Chapter Four
Shaine had been struggling through knee-deep snow all afternoon. When he finally stopped to peer about, he was surprised at how dark it had gotten. He glanced up at the sky, noting the heavy cloud cover. As he scanned the valley, a snowflake drifted down from above to land on his nose. Several more settled on the thick, woolly mittens he’d bought in the first of the mining villages he’d passed through on his way into the mountains.
He’d been gone for nine days, and the thought that his brother and Tristin would be married by now made him smile. They were good for each other, and he’d come to like Tristin a great deal in the weeks after Anxin’s death. His new brother-in-law might be shy and quiet, but he’d been a steady, comforting presence for Shaine in those early days of his recovery. Tristin knew exactly what it was like having to get used to freedom again after being held prisoner for so long.
Shaine hoped his disappearance hadn’t marred Mikhyal’s wedding, but guessed it probably had. He’d seen Jaire and Brax soaring through the sky the morning after he’d gone. Later that day and the next, he’d seen Mikhyal and Tristin. Not wanting them to find him, he’d remained safely cloaked in the folds of the mythe, and continued on his way, following the mining road north into the mountains.
Doubt continued to nag at him, sometimes in the form of Anxin’s voice, but over the past few days, the Wytch Master’s voice had begun to fade. More and more often, it was his own voice he heard speaking his doubts. That voice believed he was doing the right thing, but suggested that perhaps he should have told Mikhyal what he intended, asked for his advice.
But no.
Mikhyal would have wanted to help, and he’d have ended up helping so much that it would have become his project rather than Shaine’s. He wouldn’t mean to; that was just how Mikhyal was. He was good at planning and organizing and Getting Things Done. Once he took over, Shaine wouldn’t be needed at all.
Which rather negated the whole point of going in the first place.
Now, as he studied his surroundings in the hope of finding somewhere warm and dry to sleep, the doubt started gnawing at him again.
Tonight would be his first night out in the wilderness, without the warmth and safety of a roof over his head. Every night since he’d set out on his quest, he’d found shelter in one of the tiny mining villages along the way, trading news for a bed by the hearth and a hot meal. Folk were hungry for information about the war, and seemed satisfied even when Shaine could only speak of it in vague terms.
He’d left the last village behind two days ago, and spent last night in a small shelter the village hunters used for extended hunting trips. Perhaps it had been naive to think so, but Shaine had imagined that since his route had him following an ancient river valley far into the Iceshards, he might find conveniently spaced caves to camp in along the way. Thus far, he’d seen no sign of anything remotely cave-like, though there were fir trees dotting the floor of the valley, and if worse came to worst, he could always huddle under one of them for shelter. It would be cold, but at least it would keep most of the snow off.
A bitter gust of wind swept down the valley from the north, stealing his breath with its icy bite. Shaine bent forward and continued trudging through the snow. Finding shelter suddenly seemed like a very good idea.
He hadn’t gone far when something slammed into his back. Fire raked down his side as he went down hard. A low, menacing growl froze his blood. Struggling not to whimper, he rolled, instinctively cloaking himself in the mythe to hide himself from sight.
A dark shape landed in the snow next to him and swung its head back and forth as it sampled the air. Shaine held himself utterly still, not even daring to breathe. The creature’s neck bent as it lowered its head down into the snow to lap at something, then with a snort, it padded off to the south.
Shaine listened to the crunch of pads on snow growing fainter, and when his lungs were about to burst, he let his breath hiss out slowly. The urge to sob was almost overwhelming, but he fought it down, lest it bring his attacker back to investigate.
Moving hurt. His side burned as if it were on fire. Blood trickled over his skin, but it was too dark to see how much, and far too cold to pull his clothing away to look.
By the time he decided it was safe to move, he was chilled through and the snow had nearly covered him. Shelter. He needed to find shelter. Then he could make a fire and assess the damage. He had some bandages and salve in his pack. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as it felt.
And maybe it is, the voice of doubt whispered. Maybe you’ll die here alone, and no one will ever find you.
