The Fall of Waterstone

Not Far Enough

That great battle is named Skalda-en-kar, and the flooding afterward swallowed the bodies of the fallen. Deep they sank, the marsh drawing foul nourishment from its meal, and when winter came the first lights hovered above deep-riven ice. It remains an unwholesome place.

—Barald of Jormgaard, Song of Northern Battles

We had crossed the Glass during the deepfreeze; now, we had to brave it before the melt arrived to turn the entire bowl into quagmire. Leaden skies in this season are often a warm blessing, but now we hoped for clear icy nights to keep the snow a little firmer underfoot.

Gone was the constant howling wind, though strange colors still played nightly over great crevasses and in daylight massive tangles of thornwrack, sedge, and other scrub bore hoary hanging daggers of refrozen moisture. For the first two days our travel was almost pleasant, at least in comparison to our former journey across the great ice-swamp. I did not even have to light the fire, and so long as their frozen carapaces were shaken free the thorn-branches were reasonably good fuel.

The ground was slippery, but Elder horses are surefooted. Still, the cream-colored beasts grew weary and spent many of our halts with heads hanging, tails barely twitching while Daerith and Yedras sought to infuse them with strength. We traveled as soon and as long as there was any light at all, and the nights were uneasy.

On the third day, a soft slithering pervaded the Glass. Imperceptible at first, it strengthened bit by bit, akin to the sound of a scaled belly dragged over dry dusty grass. Near nooning it intensified, and I realized my breath, while still a silver plume, was not nearly so dense as it had been.

Arn lowered me to the ground. “Melt,” she said, softly, and there were shadows under her eyes. Sometimes I suspected she slept in the saddle, her chin nearly upon her chest and leather-wrapped hornbraids dangling over her shoulders, swaying gently with the horse’s steps.

She was right. I could taste the shifting weather, dry cold softening as sap under the world’s skin began to thaw. The gathering whisper made me think of the Enemy’s giant serpent at the roots of the world, blindly chewing. It was only the music of water-trickle echoing through giant rifts in the ice… and yet.

I half-turned, my gaze drawn unerringly northward. The mountains had receded; the Marukhennor itself was a smear of darkness like distant thunder. I thought I could discern tiny flickers of crimson upon that horizon as well, but any torch or bonfire would be well beyond the reach of mortal eyes.

The Jewel gave a twinge as I stared. Did it yearn for its siblings, trapped league upon league away?

“Solveig?” Arn touched my shoulder. The shadowmantle seemed to keep me from shivering, and oft I wondered upon the secret of its weaving as I rode, testing the fabric between my fingertips. It was a relief to think upon a seidhr I had some faint hope of unraveling. “What is it?”

Of course, it could have been the live coal amid my ribs staving off any chill. “Look. Do you see the darkness, far to the north?”

The mare stamped restlessly, her warm bulk shimmering with seidhr-haze. Even the ice-freighted scrub was beginning to kindle; I had never seen spring’s return so clearly.

Arn gazed at the northern horizon, hazel eyes narrowed. Thin threads of gold and green gleamed in her irises. “I do not know,” she said, finally. “But I am uneasy. Soon this place will be a morass.”

At least there are no liches yet. A bleak jest indeed, and one I kept prisoned behind my teeth. It was comforting to stand so near my shieldmaid, her living heat a balm and the soft brushing of the Wingéd humming upon her shoulders like Hel’s feathered mantle. Her spearblade glittered almost angrily.

She drew breath, but whatever she would have said was lost as a thin, piercing sound rose far away. It did not quite strike the ear, nor the place where seidhr hums between palate and hearing. Instead, it vibrated in the teeth and sent a pang through my bones, sawing at marrow like an old rusted blade.

My arm touched hers. She did not move; the contact may have brought some comfort to us both. Her woad-stripe needed repainting, and her cheekbones stood out starkly.

“Hunting horns.” Daerith had approached; he stroked my mare’s neck with long, light fingers and shifted to southron. “The Enemy’s servants have found some manner of trail. We can hope it is not ours.”

“Naciel,” Arn said, quietly. “And the rest. They had children with them, and wounded. I wonder…”

“She is quick, and Tjorin canny. Besides, they have warriors who survived the ruin.” Though I was quick to offer reassurance it felt hollow, for I only half believed. “You need something substantial to eat, small one.”

“Salted pork,” she muttered. “Albeig’s new-winter bread. The last, darkest honey, upon buttered oatcakes.”

“Even hot ale sounds appetizing.” I generally had to hold my nose to imbibe such a thick, yeasty drink. “Pickled fish. Stuffed puddle.”

The game might well make our longing for real food sharper, but it also distracted us from the piercing, distant howl. Daerith murmured to the horse, and Efain approached with a measure of springwine for us both.

The Northerner’s scars were pale, and he urged Arn to drink deep. “We may press on through the night if the horses can bear it. I like not how the wind smells, and Gelad agrees.”

Arn glanced at me, her throat working as she swallowed fiery-clear Elder vintage. I read her concern plainly; no doubt she also saw mine. We both sought to keep the other from worrying.

“Perhaps…” I took a deep, testing breath. The Jewel did not thorn-jab, but once I was a-horseback, it might shift as I attempted seidhr. The thing had a mind of its own, and any moment I was granted a measure of relief I could not tell what might make discomfort return.

I was even more useless than during our first journey, and little did I like the feeling.

