Winter's Bite

Winter’s Bite

   

   

  A Short Story by Annie Bellet

   

  Copyright 2011, Annie Bellet

   

  All rights reserved. Published by Doomed Muse Press.

   

  This story is a work of fiction. All characters, places, and incidents described in this publication are used fictitiously, or are entirely fictional.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted, in any form or by any means, except by an authorized retailer, or with written permission of the publisher. Inquiries may be addressed via email to [email protected].

  Cover designed by Greg Jensen with images from Jabney Hastings and Albion Europe ApS

  Electronic edition, 2011

  Winter’s Bite

   

   

  After four days the early winter storm blew itself out in the small hours of the morning. A pale sun rose, slanting dim light into the barn as Ysabon dumped her bucket of hot water over the trough, melting through the ice so her anxious animals could drink. She stepped out of the way as Silas, the stocky plow horse, nudged by her, dunking his nose into the steaming water.

  Ysabon walked to the half-open door of the barn. One more full bucket of hot water for the chickens, and at least this task would be done. Her hands ached inside her gloves and her back protested another slippery walk back to the house.

  The storm had left a terrible beauty in its wake. Two speckle-breasted sparrows, not quick enough to make the eves of the barn, were frozen to the fence outside, encased in a coffin of glittering ice. The weak rising sun cast diamond-bright paths across the ice and snow. The air was still, as though even the wind had frozen solid.

  In this stillness, Ysabon heard the scrape and shuffle of approaching skis. She strapped her snowshoes back on, hefted the axe she’d used to chop up the icy path, and walked duck-footed out into the white expanse between the forge and the barn, staring toward the apple orchard. It sounded like four sets of skis, definitely coming from the direction of Westedge.

  People coming in from the village this early in the morning meant trouble of some kind. She clutched the axe in her right hand and sighed. The rope of scar tissue on her left arm, where years ago her shield had broken during a brigand ambush in Quarum pass, started to itch. Definitely trouble.

  An apple branch cracked sharply and fell with a glittering puff in the orchard, startling her. Then the figures crested the hill and emerged from the trees, coming down what would have been the road into town if it hadn’t been buried beneath winter’s crust.

  She stood still, watching, her limbs heavy as though she’d worked a full day instead of a scant candlemark. The men approached, their breath hanging like smoke around their heads before crystallizing and falling away.

  Trouble is coming and I am old.

  The moment passed as they reached the gate. Shouts from the house drew her eye and she slowly moved to join her nephew as he emerged and moved toward the villagers.

  “Storm drove down a pack of widowhulks,” the milliner, Weyth, said as she approached. He was a man in his prime with auburn hair to his shoulders that Ysabon had always thought must be his secret vanity from the way he kept it oiled and sleek.

  “A pack? We rarely get one or two.” Her nephew, Ialnor, opened the gate for the men and they kept talking as he ushered them back to the house.

  Ysabon did not miss the glances her way, hazel and blue eyes evaluating her above chapped, red faces. She wished she’d left the axe in the barn. With her winter jacket, her gloves, the thick fur hat pulled low over her iron grey hair, they saw only a former mercenary, older, stocky, but still strong enough to heft an axe. They saw only the lie.

  In the kitchen, with thick earthenware mugs in front of the grim-faced men, the full story emerged.

  Dirni, Westedge’s midwife and healer, had gotten up early once the storm ceased and made her way out to Fita and Intio’s farm. Fita was heavy with child and Dirni had worried for her. The wind and ice had cut off everyone from each other for days.

  What Dirni had found was a massacre. Only the little daughter, hidden in the root cellar and half dead of exposure, had survived the widowhulk’s rampage. There was sign of at least five of the huge, hairy beasts. Widowhulks were marginally intelligent, with a hunter’s instinct but too much love of slaughter and fresh blood to pass as just another wild creature. They used crude spears and cudgels, though the thick claws on their second arms were dangerous enough, often carrying disease.

