Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was the tail end of a cold autumn morning in the wilderness around Mother’s Heart. A fitful wind soughed between the leafless trees and rustled the evergreens. Snow tumbled out of the gray sky, falling in loose clumps which melted as soon as they hit the ground.

And in a stand of tall grass growing along the ragged border of the nearby forest, a rabbit was nibbling on something green, completely unaware of approaching danger.

Vala stalked quietly through the tussocks, only moving when gusts shook the yellowing stalks around her. She stopped the moment she judged herself within range, then stood up from her crouch and raised her bow in one smooth motion. She sighted down the shaft on the creature. She was downwind, and it didn’t see her.

An easy shot.

She pulled the bowstring back to her chin, feeling it strain at her gloved fingers, and breathed out a billowing cloud into the frosty air . . .

A distant scream broke the morning stillness.

Vala froze as the sound briefly reverberated against the surrounding hills and then faded to nothing.

The rabbit was far less circumspect and bolted for the forest edge.

It was safely among the trees before Vala could react, though she almost loosed in its direction anyway, if only out of irritation. Instead she lowered the bow, hissing between her teeth, and turned to her brother, who was crouched in the grass a few feet behind her.

Their eyes met, and Varl held out a hand, palm up, and raised his eyebrows, indicating he had no idea what’d happened either. Vala shrugged, then turned back towards the scream.

While she wasn’t entirely certain, it’d seemed to come from the same direction the rabbit had fled—deeper into the woods to the southeast, away from Mother’s Heart. She stood there for a minute, scrutinizing the mottled shadows and frost encrusted bracken of the forest floor.

“I’m going to check it out,” she said, keeping her voice low and her eyes fixed ahead.

“And what if it’s a machine?” said Varl.

“It didn’t sound like a machine. It sounded like a person.”

“Sometimes it can be difficult to tell.”

“You’re the one who’s a Brave,” said Vala, wryly. “Shouldn’t you know these things?”

She heard Varl grumbling and smiled.

“Like I told you, sometimes it’s hard to know. The devils have many tricks. This might be one I haven’t seen yet.”

“Well, I’m going.” Vala glanced over her shoulder at him. “You can come with me or not.”

Varl raised his gaze skyward, as though asking the Goddess to grant him an extra measure of patience for dealing with headstrong sisters. “So be it,” he said, glaring at Vala. “But I won’t be explaining this to Mother if it goes wrong.”

“Agreed,” said Vala. She returned the arrow to the quiver at her waist. “I’ll make all the excuses, if any are required. Just like normal.”

And Mother will ignore me and give you all the trouble for not being the responsible one, Vala thought, but did not say.

She strode off quickly, hoping to forestall any further objections. Varl hurried after her and caught up at the transition between grassy meadow and woodland. There they exchanged a brief look between them—Varl’s expression was a mixture of bemusement and resigned acceptance that Vala knew very well, having been one of the primary inspirations for it over much of their lives. She smirked.

Then together they moved on between the tree trunks.

Apart from the crunch of their boots in the fallen leaves and the wind shaking the vegetation, it was eerily quiet. At this time of year there were few, if any, noisy insects remaining, but the treetops were devoid of birdsong as well. In response, Vala felt compelled to keep silent, and Varl followed her lead.

They required no communication as they walked side by side, each of them keeping watch on half of the forested horizon. It wasn’t any different than hundreds of practice hunts they’d done together while preparing for the Proving. By now they knew each other’s habits very well and working together was second nature.

And as on most of those hunts, Varl soon edged out slightly ahead. Vala spared him a quick glance. Despite his earlier reluctance, he was holding his spear over his shoulder with an easy confidence that suggested he wasn’t too worried.

Vala wasn’t worried either—not about machines anyway. The two of them had hunted many of those together as well, and always successfully. Instead she was preoccupied with the source of that shriek. It hadn’t been a pleasant sound. There had been harmonics of pain there—she was sure of it.

Someone was out here—a person, most likely hurt, perhaps dying. And whomever it might be, it was not a good day to be stranded in the wilder parts of the Embrace. There were darker clouds bunched up above the mountains to the west, and the flurries would likely turn into a blizzard before the end of the day. Even uninjured and with the proper gear for it, surviving without shelter would be at the whims of the Goddess.

Vala frowned at the thought and tightened her grip on her bow.

Ahead, the forest floor sloped downward and the land on either side gradually rose up to make a small valley. The siblings hiked down through underbrush and vast green stands of fir, pine, and spruce shot through with bare white-trunked aspens. Patches of cottonwoods and poplars clustered near a small stream which traced out the valley floor.

There was still no sign of animals, not even birds. The forest remained hushed around them.

They were just reaching a grove of aspens arrayed at the bottom of the valley when Vala heard a soft noise, barely audible above their footsteps. They both stood still while they listened.

It sounded like whimpering, and the air carried a faint acrid scent—the smell of a damaged machine.

Vala pointed at a tendril of smoke curling around a fir tree near the edge of the aspens. She pulled an arrow from her quiver and notched it as Varl took a two-handed grip on his spear, his movements smooth and silent.

“You take the left side,” he whispered, and then stalked away towards the smoke, choosing his steps more carefully now to avoid the drifts of fallen yellow leaves and other forest debris.

Nodding to herself, Vala did the same. And she felt the tension of the approach like a chill in her veins as she padded her way across the tangle of wilting ferns and gaunt bushes and twining, prickly brambles.

It was impossible not to make some noise. The trick was to avoid making the sort of sudden and unnatural sounds which might draw attention. She considered herself pretty good at it, but to her perpetual irritation Varl was better. Though she could still see him out of the corner of her eye, so far as her ears were concerned he had disappeared.

She marveled at this, briefly, and then her boot slipped on a mossy stone. She wobbled, nearly losing her balance, and her foot ended up in some aspen leaves. The resulting crackle earned a sharp glance from her brother.

She smiled sheepishly under his reproachful gaze.

Among the first things the Nora taught young hunters was to always be aware of, in the words of her mother, “your own damn feet.” A single misstep could not only ruin a hunt but deprive the hunter of limb or even life.

And it was precisely the sort of mistake which might cost her a victory when she ran in the Proving in a few days.

Focus, she told herself, and took a slow, quelling breath before she went on.

As she neared the fir, the caustic smell grew stronger. She began to hear pops and hisses, along with more whimpering and, closer to the edge of the grove, ragged breathing. The forest was marked by signs of battle everywhere she looked—broken branches, trampled underbrush, churned up soil.

Beneath her heavy coat, the hairs rose on Vala’s neck.

Then, in a shallow gully, she spotted the machine.

Its corpse was laid out at the end of a blackened furrow carved into the ground by its dying struggles, sparking and spewing foul smoke from half a dozen jagged holes punched in its metallic skin. A hunting spear impaled its side behind one of its forelegs.

There was obviously no life left in it, no unnatural light to illuminate its eyes, and Vala was glad of it.

It reminded her of a Sawtooth, all hulking feline menace wrought in plastic and metal, big enough to fill the first floor of a lodge house. But this wasn’t a type she recognized. It was sleeker than a Sawtooth and, if anything, even more dangerous looking.

She hesitated, glanced at Varl. But he was intent on looking about the surrounding trees, watching for signs of other machines, and probably wisely so—they were seldom found alone. She left him to it and followed the whisper of pained breathing closer to the dead machine.

The source of the noise turned out to be a young woman. She was hunched against an aspen not far from where the machine fell, and the tree’s knobbly gray bark was smeared with blood above the line of her shoulders. A hunter’s bow lay on the ground close by, a match for the spear stuck in the machine—both well made in the Nora style, and both very well used.

Vala approached warily, putting a bit of tension on her bowstring. Then as she got closer she saw the agony contorting the girl’s face, and the way her hands were clasped against her stomach and blood was gushing up between her fingers, and the bowstring slid from Vala’s grip.

She knelt down on the muddy half frozen ground next to the girl, who blinked and gave her a glassy-eyed stare.

She looked to be about Vala’s age and was wearing Nora clothes, yet Vala was sure she’d never seen her before. It would be hard to forget that hair. The girl had long, full, and above all very red hair, tangled and twisted into braids, flowing over her shoulders and down her back.

