LXXI
The idea came to me slowly, like a spark catching in dry tinder.
We were standing at the edge of the village, watching the aurora whip across the sky like a living banner, and all I could think was: Two or three months. On foot. Through permafrost. The glacier wall was so far north it might as well have been the end of the earth. The land between here and there was a graveyard of frozen rivers, cracked plains, and wind‑scoured emptiness. Even with friendly tribes along the way, it would be brutal.
I needed something faster. Something that could survive the cold and the distance.
And then I remembered the small, squat shapes I'd seen grazing near the river days earlier. Animals with stocky bodies, thick necks, dun coats, short legs built like springs.
Przewalski's horses. The original wild horses. Ancient and hardy.
Built for endurance, not elegance.
They weren't tall like modern horses. They weren't sleek. They looked almost like ponies. Their bodies were compact, muscular, with stiff manes that stood straight up like brushes. But they ran like the wind. I'd seen them bolt across the plains, hooves pounding, tails streaming behind them like banners.
I pointed toward the distant herd.
"Rolan," I said, tapping my chest, then pointing north, then miming riding. "Horse. Fast." I drew on the ground.
He blinked at me, confused for a moment. Then his eyes followed my gestures and dirt pictures, landing on the herd grazing near the riverbank. His expression shifted to recognition, then calculation, then something like excitement.
He said a word I didn't know, sharp and clipped, and jogged toward Ruba's yurt. A moment later, the shaman stepped out, her baby strapped to her chest, her eyes reflecting the aurora. She listened as Rolan spoke quickly, gesturing north, gesturing at me, gesturing at the horses.
She nodded once. Just once. But it was enough.
The villagers gathered. Hunters approached with ropes braided from sinew and hide. The younger ones looked eager, the older ones wary. Przewalski's horses weren't tame. They weren't docile. They were wild, clever, stubborn creatures that trusted nothing but their herd.
But they could be broken and guided. Horses could be coaxed.
They could accept a riding partner.
And they could carry us north in half the time.
I felt the cold wind sweep across the plains, carrying the scent of ice and distant magic. The aurora flickered overhead, casting green light across the village. Ruba murmured something under her breath, her baby stirring softly against her chest.
Rolan stepped beside me, his shoulder brushing mine, his breath visible in the chill.
He pointed at the horses. Then at the glacier. Then at me.
"Malaao," he said, voice low, certain.
He understood we needed to go on a journey, toward the glacier, and maybe a way between worlds. And now we had a way to reach it.
We picked the younger horses, in their prime, the ones with fire still in their bones.
They were harder to break, yes, but they were reliable, enduring, and less likely to collapse halfway through a two‑month odyssey into the teeth of the glacier. Older horses were calmer, easier, but they tired faster. The young ones fought you, but once they accepted you, they would run until their hearts burst.
I stood with the others as the hunters formed a loose semicircle around the grazing herd. The men moved like a single organism. Like a wolf pack, quiet, coordinated, patient. They didn't shout or rush. They simply angled their bodies, nudged the horses' path, and slowly guided them toward the corral the village had built overnight.
It wasn't a corral in the modern sense.
It was a man‑made valley, a funnel of woven fences and stacked stones narrowing into a bowl‑shaped enclosure. The horses didn't understand the trap until they were already inside.
Then the chaos began.
The young stallion reared first, screaming, hooves slicing the air. Two hunters darted forward, looping braided sinew ropes around his neck and chest, pulling him sideways until he stumbled. Another man grabbed his mane, holding tight as the horse bucked and twisted.
The fillies were faster. Hooves darting left, then right, trying to slip past the hunters. But the men were quicker. They moved like wolves, cutting off escape routes, driving the horses deeper into the enclosure.
One filly was caught cleanly, rope around her neck, her legs kicking up dust as she fought. The other bolted toward the fence, leaping high enough that for a moment I thought she'd clear it. She didn't.
She landed awkwardly, stumbled, and the hunters swarmed her before she could recover.
When they finally calmed, we had one young stallion, strong and furious, and
two fillies, both in their prime, and one of them… pregnant
Ruba approached the pregnant filly slowly, her baby strapped to her chest. She placed a hand on the horse's flank, murmuring something soft and rhythmic. The filly's ears twitched, but she didn't shy away.
Ruba turned to me, then to the others, and shook her head firmly.
She wanted to keep this one.
Not for the journey, the young filly was too vulnerable, too important, but for the future. A foal born in the village meant a new generation of horses. A chance to train them young. She wanted to build something lasting.
The hunters agreed without argument.
The pregnant filly was led gently to a smaller enclosure near Ruba's yurt, where she would be fed, sheltered, and watched closely.
The stallion and the other lighter pelted filly were ours.
Rolan stood beside me, sweat on his brow, rope burns on his palms, chest rising and falling with exertion. He looked at the horses, then at me, and nodded once. A simple gesture, but full of meaning, we succeeded.
We chose the younger ones, a bit stubborn, but strong enough to carry us and our supplies. The stallion fought hardest. He reared, bucked, twisted like a storm trapped in a small body. Rolan was the only one who could stay on him for more than a few breaths. Every time he fell, he got back up, dust in his hair, rope burns on his palms, determination carved into his jaw.
The filly was easier. She didn't trust us, but she didn't hate us either. She learned quickly that we weren't predators. She let me brush her mane, let me feed her handfuls of grain, let me sit on her back once she understood I wasn't trying to hurt her.
We rode bareback, with nothing but leather and pelts tied into makeshift saddles. My thighs burned. My spine felt every jolt. But the horses learned, and so did we.
By the end of the third day, they could carry us at a steady trot. By the end of the fifth, they could run. We would ride until they got used to us and our smells. They wouldn't run away with food and water at the ready.
efore we left, Ruba called us to her fire.
She held out two carved tokens—flat pieces of bone etched with the tribe's symbol: a spiral of lines representing the river, the mammoth, and the sky. She pressed one into my palm, one into Rolan's.
"Malaao. Rolan."
Her voice was solemn, heavy with meaning.
I didn't understand the full ritual, but I understood the purpose.
Not every tribe spoke the same language.
Not every tribe trusted strangers.
But everyone recognized identity tokens.
They were proof of belonging to the tribe.
They also served as roof of hospitality owed.
With these, we could stay with tribes along the way. We would sleep near their fires, trade for food, share stories, offer help. We wouldn't be turned away into the cold.
Rolan tied his token around his neck with a strip of leather. I tied mine around mine. Ruba touched my cheek once, her baby stirring against her chest, and pointed north. The aurora still flickered faintly in the sky, even though it was day.
The glacier was calling, and now, finally, we were ready to answer.