Free Cold Redemption by Nathan Hawke

a tinge at first but then spreading rapidly. Its belly swelled up and then collapsed in on itself.
Addic reeled away at the smell, the spell broken. Oribas caught a lungful of it and threw up, staggering away, scuffing the circle of salt himself this time.
    ‘Gods preserve us!’ He threw a handful of snow in his face and drew in lungfuls of clean air well away from the shadewalker. It was the sort of smell he was sure he would carry with
him for ever, just a whiff of it, always in his clothes and his hair and on his skin. They gathered themselves together and went back to look, hands held over their mouths. Where the shadewalker
had lain was now no more than a collection of bones. A skeleton dressed in rotten cloth and rusted mail.
    ‘I’d swear that was a forkbeard when it was alive,’ muttered Jonnic, and Oribas wondered if he might be right.
    ‘Best forkbeard I’ve seen for a while then,’ said Addic. ‘Wish they were all like that.’ He turned and a smile broke over his face and he grabbed Jonnic by the arms
and shook him. ‘Look! Look at it! Look at what we did! We killed a shadewalker!’
    ‘
You
killed it, you mean,’ said Jonnic. He looked distant and thoughtful, then a smile settled on his face too. ‘We did, didn’t we? We really did.’
    Addic grabbed Oribas. ‘They can be killed! They can!’
    ‘Put to rest,’ said Oribas mildly.
    ‘Aulian, don’t you see what this means? We can send the shadewalkers away!’
    ‘I’m hoping it means you’re not going to throw me into a ravine now,’ said Oribas, and then he smiled too, because the flowering of understanding in another man was
always a joy to see, whoever they were. ‘Also food and shelter for the rest of the winter would be nice. Until the snows clear and I can make my way back over the pass. Do you think you could
do it again now you know that it can be done?’
    They rode back to the half-dozen houses that made up the hamlet of Horkaslet. Since no one would believe what had happened until they saw the evidence with their own eyes, Jonnic dragged the
Marroc out of their houses and their barns to come across the fields. And after that, when they’d seen it, they forgot what they’d been doing and broke out the best food they had and
got roaring drunk on mead and ale, both drinks that Oribas had never met before and hoped very much to meet again. The Marroc ate until their bellies were swollen. They sang songs and talked the
stupid talk of drunk men, about how Addic and Jonnic would ride and rid the mountain valleys of the shadewalkers and then rid them of the forkbeards too while they were at it, until they all passed
out in a stupor.
    The three stayed another day and spent that evening doing more of the same before Addic decided they ought to be going back. They took their time about leaving, and as their mules plodded down
the valley, Addic asked all manner of questions. He asked where to get the powder that made them burn – which Oribas didn’t know, this side of the mountains, but he described the fish
oil, and Addic nodded – and about shadewalkers and what had made them and about Aulia and about what other magic Oribas knew, until Oribas had to tell him there was no magic to it at all, but
if they could find a way to get back his satchel from where he’d left it hanging over the Isset then he’d be happy to show them a trick or two.
    They sheltered for the night in another barn with another farmer who knew Addic and Jonnic well enough but laughed heartily at their stories of killing a shadewalker. He told them they should
drink less and looked askance at Oribas and his strange skin. After they left him, Addic was sombre. ‘Three, this winter. Three seen already and the real cold hasn’t come yet,’
and Oribas had no answer to that; but later another thought crossed his mind.
    ‘There’s one thing I would ask of you. I’d like to know what happened to my friend, the Lhosir who saved your life, Addic. I