Lakhoni (13 page)

He
stretched to reach another of his tracks. He had followed his footsteps around
a few trees and now, heart pounding fiercely, he reached high into the tree he
stood under and wrapped his frozen fingers around a branch. Shaking in the
cold, wishing he’d had more time to bundle up, he hauled himself into the tree,
careful to not leave any markings in the snow along the branches or break any
twigs off. The pine tree’s jagged bark cut into his frozen feet, although the
pain was numbed by the cold. He climbed fast, but carefully, watching the
ground beneath him. Ten feet up, now fifteen. At twenty feet, he stopped,
seeing movement down below.

Separated
warriors, barely lit by the stars, flowed around the trees, several of them
bent low, studying his tracks. They glided beneath his tree and toward the
river. Lakhoni slid close to the trunk, hugging it tightly, willing himself to
become part of it. He adjusted his things, trying to blend in with the tree
trunk.

Ahead,
he heard low voices. They had to be at the creek. Would they believe his ruse?
A few moments later, his heart sank as the shapes of two warriors glided back
into view. They moved slowly, attention moving between the ground and the
trees. Lakhoni held his breath, clinging to the rough bark. Where were the rest
of them? He heard voices again, still at the creek and peered through the
branches to try and make out what was going on.

The
next few minutes passed slowly, as Lakhoni heard men call to each other. It
sounded like some men had crossed the creek and were trying to pick up his
trail. The two warriors who had passed beneath his tree earlier returned.
Gradually, the low voices faded, the men moving off.

Fighting
the urge to lower himself to the ground and light a fire to warm up, Lakhoni
studied the surrounding trees. Shivers wracked his body; his teeth felt as if
they would shatter against each other.

Several
branches of the tree he clung to extended far enough into the branches of a
tree closer to the creek for him to climb across. Testing each step, moving
like an old man made wise from many falls, he eased along the branches.
Heart-pounding minutes later, he grasped the new tree’s trunk, preparing
himself for another branch journey.

By
the time he wove his arms around the trunk of his first tree on the far side of
the creek, Lakhoni’s body trembled uncontrollably. Would the Separated return
and hear his teeth chattering? His bones knocking? He tried to find his center
and failed completely. He had to go farther, had to leave nothing to chance.

His
muscles felt frozen into the shape of the tree’s trunk. He couldn’t do it. How
long had it been? Would they come back? Exhaustion joined the freezing cold; he
could sleep here. This would be fine. The tree was soft and welcoming, the
heavy clouds above smiling. Sleep would be fine. In the morning he would go
back to the village and laugh with his father.

His
father’s eyes, gray and lifeless, burned through the haze enveloping Lakhoni.
He yanked his thoughts back together, mentally kicking himself. He had to keep
moving or he would freeze to death. He pried his fingers from the bark and blew
on them, eyeing the path he would take to the next tree. Body shaking, feet and
fingers numb, he moved again. Dimly he noticed that these trees across the
creek grew on a rise, and that the ground was getting closer with each tree he
moved to.

Two
trees later, his frozen hand slipped. He fell. His bow caught on a branch,
wrenching his shoulder. He hit the ground. He rolled onto his back and pulled
the boots from around his neck. Their soft leather and hard soles were frozen
in the cold night air. Making sure his feet were dry, he forced his feet into
the boots. The pain that greeted his feet as they squeezed into the boots told
him he was in luck; no frostbite yet.

He
stood, wobbling. He blew on his hands. He drew his second tunic out of his bag
and put it on. Lakhoni turned east, thankful he had been out enough to be able
to know the direction without depending on the stars.

His
first steps sent pain stabbing up through his legs. He wiggled his toes with
each step, trying to warm his feet. Soon tingles sprouted in his feet. As he
walked, he tucked his hands into his armpits.

His
lips stiffened in the frigid wind. The wind would be all right if it brought
snow. For now, it only made Lakhoni feel he was taking two steps for every step
of progress he made.

The
icy gusts cut through his tunics.

He
had to get to the deer skin he had hidden and wrap himself in it. He regretted
not stealing one of Anor’s warm cloaks.

With
his feet feeling warmer, his boots somewhat more flexible, Lakhoni began to
jog, hoping to warm his body with the movement. He kept up the pace for an
hour, his hands tucked again into his arm pits and his head ducked against the
wind.

Please
First Fathers! Bring the snow!
He glanced behind, easily seeing his footprints in the snow through the gloom
of the night. If the warriors of the Separated ranged far enough, they would
find his new tracks. The wind was helping somewhat, blowing snow around a
little and softening the pits he was leaving in the snow, but he knew it wasn’t
enough.

After
another hour of jogging, his face felt like a block of river ice. He had taken
to cupping his hands on his face every few minutes, allowing his breath to warm
his lips and nose. But the effect didn’t last long.

As
he moved, he made sure to follow the path to his stashed meat in the hide. The
split tree there, the rock formation that looked like Corzon with his huge nose
under the skinny birch.

