Crossing Over

The first thing that broke his fall was the top of a tree and an explosion of soft snow. Kemir tumbled down, twisting and crashing off sloping branches, clutching at them with his gauntleted hands, ripping out fingerfuls of twigs and spines and more snow. Something punched his face, twisting his helm sideways so he couldn’t see. He clattered off a branch hard enough to wind him even though the dragon-scale armour took the worst of it. His shoulder ricocheted off another branch. Pain burst through the length of his arm. He screamed and then the freezing white ground slammed into him and knocked his breath away.

He wasn’t dead. It took him a moment to realise that, another moment to realise that he was freezing cold. That was something to be grateful for. Cold numbed the pain.

Also he couldn’t breathe. His helm was gone and his face was pressed into the crushed snow.

He tried to move. Had to. Managed to lift his face and gasped a deep breath. Cold or not, his arm shrieked every time he so much as touched it. Broken. Definitely broken.

He managed to roll onto his back. The other arm seemed to work and so did his legs. His ribs and his spine snarled with a hundred stabbing pains, but nothing was actually refusing to move. He wasn’t hacking up blood, so that was good.

He’d been thrown down a mountain by a dragon. For a few seconds panic overtook him. He scrambled to his feet, clawing and kicking his way out of the snowdrift and never mind how much everything hurt. The snow was deep on the slope here, held in place by the press of trees. He clutched at a trunk, eyes screwed shut, weeping at the pain. Another part of him wanted to laugh. He was alive. Thrown down a mountain by a dragon and he was alive. The tree branches had broken his fall as well as his bones, the snow and the dragon-armour had done the rest. Ancestors! It was enough to make a man want to climb right back up, kick the dragon in the face and shout, Missed me!

Yes. If he could move at all. The pain was crushing now, coming at him from everywhere. He sagged. Climbing anything was out of the question. If he hadn’t been afraid of how much it would hurt, he might have curled up into a ball and simply rolled the rest of the way down the slope.

No, no, no. Stop. Think. You’re an outsider. You survive. The pain will go, but now you need to move.

Shelter first. A place the dragons couldn’t reach him. He had no idea whether Snow had meant to kill him or simply hadn’t thought before tossing him away. Our kind. So fucking fragile, eh? Well here I am, dragon. Still breathing.

Shelter. Food. Then water, although it was the Worldspine, so water was easy. And so were the food and the shelter, come to think about it. Back where the alchemists had been hiding. Made him want to laugh.

He started to make his way down the slope among the trees, wading down through snow that reached well past his knees, stumbling and staggering his way from one tree to the next, stopping at each to catch his breath. Every few steps he lost his balance and tipped over, falling as best he could to protect his broken arm. And then he had to get up again. By the time he got to the bottom of the slope, he was exhausted, gasping for breath. He had no idea how long it had taken. There weren’t any dragons, though. Snow hadn’t come for him.

He was near the lake, or what was left of it. The bridge he’d found last night was gone, the nice neat little channel that had been dug beneath it had vanished too, both washed away without a trace. Where the sluice had been was now surrounded by a wide expanse of mud and slime. Here and there rivulets ran through a dozen and more new channels gouged out of the earth. The last trickles, rushing to find a way down the mountain. There was nothing left except one pole driven deep into the ground, the post that had once held up one end of the sluice itself. That and the huge sheet of ice, sprinkled with a fine dusting of snow, shattered into giant shards as thick as his wrist.

Kemir stared at it. He’d done this. Done it for Snow. Joined in the spirit of smashing and burning.

Ungrateful . . .

He looked back, up through the steep stand of conifers towards the castle. He’d been struggling through the trees and the snow for what felt like hours, but the castle wasn’t that far away, now that he looked back. The dragons were still up there, all four of them. As he looked, one of them pushed the remains of half a tower over the edge of the slope. Stones as big as horses tumbled down into the darkness under the trees. The forest shuddered. Pieces of masonry big enough to crush a house toppled over and chased each other, driving a miniature avalanche before them. A tree cracked and toppled sideways, shaking loose a cloud of snow.

