Chabra: Dawn in the Athraminaurians

He finished the piece and waited for the last traces of the echo to fade away before lowering the flute and opening his eyes.

It was one of his favorites, something he’d written himself a few years earlier and continued to refine. He referred to it as his Ode to Ifdawn Marest.

He looked out over the city streets.

It was Spatemoon in Karida, and the streets that crisscrossed the city were now canals, swelled by the spring melt from the mountains.

He’d been here many times with the trade caravan, first under Than Bulbuk and more recently under his older brother, Gitanshu. Master Bulbuk had finally retired three or four years earlier, leaving his extensive trading business in the hands of Gitanshu, his son-in-law, who had been pretty much running it for years already by then.

Master Bulbuk was now enjoying the pleasures of his palatial estate in Eudoxia, and although his brother visited him regularly to report on developments and seek counsel, it was clear that he was no longer very interested.

How long had it been, he wondered. Nine? Ten years?

He enjoyed the work, the haggling, searching out new goods and new suppliers, finding ways to get them across half the Dreamlands to sell or trade. He’d made good money at it, too, paid a regular wage plus a range of bonuses for profits earned or new goods or customers developed,

Another boat passed below his balcony, probably a housewife back from the market, he guessed. For a few days, until the rivers subsided and the alleys emerged from the water, boats were the only way to get around. It didn’t happen every year, and it rarely lasted longer than two or three days, but when it did city life ground to a halt.

Karida was situated just upstream of the junction of the Piratta and Jasharra-Navi rivers, and when the spring rains and the snow melt from the Snarp Mountains peaked at the same time, they flooded. The city streets became canals, and the fields surrounding the city walls turned into broad lakes and marshes.

The water was good for the soil, but that didn’t make it any easier for people—or horses—to plod through the muck left behind after it finally drained off.

He lifted his eyes up, over the white-washed walls of the city, over the ramparts of The Citadel, to the ice-crowned peaks of the Greater Snarps to the north, and the Lesser to the east. It was yet morning, and the mountains were displayed in bold relief, patches of sunlit trees and raw stone accented by pitch-black shadow where the morning rays had yet to reach.

Wisps of cloud hovered in the folds and valleys, misty white curtains partially concealing their beauty. It’d all burn off soon enough today, he thought… not a raincloud in the sky, finally.

He couldn’t tear his eyes away from their grandeur, and stood there, gazing upon their glory.

“I heard you playing and thought I’d join you,” came a voice from behind him. “What was that?”

“Just a little tune I’ve been playing with.”

“Oh. Well, it sounded pretty nice.”

He looked up at the mountains.

“Beautiful, aren’t they?”

“They are,” agreed Habib as Gitanshu joined him at the railing. “They call me every time I see them; I think stronger every year.”

Gitanshu laughed.

“I think you’re just getting older every year, little brother.”

“I’m still young!” he protested, “What are you now, thirty-one? Two? You should talk!”

“Thirty-two,” confirmed Gitanshu. “I’ve been coming here almost every year for twelve, maybe fifteen years now, first with Master Bulbuk, now with my own caravans.

“Yeah, the mountains are beautiful. But you know, I’d rather back in Shiroora Shan with Talla and the kids. Family is important to me now, not chasing after mountains.”

“You’re pretty much my only family now,” mused Habib. “Dhruv and Atisha are in Ademla, Varun and Lajita are busy running Chabra, Kostubh and Paramjit are gone, Asha, Hansika, and Arun have different lives… and I work for you, shepherding caravans between here and Rinar.”

“But we have new routes, new goods, new challenges every time! That’s what makes it all so interesting!”

“I guess.”

“For someone who’s as good a negotiator as you are, you don’t sound very motivated, Habib.”

Habib finally pulled himself away from the snow-capped peaks lining the horizon to look Gitanshu in the eyes.

“Do you need me on this caravan?”

His brother’s eyebrows rose a fraction, and he cocked his head.

“You mean…?”

“Yes, I’m thinking of journeying east… Some of the traders that come speak of the endless steppes eastward, and beyond them the Athraminaurian Mountains that hold up the sky.

“I can’t face another months-long trip, chivvying obstinate men and beasts over land and sea, through brigands or storm.”

“Habib, I will not stand in your way if that is what you want,” replied Gitanshu. “I would rather have you ride with me, and I will miss your advice and help, but I will not stop you.”

Habib nodded and held out his arm for a wrist shake that melted into a brotherly hug.

“Thanks, Gitanshu. I’m sorry to leave you so suddenly.”

His brother laughed.

“Not a surprise, actually… I knew it was coming, I just didn’t know when. You’ve been moping about for weeks now, your mind somewhere far, far away from the caravan.”

“That obvious, huh?”

“Yeah, that obvious. You were going through all the motions but your heart wasn’t in it anymore.”

“Hard to hide from family, isn’t it.”

“Hmm. You know, if you’re heading east why don’t you go with Trader Phuntsho? I’m sure he’s in a very good mood after the price he bargained us down to on that glass and crystal.”

“Hey, I didn’t do too badly on the Gondaran paper and silk he brought!”

“No, you certainly didn’t,” laughed Gitanshu. “What we’ll make on the silk alone will pay for this entire venture twice over.”

“Hmm. Phuntsho has always been a polite, businesslike man. I can’t say I really know him that well, though.”

“I do. He was close friends to Master Bulbuk, and I got to know him when they were drinking together on trading trips years ago.

“He’s got some very strict beliefs and rules that he lives by, but he’s also generous, sympathetic, and believe it or not, family-centered. He’s got a wife and a whole herd of kids back in Lho Mon, you know.”

“Does he really? I mean, I’ve dealt with him for years now, and he’s never mentioned it, or them.”

“Oh, yeah. He keeps them very private, but once you get him to talk about them it’s almost impossible to get him to shut up again.”

“You really don’t mind me leaving?”

“Of course I mind! I need your help, and more importantly I’ll miss you, but if it’s something you’ve gotta do, do it.”

Habib looked at the mountains one more time.

“I think I’ll go have a word with Trader Phuntsho.”

* * *

The steppes stretched as far as the eye could see in every direction.

Habib squinted.

He knew the Snarps were days behind him, and the Athraminaurian mountains days ahead, but he could see nothing but the rolling hills of the steppes, covered with thick grass and dotted with gnarly trees every so often.

They’d left Beavertail, the last tiny village on the road before it entered the wilderness of the steppes. Many of the steppes tribes ventured only that far, bringing their furs and other goods with them to trade for weapons or pots or mirrors and baubles. Phuntsho didn’t even stop there except to refill his water; he considered most of the “traders” who did business there nothing better than thieves, charging exorbitant prices to the tribesmen who came. He believed that dealing fair was better for everyone in the long run, and far safer.

The trade road was one of several winding through the steppes, a hard-packed dirt track marked by countless ruts and old campfire ash. With few landmarks, straying far from the road would mean getting lost in the endless grass, unless you were wise enough to have a compass or lucky enough to wander back across a trade road. Even with a compass it could be hard to find your way back to Beavertail.

The guides said they knew the steppes and could find their way without difficulty even with no road, but Habib had his doubts. They certainly knew the road, its turns and dips and marshy spots, and they knew the diverse animals and plants of the region, but how could they possibly navigate kilometers upon kilometers of featureless grass?

They could walk on the road, and mounted on horseback they could usually see over the top of the grass. Standing up to two meters high the grass made it almost impossible to see anything on foot.

The same dense grass also made it very easy for bandits to lie in wait, which is why Trader Phuntsho not only had a dozen guards but had also hired three trusted guides who had been to the Athraminaurians and back countless times, and worked well with the local tribes.

