Chapter 2 of 2·5 min read·The morning after the raid
What the Snow Was Hiding
The watchman’s knock came before dawn, hard enough to rattle the Spire’s lower door.
Kaelen was already dressed. He took the iron-shod lantern from its hook and went downstairs. Elora called after him from the landing.
“Is it the bell?”
“No.”
“Then what is it?”
“I’ll find out.”
He barred the door behind him before she could follow. Outside, cobalt fog pressed close to the buildings. Oren waited beside the gatehouse, map tucked into his coat. Vey stood with a watchman whose beard had frozen white at the edges.
“Something’s under the snow,” the watchman said. “At the east wall. We heard it scraping.”
“Did it break through?” Kaelen asked.
“No.” The watchman looked toward the wall. “I don’t think so.”
Vey took the lantern from Kaelen and held it low. “Then we look before the watch starts filling in the parts they didn’t see.”
The east wall ran between two black-stone buildings, its narrow walkway choked with drifted snow. The new black layer had piled against its outside face. It looked damp in the lantern light, though the cold had frozen it hard.
Oren pointed to a notch in the stonework near the ground. “Old drain. It’s been blocked for years.”
“Blocked by what?” Kaelen asked.
“Stone. Snow. Whatever settled there.” Oren rubbed a glove over his mouth. “The watch says the scraping came from here.”
Kaelen crouched. A smear of black powder marked the stone beneath the notch. He touched it with the lantern’s iron handle. The powder shifted. Beneath it, something scraped once against the wall.
The watchman took a step back.
“Get the others clear,” Kaelen said.
Oren turned to him. “You’re sure?”
“No.” Kaelen stood. “Move them anyway.”
The watchman hurried off. Vey stayed where she was, her hand resting near the knife at her belt. Kaelen saw her glance at the weapon and did not tell her to draw it. She knew it would do no good.
Oren took a short iron bar from a rack by the gatehouse. “If it comes through—”
“Don’t hit it,” Kaelen said. “You’ll lose the bar.”
Oren held the tool out anyway. Kaelen used its tip to lift the snow away from the notch. Black flakes sloughed off in a thin stream. Something pale showed beneath them: a narrow, charred hand, the fingers bent around the edge of the drain.
Next
The Skahl-skin are gathering beneath the snow around Verndall’s warmth, but Kaelen still cannot tell how many are out there.
The Skahl-skin did not pull away when the iron touched it. It had no reason to feel pain. Its fingers flexed and scraped forward, searching.
Vey backed toward the gatehouse. “There’s one in the wall.”
“Or behind it,” Oren said.
The hand moved again. Kaelen raised the lantern, bringing its flame close to the gap. The Skahl-skin jerked. Its brittle skin crackled; flakes fell from the fingers onto the snow. The hand vanished into the drain.
“Fire,” Vey said. “It still knows fire.”
“Heat,” Kaelen answered.
He looked at the black snow bank. The scrape had come from the town side. The creature had reached for the warmth behind the stones.
Oren glanced down the wall. “We’ve had three attacks in six nights. They came at the gates. They came from the road.”
“Where did they go afterward?” Kaelen asked.
“Into the Waste.”
“Did anyone follow their tracks?”
Oren did not answer at once. He turned toward the nearest watch post and called for a torch. A guard brought one down, holding it high. The flame shook in the fog.
Beyond the wall, the black snow lay in long ridges over the frozen ground. The wind pushed it away from Verndall, but the ridges were crossed with shallow furrows leading toward the town. Not one or two. Dozens. Some ran straight for the wall. Others curved around the outer buildings, then bent back toward the light.
Kaelen crouched by the stones. Each furrow ended near a place where heat leaked through: a drain, a crack in the mortar, the narrow slot beneath a gate. The Skahl-skin had followed warmth to the town’s edge. The wall had stopped them, but it had not sent them elsewhere.
Vey studied the tracks. “They’re coming from the whole slope.”
“Can you tell how many?” Oren asked.
“No.” Kaelen brushed black powder from his glove. “The snow’s covering them.”
The torchbearer shifted his grip. The flame flared in a gust. Farther out, a furrow darkened as something moved beneath its crust. Then another, several paces away. They were too distant to make out more than a low disturbance in the black snow.
The guard lowered the torch.
“Keep it up,” Kaelen said.
“Sir?”
“Watch what they do.”
The flame lifted again. The snow stirred in three places, all of them nearer to the wall. The hidden shapes moved toward the torch.
Oren looked from the torch to the warm-lit windows behind them. “The town’s drawing them.”
“The people are,” Vey said. “And the furnaces. Every warm house.”
Kaelen felt the ache of his burned hand beneath the bandage. They had not attacked because some force had driven them south. They had found a town alive in a cold valley, and they were following its heat.
“Get the torch away from the wall,” he said. “Slowly. Don’t run.”
The guard obeyed. The dark shapes shifted after the flame, then stopped when it turned toward the gatehouse. No one spoke until the torch was behind the stonework.
Oren folded his map against his chest. “We can cover the drains. Post men at the outer streets.”
“Do that. Keep the fires burning inside the houses.”
Vey gave him a hard look. “You just said the fires are calling them.”
“They’re also keeping people alive.”
“And if they come through?”
“Bring them to the Spire.”
Oren’s mouth tightened. “We’ll need time to move the children.”
“Then start now.”
Vey turned first. Oren followed, already calling for the watch captain. Kaelen stayed at the wall long enough to make sure the snow had settled. The dark beyond it gave him nothing he could count.
Elora was waiting inside the Spire when he returned. She sat at the table with her hands around the blue cup. The brazier had gone low. She had banked it, as he’d taught her, but the room had cooled.
“You went to the wall,” she said.
“Yes.”
“What was there?”
“Something in the drain.”
“A Skahl-skin?”
“Yes.”
She looked toward the narrow window. “Did it get in?”
“No.”
“Why was it there?”
Kaelen took off his gloves. The bandage on his palm had split at the base of his thumb. He set the gloves down and went to the brazier, adding two pieces of coal.
“It was looking for warmth.”
Elora watched the coal catch. “From the houses?”
“From anything living.”
“Us, then.”
“Yes.”
She lowered her cup. “If we make the fires smaller, will they go away?”
“No. People would freeze.”
“Could everyone come here?”
“The tower won’t hold the whole town.”
Her eyes moved to the Chime above them. “Could you use it again?”
Kaelen turned from the brazier. He had no answer that would help her. The bell waited in its iron ribs, quiet and patient in the way a locked furnace was patient. He could not promise what it would take next.
“I’ll use it if I have to.”
Elora pressed the cup between both palms. “You said the last time only took something small.”
“I was wrong about what it took.”
She looked down into the cup. He could see the question she was holding back. He could not give her the memory of her mother’s voice. He could not give it back to himself, either.
He pulled a chair out beside her. “Drink before it gets cold.”
“It’s already warm.”
“Then drink it while it is.”
She did, in small careful sips. Kaelen sat beside her until the brazier burned evenly. Outside, the watch began moving people away from the eastern streets. Through the narrow window, he saw lamps cross the snow and vanish behind the wall.
The black drifts remained where they were. Whatever moved beneath them had not gone far.