My mind drifts on the wind through time.

I see the traitors of The Japa as they scale the mountain five-hundred fold. The Ice-fanged wargs and rabid bohrs only claim the first few. It seems their treachery has cost us our way of life; but not their strength. They continue their march. The next hundred are taken to dreams by the cold. Seywa means for this to soften my heart, but it is a gift to watch them fall to frost. Then at the lack of my remorse her curse becomes my lesson. I'm forced down to dwell in the souls of the dying. How bitter are their deaths. Their final thoughts of betrayal at being left behind by those stronger. A resentment burns where the ice seeps through skin. Their souls, whose deeds denied them the final sleep, wail upon the wind in torment. Seywa's curse binds me to the memory of the corpses at our feet. “Salfa.. your steps falter…”

I see the image of a man whose concerned tone of voice betrays the creases on his face.

Then, a woman, whose face is warmer and more severe than his, responds doubly as gruff.

“You can’t afford to worry about me, Bravor.”

The two are with their group wandering beneath the same ridge Seywa, and I find ourselves now. Around 200 of their tribe remain.

A chuckle from Bravor as he braces Salfa to steady and lighten her steps. He says with love on his breath

“I can. We will join once we pass through the mountains, like our Mafaths before us.” Salfa pouts:

“Why don’t we join together… Here and now?”

She snickers then stumbles. Bravor catches her, saving her from falling face-first into the snow. His support brings a red warmth to his cheeks. She looks up at his ice-crusted eyes, smiles, then socks him in the gut. He winces and grunts. Salfa speaks through a laugh

“You’ll sooner be swept off this peak by my feet than sweep me from mine, Bravor.”

Bravor smiles as she shifts into her temper.

“Aye, Bravor, put me down. We become stronger each time we fall. Why deny me the last joy we have as a people?"

The warmth spun in Bravor’s cheeks. A red hue and specks of light danced between snowflakes. I watch them be drawn in by the pull between the two that ends in fusion. Their eyes parted, as did their embers, along with their rosy expectations. It wasn’t the time. Deep in their love, the cold and the prospect of their demise melted away. It took every pound of their discipline to not rejoin their eyes. Their bodies would surely combine. They needed everybody available to fend off the elements and the creatures of the mountain. The Chief at the head of the pack yelled.

“To me, Bravor!”

Then rang a crack that sundered earth, ice, and air. The Chief's barbed stone club lied lodged in the ground; its enormous size eclipsed by the width his hand.

“A taste….

The Chief uttered then shouted.

“Beasts ahead!”

His jowl protrudes from behind a tight wool wrap, which constricting the top half of his face. The rows of his teeth were uneven and treacherous, like the Icicles hanging from his lips. They formed a jagged beard. He stood hunched over, heaving like a Bohr with each breath.

“Chief….”

Pants Bravor, having run to the side of the Chief’s club.

“How many?”

The Chief sticks out the stub of his remaining tongue. It quivers like a laketoad failing to escape the mouth of a hare. It seeks the savor and the scent of an enemy.

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“Spite, they took the only means of sight left to me.”

The chief roars on.

Bravor places his hand on the side of the Chief’s back.

“Chief, take this.”

With his free hand, Bravor rustles through a loose pouch, retrieving a ball of grass. Bravor presents it to the Chief

“Waltzgrass? What good will this do?”

Chief roars on.

“We have no time, eat”

But the Chief obliges Bravor, bearing a mocking smile and a sniffling laugh. He chomps at the grass ball like a pestle grinding spices against mortar. As he does, a ponderous amount of gob hangs from the roof of his mouth. The slobber freezes in the wind, causing shards of ice to break away from the sides of his mouth. Then calm falls on the Chief’s face, his mountainous maw giving way to soft hills. Now, in a rising and clear pitch, he spoke.

“Thanks, Bravor. The wit of my tongue returns. Through the fog ahead, 50 beasts lie in wait. They move with caution, waiting to strike.”