“You said we’d reach a river ford today, right, Master Bidziil?”

“Another hour or so, I’d say,” nodded the guide, riding alongside. “It’s an old river, wide and relatively shallow, and should be easy to ford this time of year.”

“No crocodiles up this far north, are there.”

“Nope. Lots of bear, though, and they spend a lot of time near the river. When the fish come upstream to spawn and the bears are out there hip-deep in the water all day long.”

“That’s in the fall, though.”

“Another month or so before they start running.”

“How many times have you been over this route?”

“More than I’ve got fingers!” snorted Bidziil. “I’ve been doing this for, oh, about two dozen years now. Took a few years off for the family.”

“Family? You’re married?”

“Wife and five kids. Ohiyesa—my oldest son, he’s almost twenty now—sometimes comes with me. He’s learning the routes now. He’s probably right over there, in fact, heading the other direction.”

“Over there? You can tell where he is?”

“Well, not exactly, of course not, but I know this route and that route and about where he’d be… and it’d be right about that way,” he explained, pointing.

“Which way is home?”

Unerringly, he pointed off to the southeast.

“And Karida?”

He pointed back a little farther north than the way they’d come.

“Pretty handy,” said Habib, impressed. “So you don’t really need that compass after all.”

“Of course I need a compass! It’s not magic!” laughed Bidziil. “I’ve just been through these parts so many times I have a pretty good idea.

“You use your compass a lot?”

“Sure, if we’re in the desert and a sandstorm hides the road, and at sea sometimes, with a sextant.”

“What’s a sextant?”

“It measures the angle between the horizon and the sun or moon.”

“…The angle… why would you want to do such a thing?”

“When you’re at sea that’s the only way to figure out where you are, often. There aren’t any landmarks.”

“No landmarks… you can’t see the shore?”

“Heh, no,” chuckled Habib. “The shore might be a day or two distant. More, depending where you are and what direction you’re trying to go.”

“I can’t imagine that much water,” said Bidziil. “Even the lakes our here in the steppes, you can always see the shore. I mean, unless it’s raining or foggy or something.”

“Shiroora Shan is built on the Night Ocean, and when you’re in the middle of the Eastern Arm—say, between Cappadarnia and Astarma—there’s nothing but water all around.

“Now, it’s hard to get lost there, because all you have to do is head east to reach the coast somewhere near Astarma, or west to reach the Spine and Capadarnia. Or even north to Shiroora Shan, for that matter.

“Out on the Middle Ocean, though… well, that’s big. It makes the Night Ocean look like a little pond.”

“There’s something unnatural about that much water,” said Bidziil, shaking his head. “Endless steppes, endless desert, even the endless Athraminaurian Mountains, that I can understand, but.. water?”

Habib looked up at the eastern horizon again.

“When will be able to see the Athraminaurians?”

It was Bidziil’s turn to chuckle.

“Not for another few days yet, I’m afraid. You really can’t wait, can you?”

“Shiroora Shan stands between the Night Ocean and the Ifdawn Marest, the range stretching north toward Irem and the Pool of Night. I grew up seeing the mountains every day and I never grow tired of their soaring, ice-cold beauty. They’re so majestic, so… so… Godlike.

“I wonder how it must be to look down on the world from that height, down on the clouds.”

Bidziil muttered something unintelligible and made a motion as if to throw something over his shoulder.

“What? What did you…?”

Biziil looked up at the horizon, then, perhaps relieved that he couldn’t see the mountains, back to Habib.

“It wards off evil,” he explained. “I should throw salt over my shoulder, but the best I could do was make the motion.”

“Why? What happened?”

“You sounded like one of the Children,” he said, and leaned closer to Habib. He dropped his voice to a whisper. “The Children of Eitr.”

“The Children of Ei—”

“Quiet! Not so loud! Or better not at all… and certainly not in the mountains!”

Habib nodded, then continued “What are they?

“They live on the tallest peaks of the Athraminaurians, and sometimes, on the very coldest nights, come down to steal the warmth of living things. When the light’s just right you can sometimes see their cities way, way up in the clouds, on ice-crowned mountains.

“It’s not a good idea to call them, especially when you’re in the mountains.”

Habib digested that for a while as they rode on silently.

“So why the Athraminaurians, if you’ve got a mountain range right at home?”

Habib sighed.

“Because they are said to be the highest, coldest, supremely beautiful mountains in all of the Dreamlands.”

“I always thought that was Kadath.”

Habib laughed.

“Maybe it is, I don’t know. But Kadath is a long, long way from here, and you say the Athraminaurians are only a few days ahead of us.”

“That they are, Master Habib. You’ll see them soon enough.”

They continued their conversation as they rode, until Bidziil stood up in the saddle and looked ahead, shading his eyes and breathing deeply.

“We’re almost at the river,” he said as he sat down again. He raised his voice and continued. “Watch out, everyone. The ground might get soft suddenly, and there’ll be more animals around. Watch out for snakes in particular.”

Within a few minutes Habib noticed that the horse’s hoofprints were growing deeper, and the wagons were beginning to leave ruts behind instead of just rumbling along over hard-packed dirt.

The road topped a small hill and suddenly they were on the riverbank.

Bidziil had said it was wide, and it certainly was… Habib thought it must be well over a kilometer of pools and streams, and at least two wide channels that he could see. There was a lot of scrub but almost no trees. Probably because of flooding, he guessed.

“The river is usually shallow here because there’s a rock bottom in most places,” explained Bidziil. “You have to check the depth anyway, though, because the channels move around every year and there are sometimes surprises.

“Excuse me; I’ve got to talk to Trader Phuntsho.”

He twitched his reins and cantered toward the front of the caravan.

There were five horse-drawn wagons, each carrying two riders, while Phuntsho, a woman named Dechen who was his second in command, and himself rode their own horses. The three guides and the dozen guards were mounted, too.

Phuntsho and Bidziil halted on the riverbank, looking out over the expanse of water, mud, and low grasses. After a few minutes Bidziil nodded and rode ahead, signaling to the other two guides with his arm raised to join him.

They cautiously walked ahead, riding or leading their horses on foot as they scouted out a path, and as they worked their way across the river the wagons followed them in single file interspersed with guards.

Habib was in about the middle, behind one of the wagons with one of the guards. They’d hitched their horses to the wagon and were walking.

They walked through a number of streams and small ponds, all but one under waist-deep, but one stream got unexpectedly chest-deep for about a meter.

The sun was out and the weather warm, but the spring water felt freezing. Habib had thought it delightfully cool when he first stepped in, but after an hour of being exposed to the wind dripping wet it was just cold.

He trudged on, pushing the wagon as needed when it got stuck in the mud in spite of the two horses pulling it.

They finally reached a river island big enough to hold the whole caravan, and Phuntsho called a rest. There wasn’t much point in washing the mud off, but at least everyone could sit down out of the wind, light up a fire, maybe even eat a bite or two. The horses didn’t mind the cold wind, but they definitely appreciated the lush green grass covering the island.

Habib spent his time checking his body for leeches. He found only two, one on his ankle and one on his belly, and both came off easily when he held a hot ember close. He noticed a few of the guards doing the same thing, but none of the guides.

“Mistress Ghigau, can I ask you a question?”

Ghigau was one of the guides, a weather-worn white-haired woman who could have been anywhere between thirty and a hundred.

She looked up from where she was sitting, her back to one of the wagon wheels, and raised her eyebrow.

“You didn’t have any leeches. Neither did Master Bidziil, I looked,” he said. “You didn’t even look for leeches.”

She bared her teeth in a grin—several were missing—and pulled out a small skin bag.