As Vala looked her over, the girl’s mouth kept opening and closing. But either no words came out or they were too quiet to be heard over her wheezing moans. She had no coat to shield her against the cold—her lips were colorless, her face and arms as pale as the snowflakes still looping and twirling in the frigid sky.

There was blood everywhere.

“Who are you?” whispered Vala, more to herself than to the girl. It was obvious there would be no answer. She put down her own bow and reached for the girl’s shoulder—

“Wait!” Varl hissed.

In an instant Vala had her bow back in her hand again and rose to her feet, fingers already curled around the notched arrow. From the alarm in her brother’s voice she thought perhaps he’d spotted another machine. “What is it?” she said, her gaze darting back and forth before settling on Varl.

There didn’t seem to be anything amiss, and he was staring directly at her as he stalked closer, a concerned frown on his face. “She’s an outcast,” he said sternly. “You mustn’t touch her.”

Vala frowned and glanced back at the girl. “How do you know? I don’t think I’ve ever seen her before.”

“I have. She lives with her father on the slopes west of Mother’s Heart, I think.” He stopped near Vala, clutching his spear uneasily, and shifted on his feet. “I see her going through the Cradle sometimes.”

Something about his manner suggested to Vala that he knew more than he was saying, which she noted with curiosity. But now wasn’t the time for it. The girl’s breathing was getting weaker. Vala scowled at him. “We should, what, then? Let her die?”

“You know the law. It . . . doesn’t matter what we want.”

“No,” she said flatly. “You can do as you wish. I won’t stand by.”

While Varl watched, open-mouthed, Vala turned away, returned the arrow to her quiver, and leaned her bow against the tree. Then she got down on both knees, sitting on her haunches next to the girl, and drew her knife.

The moment she raised the glittering blade the girl’s green eyes went wide and her breathing turned to panicked gasps. She tried to roll over and uttered a sound like a growl as one of her bloodied hands scrabbled for her bow.

Still trying to fight, Vala thought, and smiled affectionately. You had to admire such ferocity. “Relax,” she said, and laid a gentle hand on the girl’s arm. “This isn’t for you. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Behind her Varl let out a frustrated sigh.

Vala held the girl’s gaze, hoping to calm her. It seemed to be working. Her breathing had eased up. “Do you know her name, at least?”

“No. I never heard it.”

“Fine. Go make yourself useful then and pull her spear out of that machine. We’ll need it to make a stretcher.”

“And what will you do if a Matriarch or, Goddess help us, Mother finds out about this?”

“We two are the only ones who have to know,” said Vala, briefly turning her head to give her brother a cheeky smile. “Unless you plan to tell?”

“Ugh,” he groaned, rolling his eyes. “You’ll be the death of me.”

Vala scoffed. “You wouldn’t be that lucky. Now get the spear.”

Muttering imprecations against siblings under his breath, he strode off. Vala shook her head and, still smiling, moved the girl’s hand back to her wounded belly. “Keep pressure on, if you can,” she said.

The girl did as asked, though weakly. Her eyes had gone unfocused again and she was struggling to keep them open. She didn’t look as if she was going to last much longer.

Vala quickly hiked up her heavy jacket and the tunic beneath it, holding both under her chin, and pulled out her undershirt. With goosebumps tingling on her skin at the rush of frigid air, she stretched the fabric taut and used her knife to cut a long slice just below her chest. Two more quick vertical cuts and she had a large linen square, which she began folding up into a bandage as her jacket slipped back down.

She leaned over the girl. “Move your hands aside.”

They didn’t so much move as go limp and slip down, revealing a mass of blood-soaked fabric.

Like most Nora—including outcasts—the girl wore several layers of clothing, and it took Vala a few extra precious seconds to tug off her gloves and pick through the mess. Once she’d peeled back the fabric enough, she found an ugly jagged wound torn from slightly above the girl’s hip on one side, across under her bellybutton, and curling up to end underneath her ribs on the other side.

It was not a pleasant sight, as it gushed washes of crimson blood over the girl’s pale skin. Vala winced. But there were no guts poking out, which was an encouraging sign, if only the bleeding could be stopped. She tucked the makeshift bandage under the layers of shirts, working from one end to the other, the girl groaning softly as Vala’s fingers pressed against the wound, until it was well packed in.

“I need something to bind it down,” muttered Vala, casting her gaze about. There was some rope hanging from the girl’s hip, but they’d probably need that for the stretcher. Perhaps a bowstring—

“B—” breathed the girl, in a voice so faint Vala almost didn’t hear it. “Belt.”

Her hand was pawing at the leather skirt she wore on top of her trousers. The upper edge of the skirt was folded over, and Vala turned it up, uncovering a roughly worked strip of boar’s leather tied beneath. Like the rest of the girl’s clothing, it was a thoroughly practical object without all the ornate finery Vala was accustomed to seeing on Nora.

She paused a moment, frowning, fingering the leather knot thoughtfully.

How long had this girl been shunned, that all her things looked made in the wilds? What could she have possibly done? And Varl had mentioned something about her father . . . But she shook off the speculation—plenty of time for that later.

She untied the belt and pulled it free, letting the attached quiver and various pouches drop onto the ground, then carefully worked one end under the small of the girl’s back and up around her middle. After looping that end of the belt over the other, she hesitated, looking down at the sleepy expression on the girl’s face and the flecks of snow dusting her eyelashes.

“I’m sorry,” whispered Vala, and cinched the belt tight.

She’d expected to hear some horrible animal noise, but the actual sound the girl made—a faint helpless cry of agony—was somehow almost worse. Her head slumped forward.

Probably a mercy, Vala mused while she tied off the knot. If the girl lived, she would wake later under better circumstances. If she bled out, her end would come peacefully in her sleep. There were worse ways to die.

Far worse.

When Vala was satisfied the belt would hold, she sat back and blew out a long steaming breath. In the quiet that followed, and without knowing quite why, she reached out and stroked one of the braids hanging by the girl’s shoulder. A blue gemstone bead, burnished to a fine sheen, hung at the end. Pursing her lips, she held the stone between thumb and forefinger and rolled it back and forth so that it caught the reflection of the gray sky above.

Behind her came the sound of footsteps in the underbrush, and she flinched, letting the braid fall back.

“Storm’s nearly down from the mountains,” said Varl gruffly. “We must get moving, and soon.”

He tossed the girl’s spear down next to Vala, who looked up. The snowfall was indeed heavier now, and the flakes were starting to accumulate on the ground in ominous little drifts. Overhead the aspens creaked in a surging wind.

“She still lives?”

“She does,” said Vala, gathering the loose coils of the girl’s rope. “For now. Her wound needs to be cleaned and stitched.”

“And I suppose you have some idea of where we’re taking her?”

One end of the rope had a small metal grapnel attached. Vala hooked it over the spear’s shaft below the blade and used the rope to wrap it several times. “Back to her home maybe? You said you knew where it is?”

She turned to ask for Varl’s spear, but he was already offering it with a less than pleased glower. She took it, laid it beside the girl’s spear, and began tying them together.

“Only roughly speaking,” said Varl. “I’ve never been there. But I don’t think it matters. It’s at least five miles, uphill the whole way. If it were only us two, we might beat the worst of the storm there. But dragging her with us? No.”

“How about Mother’s Heart then? The roads will save time.”

Varl snorted. “And what? Sneak her in and hope nobody notices we’ve got an outcast with us? At the same time as every Matriarch is there making ready for the Proving?”

“Do you have a better idea?” Vala snapped, and hissed in frustration as her stiff, cold-swollen fingers lost their grip on the rope. She cupped her hands over her mouth, trying to breathe some warmth back into them. “You’re the Brave. You know the Embrace even better than I do. Tell me where to go.”

“So now you want to listen to me?”

Rubbing her hands together, Vala glared at him. Of course he was cautious—their mother had made sure of it. But she’d never known him to be cruel. “Varl, please,” she said. “Whatever she’s done, she’s still a person and she’s dying.”

There was a pause while Varl looked away, scanning the wooded slopes on either side, and Vala felt her heart lurch. Then his expression abruptly softened and his brown eyes darted back to her. “There’s an abandoned shack a mile or two south of here,” he said, crouching down. “Or it was abandoned last time I passed it on patrol anyhow. Either way, it should serve.”

