Chapter Five: The Ice Rasps
The young soldier clung to the ledge. Clouds of vapor poured from his mouth, and he watched them curl against the ice-cliff he was pressed against. Frost coated his mustache and beard, itching at skin turned ruddy from the stinging cold. The blustery wind howled in his ears as it buffeted against his body, its arctic gusts probing at the seams of his fur-lined coat and pants, seeking the flesh inside.
And if it couldn't have that…
He chanced a downward glance, spying into the icy chasm that lurked beneath him, gaping and black.
The wind slammed into him again, and his boot slipped. He felt weightless for a terrifying moment. His stomach lurched. His heart thundered in his throat. Everything felt bright and sharp despite the numbing cold. The chasm beckoned below, ravenous for a tribute to fill its insatiable emptiness. But all he gave it were a few shards of crumbling ice.
His boot scrabbled back onto the ledge. And threaded through the wind, he could hear himself laughing.
He reached for the next handhold, a rime-crusted crevice, and he brushed it clean with his glove. He jammed his fingers into it, getting a good grip, and hoisted himself upward, his boot following, digging into another crevice.
High above, through the flurry, he spotted a whipping flag. It served as a beacon, guiding him as he scaled the glacier, along with the rare, geometric mural coated onto the ice. The Banuk didn't escape using secret paths or hideouts. The treacherous climbs and whiteout conditions were enough to make capture impossible.
Well, for anyone else.
The pale sun penetrated the flurry, casting the summit in wan, yellow light. He reached for the final ledge and hauled himself up onto the powdery snow.
An arrow whizzed past his head, disappearing into the chasm.
"Shit," he cursed under his breath, and he dove through the snow, scrambling for the flag mount.
Another arrow sliced through the air.
He grunted, and searing pain bloomed in his arm. He hurtled around the mount as more arrows peppered the summit. Saliva sputtered from his mouth as he caught his breath, and he looked over at the arrowhead protruding from his sleeve, the blood on it freezing into a crust. He pulled it forward and wiggled it gently. The angle was good. Wincing, he rotated his shoulder to make sure. Flesh wound. No broken bone.
"You should give up, kestrel," a woman shouted.
She was closer than he thought. It explained her excellent aim in the flurry. She must have found a perch that put her with the wind, and it helped carry her arrows straight for him. It gave him a good idea about where she was hiding, but if he tried to return fire, all his arrows would tumble uselessly or be thrown back into the chasm.
"Oh, I'm not a kestrel, lady," he called out, a friendly charm warming his voice. There was a sincerity to it that seemed to come more naturally lately, though most in his camp found it disconcerting, that is when they talked to him at all. He grabbed his dagger and unsheathed it. "Those guys already gave up. The snow froze off their little tailfeathers, and they hurried back to roost. No, I'm just an enlisted man. Nothing special."
"An enlisted Carja who ventures out into a flurry and climbs a glacier because he can't let one Banuk shaman get away from a raid?"
He pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Pretty much."
"The insanity…"
"I mean, it might be that," he said, grimacing as he tugged on the arrowhead, dragging it forward until the shaft was revealed. "Could be because I already captured the rest of your werak and feel compelled to complete the collection. But truthfully, I think I just enjoy the thrill of the hunt."
"You sound more Banuk than Carja… Just a feathered one instead."
He chuckled, thinking about the headdress he had packed in a trunk back at the camp. Then he levered the arrowhead against his thumb and snapped it off with his dagger. Reaching behind his shoulder, he popped out the rest of the arrow. It fell bloody and headless onto the snow. "Perhaps, except I'm not a fan of hunting machines. Sure, they can be tough to kill, but—"
The wind died down, and the sun grew brighter, casting shadows onto the brilliant snow. He shoved his hand into his pocket and fished around. A bearing appeared in his palm with a blue lightning bolt printed across it. His thumb hovered over its trigger, and he leaned out from behind the mount.
He discovered a lone boulder, half-buried in snow, and a trail leading down the slope.
The shock ammunition fell back into his pocket. He climbed onto his feet and trudged towards the trail, his eyes sharp for traps and tripwires. Down the slope, he spotted an old, weathered bridge and a figure plowing through waist-deep snow towards it.
He grinned.
He plodded after her, taking advantage of the trail she had already forged. She hit the bridge, her pace quickening, and he wondered if she might take another shot at him. His quiver bounced against his hip as he gave chase. He didn't want to shoot her. If he killed her, then he'd have no captive to bring back. And if he wounded her, then he'd have to carry her back. Neither outcome was appealing in The Cut with its glaciers and hidden crevasses.
His boots struck the snowy bridge, and it creaked loudly, shuddering under his weight. He paused a steaming breath, eyeing the splintering supports and the grooves where hemp rope had once been. Some logs on the deck were missing all together, and he stared down through the gaps at the narrow ravine below. He looked up at the woman, the glowing, blue cords of her headdress bouncing behind her as she clambered across.
She was so close.
He hopped across the first gap and then the next, each leap causing the swaying bridge to buck in a new direction.
"You idiot!" she cried out, grabbing at the rope railing, then cursing when it disintegrated in her hands. "The bridge is too old. It can't bear both our weights!"
He leapt again.
There was a final, deafening crack, and the pine logs came loose in a cascade of snapping rope and tumbling supports. He stumbled backward as his footing disappeared beneath him.
And fell.
OOOOOOOOOO
The young soldier lay still, his mind numbed by the gray void. It swirled behind his eyes, encasing him in ice, and with it came the blissful lure of sleep. It tugged at him, pulling him down into the black chasm. And he wondered if it was big enough to swallow him, or if the emptiness inside himself would devour it instead.
