Ekleipsis (Fantasy Romance - LGBT, manXman)

Chapter 9

You can buy the book in full on Smashwords.com, with a cool new cover made by me. You can find the link in the first comment to this chapter and also in my profile.

For a long and perilous journey to the World's Edge one should prepare with the utmost care. There are so many things to provide for. The mountain people of Haelghira had hundreds of years to invent many devices enabling a human being to survive in the deserts of snow and ice. Skis and towing sledges, harpoons and spears for hunting, tackles for ice fishing. Light and durable tents made of sealskin, lampions of seal fat for lights, small portable braziers for cooking. Magical pots capable of melting ice and boiling water while remaining cool to the touch. Special methods of jerking meat and baking flat cakes that allowed them to be stored for years. Clothes of fur and leather which conserved body heat. Masks with narrow eye-slits which protected from the cold wind and the blinding brilliance of the snow. Three months should have been enough to learn how to hunt skiing, set up a camp in the snow, survive in a snowstorm, search ice caverns for the magical snow grapes which restored one's energy.

Yet when they got farther than any of the mountain people had − where Haelghira's giant peaks melted into the misty horizon, where the tides of the ancient sea, now frozen solid, had once been dashing against the shore − their path was blocked by the labyrinth of ice ridges, heaped on one another without any conceivable rules, with gorges, crevasses, cracks and strips of thinner ice in places where warm currents came nearer to the surface. They had to abandon the useless sledge and carry all their equipment on their backs. Where was a mile as the crow flies, they had to walk for five, or ten, or even twenty.

Anyone else would have been long lost in the glittering labyrinth, but those two had inhumanly keen senses. The black tower rising from a heap of frozen white waves somewhere far ahead, still invisible behind the horizon, already was calling to them. But the journey took much longer than expected, their stocks dwindled, and the game was scarce in the frozen barren land. The short polar summer ended quickly, the pale sun was rising above the horizon too rarely, too low.

The shapeshifter remained in the animal form longer each turn − the beast had more strength, speed, stamina. The elf went more often into avanire − a special state of mind, not dissimilar to animal hibernation, when the pulse and breathing slowed and the body temperature dropped. In adverse conditions an elf could spend in that state even a thousand years.

Sometimes the black beast would catch a seal or a big fish under the ice. That would restore their strength for a while.

But the journey to the black tower still seemed endless.

* * *

Ithildin's eyes were open, but all he saw was darkness. He was instantly afraid he'd gone blind. The blinding brilliance of ice crystals finally had ruined his keen elven sight. 'Snow blindness' − that's how the mountain people called it.

Then he saw multicoloured sparks far above. Stars! It was only the night darkness, he realised and felt such immense relief it couldn't be described in words. But it was replaced by another concern. If the polar night had begun, he must have spent in avanire much more time than he'd intended.

Those thoughts flashed through the elf's mind with quickness incomprehensible for a human. Next moment he saw the stars above move in short jerks. He was dragged upon the snow by the collar − slowly, but persistently. He smelled the beast, heard its uneven breathing. Even someone not as clever as an elf could have guessed that Kintaro's beast was exhausted too. Before, it could drag him as easily as a plush toy. As a doll. It could take him on its back or carry him in its jaws like a kitten for a whole day.

At last Ithildin could admit to himself that he admired the man. Even if Kintaro wasn't, strictly speaking, a man anymore. He was strong, but his will was even stronger than his body. An invincible warrior, ready to fight even the Fate itself.

The beast stopped and breathed its hot breath on Ithildin's cheeks which started turning white. Then it lay beside him, warming him up with its body heat. The elf overcame his weakness, raised himself on his elbow and buried his face into the black fur.

Kintaro shivered inside his beast. The beast didn't like the cold, the snow and the sharp pieces of ice cutting its tender paw pads. The beast missed the hot and damp jungle where it came to life. The beast was hungry, and who knows, hadn't the elf been so thin, cold and weak, he probably could have went over from 'kin' to 'game' category. Kintaro made a perfectly human sigh and started to drag the elf again over the snow. Their footprints were swept up by the ground wind − it was a sure sign of yet another blizzard coming. The stars flickered and disappeared when the wind drove shaggy clouds across the sky, churning them into the snowstorm.

The snow began to fall heavily, seemingly from all sides at once. Huge snowflakes flew from the right and from the left under the strong gusts, whirled underfoot like small tornadoes. The field of vision shrank to a few steps around them. Their sense of direction didn't fail, and both still knew where the black tower was. But in such weather it was too easy to fall into a crevasse or worse yet, through the thinner patch of ice.

The panther stopped, shook itself like a wet cat. Its long whiskers were covered in frost. It rolled itself into a ball around Ithildin, and the snow started to cover them up. The cold seemed to back off, but the elf knew it was an illusion. If the snowstorm lasted long enough, they would freeze to death. Or suffocate under the thick blanket of snow. How senseless it would be to die here, two steps away from their goal, without even laying eyes on Lielle one last time...

The Fate, however, had other plans in store for them. The elf and the panther sensed at the same time the people from the tower forcing their way through the snowstorm towards them. They knew where to find them, Ithildin thought bitterly. It was silly to assume they could have sneaked up on Dame Tallian. But she had sent rescuers, not assassins, or there was no point even setting foot outside. Why bother with killing the intruders, if the snowstorm would finish them off more surely than cold steel. Yet the panther still growled in warning when the light of lanterns flickered a few steps away.

"Shut you jaw, you flea-ridden cat!" a young voice echoed rudely, with a horrible Arislani accent. "Or else I'll leave you to die in the snow!"

Ithildin soothingly petted the panther on its glossy black flank. Someone leaned over him, held the lantern to his face.

"Elf, are you alive?" the same voice asked. Not waiting for an answer, the man shouted to his companions, "You make the path, I'll carry him myself!"

He brought a flask to Ithildin's lips, supporting his head with his hand. The icily cold, intoxicating taste was familiar − the drink made of fresh snow grapes in a silver flask inlaid with mother-of-pearl. It cleared the elf's mind and revived him, but not too thoroughly. Even the magic of snow grapes couldn't overcome the long months of hardship.

"You are so light. All skin and bones," the man said, lifting him up in his arms. His voice seemed to catch a little. "No one had ever walked to the World's Edge. No one."

For a moment Ithildin saw a black hole of darkness instead of the man's face, with flashes of blue light for eyes and coiling snakes for hair. He blinked, and the illusion vanished. He looked into the face of a dark-skinned Arislani native, and his hair woven into a multitude of plaits showed from under the hood. Undoubtedly, he was born among the Banukheeds, nomad tribes inhabiting the eastern deserts of Arislan. The Banukheeds had darker skin, and the whites of their eyes were tinted with blue. Also they were notable for their religious zeal and their savage customs. But the man was holding Ithildin gently, like a child, and his eyes were wet with tears.

It was the last thing Ithildin remembered before letting himself slip into unconsciousness.