Green Bridge, December 22nd
The cargo sledge lurched forward suddenly, and Cyrus very nearly fell off his perch on top of a wooden crate at the rear. Gmork reached out a hand to steady him, but not before Cyrus’s dignity had slipped off into the snow and been trodden on by the following team of horses. The driver on the sledge behind him guffawed loudly.
Cyrus pulled his hat down over his ears and his scarf up over his nose and mouth. He drew the heavy fur cloak tighter around his shoulders and hunched over on the crate, crinkling his toes in his boots to keep the blood flowing. His gaze drifted longingly over the warm, bright little homes in the Green Bridge trade quarter. The journey to Roosterfoot promised an endless parade of discomfort and annoyance.
“How long will it take to reach the big-man cave at Weisseberg?” asked Gmork, his voice muffled. The goblin was wrapped in so many layers of furs and blankets that he looked like an oversized child’s ball—or perhaps an especially untidy pile of laundry.
“Four days to Roosterfoot,” answered Cyrus, giving the city’s name in heavily inflected Uellish. “Then some more days to Enderly. I don’t know how long, exactly; it depends on whether we can hire dogs in Roosterfoot. If we can, and if no big-men from the man-king stop us and beat us with sticks and iron bars and take our food and tie our legs into knots and leave us to die making pretty pictures in the snow, then we might reach Pillowback Pass in two more days. Once we cross the pass, we must find a big-man in Enderly to guide us to Weisseberg.”
Gmork reflected on that quietly. Then he spoke up again. “I think in two days I will be a frozen goblin. Before I die, I will make my limbs into a terrible and fearsome pose. Place my corpse where I can frighten children until I melt in the spring.”
Cyrus snorted. “You’re not getting out of this job so easily, Gmork. Herberta sent you with enough coats and blankets to keep this caravan and all of its guards warm, and enough food that I had to buy a place for our own crate to hold it all.”
The pile of coats and blankets next to him on the crate shivered visibly, and then fell silent.
The Leadfeather sledge caravan and its contingent of heavily armed and armored guards passed out of the south gate of Green Bridge and turned onto the Roosterfoot Road. Cyrus looked back over his shoulder, wondering if what he was feeling was real or just another dream. He wondered if Marius were sleeping finally, and whether Veridia was…
He stopped himself. Re-chewing that old cud would do nothing productive. He shook his head, trying to clear away the lingering feeling of uncertainty and unreality. Remembering Sheria’s words and his own brief, vivid flash of that glowing thread, he pondered: Have I already lost it? Was it ever really there?
Follow the Bright Path, he thought in his head, using the fey-speech in his thoughts. No sudden vision appeared, but he felt a little more settled. To pass the time, he pulled out the Balthan volume that had already caused so much trouble, and his own Uellish translation of it, and set about re-reading them one sentence at a time.
“What is that you’re reading, scholar?” asked a light voice next to him. He looked up sharply. One of the guards was riding next to the sledge, his face about even with Cyrus. It was a fair face, though partially obscured by a heavy fur hood and a scarf beneath the chin. He could see the lower rim of an iron-plated helm peeking out under the hood, and a heavy, wicked-looking crossbow was slung on the man’s saddle. He also carried a long spear set in a cup on one stirrup, and a short, stabbing sword was belted to his waist.
Cyrus started to say something condescending about an obscure Old Brassen transcription of moldy Uellish folktales that no one in all the Neighbor Kingdoms could find interesting outside of a handful of scholars—but then remembered that he wasn’t quite sure how the world worked anymore.
Instead, he said: “I’m looking for clues in a thirteen-hundred-year-old book to solve a three-month-old murder. I’m not quite sure I’m doing it right, to be honest.”
The man smiled. He looked young—perhaps twenty—and bit on the small side for a caravan guard. “If it’s been three months and it hasn’t yet been solved,” the guard replied, “then your ancient book probably stands as good a chance as anything the Billies are doing right now.”
Cyrus raised an eyebrow. “You know much about solving murders?”
The man shook his head, still smiling. “Not in the real world. But I like to read mysteries. I always take a job to Green Bridge if I can, to visit the booksellers on Nonsenstreet. But hey, that book doesn’t look thirteen hundred years old.”
Cyrus shook his head, smiling despite himself at the guard’s ingenuous questions.
“What’s your name, boy?” he asked.
The man stiffened slightly, and Cyrus was suddenly sure he’d given offense. “Sorry,” he said hastily. “That was rude. What’s your name, sir?”
“Bear,” replied the guard shortly. Cyrus looked him up and down curiously; he didn’t look like the sort of fellow that earned ‘Bear’ as a nickname. “Don’t ask,” added Bear wryly, seeing Cyrus’s gaze. “It’s not as good a story as your murder mystery.”
“Cyrus Stoat,” offered Cyrus in return, doffing his hat briefly in the frigid air. He realized, too late, that he’d forgotten to add the bit about ‘Tenured Professor of Applied History at Triad University.’ “I’m afraid my companion and I will be infesting this caravan as far as Roosterfoot.” He jerked his head in the direction of Gmork’s temporary dwelling beneath the pile of furs and blankets.
