White Silence (17 page)

The three men lay then, in the brittle snow on the bank of the treacherous river. Danny was panting as though he had run a long, difficult race. Every muscle that Duncan could feel was a knot of tension. Yet they knew they could not rest.

“Scotsman,” Siwash Sam said. His voice was a harsh whisper. “You must build fire. Big fire. Warm me. Dry me. Or I freeze.” He coughed. “And leg—right leg. It is broken, I think. It is hard to tell.”

“Yes. All right then.” Duncan rose, stumbling upright. The sled was where they had left it, more or less. The dogs had simply dropped down in their traces. “Danny, bring the sled. We’ll head—that’s a stand of trees up ahead. There.” He pointed, as the young Immortal slowly got to his feet. Sam grunted. Duncan took it for assent.

Danny faced Duncan. His face was white and set, his blue eyes dangerous. “Are you not forgetting something, Highlander?”

Duncan glanced at Sam. The Indian’s eyes were closed, and he seemed only half-conscious. “Fitzcairn will survive this, Danny. You know that. But if we don’t tend to him immediately, Sam won’t.”

“Englishman dead.” Siwash Sam spoke without opening his eyes. “No chance he survive.” He coughed again. A bit of blood clotted his lips.

Danny glared at Duncan a moment and went to get the sled.

Fitz will survive,
Duncan thought as he watched the sled itself finally vanish, swept into the river. But at what cost? For a moment, his vision blurred and dimmed. But it was too cold for his tears to fall.

Drowning. Why did it always have to be drowning? As the sled crashed through the ice, Fitz, who had been riding, was thrown off. Almost at once, he was trapped underneath.

He fought to get free, but the tangle of panicky dogs, Sam’s flailing legs, and the spilled contents of the sled confounded him. In a short time he gave up.

Icy water filled his lungs. His body was carried by the current beneath the ice, banging from rock to rock. Once, as he rolled on his back, he could see up through a clear patch. The sky was white, too, he thought, like everything else in this blasted land.

It was his last thought for a while.

When he choked back to life, he found that he was no longer in motion. He’d become wedged between two rocks, faceup, his head pointed downstream. He held his breath for as long as he could and tried to push upward to break through from beneath.

Bloody freezing, bloody water, chunks of ice hitting his face, bloody cold, bloody—

He drowned, again.

The next time he revived, it was dark. He sputtered, coughed, and began to feel the first faint stirrings of worry. What was the possibility that Duncan or Danny could find him in the dark? None.

It was going to be a long, cold night. Already, it felt as though every spark of warmth he had ever had in his life had been damped out and then whatever was left chilled to crystal. As he lay in the water, drifting back and forth between life and death, he tried to kindle some heat with memories of past loves.

There was Arianna, the “virgin” daughter of the duke of Verona. She’d taught him a thing or two as they rolled about on sweaty sheets, beneath a satin-covered, down-filled duvet. Until MacLeod had come to save her honor.

That memory made him laugh. Icy water burned inside his nose.
Forget the Highlander, Hugh Fitzcairn,
he chided himself.
There are far lovelier thoughts to think.

Remember Ashley, brown-haired, brown-eyed Ashley. They’d dallied a hot summer away. She’d been a fiery-tempered wench, and brighter by far than any woman should be.

And pretty Nan, a blue-eyed blond, with a sunny smile that could light up the day and night. She’d giggled when he kissed her soft neck as she sat at his feet while he smoked his pipe.

Ah, the glow of that smoldering tobacco!

He thought of jolly Kath, who rolled with him in the new grass of a secret spring meadow, while the sun poured down on them like warm honey.

When London was burning in 1666, he’d been in bed with Mrs. Mitchell, the king’s current favorite. He’d risked his head for her since Charles was sometimes a jealous lover, but she had been worth it!

So it went through the long, long night. When dawn came, Fitz was revived once more by a sight he’d wager no man had ever seen from a position such as his.

From under the ice, he watched the sky shade from pale lavender to soft amethyst to petal pink as the distant sun climbed in the sky. This time he held his breath not just for the sake of the few minutes of life, but in awe.

His last thought as he drowned again, was that if worse came to worst, the ice would thaw in spring. Now wasn’t it good that he’d had so many fine memories to entertain him until then?