He handed her a few metal struts he’d pulled off the machine, perfect to brace the middle and ends of the stretcher. Vala accepted them gratefully and gave him a smile. “Thank you.”

“I’m sure I’m going to regret this,” he said dryly. “Sooner or later.”

“What fun would we ever have if I listened to you all the time?”

“It’s not fun I’m worried about.”

Vala tied on the struts using the last lengths of the rope, then surveyed her handiwork. The frame would probably be sturdy enough to hold the girl, who didn’t look all that heavy. It just needed a bed. She started to pull off her jacket, only to have Varl grab her shoulder.

“No, use my cloak instead. You’ll need that when the storm gets here.”

Without waiting for an answer, he unfastened the garment from his shoulder, spread it wide, and laid it across the frame. Vala was happy to let him. It was already so cold that the wind was lashing her face, and the sooner she got her hands back in her gloves the better.

They tied the cloak on together, each taking a side. The extra fabric in the middle was wrapped around the rope along both sides of the frame and pulled as taut as they could get it. It was a heavy canvas weave, the thread spun from goat wool and absurdly strong. There was no chance of it tearing.

Once they were done, Vala sheathed her knife and stood up right as a strong gust sent her loose hair streaming and made her gasp. For a few seconds the world was a swirling, roaring churn of snowflakes, dead leaves, and other bits of detritus. She shielded her face with a hand, squinting her watering eyes.

Between her fingers, the slivers of western sky visible beyond the forest canopy showed black clouds overtaking the gray.

She turned to Varl, who was brushing some debris out of the tangle of braids atop his head. “Help me get her on,” she said, jerking her head towards the girl.

“If that wound is deep, we probably shouldn’t try lifting her,” he said, while Vala went to the girl’s side.

“Roll her onto it then?”

“Sure.”

And that way you don’t have to touch her either, Vala thought, amused in spite of herself. She stepped over the girl’s legs, knelt beside her, and slowly, gingerly rolled her onto her side.

The girl stirred, a pained expression crossing her face, but didn’t open her eyes.

Varl wedged the stretcher under her, and Vala gently eased her back down, keeping a firm hold on both shoulder and hip so there would be no sudden lurch. Then she swept up all of the wayward red hair and pillowed it under the girl’s head, which had turned enough to show a small silvery triangle clinging to her right cheek near the front of her ear.

At first it looked like some kind of earring, but when Vala brushed aside a few unruly red strands and peered closer, the triangle showed a bisecting stripe glowing steadily with an uncanny light she knew very well.

An artifact of the Old Ones.

She jerked her hand away, wondering again who this girl might be. Was this why she was shunned? Trespassing in ruins of the Metal World? Taking relics from them?

Whatever the case, she knew if Varl saw it that he’d probably insist on leaving the girl to die, and Vala was tired of arguing. If helping meant she was cursed then she was already cursed. Letting the girl perish now would only compound the crime.

“All-Mother protect me,” she whispered under her breath, and plucked at the unholy thing. It gave only a slight resistance before it came off in her grasp. She furtively checked whether Varl had noticed and, seeing he hadn’t, tucked the device in her belt pouch.

The temptation to throw it away was overwhelming. But she didn’t. It was her responsibility now, not something to be carelessly tossed aside.

“Let’s go,” said Varl. “I don’t want to be trying to find that shack in a blizzard.”

Vala blinked, nodded. Moving quickly, she piled the girl’s quiver, pouches, and bow on the stretcher between the girl’s legs. “You can take my bow, if you like,” she said, pulling on her gloves.

But he tossed her the weapon. “You’re better with it than I am. Besides, I don’t think we’re likely to run into more trouble. Everyone with sense has taken shelter hours ago.”

As though to underscore his words, the wind picked up, howling and setting the aspens rocking wildly. And this time it didn’t die down again. Vala slung the bow across her back and stooped to grab the back end of the stretcher. Varl took up the other, got his bearings, and struck out in a southernly direction, head bowed against the wind-driven clouds of falling snow.

Any other day and Vala would’ve been pleased with her brother’s compliment, but as they trudged off into the white-veiled trees, with that foul relic at her side, the only thing she could think about was whether or not she’d made a mistake.

For all that this outcast was intriguing, for all that Vala was sure she was doing the right thing, she couldn’t shake off her misgivings. It was too much like the feeling she got when she loosed an arrow and knew, from the moment it left the string, that it would fall exactly where she didn’t want it to go.

Chapter Text

Varl led them down towards the mouth of the small valley, following the dry stream bed as it cut its way out into the wider Embrace.

It was easy going at first. The hills on either side sheltered them from the worst of the wind, and the outcast girl hardly weighed anything. They covered over a mile, judging from the trail marks tied around several of the trees they passed. And by the time they were nearing the valley’s end, Vala found herself nursing the faint hope that they might slip through and find the shack before the storm caught up with them.

It seemed possible. There couldn’t be much more than half a mile left to go. At their current pace, they only needed the weather to hold for a little longer.

She was almost convinced.

But as the hills began to fall away, she took a glance over her shoulder and saw the storm had fully broken over the mountains and was crashing down the slopes behind them like a vast nightmare avalanche. Nothing without wings was going to be able to outrun it. Even with wings, she wouldn’t have taken a bet on their chances.

No wonder the forest had been so quiet earlier. Varl had been right—every creature with sense had fled.

“We need to hurry!” she shouted, trying not to sound panicked.

“I know!” Varl shouted back. “It’s not far!”

He plunged on ahead, sending water-worn stones tumbling along at his feet. Vala fought to keep her balance as she went after him.

They made it another hundred yards or so, and then the storm was on them.

The wind built to a shriek. The trees groaned. A churning white wall engulfed them, swept past, and swallowed the forest, ground and sky merging into one seamless, blinding whole.

Vala had time to utter a curse, and then there was no sound but the tempest, which grew and grew until the entire world seemed to be windblown snow and nothing else. She staggered under the onslaught, almost losing her grip on the makeshift stretcher.

“How much farther?” she yelled, but the wind ripped the words away. She couldn’t tell if Varl heard, and he didn’t give any sign, only kept moving forward. She had no choice except to keep up and pray he knew where he was going.

They stumbled on together into snow thick as fog. Shadows of trees loomed up suddenly and then just as quickly disappeared. One of them—a giant old cottonwood—gave a great crack as they passed, and a huge leafless branch tore away from the trunk and whipped past overhead, almost close enough to touch, before disappearing into the tumult.

It wasn’t clear what path they were following now, if any. Nothing made sense inside the maelstrom, and Vala had lost all sense of direction. She wasn’t certain if there were still rocks beneath her feet, and when she looked down, she could barely see her feet. She kept her head down, struggling to breathe, and desperately wished she’d pulled her hood up earlier, when her hands had still been free.

As it was, she didn’t dare let go of either spear, not even for an instant. She clung to them, fighting against the tearing wind, and began muttering the words of the old traveler’s blessing between her gasps.

“See . . . my steps . . . All-Mother . . . remember . . .”

She’d gotten about halfway through it when the stretcher unexpectedly jerked to a halt. The nearest metal brace scraped painfully up her thighs and jammed into her hips. She wavered, almost tipped over. She felt Varl push back against her, and it was just enough to let her steady herself.

He’d stopped. Why had he stopped? Several possibilities leapt to mind, none of them good.

She raised her head to look for him and was terrified to realize she could barely make him out through her squinted eyes—a dark shape half cloaked in white and nothing more. She screamed at him. He didn’t even turn his head. She tried again, gritting her teeth against the awful cold. Her ears burned. So did her nose.

There was no answer.

Varl stood there for a long time. His shape seemed to twist and turn, though whether it was a trick of the churning snow or his own movement was impossible to discern. Then he slowly let down his end of the stretcher. Vala did the same, and watched as he worked his way around to her end in short, careful steps. He leaned close. “I need to check the marks!”

He was shouting. She could see that much. But what she heard was hardly a whisper over the shrieking wind. “Stay here!” he added, pointing at the ground for emphasis.

She nodded, slapped his shoulder twice in response. He frowned at her, reaching over with both hands, and pulled up her hood. Before she could muster a reply, he patted her arm and turned away. A harsh gust made him stagger, dragging his braids to and fro, and he hesitated a moment. Then strode off.