Kemir ran, limped, jogged and staggered towards the ruin where the alchemists had been. There were still patches of snow and ice, but most of it here had melted to slush. He tried not to think about how he must look. More lurching than running, cradling his broken arm. When he reached the stair, he went down on his backside, sliding from one step to the next. There wasn’t much grace or dignity to it, but at least he wouldn’t trip over and kill himself.

He reached the bottom. Knew he was there by the change in the smell of the air, the whiff of charred earth. With his one good hand held out in front of him, he shuffled back and forth in the darkness until he found a wall, then another, and then the pile of debris that half-blocked the passage onwards. Hauled himself over it, whimpering with every movement. Snow had said there was someone else down here. Probably another alchemist. He’d been putting that out of his mind, concentrating on one thing at a time – getting to shelter – but he was going to have to think about it now, down here in the gloom. Didn’t have his bow – that was somewhere up the slope by the castle where the dragons were. Didn’t have any arrows with him any more, what with being thrown down a mountain. Nor two working arms. Knives then. Softly creeping closer, a quick stab in the neck and he’d be done. And then just lie here until the dragons went away and his arm got better or else the food ran out. Whatever happened first.

One of his knives was missing too. Just gone. Probably buried in the snow under the trees somewhere. Still had the other one, though. One was enough. Only had one good hand anyway.

At least the light was still there, off in the distance, the same shadow hundreds of yards away. Steady this time. He shuffled along the tunnel, propping himself up against the wall, trying to be quiet. There was still plenty to trip on. He passed passages, dark and lifeless, one, two, then the third, the other stairs leading back to gods knew where. As he reached the light, he heard a noise, a sort of rasping, gasping noise. He gripped the knife in his good hand. His left hand, which wasn’t his better hand. Then he peered around the corner.

The refuge was as he remembered it. Beds, table, pots to piss in. The food was still there, and the lamps too. Three dead bodies on the floor with Kemir’s arrows in them. And a woman. Sitting at the table with her head in her hands and her back to him. She had no idea he was there.

He held the knife tighter still. The easy thing, the wise thing, would be to creep around behind her and send her the way of the rest of them. He didn’t know how he’d missed her when he’d come down before. Must have been lurking in the shadows at the back, invisible in the dark. Chances were she’d seen him. Would remember him. Couldn’t be many folk came creeping down these tunnels, after all . . .

Dragon-riders, alchemists, same difference. He was about to take a step, but then hesitated. He’d never cut a throat with his off-hand before. Never done it with one hand. Wasn’t sure he knew how. Best to bury the knife in her back then. Or into her neck. His hands and feet wouldn’t move, though. Stabbing a weeping woman in the back was enough to make him at least pause.

So what if she’s a woman? Makes no odds. Why should it?

Maybe she wasn’t an alchemist. Maybe she was just some serving girl they’d dragged down here to amuse them while they waited for the dragons to go.

Or maybe she is an alchemist. Get on with it!

His feet still weren’t moving. If he made a noise, he didn’t hear it, yet the woman suddenly looked up, right at him. She blinked, saw the knife and then jumped up, skittering away to the other side of the table. Scared witless. He searched her eyes. No sign of anything except what you’d expect when you’d just spotted someone creeping up on you with a knife.

He was so gods-damned tired. The knife quivered in his hand. He slumped against the wall and let out a low moan of pain. ‘I thought . . .’ Thought what, Kemir? Go on, talk your way out of this one. He closed his eyes for a moment and found it hard to open them again. Gods, but it was dark. ‘Can you help me?’

‘Who are you?’ Her eyes were wide and wild. ‘Are you an alchemist?’ She was young, when he finally forced his eyes open again. Alchemists were always old, weren’t they? But it was hard to say in the strange half-light of the shelter, in the dim white glow of the alchemical lamps that lit it.

She shook her head.

There was food on the table. A bit old and a bit stale, but it was still food. Kemir lurched to the table, crashed down into a chair and slumped across the table. He was ravenous. ‘You’re the only person I’ve seen alive. Dragons have destroyed everything.’ He coughed, which still sent pains ripping through his chest. Not good. Maybe Snow had done more than break his arm.