With a choked sob, Shaine struggled to his feet, shuddering as he felt blood running down his leg, soaking his breeches. As he straightened up, black spots danced in front of his eyes. A buzzing noise filled his ears, and he staggered, suddenly dizzy. The world went white and then black.
* * *
Vorri licked the last of the blood from his paws and kicked more snow over the hole he’d dug when he’d scented the nest of rabbits. Belly full, he eyed the lowering sun and decided it was time to sleep. He trotted off across the slope, putting some distance between himself and the remains of his kill before burrowing into the snow, using powerful claws to dig a snow cave into the steep slope.
Giving himself over to his rhyx form, he’d lost count of the days. Though still deep, the snow cover had become thinner as he traveled south. Sooner than he would like, he would leave the mountains and enter the forbidden lands of his ancestors. At that point, he’d have to leave his rhyx form behind entirely, or risk being shot as a dangerous predator.
The thought was frightening. Nearly three hundred years had passed since his people had contact with Skanda. How much had the language and customs changed in those years? Would he be able to blend in? Would he even be able to make himself understood?
Snug in his snow cave, Vorri curled up, tail wrapped tightly around him to cover his nose, but it was a long time before he fell asleep.
It seemed his eyes had only been closed for a few moments when the colors of agony and desperation ripped through the pack-sense, tearing Vorri from his uneasy slumber. His head shot up, and pain blossomed through his skull as he hit the roof of his snow cave.
Bright waves of fire lapped at the edges of his awareness. Vorri dropped deeper into the pack-sense seeking the source of the pain. It was close, maybe as close as the valley below.
One of his pack-mates? Had Da sent someone after him?
No… the thread shimmering so brightly with pain wasn’t familiar.
Not his pack.
But if not his pack, then whose?
Whatever it is, it’s not your problem.
With the lives of the pack’s hunters at stake, and possibly the future of the pack itself, he dared not involve himself in anything that might delay him. Reluctantly, Vorri settled back into the snow and shut his eyes again.
The brilliant wash of pain kept pulsing through the pack-sense, making sleep impossible. Eventually, that and Vorri’s damnable curiosity got the better of him. He huffed out a sigh and carefully crawled out of the snow cave on his belly.
Outside, he shook the snow from his fur and indulged in a long, slow stretch before making his way down the slope at a ground-eating lope. His furry, webbed toes made it possible for him to run lightly over the top of the ice-crusted snow, so it didn’t take long to reach the valley.
Shortly after he began his headlong plunge down the mountainside, the bright notes of pain threading through the pack-sense darkened and dulled, and Vorri guessed whoever he’d sensed had lost consciousness.
When he reached the floor of the valley, the crust of ice became too thin to support his weight, so his progress slowed.
The pack-sense led him unerringly to his quarry. Snow had settled on the creature, obscuring its shape. The metallic scent of blood drifted through the air. Vorri swept the snow away with his tail, then turned to survey his find.
A man lay crumpled in the snow. From the state of his clothing and the amount of blood on the snow, he must have tangled with a wild rhyx. There were enough of them out here.
His partially covered tracks suggested he’d been following the river valley, heading north. Had he come from the forbidden lands?
Vorri nudged the still form gently with his nose and was rewarded with a low moan. He settled on his haunches, staring down at the man as he considered what to do with him.
Easiest — and probably safest — to leave him.
An injured man would only slow him down, but as he studied the man, an idea was beginning to form in Vorri’s mind.
If he could nurse the man back to health and explain his need, could the man be persuaded to help him? If he was from the forbidden lands — and where else could he be from? — a native guide would be invaluable in Vorri’s effort to navigate the kingdoms of Skanda in search of the hunters. If he could save this man and communicate with him, perhaps an agreement could be reached.
And if the man wasn’t inclined to be helpful, the danger was minimal. Alone and injured, he was hardly a threat to Vorri, especially in his rhyx form. Besides, the fact that Vorri could feel him in the pack-sense suggested he was special. Different.
Was he a rhyx shifter like Vorri?
Was there another pack?