“Rub this into your skin,” she urged, holding it out. “You don’t need much, just take a little dab and rub it over your hands or legs or somewhere until it’s gone. Your body will absorb it, and within an hour or so you’ll start smelling bad to the leeches.”

The bag was squishy, heavy.

He pulled out the wooden plug and gently squeezed out a dollop of dirty brown paste.

“That’s plenty,” she said, holding out her hand for the bag. “Just rub it in.”

He rubbed his hands together, smearing the paste about until it vanished. It felt gritty, and his skin tingled a little bit, but it didn’t hurt, and it didn’t smell.

“Huh… Pretty handy! How do you make it?”

“Only the shaman knows,” she said. “You’re welcome to ask her, though!”

“That would be a waste of everyone’s time,” snorted Habib. “Shamans don’t reveal their secrets.

“Thanks for letting me use it, though!”

“Sure. Nobody likes leeches.”

Phuntsho let the men and horses—especially the horses—rest for about an hour, then got everyone ready to finish the ford.

Habib was in the same place as before, alongside the same guard, a man about his age from Zeenar named Diraxus. They stood by waiting for the horses and wagons ahead of them to head off into the water and fell into place in line.

They both walked with one hand on the wagon so they’d have something to hang onto if they lost their balance.

It was the same slog as before, and they were both drenched chest-high in no time.

The sun was past zenith and beginning to slip down toward the horizon behind them when they began to cross one of the widest channels, almost wide enough to be a river in its own right. The riverbed was covered with small rocks and sand, and they walked carefully.

Suddenly the wagon slipped sideways, swinging off at a diagonal in the river current and knocking Diraxus off his feet. He was washed downstream, leaving Habib holding onto the rear of the wagon by himself.

The wagon was relatively watertight to protect the cargo from river fords for exactly that reason, but it wouldn’t be of any use if the whole thing tipped over. Once the wheels began slipping on the riverbed the current scooped up under the wagon and began to tilt it up.

Habib pulled himself hand-over-hand to the high side of the wagon, and shifted as much of his weight onto it as he could to stop it from rising. The current caught his legs, dragging them downstream and turning the wagon: they acted as a rudder, pulling the whole wagon parallel with the flow.

The horses bucked and snorted, frightened at the way the wagon suddenly yanked them backwards and to the side.

Habib heaved, trying to pull the side of the wagon down a little more, and then Bidziil and one of the mounted guards were there, steadying the wagon and helping the horses pull it back up to safety.

Habib dragged himself up onto the wagon, wheezing and coughing to get the river water out of his lungs.

By the time he caught his breath the wagon was on drier ground, and Phuntsho was checking the wagon’s cargo. He walked over to join Habib shortly.

“Thank you, Master Habib. Quick thinking. You saved the cargo from getting wet. There’s a lot of cloth in there, and while it’s packed in watertight bags, they don’t always work… especially if they go floating off downstream to gods know where!”

“I try to pay my way, Trader Phuntsho.” He looked around. “Is Diraxus alright?”

“He’s fine, fine. Just a little wet.”

Habib coughed once again and used his palm to wipe the hair back out of his eyes. He was about to jump down off the wagon when a sharp whistle sounded.

The alarm!

He looked up at the riverbank rising a few meters ahead of them.

It was lined with armed figures on horseback.

* * *

The Iraqono had an extensive camp set up about ten minutes away.

Phuntsho explained that he’d been friends with the tribe for many years, first with a few hunters he’d met by accident, and later with the chief and the shaman. He always bartered a variety of pelts from them, giving in return swords and daggers, pots, mirrors, and woven textiles from the west. He’d also brought some gifts especially for them.

“It’s a big deal to them,” he continued. “Having a caravan pass through, I mean… they relocate their camp every year or so and it can be hard to find them when they don’t want to be found. We’ve been coming through here for years now, though, and we hand out all sorts of presents to everyone. They love us.”

“No doubt that translates into better deals on the pelts, too,” suggested Habib.

“Oh, absolutely. It’s a long-term investment, and it’s more than repaid what it costs. In fact, I’ve heard that they actually trade with other tribes to get blue wolf pelts for us. And a few other exotic items.”

“Blue wolves?” I asked, confused. I hadn’t heard the term before.

“The steppes wolves with the blue eyes,” he explained. “Oh, right, you’ve never seen their eyes, have you? Only the pelts.”

“Blue eyes? Huh, never knew. Sorry.”

“They’re still pretty rare, so the pelts fetch high prices,” he commented, then looked away. “Excuse me; I see Chief Yawanta.”

Phuntsho kicked his steed and galloped off to meet a small group of horsemen riding up. The man in the center, probably in his forties or fifties, wore a gold circlet on his head.

Phuntsho rode up next to the chief, joined shortly by Bidziil. The three of them exchanged a wrist-shake and talked for a while. Suddenly the chief wheeled his horse and rode away again, and Phuntsho came trotting back to the caravan. Bidziil made a hand signal to the other guards, then returned to his usual position at the head of the caravan.

“It’s all set,” Phuntsho explained. “We’ll stay with the Iraqono tonight, and maybe spend another day or two here before heading on. Chief Yawanta says he has a stack of furs he’s been saving for us.”

There was a cheer from the caravaneers, and Habib broke into a grin. Staying in the Iraqono camp meant they wouldn’t have to worry about keeping watch, and there’d be a feast to boot.

The Iraqono generally moved camp twice a year, following the great bison herds. Consummate riders, everything they owned could be packed up and ready to move on horseback within a few hours. They would use wagons if necessary, but prioritized the mobility their horses brought.

The caravan moved up the riverbank to the steppe, but instead of returning to the trade road, turned the other direction to follow a mounted Iraqono boy who would lead them to the camp.

About two hours later they arrived at the Iraqono camp, dead tired. The horses didn’t have much difficulty with the tall steppes grass, but the wagons got stuck often. They swapped positions every so often because the lead wagon had the toughest job, forcing a way through virgin growth. The other wagons could follow in its tracks with far less effort.

The campsite had been largely cleared of grass, leaving either bare dirt or short-cut stubble. It was surrounded by a wall of thorn bush branches. It was not high enough or strong enough to defend against an attack, but very few wild animals would try to force their way through the wall of six-centimeter thorns.

Thorn bushes grew in scattered clumps throughout the steppes, and it was a simple matter to build a new barrier when they moved to a different location.

The gate—a strong vine festooned with thorn bush branches—was pulled open, and the caravan rode inside. The camp really wasn’t big enough to hold the tribe and the caravan both, but it’d do for a day or two. The Iraqono would take the horses out to graze during the day, freeing up considerable space.

For now, the wagons stood between the scattered round ger of the Iraqono. Made of leather on a wood frame, the ger were decorated in a multicolored designs of living things, including not only the bison and horses so essential to their lives, but also bears, wolves (especially the dire wolves found farther north), birds, fish, even insects. Each ger had been handed down for generations, repaired as needed, and new decorations added to new leather.

Six to eight meters in diameter, the ger were more than spacious enough for even large families, and the Iraqono quickly erected three more for the caravan to use.

The whole camp was bustling with excitement as people helped get the wagons moved to where they’d cause the least disturbance and get the horses tended to. The children were especially excited because they knew a feast was on the way.

A group of Iraqono returned to the camp shortly, driving about half a dozen sheep in front of them. That many sheep meant the feast would be for everyone, not just the caravan. They began preparations immediately, quickly slaughtering the sheep, skinning them, and then dismembering them on their own hides.

They saved every organ, even the blood, carefully cleaning the hooves, ears, colon, and a few other parts. Habib asked Dechen, Phuntsho’s second-in-command, about it, and she explained that they used every bit of the sheep, most of it as food.

