Borin Frostwalker's Arc

Chapter 7 of 10

Gregor led them north at first light. He set the pace with his old stick, jabbing the ice ahead for hidden gaps. Borin walked at his shoulder, watching the herd of pale caribou drift along the ridge below. Two days to the hollow. The old hermit knew every turn. But Borin saw the trouble before the first hour ended. Gregor's breath came short. His boots dragged. He stopped more often, leaning hard on the stick. Once he swayed and nearly went down. Borin caught his arm. The old man shook him off, but the shake had no force in it. Thyra came up from behind, her spear slung across her back, children strung out behind her. "He can't hold this pace," she said low. "Two days of it will kill him." Borin knew it. He also knew the truth beneath it. Gregor carried the route in his head. No one else knew the hollow. If the old man collapsed on the ice, the tribe lost their guide and their meat both. Forty people would starve six days from the stronghold. Borin studied the old man. The route lived in Gregor's memory, not his legs. Borin pulled the hide map from his pouch. "Walk me through it," he said. "Every bend between here and the hollow. I'll draw it. You ride." Gregor laughed, then coughed. "Ride what, boy?" They built a drag-sled from two spears and lashed furs. Two strong men hauled it. Gregor cursed and swore he'd walk, but his knees buckled, and that settled it. He sat, wrapped in hides, and pointed with his stick. "There. The ice folds left past that blue ridge. Mark it. The hollow mouth hides behind the next rise." A boy kept close to the sled the whole way. White-blond hair, hazel eyes, no more than ten. Gregor's grandson, Ansel, found only this winter after a lifetime apart. The boy held the old man's water skin and lifted it to his lips at each stop. Gregor's rough voice went soft only for him. "Grandfather," Ansel said once, "are we close?" "Close enough." Gregor's hand found the boy's shoulder. "Watch how the ice lies, lad. Learn it. Then your people won't need my old bones." Borin marked each turn Gregor called. The hide filled with fresh charcoal lines. By dusk of the second day, Gregor raised his stick and pointed at a wall of ice split by a dark gap. The hollow. Below it the caribou grazed, penned by the stone walls just as he'd promised. "There," Gregor breathed. "I kept my word." Borin gripped the old man's hand. They had the hollow. They had the route drawn now, his own. But Gregor slumped back on the sled, gray and spent, and the hunt had not yet begun. Below them the herd was wild and strong, and no man of his tribe had ever killed such a beast.