CHAPTER SIX

The Sky Peak Passes

M alat had always thought he would not fear death when it came, but would accept it with courage and honor.

Of course, he’d never envisioned a death like this.

It was not just that death beckoned, or that death strode through the snow toward him, but that it was taking so damned long about it. The continuing terror, day after day, week after week, was not something Malat had ever thought to endure, and it had sapped his courage and honor and fortitude.

They’d fled Pelemere with Georgdi. Not everyone came. At least half the population of the city had refused to believe that a sea of Skraelings seethed down toward them—and who could blame them for disbelieving? They’d stayed, despite desperate shouted warnings, and now they were dead.

Malat remembered how, three hours after riding out of Pelemere, he’d pulled his horse to a halt and looked back.

Pelemere should have been clearly visible—a black blot on a hill in the middle of a vast plain.

Instead it had vanished beneath an undulating river of gray.

Skraelings.

Eating.

Malat, as all those who’d pulled their horses to a halt with him and looked back, could not quite comprehend what he saw. He could not imagine that number of Skraelings; of any creature. He’d sat his horse, his mouth agape, and stared, and it was only a few minutes later, when one of his men screamed, that he’d looked to his north.

A wave of Skraelings was less than five hundred paces away, and approaching fast.

Thus began the nightmare. Almost three weeks of constant battling, of bunching together, of fighting, of running, running, running eastward as fast as they could. Malat estimated that between Georgdi, Fulmer, Sirus, and himself, they’d escaped Pelemere with two hundred thousand people—both soldiers and civilians. Now Malat would be surprised if there were any more than fifteen thousand left.

Fulmer was dead, lost that first day.

Sirus also, lost a week later when his horse stumbled and then collapsed as a score of Skraelings swarmed over it.

The only reason any of them were still alive was because the bulk of the Skraelings were still to the west.

Eating, Malat supposed; feeding through the Central Kingdoms toward Kyros.

Sometimes, when he managed to snatch a few minutes’ rest, Malat would weep, thinking of his wife and remaining children, of all those he loved sitting in Kyros, not understanding that within days, weeks at the most, they would be eaten by these damned…damned…

Malat wanted to die. He wanted to succumb to the Skraelings’ teeth, to their claws, their hunger.

But always, every time they faced renewed attack, something in Malat forced him to take up the sword again, and wield it, and somehow survive.

For another day.

They were in the western reaches of the Sky Peak Passes now. Georgdi, still alive and somehow still in control, still hopeful, said that if they could reach a gorge he knew of a few days’ travel ahead, then they would have a chance. It had a narrow mouth, apparently, and they could defend themselves more easily there.

Malat didn’t really care anymore. He put one foot in front of the other, or sat his horse staring sightlessly ahead as it somehow managed to put one foot ahead of the other, and he forced food and water down his throat as needed, and he wrapped himself against the increasingly bitter cold. About him, the few civilians and soldiers who survived bunched together for security and warmth and similarly trudged forward, defending themselves from never-ending attacks by groups of Skraelings, losing a few more comrades with each attack.

Malat thought there must be a trail of blood leading back to whatever remained of Pelemere.

That they survived at all was due to the Icarii. Not only BroadWing EvenBeat, the man who had warned them of the Isembaardian invasion into the Outlands, but several score of others who had joined him.

They warned of approaching Skraelings, scouted clear routes through the territory ahead, and they were skilled bowmen and women, attacking Skraelings from above. They’d lost a few of their number, and Malat, as Georgdi, was incalculably grateful to them. They could have fled, this was not their fight, but they didn’t. They stayed, and helped, and died, and Malat, who’d never had much respect for the birdmen, now admired them immensely.

But he still didn’t think any of them would survive.

Winter closed in with tight, cruel fingers. Every few days heavy snowstorms enveloped them, and in those storms…

BroadWing said ghosts lived in them. Perhaps the ghosts of Icarii long dead, he didn’t know, but they were almost as terrifying as the Skraelings, although they did not attack or maim or murder. They simply terrified with sudden appearances, their ethereal faces materializing in the snow before vanishing again, always accompanied by the barely audible beat of wings, and a constant undertone of whispering…

Malat could not understand how any of them would survive. If, by some miracle, they outran and outfought the Skraelings, and if these snow ghosts finally left them alone, then they still had a million Isembaardians with which to cope.

Their world was falling apart, and Malat did not think anything left within it could possibly endure.

Alm Georgdi was the first to hear the beat of approaching wings.

He was huddled in front of a campfire, his face haggard, his hands trembling from both weariness and cold.

He looked up, hoping it was not bad news.

BroadWing EvenBeat landed a few feet away, staggering a little. He was exhausted, as was everyone else.

“Georgdi,” he said.

Georgdi grunted. Bad news, then.

BroadWing staggered forward, almost collapsing as he sat before the fire. His face was white with cold and fatigue.

“Georgdi,” he whispered.

“What is it?” Georgdi snapped.

“The Skraelings,” BroadWing said. “The Skraelings…they have abandoned the Central Kingdoms.”

Georgdi stared at BroadWing, not able to understand what the birdman said. Abandoned the Central Kingdoms? “They’ve returned to their frozen wastes?” he said.

“No,” BroadWing said, “they’ve swarmed into the FarReach Mountains. Every last one of them. The mountains are covered with them.”

“What…why?”

“They are moving en masse into Isembaard,” BroadWing said. “For the moment we’re safe. From the Skraelings, at least.”