#65 - A Crackle Of Muskatoon Fire

The weather after the ice storm had cleared and the temperature had plummeted.  The sun shone in an icy blue sky hard as stone.  Every single horse soldier had tinted glass goggles to save their eyes and the riding animals had mesh over their faces it was so blinding. In the absolute stillness echoing cracks of trees exploding travelled for thousands of paces and often they groaned before they broke.

The war cats curled into their baskets, the dogs ran with their feet covered in boots, hoods tied over their heads and the short-haired breeds had coats even over their winter fur.  The light struck as though it were cold manifest, chewing on anything breathing, producing heat. Every crystal of snow, every fragment of crust reflected the light, breaking it into dozens of blinding glances.

The whole troop stood under one of the last stands of trees, the land falling away from them, down toward the Great Mire, a flat, ice covered expanse full of what looked like dead trees, all with no branches,  mounds of scrub weighted down by ice here and there. 

Ahrimaz tried to breathe slowly through his face covering, one hand on the mare.  All of the animals had to rest, especially in this tearing, biting cold.  He could feel the edges of everything he wore freezing as it got further away from the warmth of his body, and the warmth of his breath.  “Of course this had to be in the middle of winter,” he growled.  “It’s one reason no one was out, when the bandit—“ his complaint was cut off by a whistle, a shriek from one of the Cylak scouts, trotting back slowly with his falcon huddled on his saddleblock, tearing at a bit of jerky.

“’Efants,” he said slowly, as fast as he could without sucking icy air into his lungs.  “North of Down Ford, nearly to Up Ford.”Ahrimaz was about to cheer but he went on.  “Ambush.  UpFord, our side.  Fording l’slow ‘em down.”

“Mount ‘em!” the Captain’s voice was thin in the cold but everyone jumped.  “We’ll see ‘em safe!”

Ahrimaz had already swung up on the mare who had caught his urgency and threw her head up, stepping out as fast as she could in her best ground eating pace.  It was too cold to try and gallop so far and no matter how badly he wanted to he could not make her kill herself for no reason.

He was just behind the scouts as they burst out of the scrubby trees on the edge of the cliff, the road beginning the long sweeping switchbacks to take them safely down to the lower ground and the edge of the swamp.

He could see the moving dots of the elephants even without an eyeglass, but it would be insane to make the horse cut across country, even if they could trust the snow crust.  His head turned as they ran away, then back and away again, as the slowly, gently moving mountains, brightly coated and standing out as sharply in the white and grey and black landscape as the pain of a freshly smashed thumb.

Ahrimaz could see the blinding twinkle of hundreds of what looked like chips of light on the coat and head covering of one.  “Didara,” he said, and his hands tightened again and the mare shook her head in protest.

“Someone get me a drum!” Ahrimaz bellowed as his friends paced gently on toward the ambush, unknowing, even though there were surely Cylak scouting for them.  Surely.  He had to warn them, somehow.

It was a nightmare of plowing along over too slick footing, shards of broken ice that slashed through boots and wrappings, back and forth down the cliff face never seeming to get any closer.

Something was happening.  JagunJagun stopped and tapped Didara on her shoulder as she stepped around him.  She stopped too.

They were too far away to hear anything.  Even the deep rumbles they spoke with would carry differently through different ground, but someone thrust a drum into his hand and he didn’t take it out of its case, afraid the hide would just freeze.  He pounded on it as he rode,  eyes locked on the elephants, reins loose over his arm, the muffled thump seeming futile as their plunge down the cliff.

Danger danger ambush ambush danger ambush.  Over and over again with the tiny drum in the hope that they would hear, or feel it through their feet.

Even as Jagunjagun’s head swung up, muffled ears spread wide, just on the edge of the ford, a rank of men stood up and there was a tiny, fading crackle of muskatoon fire and a billow of black powder smoke.  “NOOOOOO!” Ahrimaz dropped the drum and they cleared the last switchback, a clear run toward the ford.  He lashed the mare trying to make her run and she bashed his face with her poll as she flung her head up, still moving quickly but refusing to run with ice under her feet.