And vanished.

The storm swallowed him up, as though he’d never been there at all.

Vala hunkered down to squat on her heels, hugging herself and staring at the place where her brother had been. Let him be safe, she thought. Please Goddess, let him find his way. Or my mother will kill me.

She tugged her hood down tight, drawing it closed over her mouth, and waited.

At least her ears no longer felt like they were being slowly peeled off the side of her head, which was an improvement. And the outcast girl was—Vala craned her neck to look—hopefully still breathing. There was no way to be sure, especially since she was now caked in snow. Aside from a few strands blowing loose, her red hair had all but disappeared under the white.

“You stay alive too,” Vala told her, for what good it might do.

They needed to get moving again. The longer they took out here, the more likely the girl would freeze to death. The wind was cutting through Vala’s heavy coat, and she could only imagine what it was doing to someone who didn’t even have that meager protection.

She silently urged Varl to hurry.

Then another sharp, splintering crack pierced the howling wind, followed by a crash. Vala flinched.

A whole tree going down, she guessed. A big one. And not far away either, otherwise she wouldn’t have been able to hear it over the storm. But there was nothing to see around her other than the faint gaps dancing between roiling clouds, visible one moment and gone the next. They merged and split, skittered across the ground, rose up and crashed back down again.

She watched them, catching glimpses of things that could’ve been fallen trees, or ridges of drifting snow, or passing machines. Her only comfort was that she saw no lights—no telltale machine glow.

But there was also no sign of Varl.

What was keeping him out there? How long was she meant to wait? She wasn’t even certain how much time had passed since he’d left, and she was on the verge of getting up and testing how well she could drag the stretcher alone when she spotted a shadow which stuck solid in the blinding eddies of driven snow.

She stood, just in case, and reached for her knife, eyes fixed on the wavering form. At first it appeared to move away, growing faint and almost disappearing, until it abruptly turned and looped around to her right side. Then it stopped, turned again, and headed straight for her.

She gripped the knife’s handle as tight as she could through her thick gloves.

Up close the shadow gathered itself into a figure, and the figure became Varl, who emerged from a thick veil of snow with an arm raised to cover his face. He trudged over to the stretcher.

Vala laughed. The relief she felt nearly made her forget about the cold. Except for her nose. Her nose really hurt. “What took you so long?” she yelled, once she judged him near enough to hear.

He gave her a weary look and shook his head while swiping a gloved hand dismissively across his mouth. She laughed again. “Let’s go!” he bellowed, taking his place at the front of the stretcher.

Encouraged by his impatience, she grabbed her end, and they lurched into motion again.

But this time, rather than holding to their previous course, Varl instead swerved off and went back over the fresh bootprints he’d just left in the fallen snow. From there he charged ahead without the slightest hesitation, moving faster than Vala expected, half dragging her behind him in his haste.

She hung on doggedly, gulping lungfuls of icy air. Snowflakes stung her eyes. She didn’t understand how he could even see his way, yet somehow they were finding a path through the murk.

Soon enough the more open area near the stream, where the only landmarks had been the occasional tree, gave way to denser forest. A scattering of small, leafless trees passed on their right, stark black against the white background, followed by a hedge of snow-covered shrubs pressed down into a low mound. They veered away from the end of the mound, then drove headlong up what turned out to be a shallow rise.

And both of them nearly tripped as they came over the top.

Varl lost his footing trying to compensate and fell to one knee as the stretcher dipped and twisted to the left. Vala lunged forward, pushing down hard on the other side of the stretcher to keep it from tipping over.

Her knees hit the ground.

The outcast girl didn’t. Barely.

She slid to a stop along the edge of the stretcher, her arm dangling over the side. The jolt knocked most of the caked snow off her. One of her pouches went tumbling away. Vala snatched at it but missed.

Where it landed, she couldn’t tell, and there wasn’t going to be a chance to search. She heard Varl growl something profane as he awkwardly got back to his feet. She was forced to struggle up after him, her knees already protesting, then jerked forward again. Despite the close call, her brother didn’t seem interested in a more cautious pace.

As long as he knows where he’s going, she told herself, though it was hard not to imagine what other invisible obstacles might be lurking out there under the snow. She’d once broken an ankle on a hunt, and didn’t particularly want to relive the experience, much less during a blizzard.

Not to mention that it would cost her a chance to run in the Proving this year.

But they plowed onward regardless, and before long the white clouds stirring in front of them took on a darker cast, filling with huge shadows. Suddenly there were trees pressing close on all sides—thick conifers, draped in snow. The wind dropped an octave and lost the keenness of its cutting edge. The air was less turbid here, and Vala blinked her vision clear.

Now that she could see better, it became immediately apparent why Varl had been in such a hurry. Ahead of them lay a barely discernible furrow in the snow—the remnants of the path he’d cut for them on his way back. If they’d been any slower, the storm would’ve erased it long before they’d gotten this far.

She couldn’t decide whether she was proud of him for being so clever or jealous that she hadn’t thought of it first.

Both, probably.

Varl quickly followed what was left of the track, wending through the tight knit trees. Along the way he brushed past a particularly heavy branch, which swung back and thwacked Vala across the chest. She faltered, losing half a step as she spat out a mouthful of icy snow and tried to shake the rest out of her hood.

Then, before she could fully recover, the trees were gone again. The wind roared back to full intensity. It lashed at her face, and she ducked her head, the cold biting her cheeks.

There was a brief moment where everything was a white void again, and she felt dizzy, as if they’d run off the side of a cliff and were falling into nothingness. But Varl slowed under the same assault, and the feeling passed. And when she managed to open her eyes again, she saw the snow part around a gray shape off to their left—a very regular shape, its edges far too straight to be natural.

Varl must’ve seen it as well, because he turned in that direction. And the nearer they got, the more distinct it became. Not as high as the trees but much wider. A wall. Stacked logs, looped with ropes. A roof curving down from overhead.

A roof! Vala had never thought seeing a building could make her so happy.

She staggered along behind Varl up to the cabin’s nearest wall, then together they ducked under the eaves. A few wind-bent young conifers, presumably outgrowths from the dense grove they’d left behind, had grown up near the foundation, and between them and the wall there was a half sheltered space.

She sagged against the rough-hewn logs, her chest heaving as she fought to catch her breath. The tip of her bow scraped against the wood, and she realized in the chaos she’d forgotten it was on her back.

“Come on . . . have to get . . . inside,” said Varl, sounding equally as winded.

“Right,” Vala murmured. She pushed herself off the wall. “Right,” she repeated, louder.

They found a door around the corner, up two treacherous steps and under a small open porch. Varl managed to work the sliding latch with an elbow and shouldered his way inside. With the door open, the interior was lit well enough to show a single windowless room built around a metal stove. Apart from a half collapsed table lying along the back wall, there was no furniture. It was drafty and cold and smelled fusty and moss was growing on the walls.

“All-Mother be praised,” Vala breathed. Her heart felt fit to pound right out through her ribs.

“Next to the stove?” said Varl.

“Yes.”

As soon as the stretcher was safely on the floorboards, Vala knelt down and brushed away the snow which had collected around the outcast girl’s body. Then she tugged off one of her gloves and gently laid her bare hand over the girl’s mouth. Her lips were so cold to the touch that Vala winced, bracing herself for the worst . . .

And a slight warmth tickled her palm. It was too faint to be very reassuring but better than she’d feared.

Much better.

“Is she—” Varl began. He’d gone back and wedged the door open so they would have light.

“Alive,” said Vala. She glanced over at her brother, who looked rather like he was more annoyed than pleased by the news. “Oh, stop making that face.”

“I was just wondering . . . whether this was the fun you were talking about earlier.”

Vala rolled her eyes and managed half a smile. “We need a fire,” she said, turning back to the stretcher. She felt around the girl’s wound, careful not to press too hard, and her hand came back only slightly bloodied, which meant the poor thing probably wasn’t going to bleed to death yet either. Good. Vala got up, wiping her hand on the hem of her coat. “I’ll check the flue. You get fuel.”

“You think we’ll need that table? I’d rather not go back out right now.”

“So long as it burns, I don’t care.”