“How bad is it, then?” Danny asked as he handed Duncan the second of the slender tree branches. Duncan positioned it and tied the splint securely in three places with leather cut from extra traces.

Siwash Sam was conscious through it all but, even at the worst points, he barely groaned.

“It’s bad,” Duncan replied. He didn’t lower his voice. The Indian knew better than he, probably, the nature of his injury. “The big bone in his thigh shattered and came out through the skin. The wound—it’s an ugly one. And,” he hesitated, “I don’t know—the freezing water and the cold—how it will affect the healing.”

Danny shook his head. “Not the leg. I’ve seen far worse, after the fighting.” He regarded Sam with a curious detachment. “Most times the doctors were quick to take the limb.”

Sam stared at the young man. Duncan narrowed his eyes. “Well, this isn’t war, and I’m no battlefield surgeon. The wound was clean at least, and I used sulfa powder under the dressing. We’ll keep him warm and—”

“What I meant, MacLeod,” Danny interrupted, “is how bad is it for us, do you think?”

Duncan considered. They’d lost the sled, all the supplies and gear on it, and four of the five dogs. The fifth, Sam’s lead dog Rip, was one of the two that had gotten clear of the river. He was not in the best of shape. But they had wrapped him in a fur robe and moved him close to the fire, away from the second team. Through his own pain, Sam had directed them to do so. The injured dog, he explained, was at risk from the healthy. They were running on short rations—the dogs were hungry. They might well turn on the weakened one and tear him apart.

“I’ve no good answer, Danny.” Duncan replied. “We can’t stay here long. These trees aren’t much of a shelter. And the weather could change in a moment. Sam has said that all along.” Duncan rearranged the blankets covering the Indian. “A night, no more. Then we lash him to the sled and go on.” He paused, rose to his feet, and walked a short distance away. Danny followed. They both stood looking back at the frozen river.

“If the dog can pull, we’ll harness him. If not, we’ll have to leave him. We’ve got over half the gear and food left and we’ll be moving at a slower pace. You and I will be walking for the most part.” He stared around at the unbroken stretch of white that never seemed to meet the sky no matter how far distant you looked.

“And Hugh.” Danny said in a low tone. “We leave him like the poor dog?”

“Danny, we’ve been over this. Fitzcairn will be all right. He’ll come up through another hole in the ice, or be carried downstream to a larger river.” Duncan turned to face the young Immortal. “In fact, he might even reach a place of safety before us. There are cabins built by these rivers. And,” he added with a twisted smile, “his head is safe. The Game is not meant to be played in a land where a man’s breath freezes in his beard.”

“That had best be true,” Danny said, bleakly, “for his sword was on the sled.”

Duncan was silent. Fitz had carried that bright blade since before they had met. A cavalier’s sword, with a well-polished guard and a keen edge. It was not fancy, but it suited him and had served him well for centuries. Still, though a swordless Immortal could usually be judged an Immortal at great risk, Duncan thought that, at this moment, in this hostile place, it was not any of their kind that Fitzcairn need fear.

“Consider this,” Danny continued, “might Hugh not be just around the bend there”—he gestured downstream—“freezing to his death, waiting for his
old friend
to come to his aid?”

“He might at that,” Duncan conceded softly, “but we can’t leave Sam and the dogs. We must stay together. To separate is foolish. And dangerous.”

“
We
can’t. But I can. And I will, MacLeod. You’ll not stop me, except with your own sword.”

Duncan saw that Danny was determined, so it was agreed then—the young Immortal donned snowshoes, took a pickax, rope, a fur blanket, extra snowshoes, a kerosene lantern, and a bit of food and set off downstream. Darkness was already falling. He had, Duncan told him, until three hours after dawn the next day to return with Fitzcairn or not.

And what will you do, Duncan MacLeod, if he does not come back?

As though he had heard the thought, Siwash Sam spoke from his nest of fur, “Irishman dead now, too. Next day come, we go on, Scotsman.”

Duncan glanced down at him, then back at Danny, a figure vanishing in the gathering gloom. He was going slowly, following the course of the river. Not dead, not really, Duncan thought. And yet—it was something he rarely talked about, only a bit with Connor.

