Verena's Whistle: Varangian Descendants Book I by K. Panikian (essential reading txt) 📗

the woman from the interrogation room and she was carrying an awkward parcel in her arms. She dropped it onto the snow and out dumped our weapons and packs. She nodded at us and headed back into the facility, and the gate slammed shut once again.

I ran over and quickly strapped on my saber and my nightingale knife. My backpack was there too. Owen grabbed his sword, knife, and belt as well. I picked up Dmitri’s staff, now back in one piece, and handed it to him with his backpack.

Bard and Cato walked over and re-armed next. While they shuffled around, I checked the sky. It was almost nightfall, and I had no idea where we were.

“This way,” Dmitri said, and started walking northeast. Bard and Cato fell in automatically behind him and I started to do the same. I stopped when Owen touched my arm.

“How does he know which way to go?” he asked.

I filled him in on Dmitri’s surprise while we walked across a snowy field and into the trees on the other side. The military base disappeared from view and the terrain started to climb.

“Another one?” Owen asked in a soft voice. “Why are there so many deities interested in this mess?”

I shrugged. “Probably the reason Mesyats said. The besy don’t belong here; they belong to a scary god in the portal world; and they need to be sent home and the gate shut. The gods can’t act directly, so we’re doing it for them, with some help here and there.”

“Smart girl. I said before,” Dmitri called back to us.

Owen fell silent and I studied the two Varangians marching in front of us. Their boots were leather and fur; they both carried longswords at their hips and packs on their backs. Cloaks draped across the packs, hanging down to their knees, and they wore fur mittens. The underside of their hoods looked like they were lined with fur too, so hopefully they weren’t feeling the cold. They scanned the snow and trees around us continually as we walked, occasionally murmuring to each other in a language I didn’t recognize. Maybe something Germanic?

We reached the top of the first of a series of ridges heading back into the mountains and Dmitri stopped. He turned, leaning on his staff, and we faced him in a semicircle.

“I’m leaving now. Your friends are there,” he gestured northeast. “Follow the ridgeline and climb. Tomorrow, you will intercept them. For now, camp here.” He handed his pack to Owen and said, “You may keep the tent.”

“Thank you,” I told him sincerely.

“You’re welcome. You,” he said directly to Owen, “keep practicing. Don’t rely on the sword’s magic alone.” He turned to the two Varangians and said something. They nodded at him and bowed their heads.

He pivoted to the south and started to walk away. I watched him for a moment and then, there it was, he vanished into the twilight.

“Right,” I said brightly. “You guys have your own tent, right?”

IT turned out that yes, they had a tent, sort of. Cato paced, inspecting the trees around us for a few minutes, and then pulled a rope from his pack. He tied each end around two trees that were about 20 feet apart, pulling the rope taut. Then he unrolled a hand-sown tarp and draped it over the rope and staked down its four corners. He scraped the snow out from under the shelter and laid another tarp on the bare earth. The resultant improvised tent looked chilly. It would keep the snow off their heads, but the two ends were open to the air. It would be hard to keep their body heat contained.

Bard came over with large piles of pine branches in his arms next. Aha. He draped the branches at each end of the tent, shutting the inside to the elements.

Owen and I watched the whole undertaking and then set up our blue one nearby.

I built a fire pit in the snow and everyone scattered for firewood until we had a decent pile. I lit a spark and then whistled it gently to the kindling and started the fire. Both Bard and Cato watched interestedly. We sat on logs and rocks around the blaze. I whistled a nonsense tune, put a quizzical look on my face and raised my arms and shoulders up, like a shrug, then pointed at the two of them.

Bard caught on immediately and sent a small, blue energy bolt blasting from his fingertips into the snow at his feet. He was striker.

Cato weaved his fingers in front of his body and images appeared in quick succession, a bauk, a village, a horse. He was a zhakhar, an illusionist, like Grandpa Basil.

Cato pointed at Owen and Owen gestured to his sword pommel, then mimed a snarl. Bard nodded, but Cato still looked confused. Now that he’d removed his hood, I could see he was young, maybe only in his late teens. He had straight blond hair to his shoulders. Bard looked older, probably around my age. His hair was a similar color. I wondered if they were brothers.

Owen pulled a couple of MREs from his pack and offered me one. Mmm, chili. I opened it and showed the two Varangians. Owen pulled two more from his pack and offered them. Both men leaned forward, looked at mine, and sat back shaking their heads.

Bard opened his bag and handed Cato a couple of packets. He stood and grabbed a few thin branches from the firewood pile, stripped them efficiently, and made a tripod. Then he filled a pouch with untouched snow and hung it from the apparatus. He planted it in the snow so that the pouch hung a little bit above the fire and tossed in the contents of one of the packets.

Cato opened the other and started munching on something that looked like hard bread, or a cracker.

“I wish we could talk to you,” I said. “How many more people are with you? Why did you choose to