D H Dunn [Dunn - Dragons of Everest

T anira dropped to her knees, the cold mountain air of Ish Selot rushing in and filling her tortured lungs.

Her trembling hands dropped the blink tube into the snow, her body heaving and gasping for breath. Her vision blurred as she searched for the object in the dark, panic coming to her in waves.

Without it, her mission would fail. Yet Tanira had walked this knifes edge a hundred times since becoming the End of the Line, always one mistake away from a failure that would doom her people.

The small metal tube was another of the artifacts she had stolen from the Manad Vhan beast Kater, the tiny device miraculously replicated the short-distance teleportation magic of the Yeti.

Unfortunately, each jump also consumed all the air in her lungs.

She had no energy to curse and no time to be tired. Ignoring the white spots that danced across her vision in the dark morning of the peak, she fished her gloved hands through the cold snow until she found the metal tube.

Struggling to a half-standing position, with one knee still in the snow, she angled the tube upward and peered through the dark. There was supposed to be another spot higher on the mountain, if she could just locate it.

Her vision swam around her in a fog of fatigue and precipitation, the dim light of the clouded moon doing little to illuminate her goal.

Her hand shook again, fouling the aim of the tube. She grabbed her wrist with her other hand, trying to steady it. She could hear the crystals jangling around in their thin metal cage.

How many do I have left? How many more do I need?

She couldnt even remember loading the device hours before as she had begun her ascent. Since then, there had been too many jumps, too much time spent heaving into the cold.

As if to scorn her, Ish Selot sent a fresh burst of wind down its slopes, blowing more ice and powder into her face. She shivered, struggling to keep her grasp on the tube and her posture steady in the snow.

She dropped the tube again, her trembling fingers failing her. Tanira pounded the snow in frustration, icy white flakes flying into her eyes.

The heavy, metal clamps on her left shoulder were just more useless weight. The armor of the Hero was sufficient to ward off attacks, but it offered nothing against the mountains frigid temperature. She had powered the armor off after just one jump, the climbs and blink jumps were enough without adding the drain the armor put on her stamina.

The Line did not care, and the Line had led her here, back to her home world. Left behind were Nima, Sessgrenimath and the small Caenolan child that had given her access to the Heros temple and her portal to return.

Nimas face, hurt and betrayed, flashed in her mind for a moment before she pushed it away, covering it with snow much as the mountain threatened to cover her.

Her body ached to rest. Her mind yearned to sleep. She ignored them both, for her needs as well as the Line. If her eyes closed, they would bring even worse visions. The dead faces of the Rakhum guards she had killed. The hundreds of Thartark that likely drowned after she woke Sessgrenimath.

Val, who had tried to help her. Be her friend.

Pounding her fist into the snow, she dug out the blink tube again, this time gripping it with a strength she worried might bend the metal. With a cry of anger, she pushed her legs back into a standing position.

The Line only moved in one direction, there was no going back. Several jumps above, her destination waited for her. The next step in her mission.

The Vault of the Thread. After millennia Tanira was about to undo the work of Orami Feram, the hero of the Manad Vhan. By her hand and her actions, the great Dragons would again pierce the skies with their power. They would deliver the vengeance of Taniras people upon their oppressors. They would deliver justice.

He would be waiting up there as well, the next companion to join her. The Alms of the Line. The keeper of the secrets that had been withheld from her.

What might he look like? Does he have food?

Her stomach clenched at the thought of sustenance, her body having long since burned through the cache of supplies that had been waiting for her at the base of Ish Selot.

Her hand still trembling, she aimed the tube at a ledge several hundred steps farther up the mountain. There it would be even colder, the snow even deeper. She took a deep breath, keeping the mantra of the Line in her thoughts like a rope she could cling to.

Guard the Line. Honor the Line. Trust the Line.

The night was long, and there were many more jumps to do.

* * *

Tanira was being pulled up. She had a memory of reaching the front of the Vault and of collapsing in the snow. It might have been minutes, or days ago.

The arm that pulled her to her feet was strong, connected to a young man who looked just as sturdy. His olive cheeks were ruddy from the cold as he smiled at her, his dark hair blowing under his knit cap. He wore a heavy, woolen cloak with brown fur to match the fur on his gloves and boots. He looked her in the eye, unlike her father he was tall enough to do so.

She opened her mouth to speak, then tumbled as her knees gave out before she could. The mans arms quickly caught her, holding her upright.

Be at ease, he said, raising his voice above the ever-howling wind. I am the Alms of the Line. I am here for you.

Tanira allowed herself to be held in a standing position by the Alms, her vision still swimming in and out. Her chest heaved a little less, a small relief. Working through her blurred sight, she tried to see past the whiteness that surrounded her, but little detail came.

Alms. The title fell from her mouth like a dying bird, the wind ripping away any strength her voice might have. You have a name?

I was Reylor, before my title.

He moved, and she moved with him, allowing him to lead her toward a darker blur against the white, a squat brown shape that was slowly revealed to be a tent. Reylor lowered her, gently ducking her head inside the flap.

She knelt, her trembling slowing to the point where she became aware of it. The bite of the wind was gone, but the gnawing of the cold remained, little knives that felt like they were peeling away the skin of her toes and fingers.