Borin Frostwalker's Arc

Chapter 10 of 10

They buried Gregor on the ridge at first light. Borin cut the old man's name into a flat stone and set it over the cairn. The tribe moved on by midmorning. But Ansel did not move. The boy sat in the snow beside the grave, hazel eyes fixed on the rocks that covered his grandfather. He had met the old hermit only weeks ago. Now the only kin he had was gone. Borin knelt beside him. "We cross today, Ansel. You can't stay here." The boy did not look up. "He was mine for a little while. Now he's not." Thyra crouched on the boy's other side. She drove her spear into the snow and left it standing. "Your grandfather taught you something no one else here knows," she said. "The smoking. The drying. You carry that now." Ansel shook his head. His gloved hands stayed buried in his lap. The wind pulled at his white-blond hair. Borin saw the ice stretch ahead, six days of it, and knew a boy frozen in grief would stumble into a crevasse before noon. Borin stood. He looked at the sturdy ponies hitched to the sleigh, their spotted coats thick against the cold. One mare stamped and tossed her long mane. He led her forward by the harness and stopped her in front of Ansel. "These animals don't know the path," Borin said. "They follow whoever holds the rein. Gregor gave them to us. If no one leads them, they wander onto thin ice and fall." Ansel raised his head. He looked at the mare's dark eye, then at the empty sleigh where his grandfather had lain. "He'd want them kept safe," Borin said. "I can't probe the ice and hold the ponies both. I need hands I can trust." The boy stared at the rein in Borin's outstretched glove. For a long moment he did not move. Then he pulled his hands from his lap and took it. He stood. His legs shook, but he stood. "I'll hold them," Ansel said. Thyra pulled her spear from the snow. She gave the boy a short nod. Borin set his staff against the ice and felt for the hollow ring. The column formed behind him. Ansel walked at the ponies' heads, one hand firm on the rein, watching their hooves find the marked path. He did not weep now. He had a thing to do, and it kept his feet moving. By dusk they had crossed a full day of ice without a single fall. Borin looked back and saw the boy still at his post, leading the mare over Borin's charcoal line. The grief had not left him. But it no longer owned him. Five days of crossing remained. The stronghold waited somewhere past the white. And the tribe moved whole, every soul still on the safe path.