The Cradle of Ice (Moonfall #2)

Chapter 41

41

T HREE DAYS FOLLOWING the raash’ke attack, Nyx maintained her vigil on the beach. She stared up into the glowing fog as eventide brightened to morning. The fungi, lichens, and mosses bloomed in crimsons, yellows, and emerald greens that matched the sea. She came down to the edge of the village many times each day, pulled by her heart.

“Where are you?” she whispered to the steaming mists.

She prayed for Bashaliia to break the bridling hold that had dragged him from her side. She feared the malevolent horde-mind was already bending and warping him to its will, drawing him fully into their colony until he was lost forever.

Each day, that dread grew.

I must find a way to reach him.

In contrast to her mood, a bright humming drew her eye to where Henna dug in the sand, forming sinuous walls and small homes made of cupped sand and roofed in shells. The girl had recovered from the horrors of that night. Fortunately, she had no memory of being whisked aloft by that bat.

Just as well…

Behind Henna, Vikas stood guard over them with her longsword strapped across her back. After the attack, Graylin was taking no chances with Nyx. Henna had tried to engage the mountainous woman in her sandy construction efforts but was rebuffed with raised palms and some dismissive gesturing.

Nyx had to act as mediator, recognizing Henna’s confusion and the quartermaster’s frustration.

Vikas had been born mute—due to Gynish blood in her lineage, which accounted for her sheer size. The craggy giants of the northern steppes—the Gyns—had lost the ability to speak in the distant past, possibly due to the perpetual howl of winds across their cold lands, which deafened all. Due to this loss, many considered them dim-witted or dull-minded, but Nyx knew from her studies that couldn’t be further from the truth. Their culture was rich, complex, and deeply spiritual. Their language of gestures and expressions was as expressive as any other.

Over the half year in the quartermaster’s company, Nyx had learned some rudimentary Gynish. Nyx had tried to let Henna know that Vikas could not speak, but it was difficult to communicate as Nyx didn’t know Panthean. Still, after much pantomiming among them all, Henna seemed to understand, but it failed to engender any sympathy. The girl’s demands to engage Vikas now involved more arm tugging than pleading.

Vikas eventually relented, dropping to a knee and trying to make improvements in Henna’s village. Unfortunately, the quartermaster’s suggestions were all very practical. Henna preferred a more whimsical approach to construction. The two could never come to any compromise, and Vikas returned to standing sullenly over the pursuit.

Sadly, Henna’s village was not the only one struggling to find its footing.

Nyx glanced far to her left.

Iskar was slowly returning to life following the assault. The plaza had been scrubbed, its sands combed anew. Flooded wreckage had been hauled from the streets. Broken boats salvaged or repaired. Even the stone pier had been restacked.

But there was no joy in such accomplishments.

Over thirty bodies lined the water’s edge, wrapped in a preserving kelp, waiting for a burial at sea that was to commence midday. Tradition dictated a respectful mourning period. Over the past three days, friends and family had knelt beside those bodies before wrapping them, slowly using squid ink and oil to tattoo their loved one’s lives onto the canvas of their cold skin.

Nyx had tried watching, but the act felt too intimate. She had no place being there. Grief and guilt drove her off to the fringes of the town, where she had spent the past days. The others worked farther down the beach, where the Sparrowhawk had been beached, trying to determine what to do. She heard their raised voices, arguing, resisting the inevitable.

She had no interest in such struggles, especially as they seemed hopeless. She didn’t need anything more to be disheartened about.

She swept her gaze across the skies one last time. Though there had been no sign of Bashaliia, at least the raash’ke hadn’t attacked again.

A small sandy hand slipped into hers. Henna stared up at her, leaning against Nyx’s hip. “I miss him,” she whispered. “I didn’t even get a chance to ride him.”

She squeezed her hand. “I’m sure Bashaliia would’ve loved that.”

“I know.”

Nyx smiled sadly. “We should get ready to head back home. It looks like your brother is done fishing.”

A fair distance off the beach, Daal rode out of the waves, seated atop Neffa. As he surfaced next to a small raft, he expelled a blast of air. The orkso did the same, shooting spray from both nostrils. Daal carried a spear high with a silvery fat eel impaled on it. He leaped from Neffa’s back and landed deftly on the rocking raft. Once balanced, he shook his latest catch onto the pile already stacked on the deck—then whistled sharply.

Neffa circled behind the raft. Careful not to stab Daal with her horn, she bumped her wide nose into the raft and sped it toward shore, propelled by beats of her tail and sweeps of her wings.

Nyx retreated—and with good measure.

The orkso propelled the raft and beached it high onto the sand. It slid to Nyx’s toes. Behind it, Neffa bounced on her winged forelegs in the surf, waving her horn. Nyx felt a surge of affection at the simple joy of the happy creature. It wafted off of Neffa, buoying Nyx’s spirits.

