Stalking Darkness

the distance involved in—”
    “Let’s just get it over with.” Seregil gathered his gear in his arms as best he could. “The Asheks are far enough west that I should have a few hours of light left, but I’d rather not press my luck.”
    “Very well. I have done a sighting and should be able to send you to within a few miles of a village. It will be safest to drop you on the glacier itself, rather than risk hitting the rocky outcroppings along the edge.”
    “That’s
very comforting. Thanks so much!”
    Ignoring the sarcasm, Nysander placed his fingertips together in front of his face and began the incantation. After a moment a particle of darkness winked into being within the cage of his fingers. Spreading his hands slowly, he coaxed it larger until it spun like a dark mirror in front of them.
    Seregil stared into it for a moment, already queasy. Tightening his grip on his snowshoes, he took a resolute breath, closed his eyes, and stepped forward.
    The whirling blast of vertigo was worse than he’d feared. For most people, a translocation was as simple as stepping from one room to another. To Seregil, however, it was like being sucked down in some vile black whirlpool.
    It seemed to go on endlessly this time, buffeting him with darkness. Then, just as suddenly, he tumbled out into frigid brightness and sank up to his hips in drifted snow.
    Stuck fast, he bent forward and spewed out his scant breakfast. When the spasms were over, he struggled free and crawled away from the steaming mess. Collapsing on his back, one arm over his eyes, he lay very still as the world spun sickeningly. The wind sighed over him, blowing fine ice crystals across his lips. Rolling onto his belly, he retched again, then cleaned his mouth with a handful of snow.
    At least Nysander can aim
, he thought, looking around.
    The glacier hung in a steep valley. At its head a few miles away a pair of high peaks towered above the rest, marking a narrow pass and giving the valley the name Seregil had remembered. Slanting sunlight reflected back from the white expanse before him, bright enough to make his eyes water. Frozen waves, wind scoured out of the hardpack, thrust glistening up through the fresh powder to cast shadows as blue as the sky overhead.
    Seregil’s heavy outer garments kept the worst of the biting cold at bay, but his nose and cheekbones were already numb. His breath condensed with every exhalation, freezing in a glistening rime on the fur edging of his cap. Untangling the snowshoes, he checked them for damage and quickly strapped them to his boots. His thick gloves were cumbersome, but it would be courting frostbite to remove them even briefly.
    With firmer footing on the snow now, he set out for a nearby rise to get his bearings. Anyone backtracking his trail would discover that he had more or less fallen from the sky, but that couldn’t be helped; he was, after all, supposed to be a wizard.
    From the top of the rise he spotted thin columns of smoke marking a village a few miles away on the western slope. Farther down the valley he could just make out a second village. The first was closer to the “horns of stone,” so he headed west.
    He was still nauseated and the thin, frigid air cut at his lungs, making dark spots dance in front of his eyes. Setting himself a steady pace, he marched along until he struck a trail leading toward the village. He was within half a mile of it when a pack of children and dogs appeared, running out to meet him.
    Seregil paused, leaning on his snow pole with a grin of relief. Dravnian hospitality was legendary among those few who knew of it. Members of a neighboring village were greeted as family,which they often were. Anyone from beyond the limiting peaks was regarded as a veritable marvel. Goats were probably already being slaughtered in his honor.
    “May I visit your village?” he asked in Dravnian as the children crowded excitedly around him.
    Laughing, they shouldered his baggage and led him in. Dogs barked, goats and sheep bleated from their stone enclosures. Villagers hailed him like some returning hero.
    The little settlement was made up of a collection of squat towers, round two-story affairs of piled stone topped with conical felt roofs. The main doors were set high in the upper level and reached by a ramp when the snow was not piled up to the doorsill. At the center of the village stood a tower broader than the rest. A sizable crowd had already collected outside, hoping for a