9 Tales From Elsewhere 8 Read online

  He dreamed that he was a whitcat, stalking his prey on the snow filled dale. He felt the hunger in his belly, the craving for blood. His prey did not sense him. He drew nearer and nearer and at last struck. He tore into his prey, rending its neck. Then he turned his prey over and looked upon its face. It was Wardric.

  He awoke early, shivering in the dawn air as the black embers of his campfire hissed. The wounds in Wardric’s belly and thighs had closed, though they stung when he touched them. He gathered his gear and stepped out into the world. The storm had passed, and the sun now shone upon the dale. A welcome bit of luck, he thought as he began his journey anew.

  More luck followed as he found the Pass of the Forever Boys, a gap through the Grayfell that got its name from those who never returned from their Ordeal. Neither beast nor man troubled him in his walk through the Pass. It was little more than a morning stroll. The wide-open snowfield between the hills and seas lay likewise barren. Wardric looked ever for danger and found none as he made his way to the waterline.

  The frost-tinged air smelled of salt. Long sheets of ice ran out onto the Mereflod Sea. He sighted the Monaleoht Tor a pair of miles to the east and went to end his quest.

  It was not yet midday when Wardric crossed the Saltyp, a frozen stream running from the Grayfell, and stood before the Tor, a pale giant casting a long shadow across the snow-covered beach. Cliffs jutted up behind it, rimming the western edge of the bay. The sun shone against the white limestone before a dark cloud blew in from the sea. With it came a chill that settled deep into Wardric’s flesh. He pulled off his gloves and pressed his bare hands on the old stone. From this close, he could not see the top of the Tor. Many chips marred the smooth surface, each one the sign of a Nothrafolc man who had come before.

  Snow began to fall. Wardric held his boneknife against the Tor and struck the hilt with his club. A piece of limestone broke off, as did the tip of the knife. He cursed that bit of ill luck before dropping the limestone shard into his pocket. He turned for one last look at the sea and took in an odd sight.

  Three blurry hulks eased toward shore. Wardric squinted. They were ships, but bigger than any he had ever seen. These three wayfarers dwarfed the longships of the clansmen, and their hulls were undoubtedly filled with unfriendly men. He did not want to be there when the ships moored. This land is getting deadlier by the day, he thought before heading back home.

  Rather than risk getting lost, he followed his own tracks back the way he had come. He hurried out of fear the snowfall would hide his footprints. He sighed when he saw the Pass of the Forever Boys. The sun still shone behind the clouds as it slid down near the edge of the sky. It would be a hard march, but Wardric would make it to the caves before dark.

  Blisters bled into his boots, stinging nearly as badly as the whitcat scratches on his ribs and thighs. Body aching and mind tired, he willed himself toward home, locking his eyes on the tracks in front of him. He stopped for a bit to roll out his neck and stretch his arms. It was then that he saw them.

  A pack of horsemen rode out of the Pass two hundred yards ahead. They were following his tracks. If he could see them, they surely saw him. Wardric doubted any Nothrafolc would ride out this way when one of their boys was undergoing his Ordeal—to help him would cost him his manhood. These men could be from the Garwigend or Isenhere clans. They might take him for ransom, though they would just as likely reckon a runt would not command much of a price and kill him for sport. If they were Aexmathr, they would gut him and leave his body for the rendwolves.

  To keep going forward meant thralldom or death. Behind him lay a wide-open snowfield and the sea. His only chance, and it was a small one, was to run aslant toward the wood line at the base of the Grayfell. He might get there and find a hiding spot before the horsemen caught him.

  Wardric ran. His legs were short and bony and sore beyond reckoning, but he ran. His lungs burned, and his gut churned, but he ran. The sky darkened and the snow deepened with every step, but he ran.

  Wardric ran and then, with no sense of how much time had passed, he found himself unharmed in the trees at the base of the Grayfell. His legs gave out, and he dropped to the snow. He looked back. The horsemen had followed his tracks to the very point where he had spotted them. They then turned right where he had broken for his run and followed his new tracks.

