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Authors: Lynn Flewelling
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sleep.
Seregil climbed an outcropping and shaded his eyes as he looked back across the snowfield. Blue shadow still lay-deep in the valley, but he could make out a dark column of men closing in on the village. It wouldn’t take long for them to see that their prey had fled, or what direction they’d gone.
“There they are,” he whispered to Retak. “We have to move on quickly!” Hardly daring to breathe, they continued up the pass.
It was a fearsome journey. The villagers moved as swiftly as they could, some bowed under loads of fuel and food, others carrying children on their backs or aged relatives on litters. Only the muffled creak of snowshoes and pack straps broke the silence.
Old Timan trudged painfully along near the rear, supported by Turik and his brothers.
Mercifully, Vara had died and she and her child were hidden now in the drifts beyond the goat enclosures.
But her death was not in vain; she’d given Retak’s village time to prepare. Shimmering veils of snow blew across the pass, dislodging small falls down the slopes. These gave out harmlessly in fine bits of crust, rolling down to leave mouse trails across their path.
Ominous cracks and groans echoed between the cliffs overhead, but Shradin gave no warning sign and Retak silently motioned his people on.
Trudging along in their midst, Seregil was deeply moved by the mix of fear, trust, and determination that drove these people forward. They’d welcomed him—a stranger—given him the best of all they had. When Retak claimed him as a member of his clan, it was meant literally, in the eyes of the Dravnians he was now a blood member of the community for as long as he wished to claim kinship.
The Plenimaran marines pursuing them had been offered the same welcome.
Looking back as they neared the cave, he saw that the enemy had reached the village and was now turning toward the pass.
You bastards! he thought bitterly.
You’d carve these people like sheep for whatever lies hidden at the end of that tunnel. You slaughtered Vara’s village. But you were sloppy my friends, and that makes all the difference!
Up ahead Retak conferred briefly with Shradin, then motioned for a halt. Seregil climbed up to join them. “Do those men know how to read the snow?” he whispered..
“Let’s hope not. Retak, tell the others to move a bit and watch for your signal. Are the young men in place?”
“They’re ready. But what if this plan of yours doesn’t work?”
“Then we’ll need another plan.” Feeling much less confident than he sounded, Seregil went to take his own position.
The villagers nervously watched the Plenimarans. The sun was higher now, and glinted back from spears and helmets below. What first appeared only as a long, dark movement against the snow soon resolved into individual men toiling toward them.
Whatever the Plenimarans think they’re after here, they not taking any chances, Seregil thought, counting over a hundred men. He glanced briefly up the slope, trying to make out the mouth of the spirit chamber tunnel and wondering again what could be worth all this.
The Plenimarans were close enough for Seregil to make out the insignia on their breastplates before Shradin and Retak. The headman raised his staff overhead with both arms and let out a bloodcurdling yell. Every villager joined in screaming at the top of their lungs. At the same time Seregil, Shradin, and the young men of the village shoved piles of loosened rock and ice chunks, sending them careening down the steep slope.
For an instant nothing happened.
Then the first rumblings sounded along the western face as tons of snow and ice sloughed off, plunging down on the column.
Seregil could see the pale ovals of upturned faces. The soldiers realized too late the trap they’d been drawn into. The neat column wavered and broke. Men foundered in the snow, throwing aside their arms as they sought some direction of escape from the implacable wave bearing down on them.
The
Seregil climbed an outcropping and shaded his eyes as he looked back across the snowfield. Blue shadow still lay-deep in the valley, but he could make out a dark column of men closing in on the village. It wouldn’t take long for them to see that their prey had fled, or what direction they’d gone.
“There they are,” he whispered to Retak. “We have to move on quickly!” Hardly daring to breathe, they continued up the pass.
It was a fearsome journey. The villagers moved as swiftly as they could, some bowed under loads of fuel and food, others carrying children on their backs or aged relatives on litters. Only the muffled creak of snowshoes and pack straps broke the silence.
Old Timan trudged painfully along near the rear, supported by Turik and his brothers.
Mercifully, Vara had died and she and her child were hidden now in the drifts beyond the goat enclosures.
But her death was not in vain; she’d given Retak’s village time to prepare. Shimmering veils of snow blew across the pass, dislodging small falls down the slopes. These gave out harmlessly in fine bits of crust, rolling down to leave mouse trails across their path.
Ominous cracks and groans echoed between the cliffs overhead, but Shradin gave no warning sign and Retak silently motioned his people on.
Trudging along in their midst, Seregil was deeply moved by the mix of fear, trust, and determination that drove these people forward. They’d welcomed him—a stranger—given him the best of all they had. When Retak claimed him as a member of his clan, it was meant literally, in the eyes of the Dravnians he was now a blood member of the community for as long as he wished to claim kinship.
The Plenimaran marines pursuing them had been offered the same welcome.
Looking back as they neared the cave, he saw that the enemy had reached the village and was now turning toward the pass.
You bastards! he thought bitterly.
You’d carve these people like sheep for whatever lies hidden at the end of that tunnel. You slaughtered Vara’s village. But you were sloppy my friends, and that makes all the difference!
Up ahead Retak conferred briefly with Shradin, then motioned for a halt. Seregil climbed up to join them. “Do those men know how to read the snow?” he whispered..
“Let’s hope not. Retak, tell the others to move a bit and watch for your signal. Are the young men in place?”
“They’re ready. But what if this plan of yours doesn’t work?”
“Then we’ll need another plan.” Feeling much less confident than he sounded, Seregil went to take his own position.
The villagers nervously watched the Plenimarans. The sun was higher now, and glinted back from spears and helmets below. What first appeared only as a long, dark movement against the snow soon resolved into individual men toiling toward them.
Whatever the Plenimarans think they’re after here, they not taking any chances, Seregil thought, counting over a hundred men. He glanced briefly up the slope, trying to make out the mouth of the spirit chamber tunnel and wondering again what could be worth all this.
The Plenimarans were close enough for Seregil to make out the insignia on their breastplates before Shradin and Retak. The headman raised his staff overhead with both arms and let out a bloodcurdling yell. Every villager joined in screaming at the top of their lungs. At the same time Seregil, Shradin, and the young men of the village shoved piles of loosened rock and ice chunks, sending them careening down the steep slope.
For an instant nothing happened.
Then the first rumblings sounded along the western face as tons of snow and ice sloughed off, plunging down on the column.
Seregil could see the pale ovals of upturned faces. The soldiers realized too late the trap they’d been drawn into. The neat column wavered and broke. Men foundered in the snow, throwing aside their arms as they sought some direction of escape from the implacable wave bearing down on them.
The
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