That evening they feasted on sheep, roasted, broiled, boiled, and raw. It was Habib’s first time to eat some of these foods, and he was especially surprised when they brought out a sheep stomach, stretched taut, full of something quite firm and brown. They cut off a thick slice and handed it to him. He accepted it with thanks and took a big bite, prepared to find it disgusting but confident in his ability to eat and praise it nonetheless—a necessary ability built up through years as a trader.

It was the sheep’s blood, and although it hadn’t been seasoned or even salted, just cooked in the sheep’s natural juices, it struck him as surprisingly good. He had no difficulty finishing it and enjoyed almost all of the food they brought, although after the tenth or twentieth serving he began to slow down.

He pulled out his flute, blew a few quick notes to make sure his lips still worked properly in spite of the drink, and began to play. The Iraqono had their own instruments, of course, but of wood, not metal, and the clear sounds of his flute delighted them.

The hubbub quieted as they listened to his music, and suddenly a softer, earthier note joined in—the wooden flute of the Iraqono! It was followed shortly by the drumming of fingers on a taut buckskin drum, and the rattle of hollow gourds, and finally a growing roar of snapping fingers as everyone joined in, and the musicians took off in a liquor-fueled improvisation that went on until his lips were numb.

The tsegee being passed around was considerably stronger than the usual drink made from mare’s milk. Habib didn’t get drunk but he was thankful he wouldn’t have to walk far to reach the ger and sleep later that night.

The next morning everyone was up with the sun, the Iraqono busy with their daily chores as if nothing had happened. Habib had few chores, fortunately, because his head felt like a stonemason was working on it with hammer and chisel. Looking at the other caravaneers, though, he realized most of them were in even worse shape.

Apparently Iraqono tsegee was a heck of a lot stronger than it tasted.

Good thing he’d had lots of practice he chuckled, then winced.

With the greeting feast out of the way, Phuntsho and Chief Yawanta would sit down and dicker over terms. They had known each other for a long time and were close friends, but that wouldn’t get in the way of driving the hardest bargain possible.

Phuntsho had a variety of swords and daggers to offer, along with copper pots, Mondath tobacco, cotton cloth from Zeenar and Karida, even a few iridescent textiles of Hatheg. Chief Yawanta had the usual stack of buffalo hides, beaver, fox, a few bear, and half a dozen wolf pelts, and something that nobody had ever seen before

It was the pelt of a large cat, the size of a large leopard or lion, fangs almost identical and easily as long. The fur coat was decorated with broad stripes of red and white, running the length of the body, and along the spine ran a short, bristly mane.

Chief Yawanta explained that he’d traded it from another tribe, who’d called it a “tharban”.

Phuntsho agreed it was a rarity indeed but suggested it might only be worth a few tiaras because the fur was too stiff and the red-and-white coloring too bizarre.

The Chief immediately protested, well aware of the fact that its rarity meant it would command a high price from some noble or rich merchant who collected the unusual.

The argument went back and forth half a dozen times as they worked their way toward a mutually agreeable figure, and finally it was done. Dechen, sitting next to and slightly behind Phuntsho, never said a word, but followed the negotiation very closely indeed. Habib, listening in from a distance since he wasn’t involved in any way, nodded—she’d make a good trader one day.

Once the tharban pelt was taken care of everything else went quite rapidly. They had dealt in the same goods countless times over the years, everything was a known quantity. The whole thing was done well before the day had started to get hot, and the traded goods were moved around shortly thereafter.

Phuntsho’s caravan would split here. One of the wagons, now loaded with pelts, would head back to Karida with its two drivers and two guards, accompanied by three of Chief Yawanta’s men who had their own business in Beavertail. The other four wagons, with the remaining trade goods from the west plus the single tharban pelt, would continue on toward the Athraminaurian Mountains and Gondara.

Chief Yawanta invited them to go fishing.

Rivers and lakes were common throughout the steppes, teeming with fish and all the diverse wildlife that lived near or in the water.

It was a fairly small party, consisting of the Chief and three other Iraqonos, Trader Phuntsho, Bidziil, and Habib, who was curious about the “floating islands” they described.

They rode for about an hour and a half from camp, first through the steppes back to the river, and then upstream a bit to where the river meandered through the grassland in countless broad, leisurely loops.

Chief Yawanta dismounted at the river’s edge, handed the reins to one of the Iraqonos who had come with them, and led the way into the water. The others followed suit, leaving a lone warrior behind to keep watch on their horses.

They trudged through the shallows and over occasional grassy islands until they reached a wide expanse of water.

“Lake Odobeh,” said Bidziil. “It changes size depending on the rain and the melt from up north, but it’s usually here year-round. Mostly too shallow for anything very big, and the maze of channels and islands changes so often anyone who tried to navigate it would be lost in minutes.”

The Chief had stopped and was using his spear to prod a roundish island only a hop away from where he was standing.

Habib watched closely.

The Chief was using the blunt end of the spear, prodding and pushing. It looked like he was testing the strength of the island, thought Habib. But why?

Chief Yawanta suddenly stepped onto the island.

It shuddered, the grass and moss flashing in a ripple that spread slowly across the island and dissipated.

The Chief smiled and gave a little jump, creating an even bigger ripple, the ground rising and falling like a giant beast breathing, though silent but for the mild squelching noise his feet made when they landed.

“Come! This is one of our floating islands!” he called.

The rest of the party followed, stepping over the narrow gap of river water onto the island. It bounced slightly under Habib’s feet, and he could feel the vibrations of the others as they walked, rippling underneath.

“What is it?” he wondered aloud.

“It’s just moss, pretty much” explained Bidziil. “The same stuff all around you… it just builds up and eventually gets big enough to form a floating patch like this one.”

“Is it really safe?”

“Sure, sure,” chuckled Bidziil. “Your foot might break through into a little water but you’re not gonna get sucked underwater or anything.”

Habib tried a few little jumps, getting the feel of the island. It was soft to walk on, and even fun, actually, feeling it slowly rise and fall under his feet.

They walked toward the center of the island where the Chief was already cutting a hole with his sword with the two other Iraqonos who had come along. The moss was not very tough, but it was clumped together very thickly, and was heavy with water.

They cut moss free and scooped it out with their hands to make a relatively clear opening.

The Chief took little bits of sheep meat from a bag he carried and squatted down to sprinkle them into the water. He waited, peering deep until he gave a grunt of satisfaction and readied his spear.

He slowly lifted it, tense, attention focused on the opening, and suddenly thrust hard.

There was a furious splashing, and Habib caught a glimpse of something finned and scaled, a meter or two in length and as thick as his arm, struggling to escape the spear through its midsection.

“Master Habib! Help pull it ashore!” called the Chief, and Habib sprang to assist. It didn’t occur to him until later to wonder why the Chief had called only him, and nobody else helped…

Chief Yawanta dragged the eel, as it was revealed to be, halfway up out of the water, writhing and thrashing furiously.

Habib leapt on it, grabbing it around the body close to the head—he could see the fangs and didn’t want to let it bite him—and screamed with intense pain, falling to the ground.

He blacked out for a moment, and as he pulled himself back together in spite of the pain running up his arms and the spots dancing in front of his eyes, he saw the others killing the thing carefully until it was very, very dead.

Phuntsho helped him sit up and offered him a drink of water.

“You alright?” he asked concernedly. “The lightning eels pack quite a punch.”

“Wha…. What was that?”

“Just an eel,” explained Phuntsho. “They shock their prey to eat, or to escape danger.”

“My hands still ache,” said Habib, flexing his fingers. “My arms…”

“We all went through it, Master Habib. It’s the Iraqono initiation.”

Chief Yawanta walked over and stretched out his hand. When Habib took it, the Chief pulled him up and hugged him.