“A man of letters will be a pleasant change from the usual conversation of guards and drivers,” remarked Bear. “Once you’ve talked about gambling, whores, and drinking at the last town and gambling, whores, and drinking at the next one, there’s not a lot left. They usually just start over again.”
“I’m afraid it’s the same with scholars,” answered Cyrus, “except it’s gossip, politics, and drinking. I can’t remember the last time I had a substantive conversation about history with one of my colleagues.”
There was a thoughtful silence from Bear, as the sledge moved quietly through the deep snow behind its team of six.
“If it’s not too much trouble, would you read some of those stories from your book as we ride?” he asked eventually. “I’d like to know what kind of stories people told thirteen hundred years ago.”
Cyrus was surprised to find that he was nodding his head and flipping open his book of translations.
“I think you’ll find most of them feel quite familiar,” he began. “But every now and then you get one that sounds like it’s from another planet.”
✽✽✽
The hours rolled past as the sledges slid, and Cyrus read, and Gmork shivered. They halted as the sun began to dim in the afternoon, setting up a small but tidy snow encampment in one of the many merchants’ campsites on the Roosterfoot Road. Over their simple evening meal, Bear continued to ply Cyrus for stories from both the Balthan volume and his own knowledge of the history of the Neighbor Kingdoms. Cyrus admitted to himself that it was flattering to have an attentive listener, and talked until Bear reluctantly departed to stand his watch. All the travelers—guards, drivers, and passengers—kept themselves wrapped in heavy, shapeless fur garments and hats against the biting cold. Soon enough, Cyrus slipped into a down-filled and fur-lined sleeping roll, huddled next to Gmork for heat.
Two more days passed in this fashion, as the frozen countryside of central Uelland drifted slowly by them. Bear rode next to Cyrus and Gmork’s perch on the back of one of the sledges, ignoring the quizzical looks from the other mounted guards. Cyrus soon exhausted the Balthan volume, and turned to rambling tales of the Old Ecclesia, Horace Carelon, the Purge, and the endless, vibrant characters and conflicts that dominated the slow dissolution of the old Empire of the Dusk.
“Where will you go after Roosterfoot?” asked Bear suddenly, just as Cyrus was finishing the story of Emperor Bel-Khendo the Confused and his thirteenth wife, Katherine of Gorgevon. (It is wrongly supposed, he had explained, that Bel-Khendo had eighteen wives and that Katherine was dead at the time the Emperor married her. In fact, he only had thirteen wives; the error arose when a prolific third-century scribe with especially poor handwriting wrote the number ‘3’ with a few extra curves so that it resembled an ‘8’. The Old Ecclesia was forced to make up the remaining five wives rather than admit to a widespread copy error, and the deception turned into accepted history, repeated and compounded most recently and egregiously by the late Robert Franco of Triad University. The bit about Katherine being dead at the time they were married was, however, widely accepted as accurate.)
“Where will I go?” he mused. “I have business in Enderly. More precisely, I have business in Weisseberg—but I haven’t a clue how to get there, so I shall have to hire a guide in Enderly. Before I can do that, though, Gmork and I must make our way to the Haalstern Mountains and over Pillowback Pass.”
Bear’s eyes widened. “In January? You plan to cross the Haalsterne into Enderly in January?”
He shrugged. “Caravans make the trip from time to time, I understand, when there’s enough money at stake to make speed worth the discomfort. I’ve never been that way myself, but I haven’t the time to go around north to Growlgub or south to the Vilgun Gap. I have a murder to solve and a class to teach. We’ll hire dog teams in Roosterfoot, if we can; if not, it will have to be sleighs.”
They rode in silence for a time, as Bear pondered that.
“Let me be your guide, Professor,” he said eventually. “I’m not promised for the return trip to Green Bridge. Hire me on as a guide.”
Cyrus looked up sharply. “Do you know Enderly?”
Bear nodded. “I grew up in a little village in between Enderly and Vilgun.”
That can’t have been long ago, thought Cyrus to himself.
“When I started with the caravans, it was the Vilgun-Enderly-Growlgub route,” Bear continued. “I know the area, and I know how to find someone who can take us to Weisseberg… if you’re set on it. It’s not easy to get to, and… it’s been abandoned for a long time. The people who live around there think it’s haunted.”
Cyrus snorted.
“I’ll give you four silver bottoms in Roosterfoot and six once we return there safely from Weisseberg. But not another word about ghosts, Mr. Bear. I’ve already had quite enough ghost stories for one lifetime.”
✽✽✽
As the Leadfeather caravan drew near to Roosterfoot, the little farm hamlets gradually turned into villages, and the villages turned into small towns. Though the population centers were relatively calm, the faces of the people showed long lines of worry and fear. Small, newly-constructed wooden forts dotted the edges of the villages, populated by hard-faced and heavily-armed men. Some of these wore the uniforms and colors of well-known mercenary companies, but most were clad in the irregular clothing of civilian militia. Their only unifying feature was a small badge bearing the arms of central Uelland’s largest city—checked black and white, one foot of cockerel inverted—and an attitude of deep suspicion to any other man bearing arms.
