Shannivar (29 page)

“This is no natural snow!” Zevaron said as Shannivar handed him an armful of rolled carpets.

One of the Snow Bear men darted past the hissing coals. His wail pierced the sound of the wind. Shannivar could not at first make out who it was. She watched, horrified, as he toppled to the earth.
Mother of Horses!
It was Chinjizhin.

As Shannivar reached the Snow Bear chieftain, his arms and legs flailed wildly, scattering snow. Instinctively, she flinched away. His head was thrown back, and even in the heavy snowfall, she could see gleaming crescents of white, all that was visible of his eyes. His skin turned blue-black as one paroxysm followed another. For a long moment, she did not think he was breathing.

Zevaron pushed past her and threw himself to his knees beside the convulsing man. He had snatched up a blanket, which he now placed under the chieftain's head.

“Stay away!” one of the Snow Bear men shouted.

“What are you doing, fool of an outlander? He is demon-touched!”

“Get back, or the demon will seize you, too!”

Clearly terrified, the other Snow Bear men backed away. Some made warding signs against evil. Only Chinzhukog remained beside his father, his face a mask of alarm.

Zevaron showed no sign of fear. Calmly he removed his sash, folded it, and slipped it between the man's teeth.

“Zevaron, please! The risk!” Shannivar pleaded. “Remember the purification ritual! Do not make things worse for yourself. You cannot help him with foolhardy heroism. Come away—”

“There is no need for alarm,” Bennorakh said, coming near. “Tabilit smiles upon the man of compassion, even an outlander.”

Gathering her courage, Shannivar took a step closer. Zevaron seemed to be well enough as he continued tending to the stricken older man. Surely, if a demon meant to seize him, it would have manifested by now. Her curiosity roused. “What are you doing?”

“Making sure he will not harm himself,” Zevaron answered. “The fit will pass and then he will sleep. As soon as we can, we must get him inside and keep him warm.”

“How do you know this?”

“I have learned many things in my travels,” Zevaron said, gently straightening the chieftain's limbs. The chieftain's thrashing was growing weaker, and his eyes were now completely closed. “The Denariyans say this condition sometimes begins with an injury to the head. It is an illness, not a demonic influence. There is no danger to others, only to the victim himself.”

“This did not begin with an injury.”

“None that we know of,” Zevaron pointed out. “Perhaps he took the hurt some time ago.”

“Then he might be demon-touched, after all.”

Bennorakh gestured to Chinzhukog and the other Snow Bear men. “Come, take your chief out of the storm, even as the outlander says.”

They hurried to comply, perhaps more fearful of the
enaree
than of the man now lying as if deeply asleep.

“Bring him into my
jort
. He will be warmer there than in his tent,” Shannivar said, despite her lingering suspicion that this was no natural ailment, any more than the death of the pony had been.

Quickly, Shannivar divided her meager furnishings into the traditional arrangement, a women's side for herself and a men's for the Snow Bear chieftain. When Chinjizhin had been wrapped in blankets, the others retreated to their own tents. Only his son, Chinzhukog, remained.

“I will keep watch over my father. Shannivar daughter of Ardellis, surely Tabilit smiled on the moment we met. May your horses ever be sure and fleet of foot. I thank you for your generosity. And you, too, Zevaron Outlander, for your quick thinking.”

Bennorakh had watched the proceedings with a grave expression. After the others retreated to their various shelters, he gestured for Zevaron and Shannivar to approach him.

“You have done well, Zevaron of the ancient race of Meklavar. You once asked my counsel, but the signs were not yet clear. Truly, you face a perilous journey. When the time is right, I will do what I can for you.”

“I thank you for your help,” Zevaron said.

“Help? I have none to offer. All help comes from Tabilit, Sky-Mother, Horse-Giver. Even an outlander must recognize that no merely human strength can match that which awaits you in the north.”

Zevaron bowed his head.

“I will not leave him,” Shannivar said, moving closer to his side.

In the dim light, she caught a twinkle in the shaman's eye. “Some things, even the gods cannot stand against.”

* * *

All night, snow-laced wind battered the sides of the
jort
. The thick felt walls kept out the worst gusts, but tendrils of shiveringly cold damp air managed to seep in through the seams and around the door flap. Shannivar slept alone that night, coiled in layers of blanket. Zevaron kept to the men's side, along with the Snow Bear chieftain and his son. Before going to sleep, they had built up a small fire in the central hearth and banked the embers well, so the
jort
retained a measure of warmth.

