People of the Nightland(149)

She wound around a sharp twist, the tunnel leading upward. It took all of her concentration to scramble over a fallen boulder.

“I should have felt guilty. My husband isn’t that long dead.”

“You have survived a lifetime’s worth since Hookmaker’s death. You have learned a valuable lesson.”

“All I have learned is that moments can be precious.”

“Come. Climb up here.”

She frowned. “That looks steep. What if I fall?”

“You won’t. The water has washed just so, leaving stones exposed that will hold your weight.”

She watched the dark shadow rise, felt puffs of air, heard the flapping of wings. Then, following her instinct, grasped a protruding stone and levered herself up. How long she climbed was hard to assess, but finally she struggled out, amazed to find herself in a narrow valley between masses of jumbled ice. A trail of gravel, stone, and silt showed where meltwater had run before a crack drained the runoff away.

“That takes you to tundra. Trust me, you need only follow it.”

“My way out?” She turned back, seeing a human form, a great black-feathered cape falling down from his shoulders. His face, achingly handsome, seemed to glow with the same radiance as the waters in Ti-Bish’s hidden lake. He watched her with knowing dark eyes.

“Raven Hunter?” She placed one hand to her heart, the other dropping to the bundle tied to her belt. She could hear it Singing, as if with tens of tens of voices.

He extended a dark wing, pointing off to the east. “The crack is opening there. When it goes, it will wash most of the Thunder Sea south. Imagine slapping your hand into a puddle, but on a much grander scale.”

She stared off to the east, aware only of jagged spires of the ice rising toward the night sky.

Raven Hunter’s other long wing unfolded and extended to the west. “There, a moon’s travel to the west, the ice dam has given way. That was the quake you felt in Ti-Bish’s chamber. The huge lake it held back is already washing everything before it. When you find the others, you will need to hurry south. Once past Lake River, find high ground. You will be safe.”

“But what about the people?” She stared out to the south, seeing the distant high point that marked Headswift Village.

“Ask Wolf Dreamer. He’s the one who is supposed to be merciful.”

She heard the change in his voice, but when she looked back, it was to see a dark form flapping up into the night sky.





They heard the unearthly Singing of the Ice Giants—like tens of voices Singing slightly different notes—long before the trail ran down the rugged tundra to the Thunder Sea. But there was a new sound today, like bones cracking deep inside the Giants. Occasionally, the earth trembled.

Kakala glanced behind him, watching his warriors follow in a winding line. At least they’re alive.

He noticed Goodeagle at the rear, and glanced speculatively at Windwolf. The man pointedly ignored his old friend, acted as if he didn’t exist. And that, Kakala realized, tortured Goodeagle even more than outright looks of disgust would have.

Keresa led them through the maze of boulders that littered the shoreline. To his left, the massive peaks of the Ice Giants rose like gleaming white shark’s teeth. Icebergs floated in the deep blue water. He lifted a hand to shield his eyes and, in the far distance, thought he saw bull boats out on the sea, people fishing, or hunting seals.

Keresa had been keeping up a steady pace, just fast enough, but not too fast to drain Kakala’s strength—though his head had been pounding nauseatingly all day.

Kakala tried not to stare at Windwolf. The red shirt the man wore irked. He kept wondering which of his dead friends it had belonged to. Somehow, the war club, stiletto, and darts the man carried didn’t seem as menacing anymore. Even the warriors accepted the presence of an armed enemy, and one by one, they had been sidling up to Windwolf, making introductions, almost anxious to talk to the legend they had hunted, fought, and hated for so long.

The grudging respect they showed each other came as a revelation. But for the Elders, and their insistence on war, we would have been friends.

“It’s not much farther,” Kakala said. “One hand of time, maybe.”

“I know.”

The closer they got to the Nightland Caves, the harder Windwolf’s expression became. This afternoon, his square-jawed face might have been carved from wood, and the statue set with glittering stone eyes.

The path curved around to the bizarre side of the Thunder Sea, where drifting icebergs had grounded offshore and melted into strange shapes. They resembled a forest of dirty half-human monsters. As Father Sun descended in the west, sunlight reflected from the ice sculptures with a fringe of opalescent fire.