A Sword From Red Ice Read Online Free PDF Page B

between two hills. They stood in that valley today. It wasn't
just dry, it was bone-dry, and Raif had been left feeling like a
fool. You'd think he would have learned by now.
    Unable to help himself, he flicked the cap off the
waterskin and squirted a small amount into his mouth. The fluid was
gone before he had a chance to swallow it, sucked away by parched
gums. He was tempted to take more, but resisted. His duty to his
animal came first. As he poured a careful measure into the pony's
waxed snufflebag, Raif wondered what heading to take next. As best he
could tell, five days had passed since he'd left the Fortress of Grey
Ice. The first few days were lost to him, gone in a fever dream of
blood poisoning and pain. He did not recall leaving the fortress or
choosing a route to lead them out of the Want. He remembered waking
one morning and looking at his left arm and not being sure that it
belonged to him. The skin floated on top of the muscle as if
separated by a layer of liquid. It leaked when he pressed it, clear
fluid that seeped through a crack Raif supposed must be a wound. The
strange thing was it hadn't hurt. Even stranger, he could not recall
being concerned.
    At some point he must have regained his mind,
although there were times when he wasn't sure. The wounds on his neck
were healing. He'd stitched the deepest one without use of a mirror;
so gods only knew what he looked like. As for his arm, it certainly
looked a lot better. And he was definitely sure it was hit. His mind
[garbled] a different story though, a little foggy around the edges
and prone to fancies. The first day that he tried to ride his head
had felt too light, and he'd convinced himself he was better off
walking instead.
    He hadn't been on Bear since then, and he'd spent
the last three days stubbornly walking. Occasionally Bear looked at
him quizzically, and had once gone as far as head-butting the small
of his back to encourage him to ride. She had wanted to help, he knew
that, and the one thing the mare had to offer was her ability to bear
his weight.
    Raif licked his lips. They were as dry as tree
bark. Reaching inside the grain bag, he scooped up a handful of
millet. Bear, whose thoughts were never far from food, trotted over
to investigate. She ate from his hand, lipping hard to get at the
grains that were jammed between his fingers. She didn't understand
that in many ways she was the one who was caring for him. Her company
alone was worth more than a month's worth of supplies. Bear's stoic
acceptance of her situation lightened his heart. Caring for her
needs—making sure the mare had enough food and water, tending
to her coat skin, and mouth, and keeping her shoe free of stone—kept
him from focusing on himself. And then there was her Want sense. The
little hill pony borrowed from the Maimed Men had an instinct for
moving through the Great Want. Instead of fighting the insubstantial
nature of the landscape, she gave herself up to it, became a leaf
floating downstream. As a clansman trained to navigate dense forest,
follow the whisper-light trails left by ice hares and foxes, and hold
his bearings on frozen tundra in a whiteout, Raif found traveling
through the Want frustrating. The sun might rise in the morning, but
then again it might not. Entire mountain ranges could sail on the
horizon like ships. Clouds formed rings that hung in the sky,
unaffected by prevailing winds, for days. At night a wheel of stars
would turn in the heavens, but you could never be sure what
constellations it would contain. Sometimes the wheel reversed itself
and moved counter to every wisdom concerning the stars that Raif had
ever been taught. Orienting oneself in such an environment was close
to impossible. As soon as you had established the direction of due
north, decided on a course to lead you out, the Want began to slip
through your fingers like snowmelt. Nothing was fixed here.
Everything—the sky, the land, the sun and the