The next morning, Shannivar awoke stiff and cold. The lattice still quivered under the force of the gale. She sat up, shivering, and pulled on her jacket and boots. The embers had burned down to a drift of frozen ash. Zevaron was gone, but Chinzhukog sat at his father's side. The older man did not rouse, although he snored gently.

She stumbled outside to relieve herself, check on the horses, and exchange a few words with the others. Despite having passed the night in a trail tent, they looked well enough but grave. They gave her a pot of hot buttered tea and a few live coals to start her fire again.

Zevaron came back just as Shannivar finished reviving the hearth fire. He carried an armful of deadwood, although some of it was damp. With the drier wood, the fire soon warmed the interior of the
jort
. Shannivar passed cups of tea to Zevaron and Chinzhukog, set another pot of snow to melt, then added a double handful of parched barley and slivers of
bha
.

“Your father does not wake?” she asked Chinzhukog. It was more a polite statement than a question.

“Not this whole night,” the young man said.

Throughout the day, the snow came down and the wind had an edge like a knife. It seemed as if the Moons had been flung out of order, catapulting from Frost directly to Icefall.

In time, Chinjizhin roused. He tried to speak, but his words were garbled, and he clearly lacked the strength to rise. Under Bennorakh's direction, Shannivar, Zevaron, and Chinzhukog took turns spoon feeding Chinjizhin a thin gruel of
bha
simmered into a pulp in melted snow, then seasoned with butter.

They remained in camp for some days. Each morning, one or another of them went out to hunt for fresh meat—all except for Zevaron, who had no skill. He took on the extra duties of seeing to the reindeer and checking their hooves and antlers. The males had already shed theirs.

Chinjizhin improved slowly. Whether from the ministrations of the
enaree
, the rest in relative warmth, or the simple passage of time, he regained his speech. He was able to sit up and to handle bowl and knife. His wits returned, although without any memory of that terrible night. Once or twice he awoke from dreams and sat, shivering and rigid, until dawn.

Eventually, the worst of the blizzard passed. The sun, breaking through the tattered clouds, shone weakly at first. The horses pawed through the snow for what grass there was, and the reindeer nipped the stubble.

Shannivar stroked and soothed first one horse and then another. Each had reacted to the eerie storm according to its temperament. Eriu was vigilant, flaring his nostrils in the manner of a stallion guarding his herd. Zevaron's little mare looked miserable, with her head down and eyes listless. Shannivar did not think the poor beast would survive the winter.

Before returning to the
jort
, Shannivar paused and tested the air. This snow would not hold, she thought, but more would come, perhaps not immediately, but surely. It would be a long, harsh winter, even in
kishlak
.

Chinzhukog and Bennorakh waited for her inside the
jort.
“My father cannot travel far or fast,” the young man said with unusual firmness. “But it would be worse to remain here. I do not even know if he can survive the journey to our summering-place. It is too far north.”

From the way the Snow Bear chieftain nodded, he and his son had already discussed the situation and come to an accord. They both glanced at the
enaree
for his reaction. Bennorakh sat still, eyes not quite focused, as if attending to some inner voice.

Before the
enaree
could respond, the door flap lifted and Zevaron entered. A gust of air, not as cold as it had been but still chill enough, swirled in his wake. His gaze took in the taut faces of the other men, their expectant expressions. He bowed politely before asking, “What's going on?”

“A change of plans.” Shannivar explained that to reach the
kishlak
of the Snow Bear tribe was beyond the strength of their chieftain.

Chinjizhin added, speaking slowly and heavily, “We must make for our wintering-place, which lies to the east. We run the risk that the rest of the clan will still be at the summering-place, but I do not think so. These storms had their birth in the north, so our people will most likely not have lingered there. With such an early winter, they will already have departed.”

Zevaron drew in his breath. Shannivar felt the sudden leap of tension in his body, the flare of disappointment. For a moment, she feared he might rage off into the north by himself. Bennorakh watched him with a cool, assessing gaze.

After only the briefest pause, Zevaron regained his poise. “I would not wish my own business to place the health of such a worthy man at risk. Indeed, if I had my wish, no one but myself would suffer from my own choices.” He bowed again in the Azkhantian fashion to Chinjizhin. “I am at your service.”

