until Bear Under the
Mountain shook his hide, knocking it loose to send it thundering down
into valleys far below, the shock waves rippling through the world
even as far as Home Dome, waking her in the dead of night.
Watersnow fell wet and stuck
to anything cold, weighing it down, snapping saplings and branches
under its weight to bring them crashing down to the forest floor or
on top of the heads of the unwary.
There was sugar snow that
buried everything, offering no support for any heavy-footed creature
except humans with snowshoes.
Pleur snow was the most
dangerous kind. Light and dry, a product of the deep cold, it was
carried by the wind until it settled in hidden pockets where an
unwary step could trap you. Deep enough, such pockets could close
over your head, the powdered ice filling your lungs until you
drowned.
Then there were the storms
that encased the world in ice. Ogre storms, they were called. After
an ogre storm even the smallest of breezes would make the trees sing
like wind-chimes. If you ventured outside the dome you strapped ice
spikes to the bottoms of your boots to keep from falling. Phillius
liked to scare the underagers with the story of the boy who fell
after an ogre storm and just kept sliding until he fell off the
Escarpment. Cheobawn was almost certain this was a scary-tale to
teach the unwary, but she wore her spikes on those days all the same.
Cheobawn let the ambient go
and came back into herself as the walls of the tunnel fell away and
the firm, dry ground disappeared under packed snow and ice. Vinara
slowed the column to a more sedate pace better suited for feet with
soft pads and brittle claws. The bennelk put their noses down to pick
their way carefully over patches of sharp ice on the rutted parts of
the well-traveled trail. What little wind there was this day was out
of the northwest and bitter cold, burning exposed flesh and freezing
the breath in their throats. The bennelk balked under its onslaught
and had to be encouraged onward.
Cheobawn eased up next to
Connor as the column reformed its double line.
“ Well,” Connor said.
“What do you think?” It was the kind of vague question a male
might ask his Ear. Not a formal request for information but a gentle
nudge to remind her that not everyone could hear the world beyond the
limits of ordinary senses.
“ The Waste is empty north
of the Spine,” she said as she silently congratulated Cloud Eye on
her fine form and quick feet.
“ Uh… OK,” Connor said,
perhaps wondering what that had to do with rounding up cattle in the
lower hayfields. He cleared his throat. “You know that is
impossible, right? There are herds of snow deer a hundred miles long
hunted by packs of tusk cats and snow bears and sharp eagles. Not to
mention the white foxes and the tundra cats, and the ….”
Cheobawn stopped scratching
Cloud Eye’s shoulder and looked up. Of course, he was right. What
had she been thinking? She looked towards the tip of the spire called
White Dragon, her eyes trying to pierce the fabric of the world.
“ Ah, my mistake,” she
said. “They are all there but they are hiding. The Void of the
Hunter hangs over them. The animals of the Waste will not dare the
ambient until it has passed.”
The Void was a hunting skill
perfected by the apex predators of the Highreaches. It was a psychic
trick, an emptiness meant to entrap the unwary or ensnare the
weak-minded. Experienced woodsmen knew that if you were close enough
to feel the Void, you were too close.
“ Over the whole of the
Waste?” Connor repeated her words, still unable to grasp their
meaning. He bent towards her to look intently into her face. “A
hunting bhotta so big he can call down half a continent has created a
mind void powerful enough to silence millions of animals? Is that
right?”
Well, when you said it like
that, it sounded sort of crazy, she mused to herself. She tried to
look deeper, to see more clearly, to make her brain sort out what did
not want
Mountain shook his hide, knocking it loose to send it thundering down
into valleys far below, the shock waves rippling through the world
even as far as Home Dome, waking her in the dead of night.
Watersnow fell wet and stuck
to anything cold, weighing it down, snapping saplings and branches
under its weight to bring them crashing down to the forest floor or
on top of the heads of the unwary.
There was sugar snow that
buried everything, offering no support for any heavy-footed creature
except humans with snowshoes.
Pleur snow was the most
dangerous kind. Light and dry, a product of the deep cold, it was
carried by the wind until it settled in hidden pockets where an
unwary step could trap you. Deep enough, such pockets could close
over your head, the powdered ice filling your lungs until you
drowned.
Then there were the storms
that encased the world in ice. Ogre storms, they were called. After
an ogre storm even the smallest of breezes would make the trees sing
like wind-chimes. If you ventured outside the dome you strapped ice
spikes to the bottoms of your boots to keep from falling. Phillius
liked to scare the underagers with the story of the boy who fell
after an ogre storm and just kept sliding until he fell off the
Escarpment. Cheobawn was almost certain this was a scary-tale to
teach the unwary, but she wore her spikes on those days all the same.
Cheobawn let the ambient go
and came back into herself as the walls of the tunnel fell away and
the firm, dry ground disappeared under packed snow and ice. Vinara
slowed the column to a more sedate pace better suited for feet with
soft pads and brittle claws. The bennelk put their noses down to pick
their way carefully over patches of sharp ice on the rutted parts of
the well-traveled trail. What little wind there was this day was out
of the northwest and bitter cold, burning exposed flesh and freezing
the breath in their throats. The bennelk balked under its onslaught
and had to be encouraged onward.
Cheobawn eased up next to
Connor as the column reformed its double line.
“ Well,” Connor said.
“What do you think?” It was the kind of vague question a male
might ask his Ear. Not a formal request for information but a gentle
nudge to remind her that not everyone could hear the world beyond the
limits of ordinary senses.
“ The Waste is empty north
of the Spine,” she said as she silently congratulated Cloud Eye on
her fine form and quick feet.
“ Uh… OK,” Connor said,
perhaps wondering what that had to do with rounding up cattle in the
lower hayfields. He cleared his throat. “You know that is
impossible, right? There are herds of snow deer a hundred miles long
hunted by packs of tusk cats and snow bears and sharp eagles. Not to
mention the white foxes and the tundra cats, and the ….”
Cheobawn stopped scratching
Cloud Eye’s shoulder and looked up. Of course, he was right. What
had she been thinking? She looked towards the tip of the spire called
White Dragon, her eyes trying to pierce the fabric of the world.
“ Ah, my mistake,” she
said. “They are all there but they are hiding. The Void of the
Hunter hangs over them. The animals of the Waste will not dare the
ambient until it has passed.”
The Void was a hunting skill
perfected by the apex predators of the Highreaches. It was a psychic
trick, an emptiness meant to entrap the unwary or ensnare the
weak-minded. Experienced woodsmen knew that if you were close enough
to feel the Void, you were too close.
“ Over the whole of the
Waste?” Connor repeated her words, still unable to grasp their
meaning. He bent towards her to look intently into her face. “A
hunting bhotta so big he can call down half a continent has created a
mind void powerful enough to silence millions of animals? Is that
right?”
Well, when you said it like
that, it sounded sort of crazy, she mused to herself. She tried to
look deeper, to see more clearly, to make her brain sort out what did
not want
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