If there was, if this man truly was pack, he might know nothing of the forbidden lands, and helping him would only delay Vorri’s mission. But if he was pack, could Vorri really abandon him to death?
Another low moan stopped Vorri’s dithering. Letting the man freeze to death wasn’t going to solve the mystery.
The first thing to do was to get him out of the cold and the wind. The snow cave would do for now. It wouldn’t be big enough for an extended stay, but this was an ancient river valley, and it was likely to be riddled with caves. Once he’d gotten the man out of the cold, Vorri would explore and find a suitable place with access to water, and ventilated well enough for a fire.
Decision made, Vorri curled himself around the man and Jumped back to his snow cave.
* * *
Frigid winter air brushed over bare human skin. The cave Vorri had found was out of the wind, but the air was still bitterly cold. His rhyx form would be far more comfortable, but his human form was better suited to tending the man’s wounds.
He pulled a wisp of light from the mythe and set it to float in the air above the man. At first, all he could do was stare. The man had pale skin, fine, delicate features, and hair like flame. Vorri had never seen such beautiful hair. Each strand was a different shade of red or gold. The shifters of his pack all had black, brown, or white hair, the same colors as their pelts when they were in rhyx form.
He reached out a finger to touch that brilliant hair, but allowed himself only a single, tentative stroke before moving the man’s ruined clothing aside to reveal the three long, jagged gashes torn in his flesh. They weren’t deep, but they looked painful. If he’d been a healer, like his mother, he could have dealt with the man’s injuries quickly and efficiently, leaving only smooth, unscarred skin behind.
Vorri was no healer, but he’d worked as Ma’s assistant ever since he’d been old enough. The most important things now were to clean the wounds, cover them, and keep the man warm; he’d be chilled through after lying in the snow for so long.
Going through the man’s pack yielded some strips of cloth he might use to cover the wounds and some salve that smelled of healing herbs.
Vorri settled in to work. By the time he’d dressed the man’s wounds to his satisfaction, he was shivering hard enough that he could no longer hold his hands steady. Glad he was done with the tasks that required human hands, Vorri shifted back to rhyx form to warm up. The moment he dipped back into the pack-sense, he felt the subtle pressure of a storm building to the north. Moments later, the quickly dropping air pressure set his fur standing on end.
If a storm was coming, he needed to prepare. He’d have to hunt and gather enough wood to keep a fire burning so his patient didn’t freeze to death.
From the feel of the air, the storm was still a few hours off. He’d have time, but he’d need every minute.
A low moan alerted him just before a great river of black and red roared through the pack-sense. The colors of pain, tears, and despair shuddered through him, and he looked down to find a pair of brilliant green eyes staring up at him. The wounded man was struggling to sit up, and looked as if he wanted to run. Sweat glistened on his skin, and his breath came in harsh pants and broken sobs, but he didn’t take his eyes off of Vorri.
The man’s terror washed over him in icy waves. Vorri quickly shifted back to his human form, hoping to reassure him, but before he could say anything, the man’s eyelids fluttered, and he collapsed back down.
If seeing Vorri provoked that kind of response, he couldn’t possibly be a rhyx shifter. But then what in Aio’s name was he doing in the pack-sense?
Cold shimmered through both the pack-sense and the air. Vorri covered the man with the blankets he’d found in his pack, then shifted back to rhyx form and went out into the snow to find wood for a fire.
Once the fire was crackling away and beginning to warm the space, Vorri left the cave again, this time to hunt.
The mystery would have to wait.
* * *
Pain wove through Shaine’s nightmares. His side burned like fire, but the rest of him was cold, so cold. Ice and snow filled his dreams, as did sharp claws carving burning, bloody furrows deep into his flesh. Wytch Master Anxin followed him through the hellish dreamscape, whispering that he was doomed to fail.
Hands poked and prodded him. He burned and froze, and sometimes a man’s voice threaded through his dreams, though he couldn’t wake up enough to understand what it said.