“Every job to Roosterfoot gets harder,” remarked Bear as they approached yet another checkpoint. “The Republican Guard has taken up winter quarters in Swallow Hall—just ten miles down the road—and everyone’s terrified of spies.”
“These men seem edgy,” Cyrus observed, watching the lead driver arguing heatedly with some petty militia officer.
Bear shrugged. “They live here, and they don’t want to see their homes razed. The Moot hasn’t yet taken a side between the King and Queen, and everyone’s worried they’ll end up on the wrong one. They’re champion wafflers, this Moot.”
Cyrus eyed the guard speculatively. “And which side do you think they should take?”
“I’ve been on three caravans through Republican territory,” replied Bear, shaking his head in disgust, “and each one was more depressing than the last. But Hobb the Wise has a bigger, better army than Queen Anne and her trade mercenaries, guns or no guns. When they get around to booting the Svegnians, Brassens and Carolese out of Uellish territory, the Republican Guard will turn their full attention up here and it will be a bloodbath. So… I suppose I’m glad I’m not a delegate to the Moot.”
Coins changed hands at last, and the militia man waved them through. Soon after, beneath a dull, gray afternoon sky, they came within sight of the dull, gray walls of Roosterfoot.
It was not a large city, but to Cyrus’s eye it made up for lack of size with unattractive architecture and a dreary culture. “Roosterfoot grew up slowly out of a farming hamlet,” he remarked to Bear and Gmork as they passed under the newly reinforced western gatehouse, “and they never quite stopped thinking like bean-herders. Everything here looks like a barn.”
The Leadfeather caravan made its way through Roosterfoot’s narrow, winding streets, awkwardly turning the sledges around tight corners and occasionally cutting through heavy drifts where deep snow hadn’t been cleared away by foot and sleigh traffic. The snow was at least a foot deeper than in Green Bridge; Cyrus had read a paper recently from the College of Geography that claimed it had to do with being farther from the Green River. It was colder, as well. No children played forts and snowballs in the streets, as they would have in Green Bridge, and men and women tramped about their tasks with little talk or laughter.
Finally, they arrived in the modest trade quarter. The caravan sledges pulled up before a long warehouse—it did indeed look like an oversized barn—and began to unload while the master paid off the guards. Bear, tucking his purse back into his belt, sidled over to Cyrus, where he was inspecting what remained of their food stores in the depleted crate.
“We should hire dog teams and resupply quickly,” Bear said in his light voice. “The weather comes in fast from the west around here, and I don’t like the look of that sky. You can smell the snow coming on. If heavy weather comes in, we could be stuck here for days.”
Cyrus pulled out his own purse and handed Bear four silver bottoms. “Your down payment, Mr. Bear. You seem to know the area, so you go and find us some dog teams. We’ll need three, I think—one for each of us, and we can tuck most of the supplies in behind Gmork. Try to keep it below three bottoms each for the trip, but go up to five if you need to. I’ll go see about rations; meet me back here when you’re finished.”
He thought for a moment longer as Bear departed. “Gmork,” he said in the goblin tongue, “keep your hood up and come with me. People around here aren’t used to your kind. I don’t have time to put you back together if a mob of big-men rip you apart and hang up your guts for festive decorations in their homes.”
Though Roosterfoot was the central collection point for the large, rich, and productive farmland in the heart of Uelland, Cyrus found that foodstuffs came at a surprisingly dear price. By the time he and Gmork had made their way down the row of general stores branching off from the trading square, his purse was noticeably lighter. He wondered how many bribes they would have to pay to reach Enderly, and whether he should commit a bit of petty larceny to supplement his funds.
When he returned to the trading square, he found Bear waiting with three locals. They were on the small side—a common feature of dog mushers, he’d found—and were all heavily bearded.
“You have dog teams?” he asked abruptly.
One of them nodded. “I am Hels Carling. These are Furback the Foot and Drunk Dave. Your woman here says you want to get to Enderly quickly. We will take you for six bottoms each.”
Cyrus stamped up to Hels Carling angrily, throwing back his cloak to reveal the hilt of his broadsword. “Insult my guide again, Mr. Carling,” he growled, “and I’ll insert my wooden leg into an extremely uncomfortable location on your person until you apologize—in rhyming iambic couplets. His name is Bear, and he got the name because he eats dogs and their drivers for breakfast. And I’m not in such a hurry that I care to be extorted by a flea-ridden musher. You’ll get two silvers each.”
The traditional formalities of contract negotiation commenced then, and there was a meeting of the minds on three silvers for each driver, two in advance. With the afternoon light waning, Mr. Carling instructed Cyrus to return to the square before dawn to set out.
“We drive in any weather, snow or no snow,” said the small, bearded man. “So, you and your… guide… and child, you all must dress warmly.” And with that he and his companions stumped off through the snow.