“Welcome, Habib, to the Iraqono. You are my cousin.”

“Uh… thank you, Chief Yawanta,” he replied, unsure of how to react.

“When he says cousin, he just means you’re a close friend, and under his protection,” explained Phuntsho. “You’re not really an Iraqono, but you’re no longer an outsider, either.

“I think he likes you.”

Habib, still shaken by the electrical shock, smiled and did his best to look happy in spite of the throbbing pain in his hands and arms. He noticed that his hangover had disappeared, though, which helped.

The group, without much help from Habib, picked up the dead eel, and they proceeded to the next floating island to repeat the process. At the third island Habib, feeling much better and eager to take revenge, delivered the killing blow himself.

When they made their way back to camp later they carried with them the carcasses of four enormous lightning eels.

As it turned out, eel was delicious. Habib hadn’t been looking forward to another dinner of sheep, sheep, and sheep.

They set forth on the next leg of their journey the following morning.

* * *

The steppes slowly began to change, sloping ever so gradually upwards toward the yet-distant mountains. The clumps of trees grew in size, becoming woods filled with deer rather than bison, and large cats instead of wolves.

At dawn they could make out a dark shadow on the horizon, black shapes blurred in front of the sun as it rose. The Athraminaurians, at last.

They encountered two more tribes along the way, both of whom already knew Phuntsho and welcomed his goods, although not with the same enthusiasm as the Iraqono had shown.

One of the guards was attacked by a bear he stumbled upon unexpectedly, and while they did what they could, he died a day later. The bear escaped unharmed.

One of the wagon drivers vanished one night. No trace was found, search as they might, and none of her tentmates reported hearing or seeing anything unusual… just an empty blanket in the morning.

The caravan no longer accepted bison hides, instead collecting fox, mink, beaver, and other valuable furs. These would travel with them as far as Lho Mon.

Habib was determined to travel with them, although Phuntsho’s caravan would end its journey in Lho Mon, his birthplace and home. The trader said he would arrange for Habib to accompany another trader on the difficult journey over the mountains, and while he trusted the other as an honest man, he advised against attempting to cross the Athraminaurians, warning that death was far too common a fate on that treacherous path.

Habib promised to consider his words carefully, but as the distant mountains grew higher and clearer with each passing day, his desire to finally reach them, scale their heights, feel their wonder first-hand, only grew more intense.

He bothered Phuntsho and Bidziil constantly, asking about the mountains, and about Gondara beyond. Bidziil was a man of the steppes, and vastly preferred the distant horizon to icy peaks, but Phuntsho was from Lho Mon, well up into the mountains, and he shared tales of steep mountain paths, of goats clambering up sheer walls that would try to most skillful climber, of hundreds of tiny fields laboriously cut into the slopes, of avalanches of ice and rock that swept people and homes away in an instant, and of the Children of Eitr.

“I’ve seen their cities glittering cold and blue on the highest peaks,” he said, eyes wistful. “Beautiful, and terrifying.

“They come to those lost in the mountains, seeking the warmth of man and beast, but unable to withstand the heat of the fire, or the warmth of the summer sun. Cursed, trapped in bodies of ice, forever cold, and warm only at death.

“I have never seen one,” he murmured, making that same gesture of throwing salt over his shoulder, “but I have seen the bodies of those who have. Ice to the core, with smiles and tears frozen on their faces.”

He shuddered at some memory.

“I urge you to stay with me in Lho Mon, Master Habib, and return with me to Karida,” he pled. “Please. It is far too dangerous.”

“Karida, Shiroora Shan, the Night Ocean… they hold me no longer. I hunger for the Athraminaurians that hold up the sky, to see the splendor of Gondara, to look over The Edge…”

The road left the steppes, winding upwards as fields and houses began to appear around them. Ahead soared the immensity of the Athraminaurian Mountains, grey and black against the bright sky, their apexes shining white, half-concealed by distance and wisps of cloud.

The horses struggled now, pulling their loads up ever-steeper roads, until finally they entered the domain of Lho Mon, a broad, shallow valley carved into the mountains by an ice-fed river that raced through the land and plunged to the steppes below.

Traditional Lho Mon houses were two or three stories tall, with the first level—generally used for storage and farm animals—of stone, and wood-and-mortar living areas above. The stone and mortar were whitewashed, presenting a striking contrast with the dark colors of the exposed wood, natural or stained a reddish-brown.

All the houses were extensively decorated inside and out, usually over the course of generations, and were handed down from mother to daughter, with new husbands welcomed into the home in each generation. Some of the oldest had stood for grand dozens of years, lovingly repaired and renovated as needed after disaster or to welcome new family.

Phuntsho walked at the head of the trade caravan, smiling and greeting people left and right. He seemed to know everyone, calling them by name, and always welcomed with smiles.

The caravan followed behind as he led them up the main street to a central plaza, then left up yet another slope. The houses here were considerably larger and the colors brighter. New, Habib figured, or at least newly painted.

He waved Dechen, his second-in-command, to guide the caravan into a clearing at the side of the house while he walked over to greet his family. They must have heard the ruckus earlier because they were all waiting in front of the house to welcome him.

It was quite a crowd. Habib found out later that it included his wife’s parents, his own mother, three of his wife’s siblings, his own six children, including the husband and two children of one of his daughters, and over a dozen neighbors and friends. There was also a small group of onlookers on the street itself, presumably passers-by.

“Trader Phuntsho should be back in an hour or so. He always brings little gifts for the children, and he has to give thanks at the family altar for his safe return,” said Bidziil. “We’ll be setting up camp here, but most of us will stay down in the city. More people, more booze, more, um, entertainment.”

Habib smiled and was about to make some snappy response when he heard a distant roar, a groaning of the earth that quivered up his bones and rattled his soul. The roar of the mountain.

Bidziil noticed his sudden introspection and chuckled.

“You felt it, too? A landslide somewhere… the sound echoes for kilometers through the mountains. Sometimes they get quakes up here, too, bring the whole mountain down on top of you.”

“A landslide…?” murmured Habib, shaken. “Is that all it was? It felt… I don’t know… like a God speaking. Or something…”

Bidziil shook his head.

“Just felt like a landslide to me. Can’t imagine why anyone would want to live in the shadow of these mountains, landslides and earthquakes and ice-spawn.

“Can’t get back to the steppes soon enough for me.”

“Ice-spawn? You mean the Children of—?”

“Don’t say it! Yeah, same thing,” he said, clapping his hand over Habib’s mouth. “Never seen one, never want to, but they’re evil, evil as death.”

Habib fell silent, eyes fixed on those fabled mountains that surely touched the stars, streamers of icy white blowing from their stern peaks in the wind.

The next day Phuntsho introduced him to Chophel of Kungmai, who would take the trade goods on the next leg of the perilous journey, across the Athraminaurians.

Chophel was a small, wiry man, face weathered by sun and ice until it was impossible to tell if he was fifty years old or five hundred. He spoke common poorly, but with Phuntsho it was possible to arrange things quickly.

“He’s not very happy taking you along, since you’re unfamiliar with travel on these icy mountain paths, but he’s done it before. Just listen to him before you do anything silly.”

Phuntsho explained that the horses could go as far as Kungmai, the village Chophel came from, but from there it would be yaks. Yaks, while somewhat smaller than horses, could carry almost as much cargo. They could tread the treacherous mountain paths and thin air of the mountains where horses could not survive.

“We leave the morning,” said Chopel. “When Matachamgoro is bright.”

“Matachamgoro?”

“That one, there,” explained Phuntsho, pointing at the tallest mountain visible. It had three peaks linked together by knife-thin ridges, ice and rock glinting silver and black. “Matachamgoro is the first to catch the rising sun, and the last the setting.”

