Obsidian and Stars (Ivory and Bone #2)(6)

I watch. He is there. He is running right behind Kol.

A sound knifes through me—a violent breaking of rocks.

I see Kol, his hand out, his head raised as he shouts to his father—and then the place he stands is washed out by a swiftly flowing current of broad backs and tusks and raised trunks. The herd runs by like a river, raging and churning after a storm.

And then the river runs dry. The mammoths are gone. Only the whisper of falling dust remains.

From my perch above the pass, movement catches my eye. A hand slides out from under deep shadows and broken rocks—Kol’s hand. The same hand I’d seen him stretching out behind him toward his father.

He pulls himself up, and all I see of him is the top of his head. Even through the gloomy shade, I see his hair turning crimson as it fills with blood. I hear a voice call out his name—my own voice. I hurry down over the rocks, but before I can reach him, he’s on his feet, stumbling forward.

He moves only three steps before he drops to the ground. I think he must have collapsed—light-headed from blood loss, or maybe something worse. I rush to him, and when I reach his side—when I drop to my knees at the spot where he fell—I realize that things are much worse.

Much, much worse.

Bright red blood runs in the gray dust. It pools, dark and thick, in a rut, cut into the ground beside a long, shallow ditch.

And in that shallow ditch at the edge of the pass, beside a trampled and shattered spear, lies a trampled and shattered body.

The body of Arem, the High Elder of the Manu.

The body of Kol’s father.

Kol leans over him, takes his head in his hands, and tries to raise him up. Words tumble from his lips. “Don’t worry. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you. I’ll take care of you.” Cradling his head, he pulls him to his chest. Blood flows like water over Kol’s hands. If he notices, he doesn’t let it show.

He rocks his father against his chest, and I realize he has no hope of saving him, and he knows it. He knows it is too late. His only hope now is to comfort his father as he goes.

He eases himself onto the ground beside the place where his father lies, still cradling him in his arms. For a short time, both chests heave, both men gulp in air. Both backs stiffen against the hard, cold ground.

But then Arem’s hands slide from the places where they cling to Kol, his arms dropping into the dirt. His back softens and his chest stills.

But not Kol’s. Kol’s chest heaves as he lets the lifeless body of his father slide from his arms. He does not get up, but stays where he is, stretched out beside his father. He is in no hurry to leave his father’s side. Instead, he lays his own head on his father’s chest, and weeps.

Time passes, but the sun remains, squatting on the horizon. Its rays hug the ground, drawing the shadows of mountains from the smallest of rocks. This is the time of year when the sun dips below the horizon only in the middle of each night, when the Divine leaves the Land Above the Sky to feed its fire in preparation for its next trek into day.

I stand with Chev and Seeri, at least twenty paces from Kol, his brother, and his father. The body of his father. They’ve asked us to wait, to give them time.

So we wait.

As the sun sinks, its warmth flees, and a torrent of cold sweeps over the ground. It seeps through my tunic. Without the protection of the parka I would normally wear on a hunt, it soaks right into my bones. My teeth clench but still they chatter, rattling in my head.

The sun is half hidden behind the western hills when Kol and his brother get to their feet and remove their parkas. A shiver runs through me as I watch Kol, stripped from the waist up, crouch and slide his parka under his father’s shoulders. Pek slides his own under his hips. When they tie the sleeves, they have fashioned a sling to carry the body home. Before they lift it, Kol runs both hands through his hair, shaking his head as if to clear it. Drops of blood splatter his bare chest, and his hands, still stained with his father’s blood, are wet again, this time with his own.

At last, he turns toward me. His eyes are red-rimmed and damp. “Could you help me?” he asks.

Biting my bottom lip to hold in a sob, I nod. “Of course.”

Kol squats at my feet and lets me look at the gash on the top of his head. Blood cakes his hair into clumps, but using water from my own waterskin, I rinse it away, careful not to let any drip onto his bare skin. It takes almost all the water I have before I can see the cut in his scalp. “It’s not bad,” I say. I let out a deep breath, relieved to see that this injury shouldn’t need any special care. “The cut’s a bit jagged but not long—maybe the length of my thumb. And not deep.”

“Thank you,” Kol says, but the words fracture and become a groan as he straightens to his feet. His left knee buckles, and he clutches my arm and holds on to keep from falling.

Looking down at his leg, I notice blood running from the hem of his pant leg and over his boot. Dirt mixes with it, forming a sticky dark mud. “Let me look at your leg,” I say, but Kol steps away.

“It’s fine.”

“Kol—”

“There’s no time right now. When we get back to camp I’ll look at it—I’ll let Urar look at it—but there’s not enough time to worry about that now.”

I want to argue, but I don’t. He’s right. Especially about Urar. Kol needs a healer, and the sooner we return to camp, the better. Kol and Pek need to get back into parkas. The cold air stirs and I notice Kol is trembling. Seeri and Pek stand huddled together, her arms around him for warmth.