Roland was aware of nothing except the absence of one person, and his distraction with her nearly got him killed while negotiating the same maze of channels, tunnels, traps, and hidden paths that had fascinated him on his way into the hidden land. The Tishaarans had to shout at him repeatedly to watch his step and on one occasion caught him as he slipped off the trail at the edge of a ravine.
What made his obsession all the more exasperating was that it followed his firm resolv not to waste another thought on Delaney. He had been reciting this decision like a mantra for the ten days since she had left, and was painfully aware of the irony in the fact that he had thought about little else other than the fact that she was not worth thinking about.
So consumed was he in bitterly rehashing the inept farewell that meant nothing to him that the distance passed by in a blustery blur. The next thing he knew he was at the Gaterock that marked the limits of Tishaaran safety. A stench, which he had first noticed when they emerged from the tunnel by the lake, ha grown stronger ever since and was now unbearagle. “Ugh! What is that smell?” he asked. “It’s like raw sewage."
Karpellet, the captain in charge at the outpost, greeted the expedition with a tight smile. “You shall soon see. On the bright side, I can tell you that your journey begins well. The Razorfeet appear to have lost interest in Tishaara at last. We have found no sign of them anywhere. No Lumberjacks, either. You shall need no escort through the forest, although I would keep a sharp eye out under all circumstances.”
Captain Sloat, the leader of the Tishaaran expedition to the Fourth Realm animals, gave a barely perceptible nod.
“Here is the mule you requested,” said Karpellet, as one of his men handed Sloat a short tether, at the end of which a long-eared mule dug in its forelegs.
The Tishaarans tried vainly to avoid looking at Berch's withering glare.
“Senior citizen pass, huh?” he growled. “Next you’ll be opening doors and pulling out chairs for me. Feeding me my cereal and wiping the drool off my chin.”
“This is not meant as an insult,” said Sloat. “A mule is a useful animal to have on a journey such as this in any case. And the fact is we have urgent need of speed. That is no reflection on your character.”
While Berch had to concede that, he was not about to ride off in full view of the Tishaaran Gaterock regiment as a piece of baggage. He made no move toward the animal and left Sloat standing awkwardly tugging on the tether as the huge stone gate opened.
Roland felt a surge of pride and anticipation. This was the site of his greatest triumph; just walking this ground would bring back memories of his courageous walk, and that should buck him up for the journey ahead.
The five members of the outbound expedition, Roland, Sloat, Berch, Digtry, and an energetic young Tishaaran named Belfray, stepped out warily from behind the Gaterock. If Roland had thought the air foul before, he had no words to describe the reek that assaulted his senses. The pristine green of his memory had been brutally violated. He saw before him a garbage dump, soiled with piles of steaming fecal waste and other trash. The meadow, so lush and full under his feet the last time he had seen it, had become a wooden battleground, with the bodies of trees propped up under the cheerless sky like bones bleached of all flesh. The vibrant green leaves had burnt and crinkled and the wind had swept them against the piles of dung.
As the travelers skirted the edge of the clearing, they had to bury their faces in their cloaks to keep from gagging. The horrid desecration destroyed any feelings of nostalgia--he could scarcely imagine that this was the same place where he triumphed in the shower of fireworks.
“Are Raxxars always this filthy?” asked Roland.
“Yes and no,” said Sloat. “I would not call them clean creatures, but they do not normally congregate in such a mass, certainly not of this size, nor for such a length of time. The logistics of waste removal appears to have been far beyond their understanding.”
“That may have been a lucky break,” said Digtry, his voice muffled by the fabric. “I wondered why the Lumberjacks never appeared to punish Tishaara. Now I see. I can’t see them wanting any part of a siege stuck in the middle of this."
Two weeks of hiking through leafless thickets and woods brought them to a faint trail that pointed like a crooked compass to the northwest. An angry mass of gray clouds boiled in the sky to the north where the trail led. This seemed an ominous sign to Roland who, like Delaney, was already entertaining sixth and seventh thoughts about his choice of expeditions. He vaguely recalled that when eating in restaurants he had often chosen the most exotic thing on the menu just for the sake of a new experience. Unfortunately, he could not think of a time when he actually liked the exotic dish; he usually wished he had gone for the cheeseburger. Had he just made the same mistake in choosing the strange and exotic realm over settling in the safer and more familiar land of Tishaara? At least there was no second-guessing his other option: for no amount of love or money would he have anything more to do with the Second Realm. As much as he questioned his own choice, he remained convinced that Delaney’s had been nothing short of insane, if not spiteful.