  He scratched his head. The horsemen were clearly tracking him, but they acted as if they had not seen him in his brown cloak running over the snowfield. They could not have missed him. Yet here they were turning nearly all the way around to follow his new tracks to where he now hid in the trees.

  Wardric chose not to argue with his luck. He rose and headed deep into the wood, where his hunters would have to dismount. The snow did not bank under the trees, so his footprints were harder to track. The Runt was better at hiding than fighting. He knew he could lose the horsemen if he kept going.

  Once safe, for a time at least, he walked to the base of the hill to find a cave to shelter him through the night. As he had the night before, he found one quickly. He struck the mouth of the cave with his spear shaft. Something growled from within. Wardric backed away and searched for another cave he could have to himself.

  He heard nothing when he struck the rock wall of the next cave, so he gathered firewood and prayed to Alcyning for more luck. Wardric put his back against the rock wall, cast his gloves aside and birthed a small flame on the cave floor. When the flame took hold of the kindling stacked above it, Wardric sighed and took a look around.

  A dozen eyes looked back at him.

  No Nothrafolc had ever seen a Skulkwrath, but most swore the fiends were real. When he was small, Wardric had been told to stay in bed lest the Skulkwrath get him. He feared them then, but his doubts grew as he aged. Like the Wise-Elder’s beastmagick, the Skulkwrath was a dream from a bygone age.

  “There is more to the world than what you see,” his father had once said.

  “Not what I see, “he had answered. “What no one has seen.”

  “Not true, my boy. My father’s uncle once saw a Skulkwrath. The thing chased him a hundred yards before he dove into a river to get away.”

  Wardric shook his head and smiled. “Did your father’s uncle tell you this story himself?”

  “Of course not. He died at the hands of the Aexmathr before I was born.”

  “That is why I doubt,” said the boy. “No one ever sees these things himself. It is always a tale passed down from one dead man to another.”

  “What is wisdom but the tales dead men tell us?”

  The Skulkwrath—for what else could they be?—crawled naked from the depths of the cave on all fours. Horrid mockeries of men, they had bleached skin, deep black eyes, stub ears and snarling mouths full of jagged teeth. The claws of their fingers and toes scratched the cave floor as they came near.

  Wardric backed away. The legends said the Skulkwrath feared fire, though the ones standing before him did not seem bothered by his little flame. They were also said to run faster than any man and to gnaw the flesh off their prey while it still lived. Wardric hoped this too was untrue. He could not hold his own against the boys from his settlement, much less these horrid fiends born of nightmares.

  As he turned to run, the closest Skulkwrath leapt like a toad over the fire and swiped with a clawed hand. Sharp as axe-blades, the claws dug into the flesh of Wardric’s calf. Pain surged up his leg. He snatched the spear-tip from his belt and hacked at the hand, cutting off a bony finger. The fiend pulled its bloody hand back with a hiss, leaving the severed claw dangling from Wardric’s leg. The boy yanked the claw out and unthinkingly tucked it into his pocket as he ran into the black night.

  He saw a campfire off to the east. He reckoned it belonged to the horsemen, who scared him much less than they had during daylight. He would try his luck with them. And so he ran toward the horsemen with the Skulkwrath bounding after him.

  Wardric ran with a rare swiftness and grace. Even with wounds in his legs and the wei
ght of weariness on his shoulders, he ran faster than the leaping fiends behind him. He did not dare look back, but felt they would not close in on him before he reached the camp. He did not bother to ask how this could be.

  Eight men sat around the fire with as many horses tied to the trees behind them. They did not seem to have heard Wardric crashing through the forest, which seemed odd, though he did think on it for long. He raced for the nearest horse, a brown mare, hoping he could mount up before the horsemen or the Skulkwrath caught him. Leaning against the tree was a long spear with red-dyed feathers tied to the base of the spear-point. It was the spear of the Aexmathr, sworn foe of the Nothrafolc and the men who killed four of Wardric’s brothers. He leapt onto the horse’s back, slashed her binding with the boneknife and grabbed the spear.

  The horse neighed, and the Aexmathr jumped to their feet with swords drawn. Wardric spun the horse away from the camp. A Skulkwrath dove at him, its curved claws shredding his buckskin leggings and scratching his thigh. Wardric dug his heels, and the horse sprinted away.