Cyrus turned to Bear. “Sorry about that,” he apologized. “This lot has dreadful manners, even for caravanners.” He could see the young guard blush beneath his heavy scarf and fur hat.
“Don’t trouble yourself, Professor,” he replied. “I’ve spent enough time on the trail to know how it works. I can take care of myself.”
“Come on,” said Cyrus, hoping to change the subject. “Let’s find an inn and enjoy one night of warmth before we venture out into the wind-blasted, frozen hell that is central Uelland.”
Bear held up a hand. “Pardon me, Professor, but I have friends in Roosterfoot I’d like to see. You’ll forgive me if I meet you here tomorrow?”
Cyrus shrugged. “Suit yourself. Don’t be late, or I’ll leave without you and hire another man in Enderly.”
They parted ways. As the light dimmed, Cyrus found his limbs suddenly leaden with fatigue. He and Gmork found a small public house off the trading square, wolfed down a hot meal, and retreated to a tiny bedroom. Though his assistant sat up, alert and untired, Cyrus fell asleep instantly upon hitting the thin mattress.
✽✽✽
It was snowing lightly as they set out before dawn the next day. Cyrus, Bear, and Gmork each sat in an individual sledge, legs extended forward on the narrow frame and backs up against cargo behind them. The dog teams were comprised of the broad-faced, yellow-eyed breed that was popular among caravans here in the central plains. The dogs and their drivers yapped and howled enthusiastically as they set out, heedless of the cold or the falling snowflakes.
Cyrus had only rarely ridden with a dog team, and he had forgotten how fast they moved. They whipped through the snowy roads leading east from Roosterfoot, eating up the distance at two or three times the speed a horse-drawn sleigh could manage in heavy snow. The dogs seemed to run tirelessly, and as the sun rose ahead of them the little burgs surrounding Roosterfoot were far in the distance.
Shortly after sunrise they passed through a series of small wooden fortifications manned by grim-faced mercenaries. Though their equipment and clothing varied widely, they wore badges of red chevron against white, with three fish surmounted by a single crown. The Queen’s men, then. They asked few questions, and no bribes were demanded; plainly they had larger concerns than a few outbound dog caravanners. Beyond the forts the land changed little, but Cyrus knew they were entering contested territory. He looked around nervously, but no more soldiers were to be seen for the moment.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
Around noon, they passed through a small farming hamlet, and Cyrus got his first view of the Republican Guard. They wore thick wool overcoats dyed red, with white sashes and silver buttons. Beneath these, each man wore a leather cuirass over his wool coat and undergarments. They had peculiar, three-cornered hats of black felt, though beneath these they wrapped their heads and faces in additional layers of wool against the vicious cold. They wore no badges at all, though the officers had small insignia indicating rank. They looked nothing like the King’s Heavy Foot or the regular soldiery of the army. Compared with the mercenaries in the fort to the west, Cyrus found their dress and manner to be unsettlingly… uniform.
The soldiers stopped them at a checkpoint.
“Your names,” stated one of them in a bored tone. Cyrus had no idea what his rank was; the insignia were unfamiliar. Carling gave the names of the drivers. The officer turned to Cyrus. “Passengers too,” he said flatly. His tone was bored, peremptory, and confident in its authority.
“Bear Borson,” said Bear.
Cyrus thought for a moment. He and the First Minister of Uelland weren’t on the friendliest of terms.
“Marius Weasel,” he offered. “And my son, Wigglus.” He gestured toward Gmork, who, as usual, was nearly invisible under a huge pile of wrappings.
“Cargo inspection,” stated the officer.
“Surely that won’t be necessary, sir,” said Cyrus, winking at the man. “It’s a cold day, and you look like you’d rather be inside enjoying a nice, warming beer.” He shook his purse suggestively.
“No,” replied the soldier quietly. “Cargo inspection.”
Cyrus was shocked.
The passengers were forced to get out of the sledges, and the contents were turned out into the snow. The soldiers picked through their food, clothing, and gear, making a minute inventory of every item. Then, apparently satisfied with the contents of the cargo sacks, the officer turned back to Cyrus. He handed him a small, written invoice, summarizing the contents of the sledges. It had a number written at the bottom, along with the words: “Customs duty.”
Cyrus drew in a deep breath, preparing to vent his outrage, but Bear touched his arm lightly, deflating him. The young man shook his head slightly, and nodded back at the soldiers. They had moved their hands to the hilts of their weapons and were crouched slightly. Still fuming, Cyrus paid the duty and received a receipt for his trouble. The officer also handed him several rolled-up sheets of paper with small printing on both sides.
“Read this,” he said. “As a service to travelers entering the Republic, the Crown has summarized the national regulations governing all persons, citizens and non-citizens alike. You are advised that this list is not exhaustive, and you are advised to seek qualified legal counsel regarding the legality of any business in which you may engage and the applicable fees, licenses, and regulations associated therewith.”
Cyrus looked around at the tiny houses of the snow-choked hamlet.
“Is there a lawyer in this thorp?” he asked.
The soldier shrugged indifferently. “Don’t know. Probably not. Move along.” And he waved them through the checkpoint.
