Exile to the Stars (The Alarai Chronicles) (46 page)

“…And
so, brothers and sisters, I return to you through peril to warn of the Salchek
invaders.”

The
rest of the evening was a blur. Jeff drank far more than he should have and was
forced to retell the goriest scenes many times. Later, Gerta and Ingid made it
clear he was to stay with them. Gurthwin solved that problem by the simple
expedient of taking Jeff by the arm and leaving.

Jeff
spent a good share of the following day renewing old acquaintances. That
evening he met with Halric and Gurthwin. Throughout the meeting, Jeff was
repeatedly struck by the remarkable similarities he perceived in Ethbar and
Gurthwin. If at all possible, he thought, I must arrange for them to meet. What
a brain trust that would be!

By
the time they had chewed his trip down to the bone, Gurthwin was deep in
thought and Halric clearly troubled. Jeff emphasized the alliance with Rugen,
but nothing could really soften the impact of imminent war.

Halric
broke the silence first. “And so you must travel north and do what you may to
gather the tribes by spring ere we are ground under the Salchek heel.”

“Yes.
This must be done.”

“You
must not bear this burden alone.” Gurthwin laid a gnarled hand on Jeff’s arm.
It was very comforting. “The courier from Rugen arrived, and his message was
well received at the moot.”

“I
am relieved to hear that,” Jeff said in a neutral tone. “He was not…uh,
overcome with concern?”

Ethbar
smiled at Jeff’s attempt to be tactful. “No, although it is fortunate that he
called on your name early in the meeting.”

Now
it was Halric’s turn to smile, and the three of them suddenly broke out in
laughter. Ethbar wiped at a tear in his eye, and said, “Your Rengeld selected a
fine young man, Jeffrey, and he regaled us with the full iron-shirt saga. I can
tell you there was strong emotion present at the conclusion of his tale. Many
wished to have a part in what is to come.

“Wonderful.
A good start, then.”

“Yes
indeed. Some among our kinfolk will be selected to visit southern tribes we are
friendly with but who were not present at the moot.”

“I
had hoped it would be so. I must venture north and west to those more distant
peoples, where as an Alarai it is more likely that I will be welcomed.”

“I
must think long on what we have learned this summer from the tribes who trekked
south,” Halric commented. “Much was discussed, and may prove important to your
journey. Many tribes we do not know were mentioned.”

The
following days were busy as Jeff arranged for a winter coat, leggings and tall
boots to be constructed. In between times he worked over the snowshoes and
sewed up tears in his tent. It was looking ragged but still had a lot of use in
it. Although Jeff really wanted to take the campstove, his last fuel bottle was
nearly empty. On the chance it might come in handy to start fires, he tossed it
on the pile to go.

The
morning that Jeff was to ride out, a solemn crowd of villagers escorted him to
the stable. Gurthwin took his arm along the way and spoke in a low voice.

“Do
not be ashamed of your fear or regret its presence, Jeffrey, for it speaks
honestly of the burden you carry. Open your spirit so it may have its say then
find a new home. You will succeed.”

Jeff
left Valholm under dark skies, fading into the abrupt whiteness of a snow
flurry. Some days later, the outpost materialized from a howling snowstorm. The
leader of the outpost, Folget, tactlessly waved it away with a laugh as he
walked with Jeff to the stable.

“This
is merely a promise of what will come. Soon it will start to snow!”

Feeding
Cynic and covering him with a blanket, Jeff stomped snow from his boots before
entering the lodge used for meetings. Later, eating a hearty meal of stew near
a roaring fire, the wind moaned around the lodge like a dying soul. On the
occasions when it rose to a high-pitched shriek, Folget and others in the lodge
looked away rather than meet Jeff’s eye. He tried to block it out, but could
not avoid the thought that the wind was a living thing and calling to him.

