The old man was right. The day had delivered little.
Thunder still rumbled angrily across the mountain valley, drumming its way between the towering snow-capped peaks known as the Maidens with a deep belligerent growl as it trailed the rapidly fading storm. Massive forks of jagged lightning shattered across the distant horizon like glass, carving brilliant edges into the dark bank of clouds bruising the sky. A frosty wind stirred across the mountaintops, tousling the Maidens’ snowy hair into long drifts that floated off into the heavens.
Huddled at the mouth of a small cave a young man shivered as he set about warming his fingers against the spluttering fire that threatened to snuff itself at any moment. Flames came and went in small fitful bursts but, much to his relief, the fire held amongst the wood, for all its pitiful warmth.
Clothes hung wet and heavy against his skin, the thick weave of black wool caked in mud where he had fallen at the base of the valley.
Damn horse, Oan cursed bitterly to himself as he added the last of the dry wood to the fire, the wretched animal nowhere to be seen. A fool’s errand Ebon had called it and now, somewhat reluctantly, Oan was inclined to agree. He pushed the thought of the old man, happy and smug, from his mind, reaching instead for the pack that lay nearby, the spatter of pale mud across its dark leather a bittersweet reminder of what had broken his fall.
Fingers, numbed by cold, fumbled at the ties; the hard knots in the leather all the more difficult with the frosty ache that now crept into his bones. His woollen gloves were just a sodden ball at the back of the cave, the mark still fresh on the grey stone where he had thrown the soggy mass.
After an irritating delay Oan finally managed to work one of the knots loose, wrenching out some dry clothing before beginning the slow process of stripping the sodden ones from his body. The wet wool clung to him like a second skin, sucking stubbornly at him as his muscles bunched and battled to peel away the thick layers of wool and leather that had protected him against the frigid mountain weather.
Goosebumps instantly studded his frosty skin, rippling their way across his body as he tried to cover them with the dry clothes from his pack. Icy rain whipped into the meagre shelter adding, rather unpleasantly, to the now buffeting cold winds.
Sighing, Oan pushed his boots closer to the fire. Orange, reed-like flames licked gently upwards from the centre of the burning wood, swaying violently with each gust that burst into the cave. Water slowly began to evaporate across the toe of a boot soon followed by the other, the heat sucking out the moisture locked within the rain-darkened leather; either that, Oan figured, or the fine tendrils that curled wraithlike up into the air was in fact smoke and his boots were burning. Whichever it was he was too tired to care and he left them where they lay.
He poked hard at the fire with a stick, stirring up a nest of sparks that died in another blast of icy rain.
“Bleedin’ bloody heart!” he cursed, shielding his face against the fresh onslaught before snapping the stick in frustration and adding it to the diminishing blaze. With an annoyed tug he yanked his heavy cloak up around his shoulders, cocooning himself as he guarded the fire, keeping watch on its precious flame, its feeble warmth pleasant enough to lull him into quiet repose.
It could only have been a short time later that he stirred, the flames beginning to die, the consumed wood black and dotted with glowing embers. His long brown hair still hung damp in parts, the fairer honey-coloured streaks beginning to show as it dried and curled dependably beneath each ear.
Another bolt of lightning cut through the sky, well off in the distance, ripples of thunder surging through the valley long after its spark had gone. Oan’s head whipped up from the dying fire, blue-gray eyes scanning the valley floor for the source of a different sound, narrowing as they picked up several fast moving shapes threading their way along the riverbank below. Darting in between the myriad of pine and spruce trees they raced, coats of a dozen different colours at least, before they broke into a clearing five hundred yards below him.
Beautiful and graceful, galloping across the snow-patched grass came the added thunder of a score or more wild horses. Swiftly they went, trampling the new spring growth that pressed upwards beneath their unshod hooves, their movements resonating around the steep valley walls. At their head was a large stallion, a dark ominous gray like the sky above, its powerful muscles bunching as it galloped, its hooves kicking up muddied snow and lumps of sodden turf as it went. It was momentary; the stallion was gone from his sight almost as quickly, driving its way back into the trees, the rest of the herd following close behind, the soft ground churned to mud in their wake. The rumble lingered long after they had vanished, the sound of their flight lasting on the wind, until it too was finally gone.
Oan’s gaze returned to the fire. Smoldering ash puffed out short bursts of smoke from dead embers.
A fool’s errand alright.
Quicklinks for The Broken by Stephen Ashworth - Prologue | First Entry | Latest Entry
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