Wrapping the skull in its hood of black velvet Winter Kay returned it to its box and carried it from the burning ruins of Shelsans.
CHAPTER ONE
THE WINTER IN THE NORTHERN MOUNTAINS WAS THE MOST VICIOUS IN more than thirty years. Rivers and lakes lay under a foot of ice, and fierce blizzards raged across the land for days on end. Sheep trapped in snowdrifts died in their scores, and only the hardiest of the cattle would live to see the spring. Many roads were impassable and the townspeople struggled to survive. Highlanders of the Black Rigante came out of the mountains, bringing food and supplies, aiding farmers, seeking out those citizens trapped within lonely homes high in the hills. Even so, many died, frozen in their beds.
Few ventured out into the wilderness between Black Mountain and the craggy western peaks of the Rigante homeland.
Kaelin Ring was wishing he was not one of them as he struggled through the bitter cold towards the high cabin of Finbarr Ustal. Labouring under a heavy pack, to which was strapped a new long-barrelled musket, Kaelin pushed up the last steep hill. Ice shone brightly in his dark beard, and the long, white scar on his right cheek felt as if it was burning. His legs ached from the unaccustomed stride pattern necessitated by the wide snowshoes he wore. Kaelin climbed on, growing ever more weary. At twenty-three he was a powerful young man. In summer he would run, sometimes for ten miles over the hills, revelling in the strength and stamina of his youth, but at this moment he felt like an old man, his muscles exhausted, his body crying out for rest. Anger flared. ‘Rest here and you’ll die,’ he told himself.
His dark eyes scanned the hill ahead. The slope was steep and stretched on and up for another half-mile. He paused and clumsily readjusted the straps of his pack. Kaelin was wearing two pairs of gloves, one pair of lamb’s wool, the second of rabbit fur, but his fingers still felt numb. A fierce wind blew down over the hills, lifting snow in flurries, stinging his face and eyes. The wind billowed his sheepskin hood, flicking it away from his face. With a curse Kaelin grabbed at it, hauling it back into place. The sky above was grey and heavy with snow clouds. Kaelin stared balefully at the slope ahead. He was coming to the end of his strength. To die here would be laughable, he told himself. Never to see Chara again, or his little son Jaim. ‘It will not happen,’ he said aloud. ‘I’ll not be beaten by a touch of snow.’
The wind picked up, roaring into his chest and almost throwing him from his feet. ‘Is that the best you can do?’ shouted Kaelin. Strengthened by his anger he ducked his head into the wind and began to climb again. The pain in his legs was growing now, his calves tight and cramping. As he struggled on he focused on Finbarr, and the welcome he would receive as he entered the warmth and security of the high cabin.
Finbarr had worked at Ironlatch Farm for several years, but last year had come to live in the north-west cabin with his wife and two surviving children. His oldest son had died two years ago. Employed by Maev Ring to watch over the stock in these mountain pastures Finbarr patrolled the high country, distributing bales of hay, and digging out sheep trapped in the snow. It was tough, demanding work. His wife, Ural, a strong woman, often worked alongside him, as did the two boys.
Kaelin had not seen the family for more than two months, and, caught within one of his wandering moods, had packed some supplies and set off for the cabin. In good weather it was a day’s walk from Ironlatch, but in these conditions it had taken the powerful young highlander more than three times as long. He had been forced to spend one whole day in a cliff cave, sheltering from a fierce blizzard.
Exhausted now, Kaelin began to sweat from the effort of climbing the hill. Fear touched him. In these conditions a man had to move slowly and carefully. At this temperature perspiration would freeze against the skin beneath a man’s clothes, draining all warmth from his flesh.