This
is it.
The
pale light of the winter night illuminated the marker he had left. He had
placed a pile of rocks on top of the hole he had dug, not wanting to take
chances with scavengers. He moved the rocks, placing them in what he thought
looked like natural positions on the ground. He pulled his tunic sleeves over
his hands and dug through the snow, quickly finding the loose, frozen dirt
underneath. With his knife, he dug into the earth, stopping at regular
intervals to blow on his hands.

The
hide was cold and hard under his fingertips. His breath came quickly as he
freed the package from the ground and tucked it under an arm. He would keep it
out of the bag so that if it began to thaw, the blood from the meat wouldn’t
destroy his food and clothing.

He
threw a look down the path behind him. His trail was clear, easily seen by even
a child. He started up again, cupping his face, jogging just enough to stay
warm and not work up a sweat.

He
thought he had covered three miles or more by the time the clouds at the
eastern edge of the sky began to glow with the new sun. As if they had been
waiting on the day, a few snowflakes fell. Exhaustion slammed into Lakhoni
along with relief. He sought a pine tree with low branches and burrowed under
the first one he found. He kicked snow off the thick bed of needles in the cave
created by the bending branches.

As
sleep overcame him, the snow fell thicker and heavier. When he awoke, he would
set his face to the east and not look back.

Stars
glistened like countless jewels on a blanket of midnight black. If he stopped
for long enough, he could count each and every one of them in the night sky.

And
then I would freeze. Somebody would find a Lakhoni statue.

The
ridiculous thought fluttered away, stolen by the full-body shudders that
slammed through Lakhoni’s body with terrifying regularity. He had been walking
for so long that he no longer had to force his legs to move, carrying him
forward through the pine trees that made up this new forest.

His
tenth night in the frigid winter.

And
I still have no idea if I am getting anywhere near Zyronilxa.

He
wondered if he would ever be able to smell anything, or for that matter taste
anything, again. His face felt carved from ice, despite the deer skin that
covered everything but his eyes.

Lakhoni
resisted the impulse to glance over his shoulder.
Just keep going. Nobody’s
there.
Three days of raging snow had obscured any sign he’d left. Shivers
took control of his body; numbness traveled down his fingertips. Hunger flared,
fighting with his shivers. His meat had run out the previous day, despite all
of his rationing. He had finished the last half of an apple this morning.

He
had escaped the Separated, but he was beginning to wonder if he would simply
die out here in the raw winter. As he walked, he watched for any sign of
wildlife he might be able to trap or shoot with his bow. He had seen nothing
for days, only sentinel-like pine trees, snow that rippled like a shaken
blanket, and the vast sky. No paths. No animals. No sign of a village or any
other human. He had to be the only creature that moved on the earth.

He
would spend tomorrow looking for food. Tonight he had to find a place to rest:
a large pine with wide, low-hanging branches like the first night. He found a
tree that stood tall, as if it were the captain of the army of trees
surrounding it. It would shelter him from much of the frigid wind and there was
a thick bed of old, dried pine needles on the ground under such trees. Good
fuel for a small fire.

He
ducked low, trying to keep from knocking snow off the branches above down upon
him. He lowered himself to the ground, putting his back against the rough tree
trunk. Setting his bag on the ground, Lakhoni retrieved the spark rocks. He
gathered dry pine needles and sticks, blowing carefully to coax the fire to
life. He soon had a small fire crackling.

He
leaned in close to thaw his face. After long minutes, he could finally smell
the aroma of burning pine.

He
built the fire higher, adding small, dry branches that were scattered among the
dead needles under the tree. The heat hurt his frozen fingertips, the pain
lingering for a long time. He didn’t dare remove his boots to check his feet,
but instead moved them closer to the fire, hoping the heat would penetrate the
frozen leather.

Opening
the blanket and cloak he had wrapped around his body, he willed the heat of the
small fire into his flesh.

His
stomach rumbled, jealous of the slight comfort the rest of his body was
enjoying.

Hunting
tomorrow.

* * *

He
lay curled in a ball, pine needles pricking his cheek. Black and gray ash, all
that remained of his miniscule fire, scattered as he scrabbled into a seated
position. The ache in his stomach felt like a spear digging and twisting,
seeking his spine.

He
gathered his bag, grateful to the canopy of pine branches that had kept the
frost from covering it. And him. Two, maybe three mornings previous, he had
woken and found himself covered in a fair dusting of snow.

Dangerous.
Have to move.

On
hands and knees, pointy needles under his palms, he crawled out from under the
canopy, lurching to his feet in the soft snow that came up past his ankles.

Surely
he wasn’t the only thing moving in the woods. He would find a deer, or a rabbit.
Even a predator of some kind. Or maybe a frozen stream that would have sleepy
fish wandering under a layer of ice.