“This business with the conspiracy,” he said to Digtry. “You think they’ve bought the time they needed and are ready to carry out their plans.”
Digtry nodded.
“So now we’re in a race against time to stop them?”
Another nod.
“So basically, we’re racing to stop God knows who from doing God knows what?”
Again, a nod. Heaven forbid Digtry should ever elaborate on an answer.
“I take it you think the wolves know something about the Cold Flame business," said Roland. "I can’t see any other reason why you would join this expedition instead of going back to the Second Realm where all the action seems to be.”
Although apparently tired of nodding, Digtry did not contradict him. For the first time in a long while, Roland felt smug in having figured out a few things on his own. Perhaps he was getting a feel for the realms at last. Delaney could never have solved any of this.
“What makes you think the wolves know anything?”
“When two persons report sighting a comet on the same evening, I assume they saw the same comet,” said Digtry.
Roland tried gamely to make sense of the statement. Afraid of looking stupid if he asked for a clarification, he was still trying to piece out its meaning when Berch unknowingly came to his rescue.
“Sounds like another of those silly Tishaaran proverbs,” said Berch. “What the Sam Hill does a comet have to do with anything?”
“This island business is extraordinary,” explained Digtry. “A Cold Flame sighting is extraordinary. As is a messenger from the wolves. When extraordinary things appear at the same time in different places, odds are they are connected.”
The five pushed on at a brisk pace through brambles and woods, up steep ravines full of gnarled roots, and down bare rock slopes. Sloat doled out rest periods sparingly, and the toll soon began to show on Berch. He walked along, huffing for breath and hacking up phlegm until he finally relented and climbed aboard the mule for brief stretches of time. Each time he did so, the relief he saw in his companions’ faces seared his pride.
Late the following day, they broke out of the forest onto the Plain of Escralta. One look at the land confirmed for Roland that he had chosen poorly in leaving Tishaara. Neither tree nor rock challenged the squall that had swung around and now roared out of the west. Tiny pellets of snow and ice bit into the travelers like birdshot. Defying gravity, they crawled over Roland’s woolen collar and pricked his bare neck. Accustomed though he was to winter storms, he tucked himself into his Tishaaran coat and hood like a turtle under attack.
A single night in the middle of such a plain would have made anyone swear off camping for good, in Roland’s opinion. Matters grew worse when Sloat ruled out any fires, despite Belfray’s argument that the Raxxars had never been seen so far north nor Lumberjacks so far west.
“These are dangerous times and we do not know what enemies we face,” said Digtry his words wrapped in frosty puffs. “In such flat land, fire would be seen by anyone within 40 miles."
As all items of convenience and comfort had been sacrificed to the priority of speed, the expedition had brought only one tent. Even that was of no use on Escralta. Pounding supporting stakes into that frozen hardscrabble clay was like trying to pound a stake into a rock. The Tishaarans’ hands stung with each blow they struck and the solid oak pieces snapped without biting into the ground. Unable to anchor the tent, the travelers gave up trying to raise it. They lay shivering, closely huddled under a tarp, no closer to sleep than the miserable one who drew sentry duty.
Then came the rains, although Roland swore it was too cold to rain. Slanting sheets of sleet and ice caked the backs of the adventurers, transforming the plain into a boundless skating rink. Not even the most sure-footed among them could walk an entire day without at least a couple of bone-bruising falls.
Long hours of fighting for balance consumed such effort that few of the men felt like talking. As a result, Roland knew little more about Captain Sloat than when they had started their journey. Sloat carried himself like an outdoorsman. From the granite bones of his face to his large, calloused hands, everything about him was weathered, except for his eyes--the usual soft Tishaaran gray-green. The wrinkles and windburn were more an ornament to his rugged nature than a mark of aging. The captain’s oddest feature was a bristly gray beard that stuck out like a wire brush and bobbed when he talked.
Sloat was neither mysterious, in the manner of Digtry, nor shy nor withdrawn. He did, however, take his role as expedition leader seriously. Rarely did he allow his attention to stray into matters that did not pertain to the immediate task, particularly when conditions were challenging.
As Roland already knew, neither Digtry nor Berch was of a sharing disposition even in the best of times. Digtry kept communication of any sort on a need-to-know basis. For all the time Roland had spent with him, he remained an enigma. Here was a small man with no more whiskers than a child, and yet he alone of all the people Roland had met walked every foot of every realm as though he owned it. Roland liked him, although it was hard to explain why. Digtry was neither warm nor outgoing, and steadfastly refused to reveal anything of himself. He rarely spoke except to call up from his vast storehouse of knowledge whatever bits and pieces of wisdom were needed at the moment.