When he opened his eyes, he knew he must still be dreaming. The creature before him looked like a great shaggy white wolf, but a closer look revealed subtle similarities to a rhyx: its muzzle was a little shorter than a wolf’s, its teeth, much longer, and those bright amethyst eyes glittered with far more intelligence than the eyes of any wolf he’d ever seen.
Living in a heavily forested, mountainous northern kingdom, Shaine had seen plenty of wolves before, but he’d never seen a live rhyx. His father had the head of one mounted on the wall of the trophy room at the summer palace, and there were enough similarities between it and this creature to strike a chord of fear in his heart.
Was it going to eat him?
As if following his thoughts, the creature cocked its head. Moments later, the air around it shimmered, and it shifted, shedding its wolf-like form as easily as Mikhyal shed his dragon form.
He was dreaming… hallucinating… and now a man with skin as pale as new-fallen snow stood before him. The man spoke. Shaine struggled to make sense of his words, but the world tilted and spun, and the darkness claimed him once more.
When he woke again, his side still burned, and though the wind was howling somewhere outside, he was no longer cold. He was lying in a bed of warm, soft fur, and the smell of it was glorious, a musky scent heavy with undertones of rich honey and spice. It soothed him, and he closed his eyes and let it take him down into sleep again.
Shaine woke and slept fitfully, pain a constant companion. Sometimes, a man was there at his side, making him drink or trying to get him to eat, and sometimes the huge, wolf-rhyx creature stared down at him, once with bright red blood staining the fur around its muzzle.
The man spoke to him occasionally, his words strangely accented, his turn of phrase odd. The animal never did anything but stare.
Time passed, and the various impressions tangled together into a mélange of images that could only be the product of fever dreams or drugged sleep.
Eventually, Shaine woke with a start to find himself lying in his own bedroll. He was freezing, despite the fire crackling nearby. A man knelt next to the fire, dressed in Shaine’s spare clothing. His skin was as pale as snow, and shaggy, white hair hung halfway down his back.
“Who… what happened?” Shaine croaked. He tried to sit up, but his entire left side burst into flame when he moved. Little shivers darted through him, and he realized he must be feverish. With a grunt, he fell back, cold sweat beading on his brow.
“Can you drink some water?” The voice was low and husky, and a thick accent shaped the man’s words in odd ways. Shaine had to concentrate to understand what he was saying.
The man knelt beside him and offered him a drink from a water skin Shaine recognized as his own. With that white hair and those glittering amethyst eyes, he bore an uncanny resemblance to the rhyx from Shaine’s dreams.
Shaine tried to sit up again, but the world lurched, and the pain searing up his side was like a burning stripe of acid poured over his abused flesh. He drew in a sharp breath as the world dimmed briefly and then brightened again.
The man slipped a hand under his shoulders and lifted him a little, then held the water skin for him so he could drink. Cool water slid down his throat, easing the dryness. When Shaine had finished drinking, the man eased him carefully back down.
“Where is it?” Shaine asked, eyes darting fearfully about. There was no sign of the creature he’d seen in his dreams. His gaze traced the uneven lines of the walls and ceiling, and he realized with a start that this was no cottage or hall, but a natural cave.
The man frowned. “Where is what?”
“The… the thing that looks like a wolf or a rhyx. Your… companion?”
“There has been no one else here,” the man said, guarded shadows in his eyes. “Only me.”
Proof, then, that he’d been hallucinating. “Who are you?” Shaine asked. “How did you find me?”
“I am called Vorri,” the man said. “I felt you in the pack-sense and followed the thread of your pain. How are you called?”
Vorri’s words made little sense, but then if this was a fever dream, that was hardly surprising. “Shaine,” he said, struggling to keep his words from slurring. “I’m called Shaine. What happened? I can’t… I don’t remember…”
“A wild rhyx attacked you. I am not sure why it left you alive. Something must have frightened it off, though I cannot imagine what. There is not much in these lands that does not fear the rhyx. I have tended your wounds as best I can, but you are badly hurt. I do not have any medicine to give you, and you are already feverish. I fear your wounds are going bad.”
