
They made camp and waited, the Realm folk huddling around their fires, the Lonak occupying themselves by butchering the fallen ponies and horses. Meat should not be wasted on the ice after all. The now-familiar booming crack came soon after sunrise. The sound lasted much longer than before, the ice giving full vent to its torment as walls of white mist rose on all sides. Abruptly the ice shifted beneath their feet, the sky seeming to sway above as the entire field shattered for miles around with a thunderclap crescendo. The subsequent silence seemed vast, all members of the company fallen to their knees and staring about in expectation of some climactic calamity. But nothing came. The ice swayed gently beneath them, the surrounding ice-scape moving in a slow but constant drift to the east.
Vaelin joined Wise Bear at the edge of the fragment where they were now marooned, looking down at the cavernous gap between them and the nearest berg, so deep the ocean water below was lost to sight. “The ice is kind,” the shaman said in a surprisingly calm voice.
“Kind?” Vaelin asked.
“Islands to the east.” A faint smile played over Wise Bear’s aged face. “Home.”
? ? ?
The weather remained calm for the following week as they accustomed themselves to life on their new home. The berg was a good three hundred paces from end to end allowing for a sprawling camp, and, thanks to the storm, they were well supplied with horse-meat. Occasionally the berg would collide with one of its neighbours, the ice shuddering from the impact but so far failing to crack. For Vaelin the ever-shortening days were more worrying than their immobility, the Long Night was coming and he had no illusions as to their chances when it came.
“You had no choice,” Kiral told him one morning. He had gone to the edge of the berg in what had become something of a daily ritual. They were so far north now that Avenshura could be glimpsed for a brief time between dusk and sunrise, shining brighter than he had seen before. No war can be fought in the light that it brings. Just an ancient delusion, he knew. Life, death, love, war. It would all be played out on this earth until the end of time and Avenshura didn’t care. It was just a star.
“These people followed me,” he said. “To their doom it seems.”