Still, it also stirred a bittersweet ache. Neffa reminded her of another great beast. Memory blurred as Nyx stood on the sand. She smelled the belches of old silage, the mold of a thick coat. She heard the grunt of contentment, the huff of irritation.

Gramblebuck…

She had abandoned her friend, a centuries-old bullock, back in the swamps of Myr, at the start of this journey. She pictured him turning his shaggy back and vanishing into the bog. She did not know what happened to him. Still, she sent a silent plea to that large heart.

Please. I’ve lost too much. You must still be alive.

“Henna, greef da nef!” Daal called from the raft, drawing Nyx back to the present.

Henna ran and scooped a net from the sand, then bounded onto the raft, ready to gather up the morning’s catch.

Daal got out of his sister’s way, joining Nyx on the beach.

Nyx backed a step, hesitant to touch him after that awful night. Still, she caught the scent of salt off his skin. The sea coursed in shining rivulets down his heaving chest. He was breathless from his exertion. He smiled at her, his blue eyes flashing brightly, then glanced over at his bounty, clearly proud.

“The fishing. Good this morning,” he declared.

As he stood on the sand, he shivered in the breeze, raising gooseflesh along his arms. She had to look away, especially as she caught the slight glow emanating from him, as if the fire inside were trying to warm him.

“I wish I could say I had your luck this morning,” Nyx mumbled.

Daal winced and looked up at the mists. “What the Mouth swallows, it does not let go.”

He stated it like it was an old adage, one taught to him in Noorish. And maybe it was. His people had lived in the Crèche for untold millennia. Over that span, countless numbers had been dragged away by the raash’ke.

And more again three nights ago.

After losing Bashaliia, Nyx had asked where the horde might have taken him. The answer had been cryptic: the Mouth of the World. According to the Pantheans, it was where the raash’ke made their home, their roost in these eternally frozen lands.

Nyx edged closer to Daal. “Can you tell me more about this Mouth?”

He shrugged, his expression both regretful and pained. “Nothing to say. No one been there and returned. Only see from far distance. Where the great ice ends, the Mouth of the World begins. A great fiery crack that stretches past the sky.”

Nyx crossed her arms, trying to imagine such a landscape.

She pictured her own homeland and the volcanic mountain, The Fist, which rose from the Myr swamps. It was home to Bashaliia’s brethren. The Mouth sounded much the same, only where the Fist climbed high, this chasm delved deep.

Daal must have sensed her consternation. “No way to reach it,” he insisted. “Need your great ship. Into the air and across the ice. Trek on foot impossible. The ice full of cracks and crusts that break under you. And the cold. Freeze the marrow in your bones. But worst. The raash’ke hunt that ice.”

Nyx glanced over to where the Sparrowhawk listed crookedly on the beach. Its prow dug deep into the sands, its stern washed by waves. The ship was going nowhere, certainly not anytime soon.

Henna yelled from the raft, trying to heft up the laden net, “Wree wan!”

Daal smiled and crossed over and gathered up the heavy net.

Vikas stepped forward and gestured animatedly.

Nyx translated for Daal. “Vikas says she’ll carry the load back for us.”

Daal nodded and tossed the net over to the woman. He pressed two fingers to his chin and swiped his hand down in thanks. He had already learned a few snatches of Gynish.

Vikas slung the net over a shoulder, then gestured: “Might as well do something. My talents are wasted here.”

Nyx thought the quartermaster was referring to the lack of threat, one that might have required her wielding her longsword. Instead, Vikas glared over at Henna, clearly still perturbed that her earlier suggestions about the sand village had been dismissed.

Oblivious, Henna simply danced away.

Daal waded into the water and retrieved a small saddle from Neffa’s back, then waved Nyx toward the village. “Hurry now. Must get fish into ice.”

N YX KEPT HER head down as they crossed through the sandy plaza on the way to Daal’s home. It was the shortest path. She would’ve happily taken a longer route, but there was a bounty of fish to clean and stack into an ice bin.

Her reluctance wasn’t entirely due to the memories of that bloody night. Instead, it was the row of covered bodies lining the shore. Several were already being carried to a fleet of skiffs, preparing for the burial at sea. A few were still being inked on the beach, their cold pale skin shining sickly, striped by the messages being written by those who loved them.

She also noted the narrowed eyes glancing her way, heard the soft murmuring. More than a few voices were sharpened by anger.

Vikas kept near her side.

Daal got them moving faster, perhaps sensing the animosity, a sentiment that had been steadily growing. It would not be long before that bitterness and grief turned to violence. The only reason it hadn’t already was likely the continuing support of the Reef Farer. That, and the cautious fear of Shiya, who had risen out of the sea like a god and scattered the raash’ke.

But how much longer would that trepidation hold?

The Reef Farer had suggested some of their party should accompany the burial fleet out to the island town of Kefta, then on to a section of the sea where the Crèche delivered their dead into the waters. Berent thought such an act—joining the ceremony, sharing their grief—might help Nyx’s group bond to the community.

It sounded reasonable.