A wild rhyx? Was there any other kind? Shaine blinked, more certain than ever that the man was a hallucination. A rather handsome hallucination, but he’d be gone with the fever. And once that happened, Shaine would somehow have to continue his journey.
The thought of it was almost more than he could bear.
Failed… Failed before you’ve even begun…
Shaine fought back tears of frustration.
After a long silence, Vorri said, “You are a long way from Skanda.”
“I was looking for… something…” Shaine murmured, more to himself than to Vorri. “Stormshard…? But… I don’t suppose I’ll find it now.”
“Stormshard?” Vorri sounded curious. “You spoke of it in your fever dreams. What is it? And why must you find it?”
The thought of trying to explain it all was too much to contemplate. He couldn’t even keep it all straight in his own head, let alone explain it to someone else. A great wave of exhaustion washed over him, and Shaine let it take him. His eyes grew heavy and he lost the thread of the conversation. The pain blurred into the background, and Shaine fell down into darkness once again.
* * *
The storm had died down on the morning of the second day, but by nightfall, Vorri was still in the cave, tending to Shaine. He’d meant to be on his way as soon as the weather cleared, but Shaine was too sick to leave alone.
“No! Anxin… I can’t… let me go…” Shaine’s voice was weak and full of fear.
Vorri glanced toward the bedding where Shaine lay tossing and muttering. He’d been raving for two days now. In between crying out for someone called Mik, he had repeatedly begged someone else called Anxin to set him free, and spoke of his desperate need to find Stormshard.
The name meant nothing to Vorri, but given how sick Shaine was, it might not mean anything to him, either. The ragged furrows raked in his flesh were badly infected, his fever was soaring, and Vorri had given up trying to get him to eat and settled for getting as much water into him as possible. He needed a healer, or he wouldn’t last much longer.
Vorri stared into the fire.
Ma could heal Shaine easily. But bringing a stranger to the valley meant breaking one of the pack’s oldest laws, the penalty for which was exile or even death, if the offense put the pack at risk.
Leaving Shaine to die here would be the easiest path, and it was certainly what his pack-mates would advise, but Vorri found the thought of abandoning a dying man abhorrent. He’d spoken to him, listened to him spill out his deepest fears, and learned that despite their differences, they were alike in many ways. Shaine, it seemed, needed to prove himself as desperately as Vorri did.
Also, he knew from Shaine’s ravings that Shaine was from the forbidden lands. They could help each other, he was certain of it. Already, his brief interactions with the man had shown him that the language he’d learned wasn’t so different from that spoken in Skanda; he would certainly be able to make himself understood.
But knowing the language was only part of it. He needed a guide, someone to teach him how to blend in as he searched for the hunters. Shaine could be that guide, if Vorri could only keep him alive.
In the silence of the night, he weighed his options and made his choice. He would take the man to Ma, and if that meant risking his own life, then so be it. If Da and Grandfather could be made to see reason, perhaps they could be convinced to defend Vorri’s actions to the council of elders.
Decision made, Vorri stripped out of his borrowed clothing, shifted into rhyx form, and curled up around Shaine, protecting and warming him at the same time.
Even while wandering the twisted path of his fever dreams, Shaine was aware of him on some level. He pressed himself closer to Vorri, soaking up the heat Vorri willingly shared.
Vorri stared down at him, feeling oddly protective. Shaine’s flame-bright hair still fascinated him, as did the man’s impossible presence in the pack-sense. He’d been taught that the pack-sense was unique to the shifters created by Rhiva’s Wytch King three centuries ago, that none but them and those of their blood possessed any awareness of it. But this man had a solid presence there, a presence Vorri found intriguing, and somehow comforting, being so far from home as he was.
<Tomorrow,> he sent to the man through the pack-sense. <Tomorrow I will take you to the pack for healing. And then, perhaps, we will see if we can help each other, you and I.>
Shaine made a small, whimpering sound and burrowed into Vorri’s fur. Vorri curled tighter around him and shut his eyes, hoping to sink quickly into sleep.
Tomorrow would be a challenging day.