He made that gesture again, of throwing salt over his shoulder.

“Is that where… they… live?”

“In their city of ice and death,” he whispered quietly. “And may they stay there!”

He shook his head, took a breath, and turned his eyes away from the soaring mountain.

“I’m off to the market; come with me, if you will.”

“With pleasure,” smiled Habib, and they walked toward the market in the lower part of town, where the wagons and many of the caravaneers were already waiting.

The marketplace was basically a muddy field, with half a dozen haphazard buildings scattered around to keep the snow off and block the wind. Today there was neither and the sun was delightfully warm.

Phuntsho sold or traded most of his good here, the furs, pots and pans, and various weapons going briskly. He unloaded about half of the Zeenar cotton cloth from Zeenar and Karida but kept almost all of the Mondath tobacco and the Hatheg iridescent textiles. A few close friends or important personages received special pouches of tobacco or some other special gift, of course, that he had kept separate from the trade goods.

Habib noticed that Phuntsho presented one impeccably dressed older man with a parcel obviously containing some sort of fabric. He couldn’t tell for sure, but from the careful way they handled it, he guessed it was Moung spider silk. If so, it would be worth its weight in silver… he wondered who it was for. Probably not the man, he thought, who must work for someone higher up. Some local lord? Phuntsho’s lover?

He shrugged. He’d probably never know, especially as he’d be leaving in the morning.

He wandered out of the market toward the edge of the village. Built in the river-carved valley there was no convenient overlook, but he was content to look up at the mountains surrounding him. He sat down on a nearby rock and took out his flute, playing quietly to himself, eyes and heart lost in the scene before him.

He lost track of how long he’d been playing or even what he’d been playing, until a voice snapped him out of it.

“Master Habib! There you are! I heard your music, and finally I’ve found you!”

It was Phuntsho.

He lowered the flute, noticing that the sun was already low on the horizon and turned.

“I was just admiring the view,” he said.

The trader glanced at the mountains and shrugged.

“I grew up with that view; it’s as cold and hard as it’s ever been.

“But what were you playing?”

“…I have no idea…,” said Habib. “It just happened.”

“Well, it was a beautiful piece, whatever it was.

“Will you take your supper with us tonight, Master Habib? We would welcome you, and I know my family would love your music as much as I do.”

“Thank you, Trader Phuntsho. I would be honored.”

They walked back to his home, and Phuntsho gestured to Habib to walk up the narrow stairs to the second floor. They were cut from a single tree trunk, worn smooth by years of use, but with no handrail.

The room looked like it occupied about half of the second floor; Habib could see a doorway on the far wall. To his left was a simple kitchen with adobe stove, while the rest of the room held a large table surrounded by cushions. The walls were mortared, the dark wood of the beams and columns left exposed, and the mortar had been painted in intricate designs that were difficult to make out clear in spite of the numerous oil lamps hanging throughout.

Habib noticed a few wall sections that had obviously been decorated by very young artists, featuring stick figures of people and cows. Or yaks?

Four or five women were bustling about in the kitchen part of the room, the noises of pots and knives and voices surprisingly loud after the silence of the mountains.

There was already a number of people around the table: Phuntsho’s mother and father-in-law, two of his sons and one son-in-law, a number of grandchildren always in motion and impossible to count accurately, Bidziil, and Dechen.

Bidziil waved him over and forced a cup into his hand, filling it with a steaming, whitish drink.

“It’s ara, you’ll love it,” he said, and pushed a dollop of butter off his knife into the cup. “They distill it from corn, usually. Got quite a kick!”

Habib watched the butter melt with a dubious expression, then gathered his courage—as a trader, this was not the first time he’d been handed something unknown to eat or drink—and took a slug.

It was pretty good, in fact, but his mouth burned from the alcohol.

He took another slug, then hurriedly set the cup down as a large plate of brilliant red chilis buried in orange and yellow cheese was set on the table in front of him.

It was quickly joined by huge wooden tubs of hot rice, and plates of potatoes (also with chilis), strips of some meat fried up with radishes (and chilis), pyramids of round dumplings spitting steam and bubbles, and more.

More people crowded into the room from somewhere; Habib figured they were probably more relatives because there seemed to be a lot more children running around. He never had the chance to ask, though, because new plates of food kept appearing, and people kept on asking to refill his cup.

He suddenly noticed that the latest person offering to refill his cup was Phuntsho, who looked like he’d had almost as much to drink as Habib himself.

Instead of holding out his cup in the customary gesture, he took the jug with one hand and pushed his cup into Phuntsho’s hand with the other.

“No, no, let me thank you, Trader! You have brought me safely across the steppes to Lho Mon, and I am eternally in your debt!”

They tussled over the jug for a moment, each trying to be the first to pour for the other, until finally Bidziil held up his own cup.

“Use this, you two, and both drink up! Stop hogging the jug!”

There was general laughter and the two of them clinked their cups together before slugging down their ara in unison.

“Play for us, Master Habib,” pressed Phuntsho. “If you’re not too drunk…”

“Drunk!? Nonsense!” snorted Habib, although he knew he was lying. He pushed back from the table a bit to make space and picked up his flute.

“My city, Shiroora Shan, stands between the Night Ocean and the mountains. They are tiny mountains compared to your soaring peaks, the Athraminaurians, but they are mountains nonetheless, and noble in their stern beauty.

“I have been trying to capture their essence in music for many years now, and fail every time. Poor as it is, here is my Ode to Ifdawn Marest.”

He closed his eyes and recalled, for a moment, the mountains of his childhood, rising up behind Shiroora Shan, their gentle foothills green with forests and alive with streams, teeming with wildlife. He lifted the flute to his lips and began to play.

He had no need of a score, he had composed and re-composed and discarded and made anew countless times. He knew it by heart and had listened to it in his dreams.

His eyes closed, he saw the mountains, Ifdawn Marest, verdant slopes that he knew so well. His fingers played, his lips breathing musical fire into his flute, tones that resonated, filling the room like moonlight.

He played on and on, past the end of his work, past his knowledge of the world, and spoke of the eternal Athraminaurians, soaring far, far above the puny peaks of his childhood, cloaked in ice and snow and mystery that never felt the spring breeze.

His music grew colder, higher, notes no longer full of the warmth of humanity. They were hard, sharp, unyielding, unknowing and uncaring of humanity, eternal in their immensity.

A hand slowly pulled the flute away from his lips, and the music stopped.

The room was silent, still, dozens of pairs of eyes fixed on the musician.

Habib realized his lips hurt terribly. He held the flute in one hand and raised his other to touch his mouth. His fingertips were red… with blood?

He let Phuntsho pry the flute away, and looked more closely at his hands. Bloody. Both of them.

How long had he been playing!?

“Enough, Habib,” said Phuntsho. “Your music has brought the mountains into my home. It is time for human warmth now, lest we turn to stone ourselves.”

All of a sudden the room was full of sound, as people breathed and moved and whispered, the sounds of life.

Most of the listeners left quietly, walking down the stairs to return to their own homes, or into the back room, or upstairs to the sleeping level. Phuntsho and Bidziil stayed sitting next to Habib.

The trader softly placed Habib’s flute on the table as Bidziil poured another cupful of ara.

“No, no more ara,” said Phuntsho. “Tea, I think. Strong tea.”

He looked around for someone to bring tea, but the room was empty save for the three of them.

He grunted, rose, and prepared the tea himself, with boiling water from the pot over the stove and black tea leaves from a small jar on one of the innumerable shelves. He filled the teapot, swirled the water, poured out three cups, carefully pouring a little at a time into each cup until all were full, and handed cups to Habib and Bidziil.