  He dared not look back as the Aexmathr cried in surprise at the sight of the Skulkwrath, who hissed their own greetings. Then the sounds of battle filled the dark night.

  As the horse ran from the camp, the stars gave off the only light. And yet Wardric saw the needles on the trees to his left, the slopes of the drifts on the wide-open snowfield to the right. He saw the feathers of the Aexmathr spear he had taken. He saw the snowflakes that flew up as the horse’s hooves struck the ground. He could see in the dark.

  He urged the horse on as he thought about this startling gift. He recalled how the Aexmathr had failed to see him in the snowfield. He recalled how he had outrun the Skulkwrath. And now he saw by starlight alone. He had the strengths of a whitcat.

  Beastmagick.

  Wardric whispered a prayer to Kottra, thanking her for such an awesome gift. With the eyes of a whitcat, he led the mare to the Pass of the Forever Boys. He scanned the rocks above for prowling beasts. He knew they would see no better than him, but still he feared. It was hard for a runt to get used to being a nightbeast.

  The wind tore through the Pass and bit at Wardric’s face and hands. He cursed himself for having left his gloves behind. The sun was many hours away. He worried that he would freeze before then, but could not chance another campfire when he had left such an easy trail to follow. He pinched his cloak tight with his left hand, keeping the spear at the ready in his right. The mare whined but cantered on.

  His whitcat ears picked up the clicking of boulder-beetles, but saw only dirt and pebbles beneath the mare’s hooves. Boulder-beetles had shells like stones. Wardric’s cousin Gand had stumbled upon a nest of boulder-beetles, no doubt thinking them a pile of rocks. A week later, a group of boys found Gand’s bones stripped of every bit of flesh. Wardric had no wish to share his fate. As he honed on in the sound, he realized that the boulder-beetles were not all around him, but rather some miles away. He sighed. To a whitcat, even the faintest click came as a roar.

  Before long, horse and boy cleared the Pass and faced the rocky dale where he had fought the whitcat. It was many miles across, but then his journey would be done. Wardric would be a man, and Aedelpryd would be his wife.

  His cat’s eyes caught the glint of starlight off the frozen Lagu to his left, pointing the way home. The mare walked slower and whined more, weary and hungry after a day and night on the trail. Wardric himself would have slept if not for the smothering cold and the throbbing claw-wound in his leg. He urged the horse on with a kick of his numb heels.

  A howl in the distance tore Wardric’s mind from his misery. It was a rendwolf, a beast never found alone. Even within the safety of the settlement, the howl of a rendwolf would tear Wardric from his dreams in a shiver. Facing them alone in the wilderness was a living nightmare. Wardric brandished his spear and drove his faltering horse even harder. He scanned the icy country for signs of danger. A rendwolf, with its broad back and shaggy gray coat, trotted over a rise about hundred feet behind him. Another charged in from his left. The others would come into sight soon enough.

  He brought the mare to a full gallop, her hooves pounding deep wells in the snow and flinging a white cloud behind them. The mare wheezed and shuddered. Wardric doubted she could run much further. The rendwolves barked eagerly as they closed in. Wardric looked over his shoulder and counted seven of the beasts. One leapt forward and nipped the horse’s hocks.

  It would not be long before the chase ended. Wardric thought it would be better to end it on his terms than theirs. Without warning, he spun the horse around and jabbed the spear into the withers of one surprised rendwolf. Two others crashed into the mare’s flank, while the others skittered past. Wardric withdrew his spear, and the wounded wolf limped back.

  The other rendwolves hopped back to their feet. One latched onto the mare’s neck and another to the rump. Wardric kicked at one and struck another with the butt of the spear. They both hung on. The weary mare let out a great neigh before dropping to her belly. Wardric sprang off the horse’s back and thrust the spear into the throat of a charging rendwolf. The others swarmed over the downed mare, and soon the snarls of the beasts buried her cries.

  Wardric backed away, gripping the spear in unfeeling hands as the rendwolves feasted on his mount. He whispered thanks to the mare for her sacrifice. He dared not turn his back on the grisly sight. He walked more than a hundred paces in this way, slow going in calf-high snowdrifts.