‘You . . .’ She was looking at the knife. Kemir glanced at it, still in his hand. A good killing blade. Snuffed a few in its time. She wouldn’t be much of a problem. Small and scared and fragile. Even as broken as he was. For the second time he stepped through in his head exactly how he’d kill her.

Dragon-riders, alchemists, same difference.

No. He was sick of killing.

The dead men on the floor with the arrows sticking out of them told him he was a liar, that he wasn’t sick of killing at all. He was afraid, that’s what it was. Afraid of being alone. Afraid of dying with no one to hold his hand. That was more like it.

‘No,’ he said. He let go of the knife and pushed it across the table. ‘I don’t want to hurt you.’ And then he watched, willing her to believe him. She didn’t say anything. Just stared. Kemir shrugged. The less said the better. ‘First I knew about anything was the roof coming down. Spent the night buried in rubble. Couldn’t see a thing. Managed to get out in the end. There’s dragons up at the castle, tearing it to pieces. Lake’s gone. Empty. Everything else smashed to bits and burning.’ He narrowed his eyes. Looked down at the three dead men with arrows in them. ‘Did you see them, the ones who did this?’ The knife was still there, still in reach if he needed it.

She shook her head.

‘I didn’t see anything except a roof fall on my head. By the time I got out they were on up the mountain. Just as well. I’ve got no strength for a fight.’ Kemir closed his eyes. Mostly he wanted to lie down. He needed rest, and lots of it. Then maybe he’d get to find out whether Snow had broken anything that wouldn’t get better. Broken bones he’d had before. He sighed and stood up. ‘Can you help me?’

She looked at him like a frightened rabbit.

‘My arm’s broken. I need to set it straight. It would be a lot easier if you helped.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘Don’t you alchemists learn about that sort of thing?’

‘I’m not an alchemist.’ There. Words. Not screaming spitting hatred. Words.

‘You know how to set a splint?’

Eventually he got a reluctant nod. He started plucking the arrows out of the dead men on the floor. Good strong shafts. Good for splinting a break. Shame to have to snap them in half, but needs must as the Silver King drives . . . He frowned, hearing himself think that old saying. Silver King, silver ones. What did they have to do with all this? Could they be the same? Had to be, didn’t they? Did that mean the Silver King was coming back? Not that he had much of an idea of who the Silver King even was. A demon? Outsiders knew nothing when it came to things like that.

He put the thought aside. For now he had other worries.

She watched him. Didn’t help, just watched, even as he got to taking off the shirts from the dead men, cutting them into ribbons then tying them back together. One-handed it was hard, and he had to hold his knife between his teeth, but she still didn’t help. Finally he was done.

‘Come here.’ He held out the arrow shafts and the strips of cloth. The woman shook her head. Didn’t move. He clenched his fist, but she just backed further away. Staring, watching. For a moment Kemir wondered whether she was as much a liar as him, whether she knew exactly who he was and was just waiting for the chance to kill him.

Well fine. If that’s what it is, let’s get on with it. I’ve gambled worse in my time. He started to bind his right hand to the top of a table leg, wincing and groaning. Every movement made his arm worse. When he was done, he looked at her. One last chance.

‘Please?’

Another shake of the head. Another step away.

Right then. He put a wad of cloth in his mouth. Then he braced his feet and his good arm against the table and pushed, separating the two broken halves of his arm. And screamed. Lots of screaming. Vaguely, through the walls of pain, it looked like his one good arm was doing something vaguely right. Splinting the break. Wrapping strip after strip of cloth around as tightly as he could. Strip after strip . . .

Screaming felt good. At some point he either finished or gave up. He didn’t remember untying his hand. The screams faltered to weeping and whimpering. He forgot about the woman then. She was a vague thing across the room, as significant as the food on the table and the dead bodies on the floor. He stumbled and crawled to one of the cots and fell into it, sobbing. The pain overwhelmed him. Turned out he had a lot more than a broken arm to scream about.

Eventually he fell asleep.