Bearing the fresh deep scars of his disastrous encounter with the wolves, Berch had no interest in any further initiative regarding the realms. Except for occasional inaudible muttering, offered little beyond the blandest of comments.
That left a conversational void which Belfray filled with a vengeance. With eyes pushed out toward the upper corners of his broad cheekbones and his skin spread tautly over a wide jay, Belfray looked as though his face had outgrown his skin. He displayed a genuine fascination for everything his senses detected, along with a running commentary oof his observations. He focused so intently that Roland could visualize him sucking information through those large eyes.
Belfray had an eager, earnest manner that reminded Roland of Windglow, played at twice the speed and volume, with all the sensitivity and discretion sanded off. He spoke loudly, unless he was excited, in which case he was prone to erupt in spit-flying squawks. Uncomfortable with silence, he dispensed barely considered comments that ranged far and wide over all topics. Not content to let friendships start by spontaneous combustion, he splashed his amicable lighter fluid on whoever strayed within reach of his voice. Most annoying was his habit of leaning into the face of the person at whom he directed his speech. From that point-blank range, he projected drama with every syllable he spoke, in the conviction, or at least the hope, that whatever he had to say on any subject contained within it the seeds of profundity.
Taken together, the peculiarities of Digtry, Sloat, Belfray, and Berch had the worst possible effect on Roland. There was not a man among them in whom he could confide or even intelligently communicate for long. He felt out of place in the company of those who had grown up together in a different world, and claimed no kinship with the one from his own world.
The longer he traveled with this group, the more he missed Delaney. He was certain that she could have wrung some sort of communication out of Digtry, the companion who fascinated him the most. Women were always better at that kind of stuff.
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
The lonelier he felt, the fewer faults he remembered in her, and the more attractive she became. But as this pristine vision did not square with his lingering anger at her for selfishness in going her own way, he tried to balance the scales by recalling every unpleasant thing about her. All in all, there was no way out of these funks, especially when his feelings of personal inadequacy were tossed into the mix.
After a tedious week of skating, falling, and stiff-legged walking, when both sunlight and Raxxars had all but faded from memory, the clouds dispersed. A lustrous blue sky broke forth to reveal the steepled peaks of mountains to the northeast. With the pride of a farmer displaying his best fields, Belfray informed everyone that those were the Emperor Mountains of the Fourth Realm, the highest peaks in the world.
It was hardly news to anyone. Sloat had informed them on day one that they were making for the Emperors. By necessity they were taking a route that no Tishaaran had dared travel before. Their rare excurions to the wolf range in the that was why they had waited so long before setting out. The Tishaarans’ rare excursions to the wolf range in the Fourth Realm had always traversed the flatter, more accessible regions that bordered Big Timber. But with three of the travelers currently at-large escapees from death row in the forest of the Lumberjacks, that option was no longer available.
As mountain dwellers themselves, the Tishaarans could well imagine the snow depth and thin air that waited them in this far taller range. But as he studied the intimidating white peaks, Sloat said, “I hope that we have not let haste override sense. I would have been more comfortable with another two week’s delay. For all we know, this route may still be impassable at this time of year.”
“I hope we have not delayed too long,” countered Digtry. “For reasons that have nothing to do with comfort or the weather.”
They skittered off the icy plain into hills covered with thin white stalks and tall purple grasses. Roland had never before appreciated what a gift it was to be able to put one foot down on a solid surface and shift his weight onto it without fear of falling on his face.
Late at night under a bright moon, spirits improved as they made a real camp, risking a fire in their sheltered, secluded ravine. While helping Belfray collect firewood, Roland noticed a flash of light glinting off Sloat’s back.
“He’s got arrows! And a knife!” said Roland. “I thought Tishaarans didn't have weapons except-”
“We do not fight with weapons,” answered Belfray. “However, Tishaaran master hunters like Sloat seldom travel without the tools of their trade.”
“It appears the captain has had enough of soup and crackers,” noted Digtry.
Apparently so, for Sloat returned shortly with a pair of plump hares, white and fluffy with just a few fringes of spring brown on their coats, which he added to the menu.
For three days they climbed steadily up a steep and narrow trail that had been carved into the Emperor Mountains. Berch followed Sloat’s lead up the never-ending series of slopes, more astounded than dismayed by the heights. Whenever they reached the crest of one ridge, they found themselves in the shadow of another mountain, twice as high, twice as steep.
