The Ice by Ryan Cahill

Author:Ryan Cahill [Cahill, Ryan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Fantasy
Published: 2023-09-22T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 8

Demons

Fresh snow crunched beneath Aeson’s boots as the group made their way along the pass. The sun had not yet risen, and his shoulder still throbbed and creaked, but he had some movement back in his hand. He lifted the waterskin Fearn had given him to his nose, recoiling at the harsh scent that wafted from within. On most other days, he wouldn’t have contemplated taking a drink of whatever poisonous spirit lay within, but the cold was in his bones, and he needed any warmth he could find. He drew a long breath in through his nostrils then tipped the flask up, spilling its contents into his mouth. The regret was instant.

Aeson spluttered, yanking the waterskin from his lips. His mouth burned. His tongue burned. His throat burned. Everything burned. He grimaced, shaking his head, then gave Fearn an accusing look. “What in the gods is that? You’ve had this with you the whole time?”

“I thought it might be needed,” she said, a smile gracing her lips.

“Give it here,” Verma said, reaching out her hand.

Aeson shuddered as he passed the skin back to Verma, the burn of its noxious contents still lingering at the back of his throat.

“What is it?” she asked, wafting the skin across her nostrils.

“Elderfire.” Fearn’s eyes lit up at the question. From the first time he’d met her, smuggling Altweid blood to the sick in Aeling, Aeson had seen the joy on Fearn’s face anytime she’d been given the chance to answer even the simplest of questions. He had never known one so young to have so much knowledge about almost everything. “It’s made from fermented Narvonan harberries and left to age for ten summers in flamewood barrels. The Narvonans drink it when celebrating the lives of the lost. Right?”

Fearn looked to Malari as she asked the question.

The Narvonan gave Fearn a rare smile. She pressed three fingers to her lips, then to her heart. “You are correct, young one. I am honoured that you know so much of my culture. Akopa bless you.”

Fearn’s smile spread so wide Aeson thought it might touch her ears. It was the first smile he had seen in the three nights since they had lost so many to the wyrms and mokaríen. Those nights had passed without more death or blood, but they had still been cold, harsh, and laced with fear.

“May I?” The tall, lean frame of Akraf stretched past Aeson and gestured for Verma to pass him the skin.

She took one last whiff, recoiling and scrunching her nose before handing him the skin.

Akraf stopped walking, the wind flapping at his cloak as he looked down at the waterskin.

Aeson nodded to Verma, and they both halted, the others standing around them.

“In Narvona, there has been war for almost a thousand years. Ever since the death of High-Queen Tamakara, may her soul rest in the Eversea.” He looked up, finding Malari with his gaze. “The Kingdoms of Latrak and Mohatine have shed more blood than any others.”

Nobody else spoke as Akraf and Malari stared at each other.

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