“If it is the will of Tabilit, you will find what you seek at the proper time,” Chinjizhin replied gravely. “Until then, the hospitality of the Snow Bear is yours.”

Zevaron might not understand the terms of hospitality, and he might wrestle with his own frustrated desires, but Chinjizhin offered them as safe and comfortable a winter as possible. Regardless of his previous status as outlander, Zevaron would now be accepted as one of them. He would lack for nothing when it was time to leave next spring. The Snow Bear people would supply him with suitable clothing and weapons, everything necessary to survive the brutal winter; they would ply him with songs, include him in the men's gossip, and teach him whatever skills he wished to learn. No one would turn away his questions, for he now had as much right to hear the entire history as any tribal member. It was a gracious and generous gift, even if Zevaron did not yet know it.

C
HINJIZHIN'S
stamina was unreliable at first. Each time he seemed to grow stronger, he faltered. Bennorakh tended him assiduously, but Shannivar thought the
enaree
looked worried. They traveled slowly, often resting at midday.

The wintering-place of the Snow Bear tribe lay near the extreme south of their territory, at the end of a long U-shaped valley. A chain of shallow lakes stretched along the wide valley floor, and the rocky sides rose gently at first and then steeply. Stones, some larger than a camel, dotted the slopes. Stands of coniferous trees alternated with fields where herds of reindeer and white-coated tundra horses grazed. The air tasted different here, as if snow were never far away.

A dozen or more aggregates of extended families had already settled into the encampment. The area looked as if it had been in use for a long time, although Shannivar saw nothing like the ancient stone walls of the Golden Eagle
kishlak
. These walls were low and crumbling, fit only for livestock pens.

As they approached the
kishlak
, a handful of young men galloped out to meet them. Their sturdy tundra horses, shaggy with their winter coats, scrambled over the rocky terrain as nimbly as goats.

“Hi-yeh! Hi-yeh! May this day be lucky!” they cried. “May your horses never stumble!”

“May you father many sons!” The ailing chieftain sat taller in the saddle as they drew near.

Shouting out more greetings, the young riders circled Chinjizhin and his party. Eriu lifted his head, prancing until Shannivar calmed him. Zevaron held himself like a man expecting trouble.

“These are hunters, not warriors,” Shannivar said in trade-dialect. Zevaron looked at her, a question behind his eyes. “This far from the borderlands, there are no Gelon to fight.”

“Your tribes do not make war on one another?”

Shannivar shrugged. “They raid for livestock, nothing more. With the land here so harsh, who can afford to create enemies out of cousins and allies?”

As Zevaron turned his gaze back to the riders, she realized she had answered the wrong question. He had not been concerned about an imminent attack, he had been asking whether these men might be a fighting force to enlist in his own cause. Quickly she turned her thoughts away. He was a fool to hope that any temptation of glory might lure these men away from their already struggling clan. More than that, she did not like to imagine him the sort who looked upon others only in terms of the uses he might have for them, without any regard for honor or tradition. No, Zevaron was not like that. The weariness of the journey, the anxieties of Chinjizhin's illness and the rending of Tabilit's Veil, the strange and ominous things they had seen and sensed, all these had unsettled her mind. Such thoughts had no power except what she herself granted them.

The enthusiasm of the young Snow Bear men tempered into diffidence at the sight of three strangers. They greeted Shannivar with courtesy, Zevaron with reserve, and Bennorakh with an eagerness that bordered on reverence.

“Honorable Father,” one of the youths addressed Chinjizhin with a gesture of sorrow, “bitterness sits upon my tongue. Our own
enaree
no longer walks among us. Three nights after you departed for the
khural
, he entered a smoke dream—”

“To see into the broken mountains—” another interrupted, subsiding at a glare from the first, “or so it was said.”

“—and when he did not emerge, I myself went to see how he fared. I found him as stiff and cold as if the winds of the Moon of Darkfall had swept through his
jort
. And yet,” he dropped his voice, “the embers in his hearth were still warm.”

Chinzhukog uttered a keening wail, as did another of the men, but his father sat still and silent, grim-eyed.

Zevaron turned to the chieftain's son. “I am sorry for your loss. Your people have already suffered greatly.”

“We bring good news as well,” another of the youths said. “An
ildu'amar
has been seen in the uplands. We shall have fine hunting and meat to smoke for the winter.”