Berch sucked in the cold mountain air. The raw tickle threw him into a coughing spasm. The higher they climbed, the more deeply his backpack bit into his shoulders the more the thin air starved his lungs. He felt useless and sissified. Here he was riding virtually all the time while the others walked and yet it was all he could do to keep going, while no one else uttered a complaint. Ah, maybe you were the lucky one, Louise. You never had to get old.
Immediately, he felt guilty; Louise’s life on earth was anything but lucky, yet you never heard her complain.
Around noon one day, they halted at a crease in the mountain pass. Sloat pulled out a neatly folded map. Using the mountain to shield him from the wind that rattled the map, he stared at the tree line far below them and said, “If this map is accurate, then we must have passed into the Fourth Realm by now.”
“I see no difference at all,” declared Belfray. Berch found it mildly interesting that the Third Realmer’s initial observation of the Fourth Realm paralleled his own reaction upon entering the Third Realm last autumn.
“Do not get cocky just because we are not under attack by dragons and witchcraft.” said Digtry, leaning against a flat, lichen-coated rock. “This is the Fourth Realm. Unfamiliar realms must never be taken for granted.”
“For a free copy of this inspirational message, send five dollars and a self-addressed envelope in care of this station,” said Roland, poking Berch.
Berch snorted humorlessly. Typical college smart ass. Everything is so funny to them. I wish Delaney had come on this expedition instead of Roland. At least she doesn’t think she is so all-fired clever.
They reached the snowpack the following day. After spending much of the afternoon trudging through ankle-high drifts, they found a level snow field for their camp site. Although he was not as skittish about heights as Roland, the combination of sheer cliffs, impossible height, and poor visibility made Berch edgy. He awoke with a start from a dream in which he rolled over in his blankets and slid off a ledge into oblivion.
The next day’s journey made him even more jittery. The higher they climbed, the more steeply the mountains fell away into the microscopic valleys below. At times the terrain forced them perilously close to the cliff edge. While it made both Roland and Berch queasy, especially given the slick footing, it was a managable risk as long as visibility remained clear and there were patches of solid ground somewhere beneath them. This was no great problem as long as visibility remained clear and they were certain there was solid ground beneath them. But even on open ground, avalanches and slides had dumped so much snow that the path disappeared under one continuous snowfield. Although the going was easier now that they had strapped on their snowshoes, even Sloat and Digtry had trouble determining where the best paths lay.
Even more menacing, the air was now thick with flakes and the clouds were growing darker by the minute.
“Look at this snow! Will you just look at it!” raved Belfray, as if everyone were not doing just that.
Sloat studied the clouds grimly. “If this keeps up much longer, we shall not be able to pass. We shall have no choice but to turn back and wait for the strength of spring.”
“It is starting to look a bit like a blizzard,” agreed Roland, pulling his hood more tightly around his head. Within a few moments, the word “blizzard” failed to do justice to the situation. Whipped by raw winds, tiny flakes choked the air, as if a fan had been turned on in a flour mill.
Ever mindful of the dizzying plunge on the left, Berch kept slightly to the right of Sloat, whether they were near an edge or not. As he began to wonder how they were going to fix supper in this storm, the rumbling of his stomach produced an echo of a deeper, more distant rumbling. Others heard the same thing.
“Do you hear-” Belfray started. All at once the ground beneath them quivered like the tympani skin pounded in a furious crescendo. The mountain lurched and convulsed, pitching Berch backwards into the snow. All he could think of was “volcano,” yet he could not reconcile the image of fiery lava and ash with the stinging, icy mix that enveloped him. Above the deafening roar he barely heard a call for help, followed by the terrified scream of a mule.
“Let go! Let go!” shouted Sloat.
Through the wildly swirling snow, Berch saw the mule--its eyes and nostrils flared to the limit as it bucked and reared, dragging Belfray toward the edge. The young Tishaaran strained at the rope, nearly horizontal as he tried to dig his heels into the flowing snowfield to hold back the panicky beast.
“Belfray! Let go!”
Yet Belfray clung to the rope and continued to pull with all his might. The beast tottered to the very edge of the cliff. Not until the mule slipped backwards over the precipice, forelegs pawing piteously at the air, did Belfray release his grip and claw at the slick snow to stop his slide. Sloat skidded down next to him, dug his boot edges into the snow and yanked him back to safety.
For once, Belfray showed no inclination to talk. They all stood in silence as the echoes of the avalanche faded away.