Halric
had passed on what he knew about northern tribal connections to Jeff, and this
information was amplified next day in talks with Folget. By that evening Jeff
had a workable sketch of the surrounding area, villages prominently marked. He
also took copious notes on landmarks. Before he left the hall, Jeff made sure
Folget understood that Cynic was to be taken back to Valholm and a warmer
stable by the next courier.

Lighting
a torch, Jeff trudged to the stable through drifting snow. Gusts tore streams
of sparks from the torch, and he had to lean into the wind to keep his balance.
Inside, he found a niche that would hold the torch. Circling Cynic’s neck with
his arms, Jeff rested his cheek against smooth hide.

“Take
you care, my friend. I will miss you terribly.”

Cynic
nuzzled Jeff’s shoulder.
“My thoughts will ever be with you, horse-brother.
My heart cries out at your peril, but understands that you must attempt this
journey. I will await you in patience and greet your return with joy.”

The
stable was a flimsy affair, its loosely fit planking rattling and shaking with
the wind’s force as Jeff held on to Cynic. Some time later Jeff kissed Cynic’s
neck and released his hold.

“Farewell,
my brother.”

Picking
up the torch, Jeff crunched his way to the lodge where he would sleep. It was
pitch black and eddies of hard-driven snow stung his face like needles. He felt
very alone and frightened in a way that went to the core of his being.

For
many hours, Jeff lay awake listening to the storm’s frustrated wail as it tore
at the lodge. He reviewed the facts that made his trip necessary, found
arguments to defeat each of them, and finally whispered, “Why me?”

He
had not volunteered to be dumped on Aketti, Jeff reminded himself. He was related
to the Alarai, but only distantly after seven generations. Dammit, he
desperately thought, why couldn’t one of them do it? Why me?

That
night as he tossed and turned in his furs, Jeff confronted the difference
between facing death in a sword fight thrust on him suddenly and deliberately
choosing a path that he had come to believe would kill him. He fought it, but
reason and anticipation told him he didn’t have a chance. It was a bitter night
of regret and rejection, yet there was no escape. He would go, and likely he
would die.

Dawn
was no more than black becoming gray. Feeling drawn and tired, Jeff prepared
himself for departure. After a large meal and a brief round of farewells, he
walked out of the post without looking back under a brooding sky spitting
occasional snow flurries. Shortly, the forest swallowed him up.

Jeff
huddled near a fire. Two days out, the forest’s whispering quiet felt like it
was crushing him. Packing up, he turned back toward the outpost. As he went,
Jeff fought a no-holds-barred battle with paralyzing fear. It was several hours
before he found enough will power to halt the retreat.

Unable
to move one way or the other, face gray as the sky, Jeff fought it out. It was
well into the morning when he set his feet in motion toward the west. There was
no going back. He was probably going to die on the trail, but his life was
finished if he returned to the outpost. It would just take longer. This was his
task, and he would do it.

A
week or so later, standing high on a stony foothill squinting his eyes against
the glare of a westering sun, Jeff feasted on the sight of wood smoke coiling
into the sky. Although no more than thin tendrils of blue emerging from the
carpet of forest far below him, the smoke was evidence of life. It was a
wonderful sight.

Jeff
trudged into the village after dark amid surprised shouts and suspicion. He was
hustled in front of the chief, but she was more intrigued than hostile. When he
removed his hat, what Jeff now thought of as the Alarai Effect took hold and
the reception warmed. He gathered that the chief thought he must be either
crazy or sent from the gods to be on the trail in winter. Jeff had expected and
was asked to recite his adventures at the communal meal on the second evening.

His
tale was received with all the tumult anyone could have hoped for. Later, when
talking with the village elder and chieftain, Jeff discovered that they too had
heard rumors, and not only of the Salchek. It seemed that his first encounter
with the warring tribes had been widely reported. The elder was familiar with
the location of the moot grounds and the chief promised to bring warriors.

Before
leaving next morning, Jeff swore powerful oaths with the chief to the
enthusiastic acclaim of those who had gathered to see him off. He left after
procuring directions to the nearest village, thinking grimly, one down and
forty-nine to go.