Snow crunched, betraying cautious footfalls.
He stirred, and a series of dull aches rippled through his body, driving a groan from his lips. The pain cracked the ice, and he felt the gray void lift from his mind. His eyes fluttered, eyelashes sticky with frost. He blinked a few times, clearing his vision.
Splintered logs lay strewn across the ravine, and among them stood the woman, her light brown complexion beginning to wrinkle and sag with middle age. Her bow was drawn. Her target so close, he was unmissable.
He sighed, trapped in his cushion of snow, soon to be his grave.
She closed in, stone-faced and silent, the angle of her arrow ending at his chest.
"Look, lady," he said, patting at his shoulders and thighs, freeing them of snow. "If you're going to shoot me, then shoot me. Either become the hunter or stay the hunted. Otherwise, we're just going to freeze out here, and there's no fun in that."
She glared at him.
"Lady—"
"Stop calling me lady," she snapped. "I have a name. It's Ourea."
"Okay, Ourea," he said, and he dug at the snow pinning his sides, his hand surreptitiously slipping into his pocket, seeking the shock ammunition. "Are we going to fight or not?"
Debris shifted towards the mouth of the ravine
"We are," she said, then she pivoted, her aim swiveling towards the sound.
Motors whirred and an electronic purr rumbled, growing louder as it approached.
"But not each other."
He muttered a curse under his breath and scrambled out of the snow. She didn't even spare him a glance when he trudged up behind her, his bow in hand.
She was right. Their fight was done for now.
A machine stalked along the ravine; its compact, feline features sleek in the sunlight. Large, triangular ears perched upon its head, and they twitched as it searched for prey among the scattered logs. Heat rolled off it in waves, rippling the air and melting the snow underneath it into slush.
A scorcher.
"You mentioned enjoying the thrill of the hunt," she said, her aim settling on the orange module mounted upon the machine's back. "It's not about who is the prey. Or about who is the predator. It's about the challenge. The contest for survival, and in that, there's an unspoken communion. A spiritual connection between the hunter and the hunted. Their roles shifting as easily as the wind."
He smirked, then pulled an arrow from his quiver and nocked it to his bow. "I told you. Machines aren't my thing."
The scorcher sighted them, and a low growl filled the ravine, rattling the ice along its walls. The beast lowered its head, rolling its shoulders forward.
And leapt.
She loosed her arrow. It shot through the air and pierced the scorcher through the module. The component exploded in a hail of sparks, knocking the beast sideways. It rolled through the snow and came back onto its claws, yowling with rage.
He drew back his bowstring, centering his aim on one of its burning red eyes.
And then it was gone.
Ourea cried out.
He spun in time to see the beast swipe at her, its claws engulfed in a vortex of fire. She flung herself back in a dive, the flames catching her clothes and the cords of her headdress. Plumes of steam enveloped her as she rolled, the beast pouncing after her.
He planted an arrow in its haunch, lobbying for its attention. Then more between the plates of its carapace and deep into its joints. Snarling, the scorcher whipped towards him, orange fire lashing its body. It stalked forward, growling as it lowered its head, readying for another leap. And beneath the twisted, blown-out metal on its back, he spotted a canister. Gold fluid sloshed inside
The young soldier smiled, remembering an old trick from the red desert.
Swiftly, he nocked another arrow and took aim at the canister's tiny valve.
The scorcher leapt for him, its burning claws raking the air.
And his arrow flew.
There was a sharp tap as the arrowhead struck the valve, and then a shattering boom rocked the ravine. The fiery explosion blew him back off his feet, and he tumbled through the snow. Shards of molten metal pelted him, extinguishing instantly in the freezing air and puddling snow.
He shook his head, trying to clear the bright spots blinding his vision.
Then a raging shadow fell atop him.
Metallic jaws snapped at his head, and he threw up an arm into its throat, fighting desperately against leaking hydraulics and warped steel as he fumbled for his dagger. He ripped the blade from its sheath and jammed it into shimmering muscle and slashed at its wiring.
The scorcher roared, its shrieking fury piercing his ears.
He could feel himself sinking. Slushy snow splashed over his face. It swept into his mouth and poured down his nose. He coughed and sputtered, struggling breathe.
Red eyes glared down at him, as cruel as they were impersonal.
And a loud pop split the air.
One of its eyes turned black, its lens shattered by an arrow. The other followed, its bright glow flickering until it, too, was in shadow.
The scorcher crumpled, falling onto its side.
He rolled away from it, and the air filling his lungs never felt lighter. When he looked up, an offered hand met him.
Ourea stood over him, smiling gently. "It's over. We won. The scorcher is dead."
He smiled warmly in return, reaching out for her hand, and said, "Sadly, yes."
Then he planted the activated shock ammunition into her palm.
Electricity ripped through her, sending her body spasming with convulsions. She tipped over into the snow, kicking and flailing, her expression a mix of pain and confusion. And perhaps, betrayal.
He knelt over her, his expression still exuding warmth.
"You think of me as a feathered Banuk," he said as he began to loosen a coil of rope from his belt, "But there's a problem with that. I don't like hunting machines, and it's not because they aren't dangerous or a challenge. If this last battle proves anything, it's that. No, it's because they don't understand what it means to die. They don't understand the loss when it comes to ceasing to exist, because they're not actually alive to begin with. There's no spirit inside them. No life. Nothing sacred to commune with. They exist only for their purpose."
His gaze rose to the empty eyes of the scorcher.
"And that," he sighed, "Hits a little too close to home for me."