“Forget the mule,” said Sloat to the shaken young man. “There was nothing you could do to save it. No sense in you going down with it.” Grinding a lip buried in his beard, he surveyed the rubble of white debris behind them. “Turning back is no longer an option,” he noted. He peered over the chasm that had claimed the mule and then shot a concerned glance at Berch. The message was clear. Riding was another option no longer available. Loss of the mule had cut Berch’s safety net. The odds of him surviving two days in this were slim.
Berch drove away Sloat’s look with a fierce glare. Ron Berch is no quitter. You can laugh at my mistakes, my appearance, my ignorance. So long as I keep moving forward to the bitter end, you can say what you like. You can all rot for all I care.
He suffered in silence, fully prepared to die of exhaustion in the perilously thin air and ever deeper snow. The sooner the better. Then they can get going without baby-sitting me.
He plowed doggedly ahead in the paths that Belfray stamped through the drifts, gasping for breath and ignoring his companions’ expressions of concern. But the time finally came when his legs buckled and he fell. In the howling gale, no one noticed him. He lay nearly buried in snow in the fading twilight until Digtry, who had dropped back while scouting for a more passable route through the glacier, nearly stepped on him. Digtry roused Berch with several gentle slaps in the face. The proud farmer forced himself to his knees and struggled to stand on feet with frost-numbed tows. Brushing away Digtry’s supporting arm, he righted himself and then gamely pressed on.
Minutes later, Sloat halted and turned to address the struggling group, shouting to make himself heard above the wind. “The snow here is up to my armpits! I cannot get on top of it even with snowshoes!”
Belfry grimly pushed past the captain. With a grunt he threw himself at the snowdrift as if battering down a locked door. He churned and thrashed tirelessly as only a Tishaaran could in his attempts to bull his way through the mass. But he spun in his tracks, accomplishing little.
“We cannot go further and we cannot go back!” moaned Belfray. “Meaning no offense, but why did we not turn back when this storm started instead of getting caught in it? Whose idea was this?”
Meanwhile Digtry was studying the air closely--probing, analyzing. Then he closed his eyes, shook his head, and stared again, slowly raising his sights from the ground to the sky.
“The important issue is not what we have done, but what we shall do,” said Sloat. “Unless we somehow find a way to keep moving, we will be buried where we stand.”
Berch rubbed off a droplet of sweat that had frozen on his eyelids. He was familiar enough with winter’s most violent moods on the open plains to know that Sloat was right. Unless they could find shelter from the storm and find it soon, they would perish. “Hang on, Louise. I’ll be with you soon,” he whispered through blue lips. The bitter gale sliced through his sweat-soaked clothes until he shook like a rattle in a hurricane.
“Please stop your thrashing, Belfray,” said Sloat. “Can you not see that you are only wasting your strength? We need to concentrate our efforts on something more productive.”
“You said yourself there are no other options,” said Belfray, as he collapsed in the snow. “We cannot go back and we cannot go on. What does that leave us? What hope have we left? Maybe we should just lie here and let the storm do what it will.”
The words played a sweet lullaby in Berch’s ears. The mere suggestion of letting go of life relaxed his aching muscles. “Just lie here.” Sleep. Yes, sleep. Merciful sleep. Let the whole stinking load drop. He could swear he heard a voice calling him through the howling wind: Fall into the soothing arms of sleep. Yield to it. He felt himself melting into the soft bed of snow.
But Belfray did not lie down; in fact, he attacked the snowbank in another furious exercise in futility until even he was puffing for breath. “If the storm were to stop instantly, I cannot see but what we are dead men,” he cried, in despair.
“If it stops, we are dead,” said Digtry. “If it keeps up we shall be fine.”
“This is a poor time to ply us with jokes and riddles,” exploded Belfray. “You will pardon the criticism.”
“No, I don’t think I will,” answered Digtry. “Look at the snow. Where is it coming from?”
“I should think that is impossible to tell,” said Belfray, exasperated. “One can hardly be sure of directions in such a storm, and the wind is gusting from every angle. What is your point?”
“Look at the snow,” Digtry repeated, slowly emphasizing each word. His calm, self-assured manner tickled Berch’s curiosity enough to rouse him momentarily from his stupor. He peered through the dim light at the barrage of white flakes. Fatigue and uncontrollable shivers jarred his focus. The monotony of the endless procession of flakes had all but hypnotized him when Sloat called out, “Dear God, can it be?!”
“It is,” said Digtry.
“It’s snowing up,” cried Sloat.