As they flew along the snow-bound road leading east, Cyrus unrolled the sheets of paper and looked at them.
“Welcome to the Republic of Uelland!” the document began cheerfully. “As a visitor or resident, you are required to obey all applicable Laws and Regulations of the National Assembly. Read this list carefully and consult with an attorney if you have any questions.” It began with some definitions, then moved on to something about fish weights and wheat measures. He scanned down the list on the first page, flipped it over and read the back down to the section on licensing requirements for the production of printed material under ten pages, vomited slightly in the back of his throat, and threw the papers over his shoulder. The Laws and Regulations of the National Assembly fluttered into the snow behind them.
✽✽✽
The landscape around them remained flat, white, and desolate throughout the day—though Cyrus knew that in the spring it would transform into rich farmland. At dusk they halted in a tiny village, paying a farmer to shelter in his barn for the evening. After their frugal meal, Bear disappeared into a corner of the barn by himself without asking for any more stories, and was not seen again until morning. Cyrus wondered if he had somehow given offense to the young man. He and Gmork bedded down in their own corner, curled up next to an accommodating cow for heat. The three sled drivers slept with their dogs.
In the morning, as they ate a cold, miserable meal of trail jerky kept thawed next to their bodies overnight, Cyrus addressed a question to the group at large. “When will we reach Pillowback Pass?”
Mr. Carling looked up from gnawing ferociously on a hunk of jerky. “Tonight,” he answered tersely. “But for the weather, we’d have seen the mountains in the distance when we left Roosterfoot. We’re near the foothills; I expect we’ll be climbing this afternoon. The pass itself is only about fifty miles away, but it’s steep climbing to reach it. There are shelters we can use when the sun sets.”
Cyrus gave a sidelong glance at his guide. “Any advice, Mr. Bear? Do we go all the way to Enderly, or leave the trail sooner?”
Bear shook his head. “We’ll need to hire a sleigh in Enderly. You can walk to Weisseberg in the summer months if you’re patient, but in the winter, it would be death. Especially with only one leg.” He looked meaningfully at the stump of Cyrus’s right leg. The young caravan guard still wore his fur cloak pulled tight around his body, and his scarf and fur hat covered most of his face. The inside of the barn was frigid, cows or no cows. From what Cyrus could see, Bear’s face showed thinly disguised concern. What was bothering him?
Mr. Carling’s prediction proved to be accurate. Within an hour, the dog sleds were beginning to angle upward, and their rate slowed. The drivers took more frequent breaks to feed and rest the dogs, during which their passengers walked clumsily through the snow to stretch their legs and relieve themselves. The small farming hamlets came to an end, and they made their way through true wilderness, populated only by thinning deciduous forests that slowly shifted into dense groves of pine and fir.
As the sun was setting, the weather abruptly cleared. In the last light of the day—by Cyrus’s count the twenty-seventh of December—they looked out from atop a high, stoney ledge over the vast white plains to the west. The tiny dots of hamlets were the only punctuation in that vast field until the eye reached the brownish splotch of Roosterfoot, marked by a haze of smoke from wood and coal fires. Beyond it—far, far in the distance—they could make out the thin line of settlements that marked the Green River.
“I think I can see my house from here,” remarked Cyrus. “Looking out across the entire Kingdom of Uelland might be worth the bother of this trip all by itself.”
“What’s left of the Kingdom of Uelland,” added Bear bitterly. “The southern half is calling itself a ‘republic,’ the middle bit doesn’t know what to do, and the North is cut off from supplies and friends. And our neighbors are nibbling away more of the borders every day.”
“I think you’ve revealed your allegiance, Mr. Bear,” remarked Cyrus. “I won’t tell Hobb the Wise if these fine gentlemen won’t.” He grinned crookedly at the drivers. Then he turned around and looked over his shoulder.
Behind him, to the east, the vast, stony peaks of the Haalsterne were caught in the orange light of the setting winter sun. Those enormous heights—forbidding, remote, clad in an awful majesty of snow—were utterly impervious to the little affairs of mortal men. A thousand Republics and ten thousand Queens could come and go, and those mountains would still glare down from their heights on whatever smoking ruin was left of the Neighbor Kingdoms. No human act, however noble or notorious, could change them. They would outlive history. He felt somehow comforted.
He spotted some large bird circling high above them in the deep, electric blue sky. It was well above the tallest peaks over the pass, and Cyrus marveled that any animal could survive so high. He watched it for a moment, and concluded that it was even larger and farther away than his original impression. But then the drivers called out, and they returned to the sleds, wildlife forgotten.
At dusk, they made an uncomfortable winter camp in one of the rough wooden shelters maintained by the merchant caravans that came this way. A store of dry firewood was laid by, and the shelter was well protected from snow. As they huddled around the fire for warmth, Cyrus shared a few more stories with Bear, and a few extra strips of jerky with Gmork. They bedded down in the shelters, huddled together with the drivers and dogs.