“
Ildu'amar
?” Zevaron repeated. “I do not know that word.”

“It means ‘sword-nose',” Shannivar replied, “but I myself have never seen one. They are creatures of the north.”

Chinzhukog explained that the appearance of such prey was an exceptional stroke of luck, for these creatures rarely ventured from their territory in the ever-frozen tundra.

The young riders devoted themselves to making their leader's homecoming as comfortable as possible. Plainly, they were relieved to have Chinjizhin and the others back again.

At the encampment of Chinjizhin's extended family, Shannivar and her party were welcomed by everyone. The Snow Bear clan's
jorts
were of a different style and shape, and the roofs were more sharply peaked than those Shannivar knew. The colors, muted gray and brown, gave the aspect of giant, misshapen, antler-less reindeer. Instead of the felt caps of the south, the women of the Snow Bear wore elaborately folded head scarves that covered not only their hair but most of their faces. Otherwise, their clothing in no way differed from the men's. They all seemed to be married, bound to cookpot and
jort
. Several of them were visibly pregnant, although there were no young children to be seen, only a few shy, half-grown girls.

Chinjizhin's wife was named Ahnzel, a stout, broad-faced woman. She wore white ptarmigan feathers and lapis beads stitched into strips of reindeer hide that hung, like the strings of Bennorakh's amulets, from the neckline of her knee-length jacket. She bowed respectfully to her husband and then bustled him into his
jort
, leaving no doubt in Shannivar's mind who was the real chieftain in that family.

Shannivar and Bennorakh set about erecting their
jorts
where they were bid. Every man in that area, and a few from the others, came over to inspect Eriu and Radu. There ensued a lively discussion of horse breeding, with many pointed glances at the black and hints about the value of an infusion of new bloodlines.

As Chinzhukog had anticipated, storms had swept down on the summering-place. The tribe had waited, hoping the unseasonable cold would pass, debating the wisdom of staying or going to the more sheltered
kishlak
. Their greatest fear had been that Chinjizhin would arrive at the more northerly site and, finding them gone, face another difficult journey with fewer resources. In the end, Chinjizhin's second son had convinced them to trust his father's good sense. Although the son did not say so aloud, none had wanted to remain near the broken mountains.

With great excitement, a hunting party was organized under the leadership of Chinzhukog. The Snow Bear hunters, mostly men but a few women, prepared themselves with spears, arrows, and knives. Shannivar was curious to see what manner of beast the
ildu'amar
might be, for at home, she had hunted nothing larger than antelope. She bound her breasts with special care, for of late they had been tender and fuller than usual. Zevaron came with the party, his skill at archery having improved markedly with regular practice. He rode steady Radu, for his own horse was not fit for a hunt, and the Snow Bear hunters rode their hardy little tundra horses, not fast but immensely strong. Shannivar had to hold Eriu back or he would quickly have outstripped the others.

They rode north, alternating between an easy trot and a walk. The excitement of the hunt infected everyone. Eriu danced with eagerness. Chinzhukog joked with Zevaron, the two men laughing aloud.

At last, they entered the forest. The air, which had been cold and almost tasteless, now filled with pungent scents: the zest of fir and pine, the moistness of the earth, the tang of melted snow flowing over rock, the barely perceptible undertones of animal spoor. Snow draped the piles of leaf debris to muffle the footfalls of the horses. Their snorts and the clinking of bits and harness rings were the loudest sounds. Shannivar studied the tracks made by small hoofed animals, antelope or deer, and also one set she did not recognize: widely-spaced prints of three massive, splayed toes around a central pad.

They heard the “sword-nose” before they saw it, during one of the passages through denser thicket. Something massive was crashing about, snapping dead branches, snorting and grunting. A flutter of breeze carried an unpleasant musky odor. Motioning for silence, Chinzhukog led the hunting party in a circular path, keeping carefully downwind of their prey.

The
ildu'amar
came into view, its massive head raised from where it had been browsing on the trampled branches. Its shoulder was easily as high as a man's head, its four legs thick as trunks, and its short neck joined its body in a hump. The feet were oddly shaped, almost dainty for the size of the creature. Shaggy gray-brown hair covered the thick body. Two tapered horns jutted from the midline of the tapering skull. The larger of the two horns, easily as long as Shannivar's bow, appeared to grow directly out of the creature's nose. Bits of moss hung from the sharp tip.