“Come on!” snapped Belfray. “Have you gone snow-mad?”
For once, Berch agreed with Belfray. A pathetic sight. Not wholly unexpected under the circumstances. The most stouthearted members of the group buckling under the pressure and going delirious. Berch closed his eyes. Far better to sleep than go crazy. Sleep. Sleep.
But then a thought kindled deep within the recesses of his exhausted mind, a thought that produced a flicker of hope. This is not the normal world. This is the Fourth
Realm. Unless these guys are blowing smoke about the realm laws, all kinds of goofiness could be happening up here.
He opened his eyes again. Something did seem out of place. He shook his head and rubbed the flakes from his eyes. After blinking through the gray dusk for a long time, he found there was no mistaking it. The snowstorm definitely seemed to have gone into reverse. Flakes were lifting off the ground and rising into the gray sky.
“Hey, you’re right! I see it!” he said.
Belfray and Roland were the last to recognize what was happening. “Well, of all the peculiar things!” Belfray said, laughing. “Now I know we are in the Fourth Realm.”
“Is this a common occurrence in this realm?” asked Sloat.
“No,” said Digtry. They all stood around waiting for further explanation, which never came.
“Well, lucky for us,” said Sloat, at last. “I suggest we burrow into the snow and wait out the storm.”
“So we shall! And cheer on the snowrise!” howled Belfray.
The five trekkers tunneled into the snow and packed the walls firmly until they had scooped out a cave with almost enough headroom for them to sit. Their body heat quickly warmed the burrow until it was almost cozy. Belfray and Roland took turns crawling out of their doorway every so often. They would return with a gleeful report that the storm was raging and the snow depth was diminishing nicely. On his third trip back into the darkness of the cramped hole, Roland found that all but Berch had yielded to weariness and were sleeping soundly. Belfray’s snoring resounded off the snow cave walls.
“Could you poke him?” said Roland. “If he keeps that up he’s going to trigger another avalanche."
Berch shoved Belfray roughly. There was a snort and then the snoring diminished.
“Get to sleep,” said Berch to Roland. “You’re not doing any good running out and checking the snow.”
“I’ll try,” said Roland. “But I don’t like sleeping in tight places. I feel like I can’t breathe.”
Eventually, Roland settled into his sleeping bad and tried to get comfortable. Inches away, Berch reflected on the day’s unexpected conclusion. “Snowrise. Who would have thought?”
“Yeah. Until this snow business, I don’t think it quite sunk in what this Fourth Realm is all about,” said Roland. “I mean, this could really be some wild stuff. I feel like I’m at the top of climb on a huge roller coaster, not knowing how bad the drop is going to be. Wondering if I want to bail out.”
This was getting too close to a sharing conversation. Berch had never been comfortable with such things to begin with, outside of Louise anyway, and the wolf incident had closed him up even more tightly. “Wouldn’t know. Never been on one of them roller coasters.”
There. That effectively headed off any forays into intimacy.
A few minutes later, Berch heard more scraping noises above the renewed rumble of Belfray’s snoring. “Now what?”
“I told you, I can’t sleep in tight spaces,” said Roland. “Feels like I’m suffocating. I just need to dig out a little more room above my head.”
“Don’t like heights, don’t like caves,” said Berch. “Kind of particular, ain’t you?”
“I guess."
After a few more scrapes, he said, “Sorry.”
“About what?” asked Berch, irritated. The kid is determined to ruin my sleep.
“About scratching your arm like that.”
“Like what?”
Roland stopped digging. “You didn’t feel anything?”
“No.”
“Man, you better check for frostbite, because I jabbed you pretty good. Your hand did feel pretty cold.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. My hands are as toasty as can be. So are my feet.”
“Who did I hit, then?” asked Roland, jumping back into Berch’s chest. “Digtry’s over there and--AHHHHH!”
“Begging pardon, but some of us are trying to sleep,” growled Sloat from the far side of the cave.
“It’s a body! There’s a body in here!” cried Roland. He jerked back in horror and bumped his head against the top of their tunnel, sending a dusting of snow over both him and Berch. “It’s a hand--stiff as a board!”
Sloat struck a light from his flint. Digtry crawled between Roland and Berch to see what the fuss was about. “Amazing,” he said, in his clinical voice. He nudged past them and began excavating around the arm.
“What in the world is going on?” demanded Belfray.
“You will never guess what we found,” said Digtry.
“I don’t want to guess,” said Roland, shaken. “What is it?”
“A Raxxar. And it’s quite dead.”