Dawnmaid

Chapter one-1

Chapter one

Wanmoon + Ruber + ProxHe searches the endless Darkness for a sign. Ben’aryn carries a shard of memory, of another time, when he flew unfettered between the stars. Now the light he holds in his heart is all that keeps him going.

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Gwenn used a stick to poke the back end of the shaggy, dark brown yak, trying to move the sulky beast forward. Gunnar, cursing, pulled the halter attached to the front.

He threw down the rope in disgust. “It is no good, Faircrow, we are never going to get this useless creature up the pass. We might as well stop now and head back before it gets too dark.”

A voice, dimly echoing from the rock faces around them, weirdly selected only one of his words to repeat.

“Stop, stop, stop...”

Gunnar sat down on a rock and stared unhappily at the stubborn beast of burden. The animal looked placidly back at him.

The yak carried a mysteriously shrouded bundle, and a pannier hanging off each broad flank. Gwenn moved forward to check the contents of these two panniers now. A well-swaddled, two-month-old infant rode contentedly in each, and she carefully tucked in both blankets before she answered.

“We have to go on, Gunnar. The last village is miles back, and the boys need a warm place to sleep tonight. I don’t like the looks of that cloud bank building to the east. It could start snowing at any time. That is the last thing we need.”

She shaded her blue eyes with her hand, and looked ahead up the rutted, winding track that led to a high pass between two mountains. The village of Khalama lay somewhere on the other side and they had to reach it by nightfall. The sun would soon be dropping behind the shoulder of the rocky prominence before them, and then the temperature would sink like a stone.

She aimed a kick at the yak’s flank, and the animal gave a protesting groan, but did not move further. A snowflake drifted lazily downwards, and landed on Gunnar’s outstretched hand. Gwenn looked at him worriedly. So far he had been stoically uncomplaining throughout this very long journey; they had traveled from the windswept shores of Yr, up the wide Bresla River through the heart of Ruboralis, and then along a series of ever-narrowing water courses until they reached the foothills of the T’Shang Mountains. Now he looked worn out, exhausted by days of high altitude trekking and the constant struggle to find food and shelter in this strange land.

He shook his disheveled blond head mournfully. Again he urged, “We should go back. This fool’s errand has gone on long enough.”

Gwenn stared at the bulky object wrapped in white linen, slung across the back of the yak — the body of Arkady Svalbarad. “I said I would bring him back to T’Shang. I promised. We have to keep going.”

Gunnar stood and grasped her shoulders, then shook her roughly. “We cannot! Would you risk the lives of your children? He would not want you to do that, Gwenn.”

More snowflakes fell, sticking to the yak’s back. One of the babies woke and began to whimper. Gwenn gave a cry of frustration and grasped the yak’s halter. She threw all her considerable strength into dragging the animal, but only succeeded in getting it to move forward a few feet.

She cried, “Move, damn you! I won’t give up now. I won’t!”

Now it was her voice that rang in their ears. “Damn you, damn you, damn...”

Gunnar stepped forward and calmly started untying the ropes that held the shrouded body on the yak’s back. She stared at him, bewildered, and then asked, “What are you doing?”

“I am leaving him. We aren’t going to make it to Khalama by nightfall. Jakob and Arvid can’t survive a snowstorm. Now are you going to help me, or shall I go back alone?”

“Alone, alone, alone...” the echo added mockingly

He turned his back on her after a few seconds and went on untying the ropes. Gwenn stood still, paralyzed by indecision. Once again she was going to have to choose between the two of them — Kadya and Gunnar.

Just then the sound of bells in the distance brought her blond head up sharply. “Listen, Gunnar, someone is coming! Maybe they can help us.” She looked hopefully at him, and he sighed.

“We don’t speak the language in this country, remember? How are we going to make ourselves understood?”

But seeing the despair in her blue eyes, he took his hand away from the yak and waited for the distant figure to approach from the top of the pass. An old man, swinging a walking stick festooned with bells, made his way quickly down the slope. He wore a long robe of some bright yellow material, wrapped over one arm, and tied with a thick piece of silken cord. Long braids of iron gray hair, decorated with yarn and turquoise, poked out either side of his outlandish peaked cap. When he drew up before them he grinned madly, his almond-shaped eyes almost disappearing into a thousand wrinkles, and bowed low.

“Hello, hello, hello...” the old man said laughingly, and his voice faded away exactly like an echo.

Then, catching hold of the yak’s bridle, he gave it the gentlest of tugs, and the beast set off at a steady pace up the path the way he had come. Gwenn and Gunnar looked at each other a moment, nonplussed, then had to hurry to catch up to the old man. Though his head did not even reach Gunnar’s shoulder, he set a blistering pace.

Breathlessly, Gwenn asked him, “Khalama? We go Khalama?”

He grinned again and nodded, and she could only hope he at least understood their destination. The path grew steeper but he did not slow down, nor did he allow the yak to tarry as the snow fell even more thickly. Gunnar forced himself to concentrate solely on getting enough of the thin air into his lungs so as not to pass out. Still, after a moment, gray spots swam in his vision and he staggered to one side of the path. Gwenn, less affected by the altitude, caught his arm and dragged him forward.