  Occasionally one or two would come down in the worst of winter from Wilt Summit and the surrounding hills. It usually took a full hunting party to hunt it down, and often there were casualties that helped the beasts live up their name.

  Ysabon could not remember ever hearing of a full pack hunting the valley floor.

  “We have to get word to the garrison at Belmere,” said Costric. His narrow, almost horse-like face was grey and grim, his blue eyes bagged and sad. “Us four have agreed to go, but we’d like another, if she’s willing.” He turned to Ysabon.

  She stared down at her nut-brown, scarred hands. They were as lined as the grain of the wood in her kitchen table and felt about as flexible, even in the warm room. She hadn’t held a sword in many, many years.

  “My left arm’s no good for using a bow,” she said, lifting her sleeve to show the scar that wound across her elbow. Then she nodded to the hearth where her old sword, bought during her time guarding the caravans, hung above the thick mantle. The scabbard leather was dry and cracked and the copper wire around the grip had stained the wrappings green over the years. “And I haven’t cleaned that sword in years, much less wielded it. Not since Ialnor was small enough to ride on my shoulders.”

  Costric and Weyth were already shaking their heads and Ysabon caught a dark look from her nephew, but the two younger men, Costric’s eldest sons, looked somewhat relieved. Costric leaned forward, laying a heavy hand on her arm.

  “We hope to have no trouble, but we must cross the river at the bridge, out the same way as Intio’s farm. I know I’d feel better with someone who has faced battle beside me.” His words poured lead into Ysabon’s bones and she sank deeper down on the bench.

  “I cannot,” she said and pulled her arm away. “Your best hope is speed. Safety might come with numbers, but with that many widowhulks out there, the only chance to reach the garrison before the hunting group finds you.”

  “Hopefully they’re sleeping off the kill,” said one of Costric’s sons, the one with curls like his mother. Ysabon couldn’t recall his name.

  “Aye, and hopefully you’ll reach the garrison and be back before night.” Ysabon shoved away from the table, hoping the men would take the hint.

  “I’ll go,” Ialnor said.

  “You’ll not.” Ysabon jerked around to face him, speaking more sharply than she’d meant.

  “I can handle a bow as well as any and an axe better than most. I’ll not sit in my home and wait to be slaughtered. Someone must reach the garrison.” Ialnor’s tone was calm, but his dark eyes glimmered with a fire Ysabon hadn’t felt in years.

  Someone must, she thought, but not us. I’m too old and you’re too precious.

  Ysabon shook her head again, gulping in a breath to calm herself. Her newphew was as stubborn as she. Yelling would only spur him.

  “Ially,” she said, softer now but still edged with the cold fear that wrapped phantom tendrils around her heart, “four will be enough. They need a small group, the better to go unnoticed. It’s a messenger force, not a raiding party. Four is enough.”

  “Five is better, and still small. Even a full pack of widowhulks won’t be able to pick us all off, not with us on skis.” His jaw turned t
o stone beneath its winter beard. He was as stubborn as his father had been. As Ysabon herself had been, years ago.

  “I promised your father,” she started to say but Ialnor cut her off with a sharp gesture and looked at Costric.

  “I’m going, just let me collect some things. My aunt thinks I’m still a child, forgive her,” he said and turned away.

  Ysabon looked at her daughters for help in persuading the young blacksmith out of his folly, but Iarofina busied herself at the hearth and Irosenna kept her eyes fixed on the pile of mending in her lap.

  “Fine,” she said finally as the visitors shuffled awkwardly to their feet, “I’ll see you off, then.”

  Ialnor didn’t look at her as he fixed his boots in his skis and adjusted the straps. The cool air chapped her face and the glare off the snow made it hard to keep sight of the men as they exited the smithy and headed off toward the river. Ysabon watched them go in the bight morning light, tears freezing to her skin even as they formed and ran.

  When she could no longer make out their dark forms or hear the scrape of skis in the distance she turned and, with a hunched back and heavy steps, went back to her chores.