Pausing again, he heard a faint trill of sound from beneath the snow, the gurgling of water as it babbled along a buried stream. He poked and pressed with his sword, and the surface of snow dropped away, revealing a flowage about six inches deep.
But that was enough. Sithas suspended his skin from the tip of his sword and let it soak in the stream. Though it only filled halfway, it was more water than they had tasted in two days, and he greedily drained the waterskin. Then he refilled it, as much as possible with his awkward rig, and turned back to the cliff. It took him more than an hour to carry it back up to Kith-Kanan, but the hour of toil seemed to warm and vitalize him.
His brother showed no change. Sithas dribbled some water into Kith’s mouth, just enough to wet his tongue and throat. He also washed away the blood that had caked on the elf’s frostbitten face. There was even some water left over, since Kith’s frozen waterskin had begun to melt from the heat of the sun.
“What now, Kith?” Sithas asked softly.
He heard a sound from somewhere and looked anxiously around. Again came the noise, which sounded like rocks falling down a rough slope. Then he saw a distinct movement across the valley. White shapes leaped and sprang along the sheer face, and for a moment, he thought they flew, so effectively did they defy gravity. More rocks broke free, crashing and sliding downward. He saw that these nimble creatures moved upon hooves. He had heard about the great mountain sheep that dwelled in the high places, but never had he observed them before. One, obviously the ram, paused and looked around, raising his proud head high. Sithas glimpsed his immense horns, swirling from the creature’s forehead.
For a moment, he wondered at the presence of these great beasts as he watched them press downward. They reached the foot of the cliff, and then the ram bounded through the powder, plowing a trail for the others.
“The water!” Sithas spoke aloud to himself. The sheep needed the water, too!
Indeed, the ram was nearing the shallow stream. Alert, he looked carefully around the valley, and Sithas, though he was out of sight, remained very still. Finally the proud creature lowered his head to drink. He stopped frequently to look around, but he drank for a long time before he finally stepped away from the small hole in the snow.
Then, one by one, the females came to the water. The ram stood protectively beside them, his proud head and keen eyes shifting back and forth. The group of mountain sheep spent perhaps an hour beside the water hole, each of the creatures slaking its thirst. Finally, with the ram still in the lead, they turned back along the tracks and reclimbed the mountain wall. Sithas watched them until they disappeared from view. The magnificent creatures moved with grace and skill up the steep face of rock. They looked right at home here—so very different from himself!
A soft groan beside him pulled his attention instantly back to Kith-Kanan.
“Kith! Say something!” He leaned over his twin’s face, rejoicing to see a flicker of vitality. Kith-Kanan’s eyes remained shut, but his mouth twisted into a grimace and he was gasping for breath.
“Here, take a drink. Don’t try to move.”
He poured a few drops of water onto Kith’s lips, and the wounded elf licked them away. Slowly, with obvious pain, Kith-Kanan opened his eyes, squinting at the bright daylight before him.
“What ... happened?” he asked weakly. Abruptly his eyes widened and his body tensed. “The giants! Where ... ?”
“It’s all right,” Sithas told him, giving him more water. “They’re dead—or gone, I’m not sure which.”
“Arcuballis?” Kith’s eyes widened and he struggled to sit up, before collapsing with a dull groan.
“He’s . . . gone, Kith. He attacked the first giant, got clubbed over the head, and fell.”
“He must be down below!”
Sithas shook his head. “I looked. There’s no sign of his body—or of any of the giants, either.”
Kith moaned, a sound of deep despair. Sithas had no words of comfort.
“The giants ... what kind of beasts do you think they were?” asked Sithas.
“Hill giants, I’m sure,” Kith-Kanan said after a moment’s pause. “Relatives of ogres, I guess, but bigger. I wouldn’t have expected to see them this far south.”
“Gods! If only I’d been faster!” Sithas said, ashamed.
“Don’t!” snapped the injured elf. “You warned me—gave me time to get my sword out, to get into the fight.” Kith-Kanan thought for a moment. “When—how long ago was it, anyway? How much time has passed since—”
“We’ve been up here for two nights,” said Sithas quietly. “The sun has nearly set for the third time.” He hesitated, then blurted his question. “How badly are you hurt?”
“Bad enough,” Kith said bluntly. “My skull feels like it’s been crushed, and my right leg seems as if it is on fire.”
“Your leg?” Sithas had been so worried about the blow to his brother’s head that he had paid little attention to the rest of his body.
“It’s broken, I think,” the elf grunted, gritting his teeth against the pain. Sithas’s mind went blank. A broken leg! It might as well be a sentence of death! How would they ever get out of here with his twin thus crippled? And winter had only begun! If they didn’t get out of the mountains quickly, they could be trapped here for months. Another snowfall would make travel by foot all but impossible.
“You’ll have to do something about it,” Kith said, though it took several moments before the remark registered in Sithas’s mind.
“About what?”
“My leg!” The injured elf looked at his twin sharply, then toughened his voice. Almost without thinking, he used the tones of command he had become accustomed to when he led the Wildrunners.
“Tell me if the skin is broken, if there’s any discoloration—any infection.”
“Where? Which leg?” Sithas struggled to focus his thoughts. He had never been so disoriented before in his life.
“The right one, below the knee.”
Gingerly, almost trembling, Sithas pulled the blankets and cloaks away from his brother’s feet and legs. What he saw was terrifying.
The ugly red swelling had almost doubled the size of the limb from the knee to the ankle, and Kith’s leg was bent outward at an awkward angle. For a moment, he cursed himself, as if the injury was his own fault. Why hadn’t he thought to examine his brother two days earlier, when Kith had first been injured? Had he twisted the wound more when he moved the fallen elf into the shelter of the rocky niche?
“The—the skin isn’t broken,” he explained, trying to keep his voice calm. “But it’s red. By the gods, Kith, it’s blood red!”
Kith-Kanan grimaced at the news. “You’ll have to straighten it. If you don’t, I’ll be crippled for life.”
The Speaker of the Stars looked at his twin brother, the sense of helplessness growing inside him. But he saw the pain in Kith-Kanan’s eyes, and he knew he had no choice but to try.
“It’s going to hurt,” he warned, and Kith nodded silently, gritting his teeth. Cautiously he touched the swollen limb, and then instantly recoiled at Kith’s sharp gasp of pain. “Don’t stop,” hissed the wounded elf. “Do it—now!” Gritting his teeth, Sithas grasped the swollen flesh. His fingers probed the wound, and he felt the break in the bone. Kith-Kanan cried aloud, gasping and choking in his pain as Sithas pulled on the limb.
Kith shrieked again and then, mercifully, collapsed into unconsciousness. Desperately Sithas tugged, forcing his hands and arms to do these things that he knew must be causing Kith-Kanan unspeakable pain.
Finally he felt the bones slip into place.
“By Quenesti Pah, I’m sorry, Kith,” Sithas whispered, looking at his brother’s terribly pale face.