Week
by week, Jeff made his way west through heavily forested foothill country and
ever deeper snow south of the Bora Mountains. Fear slowly subsided as he
adjusted to the wilderness and traveling alone.

Passing
over razor-backed ridges and through low passes, new vistas of snow-muffled
forest and valley opened to his eyes in unending variation. So terrible were
the Boras’ presence that he only rarely threw quick glances at them.

Jeff’s
concern that knowledge of the Alarai and Salchek would fade as he moved west
proved groundless. What he had not figured on was the incredibly complex
interrelatedness of the tribes. In short, they enjoyed a rumor mill second to
none.

He
stayed an average of two days in each village, meeting with leaders during the
first and mixing with the rank and file on the second. An important part of
each day was recording landmarks that would see him to the next village. He was
tempted to stay longer on numerous occasions, but it was hard enough to leave
after only two days.

Temperatures
dropped steadily as fall faded into winter and Jeff moved west. Although
snowstorms became more frequent, they tended to be short-lived. Still, over
three feet of snow had accumulated and called for continual use of snowshoes.
Of an evening, he checked the bindings with obsessive care and repaired the
day’s damage perched close to a fire.

After
one particularly difficult day that included rocky terrain, he wondered how
long it would be before he destroyed a snowshoe. He thrust that thought aside
and bent to the task of keeping them going for another day. The forest was
silent and the air heavy with the promise of snow when he put the second
snowshoe down and slipped into his sleeping bag.

When
Jeff awoke he found it hard to breathe, and tent walls bulged against the
sleeping bag. He dug his way out to emerge into a raging blizzard. The storm
confined him to the tent for three days and Jeff struggled into the next
village totally exhausted. Digging deep, he found the determination to leave
after two days in spite of the chief’s worried entreaty to remain longer.

No
one in that village or in villages that followed questioned whether he was
crazy or a god. They considered him to be something of both with Hero thrown in
for good measure. After many repetitions, his speech, or Telling as villagers
referred to it, was memorized and polished to such a glow that it succeeded in
inciting to riot every group that heard it. As Jeff learned more of Alemanni
motivation, his oaths also improved in delivery and the power to compel.

Shuffling
through six inches of new snow one day, head bent into a snowstorm and feeling
very lonely, Jeff distracted himself by trying to figure out how long he had
been on the trail. Without a calendar there was no precise way of knowing, but
days were still getting shorter. That meant it was still fall. Probably late
November. The worst of winter lay ahead.

Jeff
was picking his way down the backside of a rugged, hog-backed ridge that was
thickly grown with stubby evergreens. He grabbed a branch to stop his motion
when a large deadfall materialized out of the snowstorm. Jeff felt so tired
that he couldn’t muster more than a resigned shrug. At that moment, all he
wanted was to run across a deer before it became dark. He had not seen a deer
in weeks.

Tightening
his belt another notch, Jeff belayed himself from tree to tree and skirted the
obstacle. He remembered what it felt like to have a full stomach but seemed to
have passed beyond the ferocious hunger that had been his constant companion.
Villages were now quite far apart and deep snow burned more energy. That night
he chewed a stick of venison jerky and dreamed of the real thing.

Cloud
cover and snow were gone when he got up, leaving an icy blue sky and deceptive
sun that gave little warmth. As the day progressed, a massive high-pressure
system from beyond the Boras finished moving in. Wading through powder snow up
to his knees despite the snowshoes, Jeff stopped to catch his breath. The crest
of the hill he had been climbing for what seemed an eternity was still a long
way off.

“No
feeling in my cheeks at all. Temperature must have dropped.”

Wrapping
an extra fold of woolen scarf around his face, Jeff stepped out again. The risk
of frostbite was always there, but he was more concerned about breaking a leg.
He was dead if that happened. Topping the crest, Jeff noticed his fingers were
hard to feel and beat his mittens together trying to get some circulation
going.