Still, Nyx stared at the bodies being lowered into the skiffs. She was wracked by guilt and doubt, but certain about one thing.

It will not be me who goes with them.

Such a journey would be too painful.

Daal noted the direction of her gaze. He pressed three fingers to his forehead in an act of sorrow. “They go soon to the Oshkapeers… the Dreamers of the undersea.”

Henna touched her brow in the same manner.

Daal’s words troubled Nyx. Her feet slowed. Vikas bumped into her, then stepped back. Nyx stared over at Daal. He had spoken something about those Dreamers before, when they had first met. Something tied to Bashaliia.

Daal frowned back at her when he discovered her lagging behind. “Nyx…?”

She squinted, sensing something important. “Daal, you had mentioned those Dreamers before. You said something about how you sensed Bashaliia dreamed deep, like them. What did you mean?”

Daal swallowed twice. He looked away. He rubbed at a wrist, raising a red scar. She noted a pale version on his other wrist. His hand rose and absently touched his neck, drawing her attention to another mark there.

“What is it, Daal?” she pressed him.

“It mean nothing,” he mumbled.

She took his arm, trying to get his attention. Only her touch sent waves of fire through her. She ripped her fingers away. She backed a step, her chest heaving, as if her body were still trying to inhale that heat from him.

No…

Still, with that brief contact, she flashed to a deep-seated fear in Daal. She felt herself being dragged into the cold, dark depths of the sea. She caught a glimpse of Neffa’s tail, then even briefer, a golden glow shining far below. But the overwhelming sense of it all was pure terror.

She stumbled farther back, trying to escape it. Vikas caught her, kept her on her feet. Nyx shied away from the woman’s touch, too. It took her a few breaths to finally collect herself and stare back at Daal, whose eyes were huge.

“Daal, I’m sorry. I know something horrifies you, but I must know. What does dreaming and the Dreamers have to do with Bashaliia?”

He looked down at his toes. Henna hung on his arm, sensing his distress and sticking close. “Bashaliia glows,” he mumbled. “I see it, but it goes deep into him.”

“Bridle-song?”

“Nyan.” He shook his head, struggling for the right words. “It is his past. Memory. Down deep there was once more. He misses, needs, dreams of it.”

Nyx slowly understood. She had sensed it herself at times. Bashaliia had been cut off from his brethren. Out on the Ice Shield, he had traveled beyond their reach, beyond their communal bonding. Yet, he still craved and pined for that larger connection.

And I took it from him.

Still, something was missing in Daal’s explanation. “But what does Bashaliia’s dreaming have to do with Oshkapeers ?” she asked, struggling with the Panthean word. “Those Dreamers in the sea? What do they dream of?”

Daal glanced across the plaza. They had reached its edge and had stopped. Most of the mourners no longer paid them any heed.

He turned back, his face a mask of pain and fear. “Like Bashaliia. Oshkapeers. Dream of past. Memory old. Theirs and ours. All. Our dead feed them. With our flesh.” He picked a pinch of his skin to demonstrate. “And with our dreams.”

Nyx gaped at him. “How… how do you know that?”

“We know. Stories old. But I know more.” He stressed the last, his eyes strained with horror. “The Oshkapeers know too much. About the Crèche. About raash’ke.”

With his words, Nyx felt a flare of hope. She reached for him again, then drew her arm back. “The Dreamers know more about the raash’ke? Like what?”

He shook his head. “It fuddled. Confusing. Not dream enough with them. They touch me.” He again fingered those strange marks. “Then throw me away. Not worthy. But I tell no one. Not mother. Not father. Not even Henna.”

She frowned. Clearly, he had had some horrifying encounter with those Dreamers, whatever they were. It had left him scarred both inside and out. “Why didn’t you tell anyone?”

His voice dropped to a breathless whisper. “Forbidden to go to Oshkapeers. Only the dead go. If I tell, village will kill me.” He swallowed hard, looking down at Henna. “Maybe all of us.”

Nyx struggled to put this together. There was more to this story, but maybe it was best told in private. Still, if Daal was correct, these Dreamers must be imbued with some form of bridle-song. And more importantly, they had greater knowledge concerning the raash’ke.

If I could reach them with my song, maybe boosted by Shiya, could I learn enough to help Bashaliia?

Nyx glanced out to the skiffs rocking on the sea, carrying the dead. She turned to Daal. “I must speak with the Reef Farer.”

“Why?”

“To convince him to let me go with the mourners, to travel with the dead to the town of Kefta and beyond.”

Daal understood her intent. “No. I warn you before. On the beach we first met. No go. Not ever.” He gripped the edge of her sleeve, careful not to touch her skin. “It is death.”

She pictured Bashaliia, enveloped by his warm wings, the snuffle of his velvet nose. Ages ago, she had abandoned Gramblebuck in the swamps, a friend who deserved more. She would not do that again.

If there was even the slimmest chance of saving Bashaliia, then so be it.

I’ll face death.