They drank and silence reigned until Phuntsho spoke again.

“I have never heard music so beautiful, or so terrifying.”

Bidziil nodded.

“That was not the music of the steppes, or of the Ifdawn Marest, I wager. That was the Athraminaurian Mountains themselves, speaking through your music.”

“I wonder if it was my music,” murmured Habib. “I can recall only fragments of what I played, and I never wrote, or even dreamt, those phrases…”

“Let me get some salve for your fingers,” said Phuntsho as Habib slowly brought the cup to his lips.

* * *

They left before dawn the next morning, the very top of Matachamgoro lit orange by the rays of the rising sun. The valley of Lho Mon was still heavy with shadow, but the grey pre-dawn light was enough to make their preparations by.

Chopel’s caravan was much different from Phuntsho’s. The amount of cargo was smaller, of course, as they’d disposed of the majority in Lho Mon to leave only goods that were relatively rare (and therefore expensive) in Gondara, on the other side of the Athraminaurians. Neither horses nor wagons could make it over the mountain paths, and so everything had been adjusted so it could be carried by the yaks.

Chopel was leading a caravan of a dozen and a half yaks, carrying goods not only for Phuntsho but for three other traders as well, including one Gondaran who had arrived in Lho Mon months earlier and had been waiting for the mountain snows to clear enough to return to his homeland.

Phuntsho and Dechen were there, of course, making sure their goods—including the rare red-and-white tharban pelt—were properly packed. Bidziil came as well, to bid Habib a safe journey, and hand him a jug of ara “to keep you warm in the mountains.”

The yaks grunted and complained as they set forth, wiggling their hindquarters every so often to settle the load. They were obviously unhappy to be loaded up and rousted out of their slumbers so early, but they sulkily complied.

The people walked.

Everyone was dressed in heavy furs, mostly open in the warmer air of the Lho Mon valley. As they climbed up into the mountains the temperature would drop rapidly, and they’d all button up. Everyone walked with a staff in one hand for balance and the occasional yak-thumping.

Habib had never seen a yak before. He was familiar with cows, of course, but unsure just how different their furrier cousins might be. Over the course of the day he had ample opportunity to get to know them very well, walking right next to a male yak named Dawa.

Dawa was absolutely filthy, but Habib thought he was probably a light brown. He stank, he had little flies zipping around all the time, and he loved radishes and getting scratched between the eyes. After walking next to each other for most of the day, they became good friends.

The path was clear of ice and snow, winding up out of the valley through a long series of switchbacks. It was possible to take a shorter path, cutting across most of the switchbacks, but the heavily loaded yaks might slip on scree and lose their balance, and Chopel decided they’d take the longer way up.

They reached the lip of the valley in the late afternoon.

From this lofty viewpoint the valley was a welcoming green, dotted with tiny houses that looked far warmer than the broken rock and sheer stone faces ahead of them.

They pressed on for another hour or so until Chopel finally stopped next to a sturdy lean-to standing next to the path. A massive wall of large rocks faced the constant wind, providing welcome shelter.

It had snowed recently, leaving a light dusting that covered everything in a slippery coat, and the cold wind kept it swirling about. They’d all closed their fur coats and pulled their hats and gloves tighter some time ago.

The lean-to was full of dry yak dung for use as fuel, along with dried meat and rice. Chopel explained in halting common that it was for emergencies, kept stocked by the villagers.

“Me too,” he said. “Me too.”

Habib was unsure of what he meant but smiled and nodded in agreement.

He slept poorly that night, everyone crowded together in the lean-to for warmth, with the wind whistling and yaks snorting. They rose at first light and, after a quick meal, set forth once again.

The snow was deeper in spite of the constant wind, and Chopel rubbed yak fat on Habib’s exposed cheeks to help protect them.

There were fewer switchbacks that day, as the path twisted around the flanks of the mountains and traversed steep slopes, both up and down. The snow continued to fall, making it harder to see the path, or the mountains around them.

Chopel, who had been over this route many times, said he could walk it safely even in a blizzard, but the caravaneers and even the yaks began to slow as the cold wind battered at them.

They finally reached the next lean-to after it was quite dark.

Habib had no choice but to trust Dawa to follow the yak in front of them, walking next to him with one hand on Dawa’s pack and the other holding his staff. Several times he slipped in the snow, barely managing to hold himself upright.

That night, exhausted, he slept in spite of the howls of the wind, the grumbling yaks, and the crush of the other men in the shelter.

They woke in the pre-dawn gloom once again, the highest peaks of Matachamgoro a pale pink, and began trudging their way toward distant Gondara.

One day blended into the next, and Habib could no longer recall how many days it had been, or when he had had his last bath. He and Dawa were old friends now, and he spoke more to the yak than to most of the other caravaneers—few of them could understand him, and they were rarely within easy speaking distance. During the day the ever-constant wind ripped speech away before it could reach anyone not standing next to you, and the night was for eating and sleeping.

He wore several layers of fur, making it difficult to move easily, but the only movement he had to make was to place one foot in front of the other, again and again and again, until Chopel called a rest after a particularly steep slope, or a stop for the night. It snowed often, but unless it was impossible to see the path or the ground was even more slippery than usual, he kept on going.

Habib walked with his hand on Dawa’s haunch, his mind mostly blank, random thoughts of Shiroora Shan or green trees flitting by every so often. His eyes, tired of rock and ice, studied the colors and textures of Dawa’s fur, or the various fabrics of the cargo; he could no longer see the soaring mountain peaks.

Suddenly the ground flexed and he lost his balance, almost falling.

Shouts, yaks hooting in alarm, a roar that he felt in his bones… the mountain!

He caught the barest glimpse of something immense and white coming down the mountain from the heights above, something ferocious that screamed with all the fury of ice and stone, and he was swept away into unconsciousness.

* * *

It was dark, and something furry smelled.

His head hurt, and as soon as he realized that, he realized everything hurt.

That fur… his head was lying against a yak!

He tried to see more clearly, but the stars above were too cold to shed much light, and it looked like both he and the yak were covered in a light dusting of snow anyway.

The yak—he thought it might be Dawa, but it was impossible to tell—wasn’t breathing, but when the avalanche swept them off the mountain, he ended up on top of the dead yak, and that much warm yak, even dead, had been enough to keep him alive this long.

Unless he could find shelter, though, it wouldn’t last much longer.

He gingerly tried moving his hands and feet. Everything seemed to work, but his body was battered and every movement brought pain.

He could live with pain, but he couldn’t live without shelter, and heat.

He struggled to his feet and looked about.

Too dark; he couldn’t see anything.

“Hello! Anyone!”

His voice echoed off into the night, leaving him more alone than before in the silence.

Shelter, and heat, and food… he pulled out his dagger and laboriously hacked out two huge slabs of yak meat. They steamed in the night air, beginning to frost over before his eyes.

His sword was gone, as was his staff. He still wore his pack, and it felt heavy enough that he doubted much, if anything, had been lost.

He put the meat in the pack and tried to make out his surroundings.

It was still too dark, but he could see black exposed rock scattered here and there, pitch black against the fractionally lighter snow and ice. With luck, he thought, he might find a cave.

He gingerly started out toward the nearest outcropping and grimaced in pain and almost falling as he lost his balance for a moment. His knee was badly twisted, maybe worse.

He could hop or he could crawl, but he couldn’t walk.

He tried hopping but the shock of jumping and landing made everything else hurt too much. He didn’t feel much like crawling through the snow either, even though he did have fur clothing and gloves.

Maybe it would be better to just sit down and keep poor Dawa company, and wait for dawn. The yak’s body was still slightly warmer than anywhere else.