He
began to walk, coughing to clear his chest. This did not feel like a spear; it
was more like a small animal chewing its way out through his ribs. His throat
burned as well. He knew these were signs of winter illness. But there was
nothing he could do about it. Mouthfuls of melted snow kept the worst of his
thirst away.
How long can a man survive like this?

He
scoured the ground and trees for signs of life. Scattered snow at the base of a
tree. Torn bark exposing a tree’s tender trunk.

There
would be something. There had to be.

Hours
passed. His legs moved of their own accord. Eventually he would get there.
Somewhere. Zyronilxa was a large city. Would he pass it by?

Cold
had seeped so deeply into his body that he felt he might crack apart if he bent
his legs or arms too far.

Branches
clothed with deep green winter gowns filled his vision. Trunks, dark and rough,
wandered through his sight as he walked. Yellow bumps of frozen sap dotted the
bark and whorls showed where old branches had fallen off. Other splotches of
lighter brown were interspersed with the sap and whorls.

Lakhoni
slowed to a stop.

Lighter
brown splotches. A tingle shot from neck to feet. Swallowing the newly melted
water, he pushed through the snow to the tree trunk. He bent close, examining
the uneven scarring on the trunk’s bark. Not sap. Not empty spaces where
branches had been.

This
had been an animal eating tender bark. Hours old at the most. Questing out
farther from the tree, he found deer droppings. He crouched near the pile of
round pellets. Wrapping part of his cloak around a hand, he brushed a small
layer of snow away from the area surrounding the droppings, seeking hoof prints
in the snow.

Nothing.

Lakhoni
began walking in ever-widening circles around the tree trunk and deer scat.
Twenty paces from the original tree, he found signs of another patch of foraged
winter moss. Tiny, light green flecks colored the dark earth.

Shivering
violently, bent close to the ground, he followed the faint signs of deer
southward. With a brief, regretful glance to the east, Lakhoni focused on his
hunt.

Afternoon
light was dimming toward evening when Lakhoni realized that the light brown
shape he had been looking at was not a tree. He immediately crouched,
estimating the distance. Nearly a hundred paces. Standing behind a tree, he
slid his bow off his shoulder, quickly stringing it. He tested the stinging
wind, then moved carefully to the right, downwind of the buck.

With
its antlers, it stood taller than his father, taller than even Gimno.

Giddy
eagerness filled Lakhoni.
Food.
He tried to tell his stomach to stop
complaining so loudly as he quietly stalked nearer the deer.

He
pulled an arrow out of his quiver. Now he was grateful for the feather-light
snow. It muffled sound perfectly.

Sixty
paces now.

He
ghosted forward, staying low and doing all he could to blend in with the trees.

As
he approached within thirty paces, Lakhoni chose the spot he would shoot from.
A thick pine tree, its lowest branches forming a widely spreading tent over the
ground, stood less than twenty paces from the deer. He angled himself so that
the tree was directly between him and the buck. Reaching the tree, he contorted
himself between branches, careful to not disturb snow or make any kind of
noise. Any sound would carry a long distance in this frozen landscape.

Thanking
the First Fathers, Lakhoni set his arrow to the bowstring. This would be a
direct shot, but the distance was greater than he preferred. The arrow would
have to fly perfectly. He caressed the fletching on the arrow, hoping to make
it even straighter. He stepped to the right of the pine trunk, standing tall
between two large branches.

There.
He could aim just over that branch.

The
buck moved forward, still digging through the snow on the ground.

Composing
mental prayers to the First Fathers, Lakhoni raised the bow, drawing the string
slightly back. He brought the bow up just enough so that the tip of his arrow
pointed right at the buck’s shoulder. A long distance. He expanded his chest,
fighting to control his breathing and stretching his left arm forward as his
right arm pulled backward. Too shaky.

He
relaxed the pull, taking long, deep breaths.

Again
he raised the bow and pulled the string back. His right hand was at his cheek.
He sighted down the arrow. One breath in, then out. He pulled the string back
more, his right hand going behind his ear.

A
sharp crack stunned Lakhoni. At the same moment that he watched the buck jerk
up, then bound away, a flash of burning pain erupted on his right ear and
cheek.

Despair
rolled over him in a dark wave. He sank to his knees. He didn’t have to look to
confirm what he knew had happened.

Something
inside roiled up into his throat. The guttural shout of despair burst out of
him, grinding through his chest and throat. The pine tree branches threw the
shout back at him.

His
father had taught him better than this. “Always rub your string in your hands
before shooting in winter,” he had said. “It’s a deer tendon, so it will break
because of the cold.”

Lakhoni
fell against the tree trunk. He put a hand to his face. No blood, but the
tension in the string before it broke was sure to have left a red mark on his
face and neck.

He
held the bow up before him and watched the two broken lengths of tendon swing
gently in the wind. He wished he could take back the prayers of gratitude he
had offered only moments before.

He
was going to die out here. Probably under this tree.