Cyrus’s eyes snapped open after some indeterminate dream of crawling through tunnels and getting nowhere. A loud, angry, screeching cry had pierced his slumber, thrusting him from dreaming into consciousness with no warning or transition. He scrambled awkwardly out of his bedroll. Bear, Carling, Furback the Foot, and Drunk Dave, were doing the same. By the dim light of the fire, he saw that Bear had retrieved his heavy crossbow and was cranking it, just as if he had been awake the whole time. Cyrus fumbled in the dim light for his broadsword.
The horrific scream came again from above them in the air. There was a sound of rushing air and great, beating wings. A third time the cry repeated itself; it sounded like some enormous raptor. The rushing sound withdrew, and the beating of wings retreated to the north and east. Bear, crouching in the snow, pointed his crossbow into the sky, but no target presented itself.
The men looked at each other silently. No one spoke for several minutes, while they listened intently for the sound of wings returning.
“Big bird,” remarked Mr. Carling at last. “And I’ve never heard of a hawk or eagle hunting at night. They don’t see well in the dark.”
“The echoes from the mountain faces could have amplified the sounds,” posited Cyrus. “I’ve heard it before. You can shout in a narrow, rocky valley, and it sounds like ten men.” But he didn’t find himself convincing.
They bedded down again, leaving a watch this time. But Cyrus found that sleep came only reluctantly. When it returned, he was crawling through tunnels again.
Dead end, Cyrus Stoat, whispered the flat voice.
Follow the Bright Path, whispered another. Was it his own?
✽✽✽
They were not alone in the encampment. The sound of stamping and snorting horses and men’s voices raised in anger drew him awake instantly. Once again, he fumbled around for his sword, but now found that it was missing. He sat up in his roll, awkwardly drawing his fur cloak around him and settling his wide-brimmed hat back on his head. Gmork was hiding pitifully inside his own bedroll, peering out with one fearful eye. Cyrus looked out of the small shelter.
A large group of men had gathered in the clearing in front of the shelter. They wore the red wool cloaks of the Republican Guard, complete with white sashes and three-cornered felt hats. The men were arguing heatedly with the sled drivers. Cyrus staggered from his bedroll and floundered out into the snow to join the verbal melee.
“I don’t care who’s paid you or where you’re going,” shouted the squad’s officer at Mr. Carling. “My lieutenants and I have urgent need to reach Swallow Hall, and your teams will move faster than our horses. You will take us there.”
Mr. Carling offered up an expression so definite and explicit regarding this proposition that, notwithstanding certain robust language that has been inscribed in these pages to date, his present ejaculation could not be repeated here without serious risk of danger to the reader. This response prompted the Guard officer to grab the short driver by the front of his shirt and draw him close, his hand drifting down to a short stabbing sword belted at his side.
Bear, seeing that violence was imminent, brought his crossbow to shoulder level, as Cyrus floundered helplessly forward and fell headfirst into a large drift of new snow. Numerous dramatic and action-filled events transpired while he extricated himself, of which, we are sorry to say, Professor Stoat was completely oblivious. When he returned to the scene, he saw this:
Mr. Carling was lying in the snow, bleeding from the nose. Bear was pinned face-first in the snow by two Guardsmen, his heavy fur cap and helm lying nearby. A third Guardsman held Bear’s crossbow. Drunk Dave and Furback the Foot stood with their hands held cautiously over their heads, as a dozen more crossbows were pointed in their direction.
The Guard officer raised Carling’s head up out of the snow and glared directly into his face.
“You will transport my lieutenants and me to Swallow Hall immediately, Mr. Carling, or I will cut off your legs, burn your sledge, and leave you here with your dogs until they grow hungry and eat you.”
Within five minutes, the sleds were gone. The officers departed in the three dog sleds, while the rest of the troop returned to their horses. Bear’s crossbow was gone as well, but Cyrus found his broadsword under the snow with some effort. He stumped over to Bear, who was kneeling on all fours, his face down. Cyrus picked up the man’s fur cap from the snow and offered him a hand up.
Bear looked up, and Cyrus’s eyes widened with his shock.
With the fur cap off and the scarf disheveled, Bear’s face was clearly visible to Cyrus for the first time since they’d left Green Bridge. He had high, prominent cheekbones, a finely chiseled jawline and chin, and blond hair tied back tightly in a bun.
She sat back heavily in the snow, tears running down her cheeks.
“Yes,” Bear said softly. “Go on. You were going to find out sooner or later.”
“You’re… a woman,” Cyrus observed in idiotic stupefaction.
“I’m a caravan guard,” growled Bear.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he demanded.
“Would it have made a difference? Would you have turned me down as your guide?”
He thought about that.
“No,” he concluded. “You remind me of another young lady I met not long ago. She began as my guide on another journey, and now she’s one of my best students at Triad. But that young woman, Miss Bear—or is it Mrs. Bear?—did not feel the need to pretend to be something she wasn’t.”
“It’s not Bear anything,” said the woman miserably. “It’s Brea. Brea Borson. One of the Leadfeather clerks misspelled it when I first signed on, and the other guards thought it was funny, so the name stuck. I found it… helpful. It kept them thinking of me as a comrade, not as an oddity—or an object. So, I’ve been ‘Bear’ for six years now.”
