The view from the ridge revealed yet another valley in front of him and he let his head hang for a moment. Me and my stupid ideas. Still … He eyed the valley head where the talus gave way to naked rock which sloped back to a higher ridge and beyond that, far beyond that, a snow-capped peak. The Moranth occupy these high mountain valleys? What do they eat? Snow and mist? Ye gods, I’ll starve before reaching them. He started down the slope, sideways, one hand catching at rocks and low, wind-punished brush.
Come dusk he reached the thin creek of melt that ran down the centre of the valley. It was loud amid its rocks and so cold it numbed his hand when he drank from it. He set down his pack and started searching for fuel. Night came swiftly in the upper valleys and he was surprised when the sunlight was cut off so soon in the west. All he had for kindling was dry moss and a few handfuls of duff. He took out his tinderbox and set to work.
The fire he coaxed to life did little to thaw his bones. He huddled over the smoky smudge and thought of home. Tis throwing pots — and not necessarily at him. Warm dinners from her hands. He hadn’t appreciated that as much as he should have. A lot to be said for that. Even more than warm embraces afterwards. Not that he could remember those; still, there must’ve been some, certainly. Once. Consummation of the union and all that. Winking friends and a great deal of liquor. He remembered being terrified that Rallick would show up and shove his knife into his back; which hadn’t exactly helped his performance that night either.
Shivering, he decided he’d had enough of climbing. He could tramp from one end of this mountain range to the other and not turn them up. If they were here it was up to them to come to him. That he’d settle tomorrow. Having reached a decision on the matter, Tor gathered his blanket about himself and lay down to sleep.
In the morning’s chill he shivered awake, stretched, emptied his bladder, and shocked himself with a splash of the frigid meltwater. He prepared for a march, but left one object out of his pack: one of the Moranth Blue globes given to him long ago when, as a much younger man, he’d saved a life. And without expectation of any payment, too. Yet the gift was offered, and it would have been gauche to reject such gratitude, wouldn’t it? At least that had been his thinking at the time.
Now, he hefted the sapphire-blue ovoid and eyed the stream. It was a gamble; possibly a criminal waste. Yet how else to get attention quickly? If they had eyes out watching these high valleys, which he assumed they did.
Very well. Enough dithering. The sun is up, visibility is clear. I may be throwing away a fortune — my nest-egg, so to speak. But here goes.
He threw. The globe splashed into the streaming flow, which was hardly deep enough to cover it, and cracked against the rocks. Tor did not know what to expect, but certainly not the explosive crackling that echoed and re-echoed across the valley.
At the same time, for as far as he could see, all movement in the water suddenly ceased. As did all sound. Leaning closer, he saw that the stream was frozen — frozen solid where it had eddied, splashed and curled. A monstrous icicle that ran the entire length of the valley and on for who knew how far.
Well, that was … impressive. If this didn’t get their attention, then he had no idea what might.
He sat leaning back against his pack and waited. Eventually, running water came trickling down from the heights over and around the streambed and the ice floe that choked it. Eventually, Tor imagined, this unnatural manifestation would melt.
Towards mid-day, when the sun had breasted the opposite valley side, an eerie whirring noise entered the valley. Tor stood. He knew he’d heard that sound before but for the life of him he couldn’t quite place it. He peered about in growing unease. It was a sort of rhythmic humming or thumping, like a horse’s distant gallop, only infinitely faster.
Something roared over his head, fanning up great clouds of dust, and he threw himself to the ground. The sound returned, circling around, and Tor hesitantly climbed to his feet to see one of the monstrous Moranth mounts, their quorl, settling down not far away. Its four wings fluttered in a shimmering rainbow blur. The bulbous faceted eyes regarding him seemed empty of emotion; yet perhaps they were not, as he’d heard that these beasts, like their diminutive dragonfly cousins, were carnivores.
A Moranth dismounted from the intricately carved leather and wood double saddle that hugged the beast’s thorax. Tor was astonished to see that it was a Moranth Silver. He wondered if he should bow. The Silver and the Gold were aristocracy among the Moranth. Few ever saw them.
But he was now an emissary, was he not? If sub-rosa. And so Tor merely inclined his head in greeting. Closer, it was actually rather difficult to look directly at the Silver. Its chitinous armour reflected the light like a perfect mirror. The effect was quite dazzling. Also, engraved swirling patterns covered each plate, adding to the confusion of the shimmering.
‘You are Darujhistani,’ the Silver said in accented Daru. ‘What are you doing here on our border marches?’
‘I come as an emissary of the Legate of Darujhistan.’
That gave the Silver pause. Its armour grated as it looked him up and down. ‘In truth? You come as an emissary of this … Legate. All alone. Carrying stolen Blue alchemicals.’
Tor’s stomach seemed to loosen. ‘Stolen? Accusations? Does this pass as manners among you Moranth? I carry those items as gifts.’ Unless that Blue stole them in the first place …
‘Gifts? From whom? Name him or her.’
Tor forced himself to gesture casually even though he felt as if chunks of the ice from the stream were now slithering down his back. ‘Not for you. I am here to negotiate in the name of the Legate.’
The Silver cocked its helmed head. ‘Negotiate?’ A chuckle escaped it and from its high timbre Tor recognized that he faced a female Moranth.
And that chuckle made him damned uncomfortable. But he’d travelled with far more intimidating presences than this Silver and so he raised his chin. ‘Yes. Negotiate. What of it?’
The Silver answered with a wave of her own while she continued to laugh quietly. ‘Very well. Attend me and we will see what will come of these negotiations.’
She returned to the quorl. Tor threw on his pack and followed. He stepped gingerly around the great shimmering translucent wings to reach the long thorax. The Silver had already mounted. She gestured to the rear saddle seat, pointing. ‘Use the long sheaths here for your feet,’ she shouted over the loud whirring of the twitching wings. ‘Push them down all the way. Wrap these straps around your forearms. Cinch them tight. Then hold these sunken handles here on either side.’
Tor nodded. Right. Push down. His slid his booted foot into the leather sheath. It took his leg up to the knee. He swung his other foot over the beast’s back and down the other sheath. Like stirrups, but with broad boots attached. Sitting, he examined the mishmash of strapping before him. Which ones do I wrap?
He’d opened his mouth to ask when the Silver snapped the jesses and the quorl leapt into the air.
Tor found himself gaping down at the receding valley floor, his arms dangling and flailing. A hard gauntleted fist gathered up a handhold of his cloak at the neck and dragged him upright. The Silver shouted something that was lost amid the roaring hum of the wings and the rushing air. Tor quickly took hold of the handles sunk into the leather of the saddle.