Page 99 of The Cradle of Ice
Nyx had tried watching, but the act felt too intimate. She had no place being there. Grief and guilt drove her off to the fringes of the town, where she had spent the past days. The others worked farther down the beach, where the Sparrowhawk had been beached, trying to determine what to do. She heard their raised voices, arguing, resisting the inevitable.
She had no interest in such struggles, especially as they seemed hopeless. She didn’t need anything more to be disheartened about.
She swept her gaze across the skies one last time. Though there had been no sign of Bashaliia, at least the raash’ke hadn’t attacked again.
A small sandy hand slipped into hers. Henna stared up at her, leaning against Nyx’s hip. “I miss him,” she whispered. “I didn’t even get a chance to ride him.”
She squeezed her hand. “I’m sure Bashaliia would’ve loved that.”
“I know.”
Nyx smiled sadly. “We should get ready to head back home. It looks like your brother is done fishing.”
A fair distance off the beach, Daal rode out of the waves, seated atop Neffa. As he surfaced next to a small raft, he expelled a blast of air. The orkso did the same, shooting spray from both nostrils. Daal carried a spear high with a silvery fat eel impaled on it. He leaped from Neffa’s back and landed deftly on the rocking raft. Once balanced, he shook his latest catch onto the pile already stacked on the deck—then whistled sharply.
Neffa circled behind the raft. Careful not to stab Daal with her horn, she bumped her wide nose into the raft and sped it toward shore, propelled by beats of her tail and sweeps of her wings.
Nyx retreated—and with good measure.
The orkso propelled the raft and beached it high onto the sand. It slid to Nyx’s toes. Behind it, Neffa bounced on her winged forelegs in the surf, waving her horn. Nyx felt a surge of affection at the simple joy of the happy creature. It wafted off of Neffa, buoying Nyx’s spirits.
Still, it also stirred a bittersweet ache. Neffa reminded her of another great beast. Memory blurred as Nyx stood on the sand. She smelled the belches of old silage, the mold of a thick coat. She heard the grunt of contentment, the huff of irritation.
Gramblebuck …
She had abandoned her friend, a centuries-old bullock, back in the swamps of Mýr, at the start of this journey. She pictured him turning his shaggy back and vanishing into the bog. She did not know what happened to him. Still, she sent a silent plea to that large heart.
Please. I’ve lost too much. You must still be alive.
“Henna, greef da nef!” Daal called from the raft, drawing Nyx back to the present.
Henna ran and scooped a net from the sand, then bounded onto the raft, ready to gather up the morning’s catch.
Daal got out of his sister’s way, joining Nyx on the beach.
Nyx backed a step, hesitant to touch him after that awful night. Still, she caught the scent of salt off his skin. The sea coursed in shining rivulets down his heaving chest. He was breathless from his exertion. He smiled at her, his blue eyes flashing brightly, then glanced over at his bounty, clearly proud.
“The fishing. Good this morning,” he declared.
As he stood on the sand, he shivered in the breeze, raising gooseflesh along his arms. She had to look away, especially as she caught the slight glow emanating from him, as if the fire inside were trying to warm him.
“I wish I could say I had your luck this morning,” Nyx mumbled.
Daal winced and looked up at the mists. “What the Mouth swallows, it does not let go.”
He stated it like it was an old adage, one taught to him in Noorish. And maybe it was. His people had lived in the Crèche for untold millennia. Over that span, countless numbers had been dragged away by the raash’ke.
And more again three nights ago.
After losing Bashaliia, Nyx had asked where the horde might have taken him. The answer had been cryptic: the Mouth of the World. According to the Pantheans, it was where the raash’ke made their home, their roost in these eternally frozen lands.
Nyx edged closer to Daal. “Can you tell me more about this Mouth?”
He shrugged, his expression both regretful and pained. “Nothing to say. No one been there and returned. Only see from far distance. Where the great ice ends, the Mouth of the World begins. A great fiery crack that stretches past the sky.”
Nyx crossed her arms, trying to imagine such a landscape.
She pictured her own homeland and the volcanic mountain, The Fist, which rose from the Mýr swamps. It was home to Bashaliia’s brethren. The Mouth sounded much the same, only where the Fist climbed high, this chasm delved deep.