Despite its battered appearance, Vala found nothing wrong with the stove, and Varl had no trouble stomping the already crumbling table into usable pieces. He brought the scraps over, arranged them inside the stove’s open mouth, fished out his flint and a blaze flask from a pouch under his jacket, and a few seconds later there were flames crackling merrily behind the grate set in the stove’s door.

Vala, meanwhile, retrieved her brother’s sword from the floor, where it’d been serving as a makeshift doorstop, and wrestled the cabin door shut. Immediately a meager, flickering light replaced the harsh white glare from the doorway, sending shadows splaying out across the walls. The air gradually filled with the overriding scent of burning wood, underlaid by a faint bitter tang from the blaze.

Breathing in that most welcome smell, Vala returned the sword to her brother, who had plopped down near the fire, and then chose a spot for herself closer to the stretcher. She sank down and sat hunched over with her elbows propped on her aching knees, soaking up the heat, the clench about her lungs finally easing up.

She lingered there, not wanting to move ever again, while the blizzard howled outside.

It was almost pleasant now that they were closed inside—the huge voice dulled somewhat, distant, reaching close as mere whispers hissing through gaps in the cabin’s walls. She was glad to be out of it. Storms like these might take an hour to blow themselves out or they might take all day—better to find out which indoors.

Shame the cabin’s previous occupants hadn’t left a bed though. She could’ve used a nap.

Stifling a yawn, she looked to Varl, but he seemed absorbed in staring into the fire, his expression guarded, difficult to interpret. She suspected he was angry with her. He usually was, after she’d dragged him into trouble. And she couldn’t blame him. It was always his fault, after all, even when it wasn’t. Even when she knew it wasn’t.

She touched her belt pouch absentmindedly and looked away, then let her gaze settle on the girl lying next to her, watched her for a while instead. She took some comfort in being able to see the steady rise and fall of her chest, the way her head stirred occasionally. But less so at the dark patches staining the improvised bandage around her waist.

“And what am I going to do with you?” Vala whispered to herself.

The question only added to her exhaustion as she turned it over in her head.

What could she do?

Keep the girl where she was, probably. And get supplies. The girl needed fresh bandages. She needed medicine to stave off infection. And she needed them soon. Wounds like hers went bad so easily if they weren’t treated properly.

And after that, well . . . Vala had no idea. She figured she could look after the girl for a couple days by herself without much trouble, at least until the night before the Proving. But who was going to take over for her after that? Varl certainly wouldn’t, and she couldn’t think of anyone else in the tribe she trusted enough to ask.

So . . . perhaps someone not in the tribe? Maybe the girl’s father? If she could risk leaving her alone long enough to find him?

And then there was the troubling possibility that none of it would matter anyway, because without a healer the girl might not even live that long.

Goddess, what a mess.

Vala leaned forward, resting her forehead on her crossed arms. She took a long, shuddering breath, held it for a moment, then let it out again slowly. She tried to think. But her thoughts felt sluggish, and she’d been in the warmth long enough for her cheeks to have begun throbbing along with her knees. Nothing came to mind.

Except, of course, for the obvious.

It was, annoyingly enough, something her mother was always telling her, another one of her sayings. How did it go again? Oh yes—don’t go chasing down new problems when you’ve got plenty in front of you already. Or something to that effect. The exact wording escaped her, but the intended lesson was clear.

“Varl?” she said.

“Huh?” he answered faintly, like he’d been distracted from his own brooding.

“You feel up to fetching a watchtower cache for me?”

There was a soft hiss of metal dragged across leather as Varl sheathed his sword. He rolled over onto his feet, grumbling the whole way. “I can’t,” he said.

Raising her head, Vala frowned at him. “What?”

“I mean, I can find one, sure, but I can’t stay here any longer. The wind’s already dropping off—” Varl pointed vaguely upwards—“and I should get back before we’re missed. You know how Mother is. She’ll have a search party out looking for us the moment she realizes we didn’t make it back. She’ll probably lead it herself.”

He paused a moment, then went on with a tilt of his head towards the stretcher, “And if she find us here, with her . . .”

Vala sat up straight and swore under her breath. Devils above. She’d been so preoccupied with the outcast girl, the possibility hadn’t even occurred to her. She blinked slowly a few times, glancing to the girl and back again, suddenly uncertain. It wasn’t hard for her to imagine her mother’s reaction.

“Will it make any difference?” she said finally. “So we get yelled at. So what?”

“Yelled at? Is that—” Varl began, then stopped himself. He gave her a hard stare. “What exactly do you imagine will happen if the Matriarchs hear about this? Because Mother will tell them. You know she will.”

That hadn’t occurred to Vala either, but she dismissed it with a toss of her head. “Come on. They’re not going to shun me because I helped someone.”

“She’s not someone. She’s an outcast. The law says—”

Vala made a frustrated noise. “I know what it says, Varl. And I know it also says her life still has value. How would letting her die now be any different from murdering her myself?”

Nothing about Varl’s expression changed. “It is different. You know it’s different.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“And you think you can convince the Matriarchs you know the law better than they do?”

“Teersa would listen,” said Vala, looking down at her hands.

“But Lansra wouldn’t. And Jezza . . . I don’t know. I wouldn’t stake a year on it.”

“A year?”

“At least.”

Vala bit her lip and rubbed angrily at her face. The prickling was driving her mad. Worse, she knew her brother was right. She still didn’t believe they would go so far as to shun her, but it would be trouble. And Mother would hold him responsible, because she always did.

She met Varl’s stare, and nodded reluctantly. “Will you be all right out there?”

“I will,” he said, with a confidence that Vala wasn’t quite sure she trusted. “What do you want me to tell Mother?”

“I don’t know. What’s the closest village? The Hands? Tell her I’m waiting out the storm there. It’s not far, so it’s not exactly a lie.”

Varl snorted, shaking his head. His mouth opened and then snapped closed, as though he wanted to say something further but decided against it, whatever it was.

Vala thought she could probably guess the shape of it.

She eyed him sourly as he strode over, crouched down beside the stretcher, and began untying the knots along the shaft of his spear. Heaving a sigh, she helped from her side, and when the rope framework was loose enough, he slid the weapon out.

The outcast girl stirred at the motion. Her right arm rolled over into the gap where Varl’s spear had been, showing the rough skin of her palm, the scars on her half curled fingers. The lively firelight made her seem less pale, less still.

For all Varl’s apparent urgency, he hesitated then, looking at the girl.

“You want your cloak back too?” said Vala, unable to keep a touch of bitterness out of her voice.

“No,” Varl answered eventually. He broke from whatever had occupied his attention and stood up. “She can keep it.”

Vala rose with him. Her knees, having gotten used to resting, liked this even less than the last time. Varl started towards the door, and she followed after, wincing, her first several steps stiff and awkward as her knees loosened up.

“Do you still want me to bring back a cache before I go?” he said. “I might be able to risk it.”

They stopped together in front of the door. The heavy latch was still rattling slightly against the wind’s insistent clawing. An icy draft blew up from under the poorly-fitted threshold.

“I don’t know,” said Vala, tucking her bare hands inside her sleeves. “Are you going to be able to do that and get back home before dark?”

Varl turned to face her. The butt of his spear thumped on the floorboards as he leaned against the weapon. “Probably not.”

“Then I’ll get it myself.”

“You won’t have much time. Once the sun goes behind the mountains, it’s as good as set, especially in this weather. So don’t dawdle.”

“I know.”

“There’s a marked trail almost due north from here,” said Varl. “Follow it east, okay? East. That’s the closer tower. And don’t get lost. Even if the storm clears up soon, I won’t be able to come back for a day or two at least. You’re on your own until then.”

His expression was serious, verging on worried, his thick eyebrows knitted together. For that, Vala could almost forgive him the condescension. After all, between the two of them, she was the one who’d memorized the trails first. She put on a confident smirk. “It’s a run in the snow. Won’t be any trouble.”

Then, because she couldn’t help herself, she added, “I’m more worried about you. Mother’ll have you on cookhouse duty for sure.”

“Don’t remind me,” Varl grumbled, his glower softening. “Try not to get yourself killed, will you?”

He reached for the latch, but Vala caught him by the arm. “Wait,” she said. “Before you go, there is something you can still do for me.”

