Read Online Cold Redemption by Nathan Hawke - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Nathan Hawke
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Have you lost your head? I mean he’s an Aulian too: what if he’s in league with the shadewalkers? Idiot
. At least there was no talk of throwing him into a ravine this
time.
The shadewalker was where Oribas had left it, standing as still as a statue as though it had grasped the futility of trying to break the circle of salt and was simply waiting for it to go away.
Addic and Jonnic crowded behind Oribas, who still wondered at their fear: if his circle of salt had failed then the shadewalker wouldn’t be here. The hard part came when one of them had to
step inside to finish it.
‘Now what?’ asked Addic.
‘Light a torch.’
Jonnic fumbled with a tinderbox, dropped it, picked it up, struck a few sparks and burned his hand. He couldn’t take his eyes off the shadewalker.
‘Give it to me.’ Oribas reached out but Jonnic jumped away as though the Aulian was a snake. Eventually the Marroc got a flame going and lit a brand. Oribas took careful steps
closer, looking for the line of the salt. Salt and snow. Belatedly he realised how lucky they were that the trees here were dense enough to keep most of the snow off the forest floor. Out in the
fields under their blankets of white his circle of salt would never have worked.
The shadewalker stepped back as though daring him to cross. It was watching him. Oribas took a fistful each of saltpetre and powdered metal from his pouch and crossed the line. The shadewalker
sprang at him at once but Oribas was ready. He threw the powders in its face and stepped smartly back, stumbling a little as its sword swung past him. ‘Now burn it!’
Jonnic stood frozen. Addic snatched the torch and threw it, straight and true. It hit the shadewalker in the chest and a whoosh of flame shot up. It dropped its sword and staggered, stumbling
this way and that, trying to get away from the fire. Oribas picked up a lump of snow and hurled it. ‘Cold pure water.’ The flames were dying already, the metal and the saltpetre enough
to scorch it but never enough to set it alight. He’d heard of some people using oil to burn the creatures, and Gallow said the Marroc of Andhun made an oil from fish which ran like warm honey
and burned as easily as dried grass, but so far he hadn’t seen a drop of it among the Marroc of the mountains.
Addic gave him a bemused look and then he and Jonnic began to pelt the shadewalker with snow. Oribas filled his hands with salt again. As the shadewalker reeled he stepped back into the circle
and threw both handfuls. The shadewalker hissed and crackled, its skin blackening. A terrible smell knotted Oribas’s stomach. The creature’s struggles stopped. It fell to its knees and
pitched forward and lay still on its soft bed of fallen needles and sparse trampled snow. The Marroc stared at it.
‘Is it dead?’
‘It was already dead,’ said Oribas. ‘That wasn’t as much flame or salt as there should have been. It must have been weak already. It’ll be still for a while now. An
iron sword through the heart will end it for ever.’
Neither Marroc moved. Oribas rolled his eyes. He crossed the line of salt and knelt beside the prone shadewalker and started pulling at its mail. The Marroc just stared and backed away, and it
was hard work doing it on his own because the shadewalker was big and heavy and stank enough to make him gag, and there was always the nagging worry that maybe his books were wrong and everything
he’d heard wasn’t quite as he remembered it and the shadewalker wasn’t in a torpor that would last for hours, and what, exactly, was he going to do if it started moving again
before he was finished?
He rolled it over, tipped another handful of salt over its face and went back to struggling to haul its mail high enough over its chest for someone to stab it through the heart. Addic came to
help him at last and then Jonnic, both of them ashen-faced and quivering like squirrels but at least they had an urgency to them. When it was done,
. At least there was no talk of throwing him into a ravine this
time.
The shadewalker was where Oribas had left it, standing as still as a statue as though it had grasped the futility of trying to break the circle of salt and was simply waiting for it to go away.
Addic and Jonnic crowded behind Oribas, who still wondered at their fear: if his circle of salt had failed then the shadewalker wouldn’t be here. The hard part came when one of them had to
step inside to finish it.
‘Now what?’ asked Addic.
‘Light a torch.’
Jonnic fumbled with a tinderbox, dropped it, picked it up, struck a few sparks and burned his hand. He couldn’t take his eyes off the shadewalker.
‘Give it to me.’ Oribas reached out but Jonnic jumped away as though the Aulian was a snake. Eventually the Marroc got a flame going and lit a brand. Oribas took careful steps
closer, looking for the line of the salt. Salt and snow. Belatedly he realised how lucky they were that the trees here were dense enough to keep most of the snow off the forest floor. Out in the
fields under their blankets of white his circle of salt would never have worked.
The shadewalker stepped back as though daring him to cross. It was watching him. Oribas took a fistful each of saltpetre and powdered metal from his pouch and crossed the line. The shadewalker
sprang at him at once but Oribas was ready. He threw the powders in its face and stepped smartly back, stumbling a little as its sword swung past him. ‘Now burn it!’
Jonnic stood frozen. Addic snatched the torch and threw it, straight and true. It hit the shadewalker in the chest and a whoosh of flame shot up. It dropped its sword and staggered, stumbling
this way and that, trying to get away from the fire. Oribas picked up a lump of snow and hurled it. ‘Cold pure water.’ The flames were dying already, the metal and the saltpetre enough
to scorch it but never enough to set it alight. He’d heard of some people using oil to burn the creatures, and Gallow said the Marroc of Andhun made an oil from fish which ran like warm honey
and burned as easily as dried grass, but so far he hadn’t seen a drop of it among the Marroc of the mountains.
Addic gave him a bemused look and then he and Jonnic began to pelt the shadewalker with snow. Oribas filled his hands with salt again. As the shadewalker reeled he stepped back into the circle
and threw both handfuls. The shadewalker hissed and crackled, its skin blackening. A terrible smell knotted Oribas’s stomach. The creature’s struggles stopped. It fell to its knees and
pitched forward and lay still on its soft bed of fallen needles and sparse trampled snow. The Marroc stared at it.
‘Is it dead?’
‘It was already dead,’ said Oribas. ‘That wasn’t as much flame or salt as there should have been. It must have been weak already. It’ll be still for a while now. An
iron sword through the heart will end it for ever.’
Neither Marroc moved. Oribas rolled his eyes. He crossed the line of salt and knelt beside the prone shadewalker and started pulling at its mail. The Marroc just stared and backed away, and it
was hard work doing it on his own because the shadewalker was big and heavy and stank enough to make him gag, and there was always the nagging worry that maybe his books were wrong and everything
he’d heard wasn’t quite as he remembered it and the shadewalker wasn’t in a torpor that would last for hours, and what, exactly, was he going to do if it started moving again
before he was finished?
He rolled it over, tipped another handful of salt over its face and went back to struggling to haul its mail high enough over its chest for someone to stab it through the heart. Addic came to
help him at last and then Jonnic, both of them ashen-faced and quivering like squirrels but at least they had an urgency to them. When it was done,
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