When their kind died, it did not last. But for a time—sometimes seconds, sometimes hours—they
were
dead. And when that brief death touched a friend, Duncan felt it. He had seen Fitz die before—in fact, when they had first met, he had run him through with his own rapier, to save him from the wrath of a mortal. He knew that whatever fate befell Fitz—and Danny—in this cruel whiteness, would not be a permanent one. But that knowledge did not ease the small sting of grief.

Duncan moved toward the fire. It was important to keep it blazing, to keep a circle of warmth and light around men and dogs alike. He must eat and heat soup to feed Sam.

It was going to be a very long night.

Lift one foot carefully, put it down, and shift your weight before lifting the other. Sometimes the snow held, sometimes it didn’t.

The moon was near full, though. That was a help. Holding the lantern out had been a wearisome strain on the arm and wrist. Danny soon realized he didn’t need it. He could see plainly and needed only bring the light into play if something caught his eye.

Lift. Place. Shift.

The ice was thick in places, solid white, hiding the rushing water beneath. In others, it looked so clear and thin that Danny imagined he could thrust through with one hand.

He was reminded of the glass that came from the factory in Temperanceville. Some was heavy, plain stuff made for the kitchens of the likes of Mother Kelly. But some had been fine and delicate, thin-stemmed pieces Danny had loved to handle, happy to touch them before they left Temperanceville for the more splendid neighborhoods of Pittsburgh. Neighborhoods he would wander through himself on nights like this when the moon shone full.

Lift. Place. Shift.

He saw the ruined sled caught up in the shallows. He got as close as he dared to see if Hugh’s sword remained with it. But only a piece of heavy canvas still clung to one runner, moving like a live thing, back and forth with the current.

The gold, Danny thought. Gone. All three of the moosehide packs, filled with nuggets, washed away. It seemed not right to fret about that, with Hugh still missing. But Danny could not help it. He stopped for a time and swallowed a lump that came, it seemed, up from his gut.

Half of the gold—gone.

Nothing to be done, though. And half still remained. It would be enough. Get on, now.

Lift. Place. Shift.

It was a long night. The going was slow and several times Danny was fooled by a trick of light and shadow. Once, investigating such an illusion, he felt the ice beneath him begin to shift. He narrowly managed to reach solid land before a crack a foot wide opened up where he had been mere seconds before.

After that, he proceeded with even more caution.

He stopped only once, to eat some of the dried beef he had with him. He was numb with the cold, and exhausted. But he would not, could not, give up.

Lift. Place. Shift.

Hugh had not given up on him, though he had tried his teacher’s patience often, he was sure. He had kept Danny with him, and in the past few years had taught him well. Not just about being an Immortal but about life and the world and the infinite possibilities that it offered. Danny could read now, and write a good hand and ride a horse, and tell good wine from bad, and—

The moon went down. Danny relit the lantern and went on.

A hint of gray. The weak sun was struggling to rise. Danny wondered, if he didn’t return, would MacLeod really leave him? He had to turn back, he had to go on. He
knew
Hugh was somewhere near.

And then, like a blessing, the feeling came. Hugh
was
somewhere near! Danny stopped and peered through the dim brightness. There! About five feet from the riverbank. Like the sled, Fitzcairn had become wedged in the rocks where the water ran less deep.

Conscious of the minutes passing, Danny moved quickly, but with great care. Full dawn lit his efforts as he stepped out onto the ice. It was thin and clear beneath him. He could see Hugh as if he were trapped on the other side of a mirror. His eyes were closed and his hair moved gently in the eddies. Danny removed his snowshoes and crawled to a place just behind him. A sharp blow, then, with the pickax. A small hole appeared and a spiderweb crack that Danny widened with more careful blows. It would not do for him to join Hugh in the icy water.

Finally, the hole was large enough. The rope now. He plunged his hands into the river. Even through the thick leather and fur gloves, he felt the sting of the water.

Quickly, he passed the rope around Fitzcairn’s torso, under his arms. Once he lost an end in the current and had to start again.

But it was done, and Danny backed up slowly ’til he reached the bank. Then, rising to his feet, he put his whole strength of body and mind into it and pulled Fitzcairn from the river.

“Hugh,” Danny said, leaning over the sodden body.
Could you rouse an Immortal more quickly than their nature intended?
Danny didn’t know. But he did know that, upriver, Duncan MacLeod was no doubt also awake with the dawn. “Hugh,” he shouted. And slapped the ice-cold face.