Page 40 of The Cradle of Ice

Daal waded back to shore. He collected his net and spear and waved its forked end down the beach. They still had a long way to hike. He had chosen this remote spot to hunt for ablyin, where the kelp forests ran tall and the reefs were seldom scoured. His father had scolded him for hunting alone, but there were few in the village who were willing to join him. Still, to somewhat appease his father, he had taken Henna—not that she would be able to rescue him, but she could at least point to the spot where he died.

They set off down the beach.

* * *

BY THE TIME they were halfway home, passing a stone plinth in the sand, carved into a large karp balanced on its curled tail, Daal’s feet had begun to slow.

Henna ran ahead, chasing crabs that danced from their path. He tried to remember when he had so much useless verve. He was already exhausted. It didn’t help that each step toward home added weight to his shoulders. Out here, away from the curled lips and the dismissive slights, he felt far freer. No longer watched or pointed at.

Plus, this eventide marked the first night of Krystnell, the celebration of the god of the hearth. It opened with a festival of dancing, where young men and women gathered from all the villages and sought their mates.

With his hair shorn, marking his manhood, this would be Daal’s first year when he could offer himself. Not that he held out much hope.

Old shame burned his cheeks as he walked. He’d had a single tryst half a year ago, a woman two years older who was soused on saltberry wine. They had fumbled in the dark, him more than her, at the back of a fishery. He barely knew what to do. He could not even breathe, all the blood rushing from his head, swelling him hard. She had stripped him, laid him on his back, come near to mounting him—then backed away in disgust, pointing between his legs. All that hair, she had said. Like matted kelp. I can’t do it. She had grabbed her smock and fled, leaving him humiliated and even more ashamed of his Noorish blood.

Days afterward, he caught other young women eyeing him, snickering behind their hands to one another. Some had looked upon him piteously, a few with matching disgust.

As he dragged his feet, Henna continued her determined crab chase. By now, she had nearly vanished into the fogged distance.

“Slow down!” he called to her.

Despite his reluctance, he set a faster pace. He had closed half the distance when hard thunder echoed off the cliff that framed the far side of the beach. He feared an icefall, a constant danger, when slabs of the frozen cliff would come crashing to the beachhead.

He dropped his net and pounded across the sand. As he ran, the thunder grew into a strange roaring, like that of a dragyn out of old stories. Moments later, reinforcing this conceit, the steamy mists overhead turned ruddy, then fiery.

He fled after Henna, who had stopped, looking skyward.

Directly over her head, something dark, riding those flames, dropped out of the mists. It looked like a fishing scow. Above it, a great bladder shook and rattled amidst dark ropes.

He sped faster, toes digging into the sand. He reached the site and dashed under the descending keel. The air burned hotter.

Daal reached his sister, scooped her up, and dove out of the craft’s path. He rolled across the sand with her. The strange scow struck the beach hard behind him. The flames roared an extra breath, then coughed into silence.

Daal got up, retreated, pushing his sister behind him. Once far enough away, he planted his spear and leaned its trident toward the danger.

The scow steamed and ticked on the beach, one side half jammed in the sand. The bladder above it teetered drunkenly. Then a stern door crashed open. Figures staggered out. Men and women. Strangers all. They did not seem to note him frozen on the beach.

Daal gasped as some great beast, shagged in dark fur, stalked out with raised hackles. It sniffed the air, then burst through the others, coming straight at Daal and Henna.

A gruff voice barked a harsh warning in a tongue out of the distant past.

The beast skidded on its paws. It kept its head low, ears high, snarling, baring fangs.

Daal kept his spear pointed at it.

A small form joined the creature, coming forward and resting a hand on its shoulders. It was a young woman, dressed in strange clothes. Her hair was a pure fall of shadows. Her blue eyes, flecked with silver, shone at him. She hummed under her breath, both to beast and to him.

As she did, Daal noted a glow emanating from her, limning her in a golden light. He found his throat vibrating, instinctively trying to match that harmony.

“Nyx…” a tall man warned, coming forward with a sword.

The woman ignored him. Her eyes continued to shine at Daal. Similarly with Neffa, he sensed more than he should have.

Whoever they are, they mean us no harm.

Daal lowered his spearpoint a handsbreadth and rose from his crouch.

Henna stayed at his hip. “Who are they?”