Before the Sky Fell

[ 1 ] Men and Monsters

-1-

Men and Monsters

If Malachi's plan worked, the scattered tribes of the north might stand behind his quest; if it didn't, his heart would likely be pulled from his chest and hung as a charm above an infant's crib. 

He would die today, in one way or another, but not at the hands of a northern monster. He paddled onwards, propelling the birch bark canoe through the ice pack. Frozen fragments cracked against the hull and bobbed about in the wake of his boat. Malachi's fingers were stiff as whalebones, ghost-white and tingling. The strap of the satchel draped across his chest crunched with each thrust.

I'll come upon them, he told himself. With frost and frenzied fear.

Snow layered the bottom of his canoe, found its way into the back of Malachi's boots somehow, numbing his calves. The wind chilled his teeth, a frigid breeze of fish and salt and dying things. He leaned back and eyed the split in the sky. The void was visible even this far north, a chasm of emptiness surrounded by a cloudy, blue sky. Felt like it was endless leagues away but close all the same. 

He couldn't feel his feet any longer, but it didn't matter. Smoke rose in the distance. Thank their Frozen Gods, however worthless they appear to be. He paddled faster.

Huddled figures stood unmoving on the shore. They were enormous from the looks of it, peering out through fur hoods like the shadow owls of the south. 

Malachi's canoe slid onto solid ground. The Larks neared, cautious and curious, watching him like he was a wandering mouse. Their snow-covered fur glistened on their head. Malachi raised his freezing hands in the air as a sign of submission.

They moved to the side to let another through. He towered above the canoe, nose disfigured, an uneven mess of skin and scar, as if something had taken a bite out of the tip. Malachi pretended not to notice. Best not to mention that, or my death will come quicker. The Lark held a massive steel blade that caught the sun's glimmer. It looked like it would take Malachi three hands to hold, but this Lark held it with one, as if it weighed no more than a twig.

The Lark placed his boot on the bow. "Who approaches the end of the sea? Have the monsters below the waves not warned you enough?" He chomped with each word, lips full as rain clouds.

"My name is Malachi Karath of Hemonstalia. I seek the leader of the Larks."

"I am Greylock, son of Falloch, the one you seek. Get on with it, must be of importance, coming all this way alone."

Malachi had never talked to a Lark before, but he'd seen one of the beasts patrolling near the Gap. The Larks will skin you alive before they shake your hand, Severn Bane had told him years ago. Malachi suppressed a shudder. "I didn't row all this way for a loaf of bread and a lay. I come to make an agreement of sorts."

Greylock laughed at that. "I have offered you neither. Our bread is cold and our females would not have you. The last agreement we made with a human killed nearly half our kind. What have agreements done for the Larks?"

Don't let them see weakness. Be as bold as they are. Malachi braced his hands on the sides of the canoe to stand, but was met by the point of a spear.

Greylock signaled for the Lark to lower the weapon. "Let the man rise. He's journeyed a long way to die so soon. He must have balls, even if they're frozen." To Malachi's surprise, Greylock leaned forward and offered him a hand. "You've arrived at the end of everything. Welcome to the north."

Greylock's beard ran past his neck and disappeared into a white wolf's pelt draped across his shoulders. In the place of its eyes were shimmering rubies. The Lark leader's face was thick and spongy and looked as if his pores could swallow the ocean twice over. "Come with me," he said. "And wipe your nose. You'll stain my snow."