Arn lowered the goblet, and though her color was much improved those dark circles under her eyes taunted me. “Thinking of weirding? That Elder bauble might be of some use, instead of merely keeping you from sleeping.”

Of course she had noticed my restlessness as well. I did not wince, even internally, for the slightest motion might provoke some reaction from the Elder thing. “It seems to do little but weigh me down. Like a festival goose, fattened so its liver swells.”

At least I did not feel like coughing. The idea that blood might rise from such an effort was unsettling, to say the least. Was this what lungrot felt like? The last outbreak of that dread illness at Dun Rithell had been in my paternal grandmother’s time; her bee-end torc rested easily against my collarbones.

I still possessed that one small piece of home.

“Hm.” Arn wiped her mouth with quilted undersleeve, the goblet brushing her cheek. I had not yet had time to repair the gash in the material, and indeed had no needle to make the attempt. If I could find a thin enough sliver of hardwood, perhaps I could unravel a bit of thread from elsewhere and attend to it. “We shall have to carry you into the hall upon a great carven platter soon.”

“Ai.” I suppressed a chuckle, relieved it did not hurt. In fact, it lightened the burden for a few moments, so I could take a healthy measure of springwine as well. “Garnish me with spring herbs, but only after my feathers have been plucked.”

Efain’s eyebrows shot up. He looked mystified; Arn’s laughter was a bright banner on the cold breeze.

“We can hunt as we run,” the Northerner said. “Everything we find is winter-lean, but—”

“I am well enough.” My shieldmaid sobered. “I do not think we will have time to roast a few coneys tonight, either. The melt will only quicken, unless an ice-wind strikes.” Her gaze settled upon me as I drank.

Your weather-sense is as good as mine.I wanted to shrug while quaffing, but could not. At least the burning was also ameliorated somewhat while I swallowed Elder distillations, though it never vanished entirely.

“We may reach the edge of the Glass before the snow rots. We are aiming to the west of the Mistwood, so soon enough will come to the Taurain and Barael-am-Narain.” Efain almost smiled, as if the thought was a pleasant one. “There are steadings upon the plains, though perhaps our people have taken refuge in Dorael already.”

I might have made some reply, but as I lowered the cup another shrill, distant hunting-cry floated skyward. The mare snorted, tossing her head, and Daerith leaned into her side. “Far away,” he murmured. “But not far enough.”

“How do they make such a sound?” Arn tugged at the hem of her tunic with her free hand, settling cloth and mail more comfortably. Her grip tightened upon the spear. “Like a needle to the ear.”

“Their horns are of bone, with blackened metal chasing.” The scar along Efain’s jaw flushed as he gazed to the north, and I wondered if he saw the sparks amid the faraway pall. “They will be riding, taking shelter only when the sun is highest.”

“Those scaled things.” Arn stretched, her spearblade dipping slightly.

“No, too cold.” A muscle flicked in Efain’s cheek under a scruff of dark stubble. “Now they will be upon vargen, for those are furred.”

“Wonderful.” My shieldmaid showed her strong white teeth. “Come, Sol. Walk for a moment, you’re probably stiff as old leather.”

She took my arm as Efain hurried away to perform other duties. Daerith turned back to the mare, whispering in her ear. At least the beast looked pleased at that event, and her tail twitched.

Some few steps we managed—not nearly enough for privacy, but her whisper was soft indeed. “You do not sleep.” Her brow furrowed, her jaw tightening. “And I know that look. Speak, quickly.”

What could I say? The words crowded my throat, jammed against a weight akin to that of the Jewel a little lower down.

This thing burns, but does not consume—or does it? I can see fires in the North, and I do not sink in the snow-crust as a mortal should. I feel the chase upon our back, and I know I do not sleep, my shieldmaid. I am as weary as when this started, never worse and never better. “Weirding.” The word was hoarse, and dry despite the wine. “This is not like the taivvanpallo.”

“Is that not good?” Her eyebrows rose anxiously. “You were afraid it would burn you.”

It does; if you only knew how much it hurts.But I could not explain, and there was none other with seidhr in our group. No wiseman, no bard—though Daerith was a songmaster he was Elder, not mortal, and their invisible wisdom is not like ours. No volva, no cloudshaper or stone-whisperer. Idra was dead, the others in Dun Rithell unable to offer any aid even if I could gather the concentration for a sending, and I could not even dream of my mother, let alone the rest of my family.

My shieldmaid was at my elbow, her fingers upon my sleeve, and yet I was utterly alone in a way I had never been, not even upon a fog-drenched hillside or the sandy agate-glittering bank of Naricie Egeril.

“Solveig.” Sharply, as Arn hardly ever spoke to me. Her hand tightened upon the shadowmantle’s sleeve.

I realized with a start that I was gazing north again, over the crazyquilt-cracked surface of the Glass, ice starred with clumps of frozen sedge and thornbush, silvery mist rising from the crevasses. The shadow lingering upon the horizon was unchanged, tiny red spatter-flickers too far away to be definite yet terribly sharp, too clear, and entirely awful.

The tiny motion of surprise caused a shifting in my chest, and I had to quell a flinch that probably would have driven it deeper. Transitory relief faded; the stealthy slithering of melt filled my ears as the Jewel began to burn afresh.

“To horse!” The voice was Aeredh, in the southron tongue for our benefit. The men were mounting. Daerith held my mare’s reins, and his gaze was upon me, eyes narrowed as if with suspicion.

“Come.” My tongue felt too large, and clumsy against my teeth. “I think pursuit is closer than even they guess, and so is warmer weather.”