Cyrus squinted his eyes, wanting to argue more, but suddenly aware that they were alone in the middle of the Haalsterne with no transportation and precious little gear. All that was left of their food supplies was a small sack that Carling had surreptitiously let fall from his sled as he departed. Cyrus glanced nervously at Gmork, still cowering in the shelter, and wondered how long the small sack would feed a ravenous goblin.
“We need to move,” he said flatly. “We can’t stay here.”
Bear picked herself up out of the snow, wiped the blood off her face, and silently started gathering up what little equipment they had left.
“Do we go on or go back?” asked Cyrus.
“On,” answered Bear tersely. “We’re closer now to Enderly than to the nearest settlement on the west side of the mountains. But we’re going to need to do something about your leg, Professor, or we’ll all starve to death before we get anywhere.”
Cyrus struggled to step through the deep snow, and quickly concluded that she was correct. He gritted his teeth, struggling to maintain his calm.
“Wait here,” said Bear, starting to move back toward the shelter.
She roused Gmork from his blankets and shooed him, reluctantly, out into the snow. Together they disappeared behind the little shelter, and he could see snow being flung out. After a minute or two, Bear returned, her arms laden with a length of stout rope and a small box.
“Repair kit,” she explained. “We keep them at all the shelters. Insurance against a wagon or sledge breaking down when you’re at the arse end of nowhere.”
Cyrus nodded approvingly. Trust the trade companies to be prepared for contingencies—no merchant wanted his investment lost to a broken wheel in the mountains. But what was she going to do with the kit?
“Are you going to build me a new leg?” he inquired.
“No,” she said. “I’m going to build you a sledge.” And with that, she set about tearing planks off the side of the shelter. Soon there was a neat pile of lumber and nails, which she and Gmork fashioned with the rope into a workable sledge on runners, complete with a harness. The whole operation took an hour, during which Cyrus packed their remaining clothing and bedrolls as compactly as he could into the sack. When the sledge was ready, Bear directed Cyrus to sit in it facing to the rear, strapped the tool kit and their remaining bedrolls behind him, and took up the harness over her shoulders.
“Hauling you over the mountains to Enderly on my back wasn’t part of our original deal,” she said with a smirk once he was strapped in. “I think I should get the three silver bottoms you hadn’t yet paid the drivers.”
He wanted to be outraged, but couldn’t summon it up. Instead, he fished about in his purse and handed over the silver bottoms.
“If I’m breathing and not missing any more limbs by the time we reach Enderly,” he said, “then you’ll have earned a bonus.”
They set off up the trail. Cyrus felt a bit guilty as Bear puffed and pulled ahead of him, with Gmork frequently pushing from behind or lending a hand with the harness. But his sense of guilt was soon erased by the biting, creeping cold that gripped his limbs as they lay motionless in the sledge. He desperately wiggled his toes and jiggled his leg, trying to keep the blood flowing. He knew what happened to men who lay still in deep cold for an extended time, and had no desire to reach Enderly in need of another peg leg.
When the sun reached its zenith, they finally entered the heights of Pillowback Pass. It was a narrow, winding track, but large enough for the merchants’ heavy sledges to navigate. Bear stopped the sledge and unstrapped their blankets, clearing a patch of rock and laying them out.
“Are we taking a nap?” asked Cyrus curiously.
“No,” answered the woman. “We’re saving your leg.”
She helped Cyrus up and out of the sledge, then tucked him into the roll. Then, to his surprise, she removed some of her outer clothing and casually inserted herself into the roll next to him.
“I appreciate the sentiment, Miss Bear…” began Cyrus.
“Don’t even think about it,” she snapped in return. “If you touch me, I’ll leave you here to die. Just hold still.”
They lay there awkwardly, sharing body heat, as circulation gradually returned to Cyrus’s leg and toes. Bear smelled rather strongly of sweat from her long exertion, but Cyrus found it an acceptable price as his leg and foot tingled with warmth returning. Gmork, apparently inspired by the whole affair, lay on top of them both, looking up at the blue sky and munching jerky from their rapidly diminishing store.
“We’d better not eat much more,” remarked Cyrus.
“I’m hungry,” answered Bear. “I’ve been hauling you up a mountain. Snow doesn’t fill the stomach.”
“I know. But Gmork here is hungrier. And before you say anything else about it, Bear, take my word that you do not want to be around a hungry goblin.”
Bear cursed under her breath. “Let’s go,” she said eventually. “That should be enough to keep you from passing out and turning blue.”
They carried on and up into the pass as the sun gradually sank to the southwest. The trail switched back and forth, always climbing, until at last they reached the crest and looked down into the shadows darkening to the east. Bear paused, her chest heaving from exertion, and Cyrus looked over his shoulder.
