The next storm lasted longer than the first, two full days of labouring along behind Cara’s gift-crafted shield. The constant exertion had forced her to reduce its reach, obliging them to move in a dense clutch, Orven’s guardsmen walking shoulder to shoulder with Alturk’s Sentar. For all the jostling and unwelcome proximity there was no trouble; the ferocity of the storm raging on all sides left little room for other preoccupations. Cara began to falter on the second day, stumbling to her knees several times and only managing to maintain the shield by sharing with both Kiral and Marken at once. By the time night fell the other Gifted had all shared to the point of collapse and Cara was barely conscious, mumbling in delirium as blood flowed from her nose and eyes.
“We have to end this!” Lorkan railed at Vaelin, barely able to stand himself. “Any more and she’ll die.”
Vaelin turned to Wise Bear with a questioning glance. The old shaman frowned and pushed his way to the edge of the company, poking his staff beyond the shield wall into the howling white fury beyond. “Wind dies, but slowly,” he reported. He hesitated, glancing back at Cara then straightened with decision. “Make circle, horses on outside. Cover all flesh, keep tight together.”
It took some awkward manoeuvring to arrange the horses and ponies in a circle, by which time Cara had weakened yet further. “Stop now, Little Bird,” Wise Bear said, maintaining his habit of ignoring their own names for those he chose.
“Can’t,” she breathed, eyes closed and leaking blood. “The storm . . . the price.”
“Storm fades,” he said, putting a hand to her forehead. “Stop now.”
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:
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.”
• • •