The Chief, now moving with levity, returns to a standing position. He brings his club to rest on his shoulder. In his free hand, he anchors a heavy grip on Bravor’s shoulder and beckons his ear.

“Tell them to prepare.”

“I don’t like our odds.”

“Accept them.”

Bravor winces, knowing that the expression of fear wasted precious time. He turns around to the last two-hundred of the tribe. He puts one fist to his chin and, with his other, draws his short knife from its sheath. He raises it to the sky, giving the signal for combat. From beneath the rows of wool hoods, a short but muffled chant begins.

“May our iron drip of its own scent!”

A roar in response. Then, a rush forward.

Through the veil of frost ahead, hunching figures dart side to side. The tribe's wide and galloping formation as they advance flings ice forward, obscuring their own sight.

Then, a melody swings from the beasts ahead. A shimmering light of all color glows begin the fog. The beasts respond to each other in daring song. The tune ceases, then there is a shrill screech from the beasts as they fly out from the fog.

They run with four limbs, quickly closing in on the tribe. They know the mountain, so they glide through the frost as if they had wind to wings.

The chaos of battle comes to the mountainside. The snap of bones and a half-uttered cry cuts the air as blurs take out tribesmen. They swing their spears and knives wildly, swiping and slashing at fur. The blood drawn to mist.

The beasts encircle the tribe. A shimmer of all color blinks between the blur of frost. Each member of the tribe hesitates to moves backward into a tight formation. One tribesman halts his retreat and readies his spear. A whirl closes in and cracks the tribesman, throwing him back. His body rolls to Bravor’s feet. Limp and lifeless. There is no valor or triumph to their deaths. No thrill to the fight. The Japa has fulfilled its course, but the vengeance is no longer sweet.

“Chief, this is the end. You must sing so our souls may rest.”

Long we travelled

To the place where the red wastes join the forest

Where the heat darkens skin

And the boughs are thick With the sweet silence of darkness

His great dirge stops the rush of the beasts. Their morbid and undulating shape shifts from a wave to a line. The shapes say nothing, but their heads turn in a manner signifying the curiosity of a child of any spawn of life. They stay and listen to the Chief’s song. Then, one by one, the dark figures fade into the distance. The chief finishes his dirge with a sullen look. He commands.

“We must move ahead with those able to now. They may return with more to finish us.”

The final hundred tribesmen begin scouring the battlefield for supplies. They take food and clothing from the injured, then trail behind the Chief in a line.

Bravor lets his arms fall to his side. The heat of battle strained his muscles, and the sensation of cold begins to climb on his skin. He looks around as the tribesman passed him into the renewed and growing line formation. His eyes shift among the tribe. He does not see her, and panic sets in.

“Salfa!”

Bravor runs into the fog. Searching aimlessly. Then, he sees her. He runs to find her trapped underneath a fallen beast’s body. It is an eyeless monster like no creature I have ever seen.

“Here”

Bravor insists, helping pick Salfa up to her feet and assisting her in walking. She lets out a wail as her knee shakes and caves in. She falls limp back into the snow, sprawled forward. Bravor kneels next to her and checks her legs. The bone has been broken to bits in her legs. They move disconnected from her knee.

Bravor’s eyes met Salfa’s. The tempest of fire in his chest sought her, but he could feel it fade. It burned slower. It burned less. It burned quieter. No specks of light would spin forth.

“Salfa… we can’t join…”

“That’s ok… we are still with each other. That’s all that matters.” They're denied the joining rite, one that my seywa and I are forbidden to as womb-kin. It is a rite Seywa knows is closer to my heart than magic. Without it, we'd have no rites or lineage. We'd never have been brought into this word by our Mafath. Seeing this bond denied by the frost finally earns them a measure of my pity.

Bravor watches as the final tribe member closes out the line. Fading into the distance. I fade from the dream.