Far below them, hidden in gray shadows now that the sun had dipped below the mountains, lay the wide expanse of the Tharma river valley, marking the eastern frontier of Uelland. The mountains dropped down sharply to meet the broad river, now a fat band of white in the landscape, and then gradually climbed up into a range of woody hills some twenty miles beyond the east bank. The jagged peaks of the Gnovik range—all Svegnian territory—loomed up beyond them, faintly visible in the dim light. But immediately below, to Cyrus’s great relief, was a long line of tiny lights from the settlements on the Uellish western bank of the Tharma.
“We’ll descend tomorrow,” declared Bear. “It’s not safe in the dark.”
The three travelers spent a miserable night in the brutally frigid air. They shared a single bedroll beneath all their available clothing, sheltering from the howling wind underneath the upturned sledge. As the wind grew stronger, they drew the clothing and blankets over their heads. Eventually, Cyrus slept, wondering if he would ever wake.
✽✽✽
He did wake. Morning came at last, and, mercifully, the wind died down. They fed Gmork the last of the jerky. Cyrus and Bear looked the other way while the grayskin happily munched away the food, then shook the sack upside-down hopefully. No more provisions emerged.
“We need to make good time today,” said Cyrus seriously. “If we don’t feed him again within about eight hours, we’re going to have a bigger problem than any we have now.”
Bear looked at him speculatively, then looked down at the trail leading out of the pass. “There’s one way,” she said quietly. “It will get us there quickly, but I promise you won’t like it.”
“Quickly is good,” snapped Cyrus. “Try me. Quickly is the only choice right now.”
“How do you feel about skiing?”
He looked at her in confusion. “I don’t exactly have the equipment for it,” he answered. “I’m missing a required appendage.”
“I didn’t mean you skiing,” she said. She unpacked the tool kit and started removing two of the planks from the sledge, while Cyrus looked on in growing horror.
“You must be insane,” he remarked clinically. “I mean actually, not figuratively. Gibbering, raving, seeing things that aren’t there lunacy. We must be a mile up in this pass, and that trail looks like it runs at about a thirty-degree downslope.”
“Closer to two miles,” she replied, using Cyrus’s broadsword to hack a pair of flexible, springy branches off a nearby fir tree. “But you’re right about the slope. Actually, it’s steeper in places.” She fastened one end of each of the fir branches with nails and rope to the now-narrower sledge. She then carefully applied wax from the kit to the two planks she had removed, used some of the rope to bend them up at one end, and set about strapping them to the front of her boots in crude bindings.
“You’re going to snap your ankles off if you fall,” he observed. “And then we’re all going to die, in our own idioms.”
“Then I won’t fall,” she answered. “I used to ski this pass with my father when I was young. I know the way.” She carefully tied Cyrus to the sledge, facing backward. “Tell Gmork to sit in your lap,” she instructed.
Cyrus, muttering curses, addressed his assistant.
“We are going to slide down this mountain,” he said. “This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever done in my life, and it’s going to end with all of us splattered against a rock at the bottom of some ravine. If you have a god, now is the time to start praying.”
Gmork looked down at the narrow, winding caravan trail leading out of the pass.
“This is the best thing that has ever happened to me,” he said, climbing on to the sledge.
They set off slowly, but ‘slowly’ lasted for about ten seconds. Then they were plunging downward, snow whipping Cyrus in the head and face mercilessly, and the movement of the sledge threatening to spill him out at any moment. The little vehicle swayed back and forth on the springy fir branches, held firmly in Bear’s hands. Looking backward in stark terror, Cyrus could only hold on in desperation and imagine what dangers lay in front of her crude skis. They swooped back and forth across the caravan trail when it was wide enough, as Bear used turns to control her speed. But the trail frequently passed through narrow, steep sections that would not support turns, and his guide was forced to simply plow straight downward. At times, Cyrus felt himself to be in freefall; at other times, the trail flattened out just enough for him to catch his breath and shout the most inventive curses he could formulate. Through it all, Gmork sat on his lap, gripping tightly with his legs and laughing with insane, maniacal glee.
Cyrus spent the next hour of his life utterly convinced that it was going to end at any second, as the pass above him retreated into the distance and the sickening drops and turns continued unabated. Eventually he ran out of curses and simply sat quietly, contemplating the terrible mistakes he had made in his life.
Finally, the speed slackened, and Bear’s movements settled into a rhythmic skating. The caravan track had flatted out into a dense pine forest, with only a mild downslope to help propel them forward.
“Let’s do it again!” shouted Gmork in the goblin tongue. “Ask her to climb up and do it again!”
“Next time,” said Cyrus, “I’ll roll you down. By time you reach the bottom, you’ll be at the center of a snowball so large it will still be there at midsummer.”
They reached the first signs of civilization not long after: a small cluster of woodcutters’ huts. Soon enough the dwellings became more regular, but rather than seek aid, Bear simply kept skating forward, pausing from time to time only to apply wax to her skis and fix her bindings. By the time the sun was setting, the hamlets had transformed into little villages.
They reached Enderly by the light of a full moon and found a small inn with room in the stable to sleep. Gmork helped himself to a hearty meal of oats from the bin for the pack animals, and soon all three were unconscious in a heap next to a warm horse.