“The top is just ahead, I can see it. Soon we will be headed down again, and it will get easier.”

Gunnar allowed her to pull him upwards, too tired to let this affront to his masculinity bother him much. Only his love for her kept him going now, as it had the last few weeks of their journey through this strange land of mountains and ice. On his boat, the Fire Drake, he had felt more or less happy, even as the rivers of Ruboralis carried him further and further away from his beloved ocean. Any stretch of navigable water meant freedom and high adventure to Gunnar, for he had once been a Fynära raider, the most feared denizen of the frozen northern seas.

Inevitably, the day had come when the shallow hulled vessel scraped the bottom of a narrow channel, and he had to abandon his cherished boat. That was a very hard moment for Gunnar, who had captained the Fire Drake for seven years, and been part of her crew for three before that. Gunnar knew the local population would strip and break her apart if he left her behind, so over Gwenn’s strenuous objection he had set the boat alight and watched unhappily as the dragon figurehead went up in red flame. Then he had turned away, so that his wife would not see him weep.

Gwenn could see a large cairn of loose stones ahead, surrounded by many colorful strings of flags, printed with curious pictures and symbols. They finally reached the top of the pass, and the old man paused briefly to toss a stone into the pile. Then he pointed down into a misty valley stretching away below them.

“Khalama,” he said, and broke into a fit a giggles that thoroughly discomfited Gwenn and Gunnar.

Yet they had no choice but to continue at his side as he set off down the track again, even faster than before. Soon the air warmed and thickened, and Gunnar found he could breathe again without effort. The temperature in the valley became so mild they had to remove layers of clothing as they went downwards. The old man, who wore only a thin cotton robe, seemed untroubled by the changing conditions. Now as they reached the terraced fields above the village, Gwenn saw men and women at work harvesting barley. She shivered, remembering the lateness of the season, and wondered whether they could possibly return through the mountains with winter approaching.

If not, what can we do? Stay here in this strange land?

Gwenn shook her head at this. Neither she nor Gunnar could speak T’Shanga. Nevertheless, after a few moments earnest reflection, she decided not to worry about it. They had money enough to buy food and shelter for the winter. A month ago, Eydis, Gunnar’s grandmother, had given them a goodly store of gold pieces, saying smilingly that she had no need of them. A few hours later she was dead, in a terrible fire that almost claimed Jakob and Arvid as well.

The village of Khalama fanned out in front of them, as the old man hurried down towards the muddy main street. The precipitation had turned to rain in this more hospitable valley, and Gwenn marveled at the lush greenery she saw all around her. Huge forests of rhododendrons clung to the sloping hills above the village, inexplicably in full bloom, though spring was long past. Tiny gardens grew beside each little hut, with melons and cabbage competing for space on the carefully furrowed ground. Several villagers called out cheery greetings to the old man as he passed, still leading their now utterly obedient yak. Gwenn felt sure she heard someone shout the name “Dawa.” Could this inexhaustible old man be Kadya’s old teacher, Dawa Tinley?

They stopped before a two-story square structure with a steeply pitched roof. The old man smiled and gestured for them to enter through a red door decorated with brightly painted symbols. Gwenn stood by as Dawa, if that indeed was the old man’s name, managed to untie the ropes holding Arkady’s inert form to the yak. Gunnar looked on in disbelief as he hefted the body across his shoulder and sent the yak packing with a slap on the rump. The old man appeared to handle Arkady’s considerable weight with ease.

They went inside. Gwenn and Gunnar each carried a basket containing one of the twins, Jakob and Arvid. The front room looked bright and warm, despite the rain that fell outside the window. A fire blazed in an open square hearth that filled the centre of the room. A stone chimney carried the smoke up through the ceiling and warmed the upstairs as well.

After laying Arkady’s shrouded body down on a blanket by the fire, the old man turned towards them saying, “Welcome to my humble home. You must think of it as your own.”

He spoke Dalvolk perfectly. Gunnar stammered, “Thank you, but we do not know your name, kind sir.”

The old man laughed uproariously. “I am sure you do. Dawa Tinley am I. Did you not come to find me?” He busied himself with a cast iron kettle on the fire and soon had hot water for tea.

Gwenn looked at him with interest. “How did you know we were coming? And that we needed help?”

He smiled and patted the side of his head. “The birds told me. They keep watch for Dawa, so that he knows who comes and goes through the pass. I sent them to look for you many days ago, once my friend said you were on your way.” He laughed. “Such very big people are easy to find.” Gwenn stood just over six feet, and Gunnar closer to six and a half. Both had to bend quite low to enter the house.

“Your friend,” said Gunnar, thoroughly baffled. “How did they know?”

Dawa looked surprised at this. “Hana is my friend. Why would she not know? It was because of her last instruction to Griffon that you came here, was it not?”

Now Gwenn looked baffled. “Who is Griffon?” She bent down to retrieve Jakob from his basket, and he snorted sleepily. Absently, she sat down by the fire, and put the baby to her breast.

“Arkady,” Dawa pointed to the body on the blanket and smiled. “He used to be my pupil and a very good one he was too. I gave him that nickname, for the way he consumed the teachings, just like a griffon vulture attacks a dead yak.”