“Oh, what is it?” said Varl, in the weary tone of someone who already knew he wasn’t going to like the answer.

Vala wavered for an instant. But she needed a healer, and there wasn’t enough time to consider every possible option. A name sprang to mind, and she seized on it. “You know Enara, right?”

“Sure,” said Varl, nodding along, clearly impatient. “The healing woman.”

“Right. She has an apprentice, Fia. I think you’ve met her before? Short black hair, brown eyes, kind of . . . intense. Find her for me. Tell her I need her to meet me here after the storm’s passed.”

“You think she’ll come to help an outcast?”

“She’ll come to help me. She—” Vala hesitated, glancing sidelong at the stretcher. “She doesn’t have to know about the girl.”

Varl put a hand to his forehead, ran his fingers back through his braids. There was a distinct sour twist to his mouth.

“It’s not a lie,” said Vala, defensively. “I do need help.”

“You’re going to get her in trouble.”

“That’s her choice to make.”

There was a pause, then Varl said, “And weren’t you two . . .” His voice trailed off as he made a back-and-forth motion with his forefinger extended.

“Don’t even start,” Vala growled.

Varl held up a placating hand. “Fine, fine. But she’s going to be angry when she figures it out.”

“Yeah, I know. Let me worry about that.”

“Well,” said Varl, shaking his head again, grimly amused. “Mother’s always saying the Goddess has a soft spot in her heart for foolish girls. I hope she’s right.”

With that, he opened the door, and a blast of cold air nearly tore it out of his grasp. Vala braced it with her foot as a shower of snowflakes swirled past her and scattered over the cabin floor. Varl pushed by, holding his arm up to shield his eyes from the wind and the sudden, dazzling brilliance.

She risked a quick peek around after him.

Against her expectations, the wind had died down somewhat. The false fog had mostly fallen away, reduced to mere passing clouds stirred among the thick, tumbling flakes. There was a scattering of trees barely visible in the distance, and through her watering eyes she spotted a few aspens mixed in with the pines and firs they’d passed near the cabin, their black knobs marking them out like pale, charcoal stained fingers. They rattled in the wind but no longer groaned.

As for her brother, she only caught glimpse of him before he passed out of view. He was struggling to make much headway in the snow—evidently quite a lot had fallen in the short time they’d been resting—but otherwise he seemed fine. He was carrying his spear propped over his shoulder and moving with that infuriating sense of purpose he often had, as if he knew exactly where he was going, and what he was doing.

And he probably did.

Vala waited there for a while, then ducked back behind the door and shoved it closed. She slid the latch, turned, and stood with her back against the trembling door, a hollow ache welling up in her chest.

Foolish girls, huh?

After a few quiet breaths, Vala wiped her eyes and rubbed her swollen cheeks. The ghostly afterimages of that too bright snow-ridden world slowly faded away, leaving her standing at the edge of the stove’s faint, flickering light, surrounded by shadows. Her hand strayed to her belt pouch. She bit her lip. She tapped the worn leather, made a face, letting her lip slide out from between her teeth. Then, hesitantly, she dug out the relic and held it up in front of her.

The device was eerily warm to the touch, and the light inside it hadn’t died, as she’d half hoped. Instead it pulsed steadily, a slow heartbeat limning her fingers in a sickly blue.

She turned it back and forth, then closed her hand over it and looked at the outcast girl.

Goddess help her, maybe it was true. Maybe she was being a fool—a fool to go against the law, a fool to think she could handle any of this by herself, a fool to risk trusting Fia on a whim when they barely knew each other . . . but it still felt like the right thing to do. The best she could do.

And if she was going to go through with it, she needed to hurry.

The relic went back into her pouch. She would have to get rid of the cursed thing eventually, of course. It was simply too dangerous. One strange machine lured into the Embrace was bad enough, and there was no telling what other horrors it might summon.

“Soft spot,” she hissed, to nobody in particular. “Hah.”

Putting those unpleasant thoughts aside, she threw herself into motion. She collected the remaining scraps of the table, tossed most of them onto the flames, and half closed the flue so they wouldn’t burn too fast. Then she took the bow off her back, unstrung it, stuffed the bowstring inside her quiver, unfastened the quiver from her belt, and set everything down in a pile by the stretcher.

As much as she preferred the bow, it would be useless in this weather. A spear would serve her better.

She eyed the outcast’s weapon and, using a hand to brace herself, awkwardly slid down onto the floor. “Sorry to bother you again,” she whispered, as she reached for the last couple loops of rope holding the spear in place. “But I need to borrow this.”

She’d managed to work both loops slack and had begun untying Varl’s cape when the girl stirred again, her head jerking and her breath hitching like someone about to wake up.

Vala stopped tugging at the knotted corner of the cape and watched in dismay as the girl’s eyelids fluttered. “No,” she whispered. “No. Hey, go back to sleep. You don’t—”

But it was too late. Another quiet, shuddering gasp and then the girl blinked once, twice, her eyes never more than half open. But she was definitely awake now. She looked around, spotted Vala, turned her head in that direction. And even such a small effort seemed to exhaust her. She gave a soft groan between her labored breaths, struggling to keep her eyes from closing.

“Uh, hello,” said Vala, because she felt she had to say something.

At the sound of her voice, the girl’s eyes snapped fully open. She blinked once more and focused on Vala, who couldn’t help but offer a reassuring smile. The poor girl looked so weak, so helpless. And here she was, waking up in an unfamiliar place, with a stranger sitting next to her, and probably damn near out of her mind with pain.

Vala touched the girl’s arm, felt her trembling. “You’re safe,” she said gently. “We took you to a cabin not far from where we found you. And, uh, you don’t seem to be bleeding much anymore. I think you’re gonna live.”

You are going to live, she thought. You are, if I have any say in the matter.

The girl swallowed and her mouth moved, lips pressing together and parting several times without ever quite speaking the word she was obviously trying to say. Transfixed by her hollow stare, it took Vala a while before she understood. “Water?”

There was an almost imperceptible nod in response.

“Right, uh, hold on . . .” said Vala, leaning closer. “I think . . .”

She reached over and started sifting through the girl’s possessions. They were—excepting the lost pouch—still piled haphazardly between the girl’s legs. Vala disentangled the girl’s bow from around one of her boots and put it and the matching quiver aside. Then, with the utmost care, she fished out a small waterskin from beneath the girl’s fur-ruffed gaiters.

“Yeah, here it is.” A quick shake suggested the water inside wasn’t frozen, and she twisted off the stopper.

Abandoning any attempt to spare her knees, she sat up on them, wincing as she did, and dug her fingers into the girl’s hair. She propped the girl’s head up a little, then held the waterskin to her lips.

The girl sputtered but seemed to get some of the water down. The rest trickled down the sides of her chin, pooling in the notch above her collarbone. Vala let her catch her breath.

“You’re lucky you had this,” she said. “I didn’t bring any. Didn’t think we were going to be out this long.”

Another one of her ideas. Another rule broken. Varl hadn’t mentioned that one. In all the excitement, he’d probably forgotten about it. Perhaps that was for the best.

She raised the waterskin again, figuring the girl might want more, but this time her mouth remained stubbornly closed—either sated or, more likely, in the grip of some invisible agony Vala could scarcely imagine. So she eased the girl’s head back onto the floorboards, and then found herself caught there in that awkward bent-over position, with her hand tangled up in soft red wavy locks, puzzling over how best to free it. The last thing she wanted was to add to the girl’s suffering.

Eventually she settled for wriggling her hand out and gave her knuckles a good scraping in the process. Fortunately the girl barely seemed to notice being jostled. She simply stared at Vala, went on staring, like she was afraid to look away or close her eyes.

Vala tried another smile, which just felt that much more insufficient. “I’m sorry I can’t make you more comfortable yet. I’ll bring a bedroll with me when I get back.”

There was a quiet moment as the words sunk in, and then the girl’s breathing went faster. She raised her left hand enough to grab Vala’s forearm. Despite her condition, she had the tenacious grip of someone who'd wielded bow and spear her entire life. Vala couldn’t have pulled away easily, and, seeing panic in the girl’s eyes, she didn’t try. She was surprised the girl was lucid enough to understand.

