Snippet #2428914

Ketchka decided she hated mountains.

In her youth, the mountains had been a grand thing, full of freedom and adventure, of tall beauty, and muted promises of home. She’d dreamed of the rocks and the rills, the heady scent of hemlock and cedar, of crisp white snow and creeping morning mists, nameless red berries and the singing of nesting wrens. She’d dreamed aplenty, yet never stepped foot upon. The mountains had always been an untouchable dream, a symbol of everything that was out of her reach, no matter which mage house she’d been sequestered within.

Yesterday found her not only on her first mountain, but traveling it ass over teakettle. Between leaf litter and pine needles, mud and slush, wet rock and something she highly suspected was freshly heel-ground fungus, she hadn’t made it an hour solely on the merit of her own feet. The mountains were determined to take her down. There was intent. She was sure of it.

But she knew how to adapt when surrounded by the enemy. Ketchka had picked at mud drying on her fine clothes, taken a deep breath of mountain air (a lungful of earthy damp and aftertaste of lichen eating away at sandstone, not exactly the aromatic bouquet she’d anticipated) and learned how to step sideways to walk straight. If she didn’t adapt as quickly and smoothly as she remembered now, the truth was kept between her and the mountain. Today, her feet were as sure and nimble as any goat’s. Today, the chipmunks did not chitter their amusement and rush to get out of the way.

The ground gave way to soft shapes by noon. She’d left the mountain range behind, bearing no knowledge of when great peaks had lowered and the sky widened, and no clear view stretched behind. The sun released sweetness from the seed-headed grasses, cast shade beneath the oaks. She took the easier paths at the edge of riparian ditches, following trails used by cloven hooves daily until the earth hardened and polished like fine cobblestone. There were willows and black walnuts ahead, running perpendicular to her current deer trail, their greedy roots better than any dowsing rod, but by that time she already could hear the river.

Water. Freshwater. After walking fifty miles over rough terrain, it was enough to make her feel a little greedy herself. In Yideas, every bath had reeked of salt from the inland sea, every swim shared with toothed eels. This stream was languid in its movements, its bottom clean shale and polished river rock, positively begging her to throw off her boots and wade in.

She had one boot off already and was balancing on one leg when she spotted the dead body high on the bank.

“No. No-no no no no. You can’t be here,” she admonished, throwing the other boot down and rushing over. It looked Carion. Big, and Carion. And like a dragon had chewed on it and spat it back out. “If you’re alive, I’m going to kill you. You ruined a perfectly decadent swimming hole,” she said. Ketchka threw her pack down and knelt in the sedge, quickly aware blood saturated the ground as it rose up through the knees of her mage-black gown. He was wet, and smelled. She couldn’t tell if he was breathing, but nothing had eaten his eyes, so he probably wasn’t dead, despite all appearances otherwise. It was fair to say he was unconscious then.

Even mostly dead, he looked like a warrior. Ketchka bit her bottom lip. This could go bad. She didn’t know him, and the unpredictability set her teeth on edge. But he was Carion. He was hurt and weak. He wasn’t a mage. She didn’t see any other choices, right now. She’d do her best to save him.

She threaded human hands into his hair, checking his skull for contusions. She had needle and black thread in the pack, intended for mending her clothes. If he stayed unconscious, it would be easier for her to sew him back together, but he’d probably die before the last stitch. Ketchka closed her eyes, hovering a hand above his heart, and delivered the magical equivalent of adrenaline. It was a dose of pure energy: the backwash tasted like ozone to her own senses, but to a body incapable of manipulating magic, it no doubt hurt. She wanted him alert, talking. Ketchka couldn’t see inside him to pinpoint which injuries were killing him, but she wasn’t going to risk pumping him up with blood if he was going to leak like a sieve into his lung, for example. She moved both hands to his temple, setting the fleshy pads of her fingertips against the faint hollow where she could feel veins delivering blood to the brain. With a little pressure, she could return him to unconsciousness, if need be. With his amount of blood loss, it shouldn't be hard. She was ready for it, if the shock didn't rip him from her grasp.