The Whitefire Crossing - By Courtney Schafer Page 0,47
use magic. He snatched for his horse’s tether.
Dev smacked Kiran’s hand away and gripped his arm. “Get up behind me,” he ordered, his voice tight.
“But my horse—”
“Shut up and get on, damn you!” Dev grabbed Kiran’s belt, lifting and pulling. Kiran barely got his leg high enough in time to slide it over the mare’s back. Dev pulled his belt knife and slashed Kiran’s gelding’s tether free of the wagon. He tossed the tether over stacked crates to Harken, shouting, “No time to clear the slide path—ride for a pinnacle!”
Kiran caught a single glimpse of Harken’s sallow face and wide eyes before Dev drove his heels into their horse’s side. The mare squealed and exploded into motion. They pounded along the trail past braying mules and shouting men. Kiran risked a look up at the ridgeline. The formerly innocent cloud puff had swelled to tremendous size.
Dev cursed and jerked their mount’s head to the side. The mare leapt down off the trail toward one of the twisted pinnacles below, this one broader than most. Dev drove her onward, straight up the steep scree field on the pinnacle’s side. She slowed, snorting and struggling for footing on the sliding fist-sized rocks. Now that the clatter of hooves on stone was no longer deafening, a deep rumbling trembled the air.
Kiran yelled into Dev’s ear, “What about the wagons—”
“Too late,” Dev spat back over his shoulder.
Kiran twisted around again. The cloud was larger, and lower, sweeping down the mountainside straight toward the long string of the convoy. Frantic figures fought with horses and scrambled away from wagons.
“But all those men are—”
“I know.” Dev’s voice was flat. “Nothing we can do. If we live, we’ll dig for survivors.”
The rumbling grew loud enough to cover any screams from below, but a different voice screamed in Kiran’s memory. A kaleidoscope of images whirled in his head: Ruslan’s longfingered hands, black with blood; Lizaveta’s cool, remote smile; Alisa’s amber eyes, shimmering with terrified tears; Dev, clawing desperately for purchase on Kinslayer.
Hundreds of men would die, if Kiran surrendered to fear as he had on the cliff.
Kiran released Dev’s waist and threw his weight sideways. He slid off the horse and landed in an ungainly tumble.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Dev screamed, struggling to turn the horse. He snatched for Kiran’s arm. Kiran dodged and ran back down the scree slope in great plunging steps, barely keeping his balance.
He’d have the best chance of saving the convoy if he could place himself between the avalanche and the wagons, but would he have enough time? Worse, his need for power far outstripped his own store of energy, yet the only other source within reach was the ikilhia of those at the convoy.
With precise enough control, he might be able to draw ikilhia only from the livestock and exclude the people. He had to try. Fear churned in his guts and darkened his thoughts. The instant he worked magic, he lost all hope of remaining hidden. But if he didn’t, the cost of his safety would be far too high to bear.
Kiran regained the trail and darted between two wagons. He scrabbled his way up the talus and snow on the far side. The onrushing wall of snow roared loud as thunder. No more time; he’d have to act now.
Kiran flung himself to his knees in front of a sharp-edged boulder protruding from the snow. He ripped down his barriers. Pulses of ikilhia burst into his perception, strung out all along the line of the convoy like a series of candles. Dull, muted pinpricks for the mules and horses, and vivid flames for the people.
In one swift movement, Kiran sliced his palms open on the boulder’s ragged edge, then buried his bloody hands in the snow. The shock of connection blazed through him, and the life-lights snapped into sharper focus in his head. Hurriedly, he visualized a rough-meshed net, with holes too small for the larger lights to pass through.
Kiran threw open the gates to his innermost self and called power. In a distant part of his awareness, he registered heavy thuds and agonized squeals. Ikilhia flooded into him, sweet and burning.
He took as much as he dared in the few instants he had left. Magic danced in his blood, sweet as water to a thirst-parched throat, brilliant as sunlight after endless dark. Grimly, he hung on to his focus. No time for anything subtle. He would have to use brute force and hope it was enough.