  Once safely away from the rendwolves, Wardric turned his back to them and eyed home. He limped along, the claw-wound in his leg burning with each step as he leaned on the spear for support. The cold burned his face, his fingers, his feet. His strength fled.

  Thoughts of Aedelpryd pushed him on, though his body begged him to lie down and let it be done. Her sweet laughter echoed in his mind. It poured from her pink lips, from her long white throat, from her freckled breast. He longed to tell her all he had seen, not to boast as the other boys did, but merely to tell her of the wonders and horrors he had seen, that magick was real.

  But then Snaw’s Curse—snow madness—crept over him. Aedelpryd’s laughter turned mocking. The deep cold that seeped into his bones burst into unseen flame. He felt as hot as if standing before his father’s hearthfire. The heat squeezed his chest and clenched in his throat. He gasped and was driven to tear off his clothes. He shrugged off his cloak and pulled his tunic over his head. The winter wind burned his bare flesh, and he sought to soothe his skin by rolling naked in the snow. He flung off his boots, dropped his leggings and plunged into a snow bank. The snow cradled him like a baby’s blanket, and he felt there was no better place in the world to sleep, even as he knew this sleep would be forever. He would soon join Hnifol Rignanson and the other Forever Boys. He thanked Kindly Arfaestness for this painless end and closed his eyes.

  Wardric slipped off into the Dreamlands. There he padded along as a whitcat, senseless of the cold surrounding him. Snowfields stretched for miles wherever he looked. His pointed ears heard nothing but the whistling of the wind.

  So this is the Cave of the Bonegod, he thought. I expected it to be darker. His whitcat-self let out a chuckle that sounded more like a purr. Then he shook his head. I am not a whitcat. If I am to die, I would meet Great Dauthus in my own skin.

  And so Wardric shed his fur and stood upright, and the cold stung his pink skin. As he shivered, he thought, this is a dream, and a dreamer can always awake. And so he tried to force his eyes apart. As he did, a great white figure emerged from the snow before him, a frostbear-headed man thrice his size and carved from ice.

  Wardric bowed. “Snaw the Winterlord, have you come to claim me?”

  The voice of the god thundered all around him. “I have.”

  He stood and asked, “Is my fate sealed? Can I not open my eyes and resume my journey?”

  In answer, Snaw reached forward with a claw of ice. Without thinking, Wardric leaped into the air to escape the god’s grasp. And he willed hims
elf higher and higher, with the Winterlord growing larger beneath him so that at any moment the god would pluck him from the sky.

  And then he burst forth into the Waking World.

  The sun climbed up from beneath the earth and shot the first ray of morning light across the dale. The dawn washed over him, and he opened his eyes. He felt the biting cold of the snow around him and knew this was no place to sleep. Wardric shook free of the snowmadness and pulled his clothes back on.

  The whitcat had not killed him. Neither had the Aexmathr, the Skulkwrath nor the rendwolves. He would not allow the cold to do what these fearsome foes could not. Wardric hobbled on.

  By midmorning the smoke from the settlement came into view. He wanted to run home, but could barely keep to his feet. He trudged ever closer, fixing his eyes on the ground before him, for if he fell, he would not get up. Each step was a war, but a war he would win.

  “Wardric!” called out a voice, high and hope-filled.

  “Aedelpryd,” he whispered before toppling to the ground.

  “Wardric!” came the voice again, closer this time.

  He lay in the snow. He looked back at the long line of bloody footprints behind him and saw now how deeply the Skulkwrath had wounded him. With his last bit of strength, he raised his head toward the settlement and saw her running toward him.

  His sister Geradgefera.

  “Aedelpryd,” he whispered as Geradgefera wrapped her cloak around him.

  “Oh, little brother,” she said, her voice tinged with sadness. “You did this all for her?”

  “We are to be wed. I saw it in a dream.”

  “Only in a dream, little brother. The War-Elder has spoken. She is to be your sister-in-law. She will wed Ceorfaex.”

  “Not after he hears what I have done,” said Wardric the Runt, before slipping back into the Dreamlands.