Memories of Ice

Coll hurried round until the wagon was between him and the mounts.

'So you'd rather a bite than a kick,' Murillio commented, watching his friend come up to the wagon, climb its side, then cross the bed — stepping over the Mhybe's unconscious form — and halt within an arm's reach of the horses.

They had pulled their tethers taut, backing as far as they could, tugging on the tent peg. A Rhivi wedge, the peg's design was intended to hold against even the fiercest prairie wind. Driven deep in the hard-packed earth, it did not budge.

Coll's leather-gauntleted hand snapped out, closed on one of the tethers. He tugged sharply down as he dropped from the wagon.

The animal stumbled towards him, snorting. Its comrade skittered back in alarm.

The Daru collected the reins from the saddle-horn, still gripping the tether in his other hand and holding the horse's head down, and edged to its shoulder. He planted a boot in the stirrup and swung himself into the saddle in a single motion.

The horse tried to duck out from under his weight, a sideways slew that thudded against its comrade — with Coll's leg trapped in between.

He grunted but held the reins firm.

'That'll be a nice bruise,' Murillio commented.

'Keep saying pleasant things why don't you?' Coll said through gritted teeth. 'Now come over and slip the tether. Carefully, mind. There's a lone vulture above our heads, looking hopeful.'

His companion glanced skyward, scanned for a moment, then hissed. 'All right, so I was momentarily gullible — stop gloating.' He clambered over the seat-back.

Coll watched him drop lightly to the ground and warily approach the tent peg.

'On second thoughts, maybe you should have found me that mallet.'

'Too late now, friend,' Murillio said, pulling the knot free.

The horse plunged back a half-dozen steps, then planted its hind legs and reared.

To Murillio's eyes, Coll's backward somersault displayed almost poetic grace, artfully concluded by the big Daru's landing squarely on his feet, only to lunge straight back to avoid a vicious two-hoofed kick that, had it connected, would have shattered his chest. He landed four paces away with a thud.

The horse ran off, bucking with glee.

Coll lay unmoving for a moment, blinking at the sky.

'You all right?' Murillio asked.

'Get me a lasso. And some sweetroot.'

'I'd suggest a mallet instead,' Murillio replied, 'but since you know your mind, I won't.'

Distant horns sounded.

'Hood's breath,' Coll groaned. 'The march to Capustan's begun.' He slowly sat up. 'We were supposed to be up front for this.'

'We could always ride in the wagon, friend. Return the horses to the Mott Irregulars and get our money back.'

'That wagon's overloaded as it is.' Coll painfully regained his feet. 'Besides, he said no refunds.'

Murillio squinted at his companion. 'Did he now? And not even a stir of suspicion from you at that?'

'Quiet.'

'But-'

'Murillio, you want the truth? The man was so homely I felt sorry for him, all right? Now stop babbling and let's get on with this.'

'Coll! He was asking a prince's ransom for-'

'Enough,' he growled. 'That ransom's going to pay for the privilege of killing the damned beasts, or you — which do you prefer?'

'You can't kill them-'

'Then another word from you and it's this hillside under a pile of boulders for dear old Murillio of Darujhistan. Am I understood? Good. Now hand me that lasso and the sweetroot — we'll start with the one still here.'

'Wouldn't you rather run after-'

'Murillio,' Coll warned.

'Sorry. Make the boulders small, please.'

The miasmic clouds churned low over the heaving waves, waves that warred with each other amidst jagged mountains of ice, waves that spun and twisted even as they struck the battered shoreline, flinging spume skyward. The thunderous roar was shot through with grinding, cracking, and the ceaseless hiss of driving rain.

'Oh my,' Lady Envy murmured.

The three Seguleh crouched on the leeside of a large basaltic boulder, applying thick grease to their weapons. They were a sadly bedraggled trio, sodden with rain, smeared with mud, their armour in tatters. Minor wounds crisscrossed their arms, thighs and shoulders, the deeper ones roughly stitched with gut, the rows of knots black and gummed with old blood that streamed crimson in the rain.

Nearby, surmounting a jutting spar of basalt, stood Baaljagg. Matted, scabbed, her fur in tangled tufts around bare patches, a hand's length of broken spear shaft jutting from her right shoulder — three days it had been, yet the beast would not allow Envy close, nor the Seguleh — the giant wolf stared steadily northward with feverish, gleaming eyes.