But he toughened. He ignored the doubt in his mind for the soft susurration that encouraged him.
The road is gone. He tried to destroy it. But we remember the path.
Who was this he? What path? He saw no semblance of a road, just more rocks to climb. What he did find was plenty to drink, the water rolling down from melting peaks in a refreshing rivulet. Not big enough to be called a stream, but it quenched his thirst and filled his canteen.
High up, close to the sources of water, hidden in cracks, sprouted plants, hardy things with fibrous stalks that took much chewing, and even if boiled overnight never quite achieved softness. But the acrid growth filled his belly. Cramped it at times, too. Yet what choice did he have?
The climbing became a monotonous thing. Wedge a foot. Reach for a rocky grip. Heave his body. Climbing to the top of the first mountain range, teeth chattering and feet blocks of ice in the snowdrifts, he knew better than to cheer. For he now faced the daunting task of climbing down then crossing a barren valley so that he could then climb the next peak again.
It wasn’t until he slept at the bottom, having lost his footing and rolled partway down the pebble-strewn slope, that he suspected he might not be alone.
He’d practically curled himself around the fire he’d set, the snapped tree trunk he’d found dry enough that a flame caught and then smoldered within the remains all night long. Not quite as comfortable as a bed, but warm at least for the first time since he’d set out.
Of concern, only a few paces from where he’d lain his head, he noticed a pile of feces.
A fresh pile. Which translated to his hungry and tired mind as food. Not the poop of course, but what it signified. Life.
Now it could belong to another traveler, although why defecate rather than say hello he couldn’t have said. More likely it came from an animal. It only served to reinforce his annoyance at the bureaucracy that refused to listen and send properly equipped explorers into the mountains.
Why did they stubbornly refuse to try?
Because of the gears he left. In the very ground. A warning to keep out the unwary.
A warning from whom?
But once more, the voice went silent. Its short bursts of mind speech came without rhyme or reason.
Standing, he surveyed the barren landscape strewn with trees long fallen. New growth struggled, the limbs stunted, the leaves sparse. The boulders littering the valley floor could have hidden any number of beasts.
The idea of meat made his mouth water. If only he knew how to catch another living creature. He knew it could be done. The library used to have books on the art of hunting. He’d skipped them. Jool was more a man of books than the outdoors. Given his current situation, he cursed his own short-sightedness.
He left his tree burning, wondering if its plume of smoke would make it high enough for Onaria to see. To let her know he lived.
Did she miss him? He ached for her. The smell of her, the sound of her laughter, the feel of her in his arms.
For a moment, he wondered at his sanity. What am I doing? I should be with her.
That voice chose to whisper once more, You do this to save her.
Gathering his things, he set out across the valley, skirting broken trees, giving wide berths to the thrusts of rock. As if a once-thick forest had been pummeled by stone from underneath.
A possibility, the scholar in him acknowledged. An earthquake could have done this, perhaps even a volcano, although there were none awake in recent history.
But then again, little was ever said about the mountains, as if everyone was intentionally ignoring them.
He chose to camp early that night, where he could start a fire for warmth rather than start his next grueling climb.
The meat jerky took forever to chew, and he washed it down with the last of his water. Hopefully he’d find a source early in the day once he started to climb.
With his pack as a pillow, and huddled close to his burning stump, he went to sleep.
A noise woke him. He lay still, holding his breath, straining to hear. Had he dreamed it?
It came again, the soft crunch of something stepping on the shale-strewn ground. He wasn’t alone. He opened his eyes in time to see, by the dim light of his fire, a pair of glowing red eyes charging him.
“What is— Oomph.” The beast slammed into him with a snarl, and only an instinct for preservation had him flinging his hands out to keep it from biting off his face.
His fingers dugs into knotted fur, and the fetid breath of the creature washed over his face. He could see nothing in the dark, just feel the strength of the monster as its smaller body tried to overpower him. He strained as it snarled, doing his best to hold those slavering teeth away from his flesh. He cursed his ineptness. Self-defense yet another skill he’d chosen not to learn.
And now he would die for it.
The beast began pushing against his shaking muscles, his arms weakening. Closer. Closer. The drool hit him hotly, tenderizing his terror.
The thing roared in triumph, and he had a moment to regret leaving Onaria, to wish he could see her one more time before the monster crushed him.
6
The monster literally crushed him, as all its weight suddenly landed atop Jool, the beast no longer trying to eat him alive. Dead apparently, and yet still intent on killing him.
Suffocating under the weight, he suffered the humiliation of knowing he’d not only failed at his goal but would die the most ignoble of deaths.
The body atop him shifted, and Jool gasped for a breath of air.
A male voice drawled, “A little far from home, city slicker.”
Scrambling to his feet, Jool perused his rescuer by the faint light of his fire. A man of swarthy complexion, his hair dark, what could be seen of it, tufting from the bandanna he wore around his forehead. His beard thick. Goggles concealed his eyes, just like his clothing covered him neck to toe, the long coat thick and worn, the leather streaked but appearing warm.
“Thank you for saving me,” Jool had enough manners to say.
“Wasn’t trying to save you. I wanted the meat.” The fellow pointed to the hairy carcass.
“It’s edible?”
“Yup.” The male swept past Jool and knelt beside the body of the animal, a huge knife in hand.
Questions brimmed on the tip of his tongue. Who was this stranger? What did he do in these mountains? Who taught him to hunt and carve?
Because he obviously knew how. There existed an assured elegance in the way the stranger wielded his knife, first bleeding the kill and capturing the blood in a flexible pan. Then stripping the skin from the carcass and slicing the ribcage open to remove the two hearts and other organs.
Only once he began threading the meat on sticks to set over the still smoldering stump did Jool venture to speak. “My name is Jool.”
No reply.
“I’m an explorer.”
That earned him a snort.
“I’ll admit I’m a better explorer of words and history than the wild.”
“You don’t say.” Spoken with thick sarcasm. A dark gaze turned his way, and the man shoved the goggles atop his head to show brilliantly green eyes.
“Do you live in the mountains?”
“Sometimes.”
“So you’ve explored them. Seen creatures. Perhaps other things.”
“If you’re looking for a miracle, then you’ve come to the wrong place.” The stranger turned back to his cooking meat, turning the spits before preparing even more chunks to go on the flame.