For a long moment, no one moved, neither human nor beast. The forest seemed so still, Shannivar could hear the wind in the topmost branches. Cautiously, she slipped an arrow into her bow.

The
ildu'amar
rumbled and lowered its head. Its eyes shone like marbles set in deep sockets. Nostrils flared wide in the square muzzle, slitted shut, and flared again. It pawed the ground, throwing up chunks of ice, soil, and decaying leaves.

Shannivar's vision sharpened, turning every detail crisp. The creature's breaths sounded like distant thunder. The next moment, the
ildu'amar
let out a bellow, tipped its head to level the sword horn, and charged directly at her. She had no idea an animal that size could move so fast.

She loosed her arrow. It lodged in the animal's shoulder, enough to madden it further but not slow it down. Someone yelled a warning, but she was already wheeling Eriu out of the path of the rampaging prey.

The other hunters shouted above the whinnying of their horses. Leaning over the black's neck, Shannivar searched desperately for a way through the nearest trees.

They plunged into the dense, ice-edged shade. The undergrowth here was thin and choked. Patches of bare rock, fractured and eroded by the harsh seasons, dotted the forest floor. The sky flickered above her in flashes of blue. Behind her, the sword-nose bellowed and kept coming.

Close. Much too close.

She swerved the black and pushed him for more speed. Trees stretched into the misty distance, close and dark in every direction except one. Light glimmered through the trunks, suggesting another clearing.

The next moment, horse and rider burst into the open. The earth dropped away down a treeless slope. Eriu somehow managed to keep his balance, although loose stones slipped out from beneath his feet. Shannivar clung to his back, not daring to glance over her shoulder.

Within a few paces, the slope became steeper and rougher, marked by outcroppings of rock and glacier-smoothed boulders. The wind tore the breath from Shannivar's lungs. She could hear nothing above the clatter of the stones.

Eriu, be my wings!

Suddenly, as if her prayer had indeed given him wings, the black tucked his forefeet and jumped. His body stretched out, perfectly balanced. He soared through space. Shannivar glimpsed an eroded ravine below, like a fissure carved into the living hide of the earth. The angle of the boulder-pocked terrain had hidden it from her sight until that moment. It did not look deep, but the drop would break a horse's legs.

Eriu landed on the far edge. The impact almost unseated Shannivar. She caught herself on his arched neck. By some miracle, her weight stayed centered. Her stomach muscles tightened, her knees dug into the padded saddle flaps, and the next instant she was once more secure.

The
ildu'amar
came pelting down the hillside after them. It did not so much run as it catapulted. Its stubby legs churned, barely keeping it upright as momentum carried it on. With each step, an avalanche of small rocks broke free beneath it. The stones tumbled into the fissure.

Shannivar watched, half in horror, half in disbelief, as the sword-nose rushed toward the stony cleft. The beast seemed to be blind, or else so maddened that it had lost all sense of danger. Surely, the creature must have seen the crevasse by now, yet it made no attempt to slow its breakneck pace. As it approached the edge, it stiffened its legs. By then, it was too late. Nothing could slow that mad descent. One splay-toed forefoot came down on empty air.

For an instant, Shannivar glimpsed the eyes of the
ildu'amar
, no longer opaque but brown as dead leaves. Crazed, desperate. She had seen that look before, in animals too grievously wounded to live. In Mirrimal's eyes, before she died.

The next instant, the beast plunged into the ravine. The shock of the landing shivered through the rock. The
ildu'amar
collided with the far side of the crevasse. The thick body twisted, legs folding, as the beast fell on one side. A sound issued from its heaving lungs, an inarticulate bellow of pain, but also of confusion and despair.

The other hunters clattered up to the edge of the ravine. Snorting and blowing, their mounts slid to a halt. Chinzhukog shouted for the others to make ready their spears.

Grabbing her bow, Shannivar jumped to the ground. Below her, the great beast thrashed weakly and cried out again. From the painful angle of its motionless hind legs, its spine was broken. Even before it fell, it had already been badly injured. Oozing sores marked its exposed side and belly. They looked like unhealed burns, and yet the skin around them was laced with frost.

Shannivar set an arrow and drew her bow. For an instant, she imagined the creature met her gaze. It lay still, and the crazed light in its eyes grew clear. She could almost believe that it understood her intention and gave its consent.