“I have to go,” she said, softly, unable to look away. “But I’ll return. I promise you I will.”

She waited, but the girl held on with a desperate, shivery strength. Vala sighed. “Look, you’ll die if I don’t get you medicine soon. And I’ll die out there if I don’t leave now. So let go. Please.”

And finally the girl did, however reluctantly. Her fingers went slack and slipped down the sleeve of Vala’s jacket, catching briefly at her elbow before falling away. She let out a soft groan which sounded like pain and dismay in equal measure and which seemed to take the last of her strength with it. Her head slumped over, her eyes closed, finally breaking that desperate gaze, and Vala, suddenly released, flinched.

She quickly felt the girl’s forehead. Warm but not feverish yet. And breathing, still breathing.

For now.

Drawing a breath of her own, Vala capped the waterskin and put it with the girl’s other things, then finished untying the spear and stood up. She took one last look around the cabin while she was pulling her gloves on, saw nothing left to do, and . . . hesitated. The sun was climbing down out of the sky and dragging deadly cold in after it, and she hesitated, staring down at those beads strung in the girl’s hair as they twinkled in the firelight.

She was going to leave her alone in an empty cabin, this strange outcast, Nora yet not Nora, half dead already, no mother’s mark painted on her pale face, no one to speak the right words over her body if she died.

But if there was any other choice, she couldn’t see it.

“I’m sorry,” Vala said, uncertain whether the girl was still awake enough to hear. The cabin walls shuddered in the grip of the same wind she was about to walk out into, drowning out her apology, drowning out anything else she might’ve said.

At least an hour to the nearest watchtower and back. Probably more if the snow really was getting deep. A run in the snow, she told herself, gripping the spear tight.

Then she turned and headed for the door.

Chapter Text

Snow fell. And went on falling.

By the time Vala was in sight of the watchtower, the drifts were reaching the fur trim at the top of her boots. She trudged her way up to the trunk of a gnarled old pine tree and sagged to a stop, bent over, leaning against the outcast’s spear, her gasps clouding the air.

When she’d caught her breath, she lifted her hood and looked up at the squat roof and squared sides of the tower nestled among the treetops, partly obscured behind a tumbling curtain of flakes. Twilight had reduced it to an almost colorless shape, distinct more for its regularity against the tangled branches than anything else.

Half the trek done. And the worst half, at that. Which would’ve been encouraging if it hadn’t so clearly taken longer than she’d planned. There were no shadows to mark the sun’s progress, but the landscape was more gray than white now and the eastern rim of the sky was wearing down towards night.

A very long, very cold night.

She savored one more easy lungful of air, then forced herself to move again, her knees giving dull little jabs of pain with each step. The trail continued on for a few yards until it opened into a small clearing surrounding the tower. Woody shrubs and snow-encrusted ferns gave way to dry remnants of summer grasses poking through the snow in clumps and, nearer the tower's legs, tall patches of reed grass, billowing in the restless breeze.

There was a ladder tucked underneath. Vala left the spear propped against a rung and hauled herself up. As she’d expected, a wooden chest was waiting for her at the top, set against the railings near the hatchway, and she loosed its rope fasteners and flipped it open, silently blessing whoever was responsible for keeping it stocked.

She grabbed what she needed—a healer’s pouch, several food packets, a pair of bedrolls—stuffing it all into a worn old leather pack she’d pulled from the chest. Then she slung the pack over her head and clambered back down, eager to be on her way.

The snow was coming down so thick as she stepped off the ladder that she could only make out a sliver of yellow rope for the closest trail marker and nothing much beyond that, and the soft rustle the flakes made as they settled around her gave her the disconcerting feeling of being inside a giant hourglass.

Slowly filling up. Slowly smothering the world.

And me along with it, she thought, if I don’t keep moving.

Snorting defiantly, she shook her head, scooped up the spear, and set out along her tracks. Within a couple steps she’d fallen back into the same loping run she’d been using since she left the cabin. Her legs felt heavy and her muscles burned with each exaggerated stride, but it covered ground. Right now, that was all that mattered.

And, in truth, she was enjoying herself. Not so much the hunger and exhaustion, but the rest of it—the sheer exertion, the sweat dripping down her sides, her linens sticking to her skin, the simple pleasure of asking her body to do something hard and discovering it could. It was a race against the sun, step by laborious step, and she intended to win. Everything else could wait.

She passed the first marker without slowing, only slightly adjusting her course to avoid a sunken patch of brambles she remembered from earlier. Further ahead the light showed shadowy trees and the second marker, faintly golden in the growing dusk. Nineteen more to go until the turn south.

She ran on.

The ground began to slope downward as she reached the crest of the hill, and the trail meandered through a series of hummocks before resuming its course due west. The slope got steeper. Her pace quickened.

Keeping her strides matched to the footprints became something like a game, and she went as fast as she dared, then faster, almost out of control. Icy air tugged at her hood, stung her face, roared in her ears. Markers flew by. She grinned with delight, arms thrown wide, focused entirely on maintaining her balance.

The remainder of the hillside went by in a rush. She hit the bottom at a headlong sprint and burst onto level ground, where, without the incline helping her along, most of her easy extra speed bled away. Movement turned into a slog again. No game to it anymore, just one foot after the other.

The breeze picked up, made the trees rattle. Another marker came and went. It might’ve been the ninth or tenth. She’d lost count. But it didn’t matter. She had a path to follow. She’d gotten her wind back. So she sang to herself instead, the first thing which came to mind—a simple wandering song, a lament and a vow, emerging in snatches between her heavy breaths.

She let the intertwining rhythm of the melody and the fresh snow crunching underfoot carry her forward until, somewhere about halfway along the final stretch of trail, she looked up and saw a blue flash among the tree trunks not more than thirty yards in front of her.

The song died in her throat, choked off as she clapped a hand over her numb lips and stumbled to a stop.

She crouched, holding the spear across her lap, and waited, hoping it was a trick of the light or delirium from exhaustion or pretty much anything other than what she feared. But the light didn’t go away. Another appeared, a little farther off, and then another, all of them a cold, piercing blue.

While she stared, they grew brighter and solidified into distinct beams which swept over the white landscape.

Watchers. Heading straight for her.

Shit. Shit! Of all the cursed luck . . .

She desperately glanced to either side. There was no sign of any other machines nearby, and she decided the ground off to the south looked the most promising. More cover that way. Mostly young junipers, half buried by the storm.

Keeping low, she scrambled off the trail and started working her way around towards the nearest bushy outcropping. Light bloomed across the snow as she went, tinging everything blue. Then, abruptly, yellow.

She sprinted the last few feet, threw herself down, and rolled to a stop at the base of the tree.

The Watchers weren’t too close yet, but she heard their heavy steps and the chattering sounds they made when they were alerted. They were definitely moving in her direction. She held still, forcing herself to breath slowly. She couldn’t see anything except the patch of broken snow she’d just run through, which was glowing yellow, getting brighter.

Don’t turn red, she said to herself. Don’t turn red. Please don’t turn red.

There was more chattering. At least one of the Watchers was near enough now that the subtle whirring and whining of its smaller movements was audible over the wind. Vala carefully tilted her head back a fraction. She didn’t dare move any further, and didn’t have to—the machine’s oversized armored head was just visible through the juniper’s snow-draped branches.

It seemed focused on her tracks, inspecting them with a methodical sweep of its long neck. Then it swung its head up and cast its yellow gaze in her direction.

Slivers of burning light flared through the foliage. Vala held her breath. Her heart drummed at her ribs.

From where it was standing, it couldn’t possibly see much of her, and Watchers weren’t the most perceptive machines. But . . . she was carrying that relic with her, wasn’t she? With no idea what it might do. Would it call to them? Could they sense its presence?

She really didn’t want to fight, if she could avoid it. Not in bad weather. Not against a group. Not when there could still be a larger machine lurking out there.

The Watcher let out a low, grating, metallic hum, and Vala tensed, bracing for its eye to change colors, one way or another.

There was a barely perceptible flutter in the light, followed by a quiet click. The yellow color held for an instant longer, then, right as she was thinking she might’ve gotten lucky after all, suddenly glared blood red.

A shrill cry erupted from the forest.