Raw yak meat wasn’t his favorite meal, but he had few other choices right now… with dawn, maybe he could see some fallen cargo, maybe even locate another survivor.

He shouted into the darkness again, hearing only the gentle sighing of the wind and fading echoes chasing each other through the peaks and valleys.

He choked down some meat and ate a few handfuls of snow to wash it down with.

Alone. In the middle of what were probably the harshest, deadliest mountains in the Dreamlands.

He pulled out his flute to keep himself company. The music sounded thin and forlorn in the darkness, notes vanishing into the night as if swallowed whole.

He played on anyway, forgetting his predicament for a moment in the beauty of the music.

The Ode to Ifdawn Marest seemed more apt than ever, here in the icy depths of the Athraminaurian Mountains, and his fingers played on well beyond the notes he had composed, bring new depths and heights, capturing the delicate beauty of the stark black-and-white world around him.

Exhausted, he finally lowered the flute and listened to the last notes reverberate into the distance.

He waited in silence until the sky began to grow grey with dawn.

He could see a little more of his surroundings now. He seemed to have fallen into a fairly small valley, with very steep sides almost all around. It looked like there might be an exit at the lower end, though.

He examined the dead yak. It wasn’t Dawa after all, but one of the others. It was wearing its harness, of course, and parts of the wagon it had been pulling were still attached, but most of the wagon was gone. He looked but couldn’t see any of the cargo it had been carrying anywhere. It could be buried under the snow, he thought, but there was an awful lot of snow after the avalanche.

He could see where they’d slid down the mountainside… it was a long way up, and he was astonished he’d come through it with only a twisted knee.

He chuckled in grim realization that it might have better to have died in the fall rather than starve to death here.

He gradually worked his way down the valley toward the open end, hopping or sliding as necessary until he was close enough to see where it led.

It led to a sheer drop of at least a hundred meters, maybe two or three times that. With rope it would not be an obstacle, but for him it meant death to try.

So he was stuck here.

He shouted again, and again heard nothing but dying echoes in return.

It was much harder to move uphill, returning to the dead yak, but he’d need that meat.

Next was shelter.

He couldn’t see any caves, but scree and boulders lay along the foot of the wall. He checked them out, and there were a few nooks between boulders that would be better than nothing.

He picked one that was about right for a single man and sealed up any holes with hard-packed snow until it was snug.

Fire.

He collected all the pieces of the wagon he could find and carried them back to his fortress. There were not many. Plenty of meat but he’d have to think twice about cooking it, because he only had enough wood for a few fires. Small ones at that.

His furs would keep him warm enough, especially now that he could stay out of the wind, and he really didn’t have to worry about food—that yak wouldn’t spoil very quickly at these temperatures, and he’d probably die of boredom before he ran out of meat.

Or just jump off that cliff.

He spent that day watching the beams of sunlight shift across the icy mountain stone, or snow so white it hurt his eyes to look at. He could feel the mountains around him, feel the slow deep pulse of their majestic hearts. And as the mood took him he played his flute, sometimes from memory, sometimes improvisation as his fingers danced almost of their own volition.

And the next day.

And the next.

Once he saw an eagle soaring overhead, heard the scream of its passage echo in his prison, and stood, dumbstruck, at the sheer beauty of that flight.

When he woke one morning there was a small stack of wood in front of his makeshift home.

Pieces of the broken wagons!

But how…? Who?

He shouted, calling for someone, anyone, to answer.

Silence.

That afternoon, as the valley began to slip into darkness, he wept as his played his flute, and finally stopped.

“Do not stop, please,” came a voice from above.

He leapt to his feet, ignoring the pain from his knee, searching feverishly for whomever had spoken.

There! Sitting nonchalantly on the mountainside so steep a mountain goat would think twice about attempting it, was a woman of ice, diamond catching the dimming light in rainbow glints.

“Who…? You’re real! I haven’t gone crazy?”

She laughed, a crystalline chime that was as beautiful as it was cold.

“Quite real, I assure you,” she said. “I have never heard anything as beautiful as your music… it speaks to me of the winds whipping around the summit of Matachamgoro, ice cracking in the first light of dawn, the victorious roar of ice and snow loosed onto the smaller lands below, eagles soaring above, pitiless stars on high.

“Play, I beg of you!”

Awed by her voice her presence, he obeyed, and played.

His fingers were as possessed, coaxing notes from his flute that he had never heard before, filling the valley with a crescendo of music that captured the eternal majesty of the mountains, their terror and beauty.

He played until he could no more, and stopped, and looked up.

She was gone.

Had it merely been a dream, a hallucination?

He shivered as he recalled her beauty, her voice, frozen silver and crystal.

He slept fretfully that night, awakened countless times by his own dreams, wondering if he’d heard her voice once more.

She was back the next day, sitting on the mountainside, listening raptly to his music.

Her name was Drifa, she told him.

She came every day, sometimes bringing wood, once a rabbit—frozen solid, of course.

She was entranced by his descriptions of forests, the steppes, the sea… she had never dipped her hand into running water, or imagined the endless waters of the sea.

Like all of the Children of Eitr she craved warmth, and could suck the warmth from a traveler in seconds to assuage her hunger. At the same time, however, too much heat would kill her. A journey to the green steppes or the Night Ocean would be fatal.

She had seen frozen grass, and trees, and flowers, but never fresh, gently waving in the breeze.

Habib listened to her stories of the mountain heights, the delicate, wind-carved sculptures of ice and snow that graced the peaks; the soaring crystal towers of the Eitr high above; the way clouds would gather like a carpet of wool below, hiding all the world except a few peaks under billowing white; how the air itself was different, rarified and pure.

He longed to see those sights and more, even as she longed to feel a flower, or see the ocean.

Every day she came a little closer, until they were only meters apart, sitting facing each other like friends. Or lovers.

He reached out a hand to grasp her, slowly.

Drifa recoiled, leaping to her bare feet to dance away over the snow he would sink into.

“You cannot!” she cried. “I am a Child of Eitr, and I long for your warmth, for the fire of your life to warm my heart, but to touch you would be to kill you, and that I cannot do.”

“I would die happy if I but could embrace you, kiss your lips even once.”

“No!” she cried, and fled, racing up the wall of his valley and into the snowy darkness.

She was back the next day, standing like a statue of diamond before his home, waiting for him to wake.

“I cannot live without you, Habib,” she said. “But were I to embrace you as I wish I would suck the life from your body. I cannot.”

“I will die here anyway,” he countered. “At least that way I would die happy.”

She fell silent, and then spoke slowly.

“Legend says there is a way…”

“Tell me!”

“There is a legend that a man, such as yourself, once fell in love with a Child of Eitr. Unable to restrain themselves they made love, and as the flame of his manhood burned the woman, so did the cold of her embrace freeze the man. And he became a Child of Eitr himself, his flesh and blood transformed.

“But it is a mere legend…”

“I love you, Drifa,” said Habib, unlacing his furs. “Come to me.”

“But you will…”

“I will be reborn, to be with you forever! But it would be worth it even so, to be with you.”

She came to him then in the shadows, and took his fire into her as he writhed with the pain of the cold, and the pleasure of his love, until they collapsed, sated.

He slept, his arm around her in an embrace, until the lightening sky stirred him to wake.

She didn’t feel cold, he thought to himself.

He didn’t feel cold, either!

He lifted a hand and stared at the delicate tracery of veins running under his translucent skin, a wonder of silver and diamond that flexed and glinted in the sunlight.

It worked!

“Drifa! Drifa! It worked! Look!”

He shook her, and stopped in shock and realization.

As her cold had transformed him into a Child of Eitr, his fire had transformed her into a human woman.

And she had frozen to death.

END