Vala rolled aside. The juniper exploded. The Watcher burst through in a cloud of snow and landed beside her as she came up on one knee, already thrusting with the spear. Metal struck false skin behind the faceplate, bit deep. She rose and then bore down, driving the spearhead deeper.

The Watcher thrashed wildly, pinned to the ground by its head, spewing acrid smoke and sparks. Fluid poured from the wound like black blood and hissed as it sank into the snow.

Avoiding its flailing legs, Vala hopped over it, so the bulk of its body was between her and its companions, and jammed a boot down on its neck. Its struggles became weaker. The light spilling out of its eye dimmed, flickered, died.

It went still.

That’s one, Vala thought.

But the other two weren’t waiting around. They’d fanned out and were stalking towards her, their evil gazes slicing through the dark. Usually they reminded her of quail the way they moved—like massive, plucked birds, bouncing along on two legs. A bit ridiculous, really.

Now, not so much.

And even the deep drifts off the trail weren’t slowing them down.

She wrenched the spear free and retreated a step, keeping both machines in view. It was obviously no use trying to run. They were too close already. Better to be aggressive, try to split them up. Maybe end the fight quick, maybe not. But it looked like her best chance.

She drew a breath, let it go . . . and held her ground.

A gust of wind set her hood flapping against her face. The snowflakes streaming around her gradually took on a red glow. She held until the Watchers were almost on top of her, until every instinct was screaming at her to move, then turned and dashed around them, following a tight curve to the north.

The nearer of the pair kept up its approach, while the other balked, as if unsure how to resume with its fellow machine blocking the way. It veered off and began circling.

Hah! Good thing Watchers were so predictable.

Vala charged up to the advancing machine, which instantly crouched down, preparing to leap. She waited a beat, then darted left—

Or meant to, but the snow was suddenly up to her knees.

She stumbled, and several hundred pounds of hurtling metal and plastic struck her right shoulder a glancing blow that spun her halfway around. She pivoted with the momentum from the hit, ramming the blunt end of the spear into the Watcher’s side. Already off balance, it went sprawling over, and as it scrambled to right itself, she swung back the other way and stabbed it once, twice.

The synthetic muscle anchored at its hip ripped away.

The machine let out a garbled mechanical screech as its remaining leg clawed ineffectually at the ground. Unable to stand, it whipped its long neck around, wielding its head like a club.

Vala batted it away with the spear, shifted her stance, and when it tried again, she was ready. The spearhead shattered the lens of its eye, cleaved through, and burst out the back of its head in a wreath of sparks.

Sticky black blood gushed out over her gloves, warm and wet and stinking.

Two down.

She looked up, spotted the last Watcher bearing down fast, snow blowing through its headlamp like embers from a wildfire. She pulled on the spear and nearly fell over as the dead machine’s skull came along with it, stuck fast. Not good. She tried shaking the spear loose instead, yanking it viciously back and forth, her shoulder pulsing in agony, but it refused to come free.

The wind howled.

Then, above the wind, there came a sound—a high pitched whine building in intensity. Light flared, bright as a sunrise.

Dropping the spear, Vala dove behind the machine corpse as a fiery ball of energy shot past overhead, so close she felt the heat left in its wake. It struck the ground a few yards away with an earsplitting snap, and the shock of the explosion smacked her across the back.

A brief rain of debris pelted down.

Everything went quiet.

Even her own breathing seemed distant, drowned out by the ringing in her ears. She pulled herself up against the dead machine’s armored midsection, wiped the snow from her face, then peeked over.

The Watcher was a smear of red light, slowly coalescing.

She blinked.

More of her vision faded in.

Her hand went to her knife. It was a bad idea, she knew, but better than nothing.

Too late. The ground fluttered beneath her. She ducked her head, and there was a terrible shriek as metal scraped on metal. The Watcher caromed off the top of the dead machine, trailing sparks as it went, and crashed somewhere behind her.

Vala didn’t bother looking back for it.

She sprang up and was halfway over the machine corpse before she saw a flash of red and then felt something smack into her left thigh hard enough to flip her the rest of the way across. She landed on the other side, on her hands and knees in the churned up, freezing snow, groaning . . .

. . . and heard the Watcher’s footfalls, clearer now, ponderous and deliberate, getting closer. It wasn’t over yet.

Good thing they were so predictable, right? Hah.

She sat up, staggered to her feet while the snow around her took on a glittering crimson sheen. Her leg throbbed, but it held her weight. Definitely not broken then. Thank the All-Mother for that.

With a grim smile, she turned and faced the Watcher, which had finished circling its fallen comrade and was bounding straight for her. She drew the knife.

The Watcher lunged.

Vala took a limping step forward, inside the radius of the machine’s swinging head, and caught its neck on her left forearm. The force of the blow nearly knocked her over, but she managed to dig in her heels, twist in close, and sink the knife into the mess of cables along the top of the Watcher’s neck.

It gave a fragmented snarl as she pulled the blade out, and recoiled from her attempted followup, its skinny legs churning madly.

Determined not to let it get distance, Vala plunged after it, left arm outstretched. She snagged one of the armor plates at the base of its neck, hooking her gloved fingers over the metal. It started bucking in an effort to free itself, and Vala was yanked against its hip, dangerously close to those razor sharp claws on its stamping feet.

As the Watcher struggled to shake her off, its heaving torso battering her repeatedly, she swung her right elbow over its back and pulled her legs up. She felt its claws brush her calf, briefly, then her weight forced it down into a clumsy half crouch.

And the very instant the machine stumbled, she brought her hand around and stabbed the top of its neck again, several times, with a flurry of short, sharp strokes.

There was a crackling metallic crunch. Tendrils of lightning skittered around the wound, and a slight jolt ran up Vala’s arm. Which was good. It meant she finally hit something important.

So it was that much more infuriating when it still wasn’t enough.

The Watcher heaved itself up, throwing Vala off its back, almost breaking her grip. Then, before she could recover sufficiently to defend herself, it whipped its head about and belted her across the shoulders. She smacked into the armor at the machine’s hip. Her head rebounded off metal. But it was her left hand that suffered the worst—pinched between the armor plate and the Watcher’s neck.

A whimpering groan escaped her lips.

She held on, somehow, despite the pain, and lashed out in response, lashed out in pure, dazed desperation, expecting at any moment to feel another blow and for that to be the end . . .

The knife pierced something, and was ripped away.

Vala let go and fell back onto her ass. She saw the Watcher take a faltering sideways step, its head hanging loose. Red light flashed wildly across the snow. Sparks cascaded from the loose cables it was dragging in its wake.

The low hum coming from its chest gradually rose to a staccato wail, then broke off as it collapsed. Its head, now only attached by a few tubes and some persistent strands of false muscle, flopped over.

There was one last dying glimmer and its gaze finally, finally blinked out.

Darkness settled over the landscape.

Cradling her injured hand to her chest, Vala sat there and breathed in the acid scent of the machine’s death throes, sharper than the freshly falling snow, metallic and unearthly. Once the pain had dulled somewhat, she tried flexing her fingers. They were stiff and swollen feeling and stung when she moved them. But she could move them.

Come on, she told herself. It’s getting late. You need to get moving again. If you die, the outcast dies, and this was all for nothing.

She slowly stood up and then, reeling a little, took a look around. No lights among the trees. No sound, apart from the wind. No sign of other machines.

Hopefully it stayed that way. With the storm coming on and the nights being so cold there wouldn’t have been patrols out since yesterday. There was no telling what else might’ve slipped through. For now she would just have to hope the relic wasn’t actually calling to the machines. And maybe, just maybe, avoid singing out loud for the time being.

Smiling in spite of herself, Vala hobbled over and retrieved her knife from the headless Watcher, then used the blade as a lever to crack open the other Watcher’s head and free the spear. The knife got sheathed, while the spear got slung alongside the pack, because she saw no reason to aggravate her shoulder any further if she didn’t have to.

She lingered for a moment, staring down at the machine which had so nearly gotten her killed, and gave its mangled head a nudge with the toe of her boot. “Soft spot, huh?” she muttered.

The wind tugged on the fur trim of her hood, but there was no answer in it. Only a reminder. She sighed, turned away, and limped back up towards the trail, following her tracks into the vast and quickly growing night.