Snowbound

By Mark P. Kolba

As an elven kithwaymender, Lleyyanir has delivered hundreds of clandestine communications across continents and kingdoms. But when his master Gwennin charges him with a new task, a delivery to the warden of the beleaguered northern city of Porytim, Gwennin urges unprecedented haste. Thousands of lives hang in the balance, and Lleyyanir’s message holds the key to their survival—if he can stay alive long enough to deliver it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mark P. Kolba
• Release date: Feb 13, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301718016

Mark P. Kolba

Mark P. Kolba lives in northwest Indiana with his lovely wife and daughter, and he has enjoyed reading and writing epic fantasy for many years. Growing up, he was steeped in the world of The Lord of the Rings (what fantasy fan wasn’t?) and found himself fascinated by tales of adventure, magic, and battles between great forces of good and evil. Tales that provided a fun and exciting escape from the real world yet also resonated long after the story was finished. He hopes that through his own writing he is able to open windows to worlds that are full of wonder, struggle, and fantastical delight. He hopes that you find his stories to be a place where adventure begins. And he hopes that you come along for the ride.

Book preview

Snowbound

by Mark P. Kolba

Copyright 2013 Mark P. Kolba

Smashwords Edition

All Rights Reserved

Snowbound

The snow blew at him in horizontal waves, sharp and biting like volleys of arrows that stung his squinting eyes and battered the sliver of exposed skin between them. The wind twisted and tore against the balaclava covering the rest of his face in a desperate attempt to lay his flesh bare to the snow. Lleyyanir clutched the fabric tightly to hold it in place and leaned into the swirling white wall ahead of him. He had to keep moving. But he knew that his progress had slowed—now a mere two miles an hour at best. And that meant he was in trouble.

Ever since he’d begun the crossing through Terrimore Pass, the storm had intensified, driven on as if by some supernatural fury. He’d thought he could save a day by traveling through the pass and skirting the Helnor Flatlands to the west. Gwennin had made it clear that haste was critical. Waste not a moment, he’d said as he handed Lleyyanir the silver messenger bag that contained the secret missive he was to deliver. Take this to the warden of Porytim with all haste. You cannot underestimate the importance of this letter; if you tarry it shall bring ruin. Thousands of lives depend on you. I am trusting you with this charge, Lleyyanir, you above a dozen of your brethren.

Those words had stoked his pride like a festal bonfire. It didn’t matter to him that Porytim was harried by barbarian armies and that the north march was lordless after the disappearance of Lord Florin of Aranam. It didn’t matter that he faced danger and death to travel there. No, all that mattered was that he was Gwennin’s chosen messenger—he, of all people, he who had been shamed not five years before on a similar errand. It was a chance for redemption. As he took the silver messenger bag in his hands, he vowed that he would be in Porytim by the end of the week.

How distant those memories seemed now, lost in a haze of blinding snow. Now he cursed himself for his foolish risk taking. He should have traveled across the Flatlands; there would have been no chance of a delay, and it would have only taken him half a day longer, or a day at most. Now he was stuck in a blizzard, and he was certain to lose time. Gwennin would be furious. Kithwaymender were not supposed to make such mistakes. Not on an ordinary delivery. And certainly not when he had been chosen like this.

Lleyyanir forced himself forward, pushing one foot slowly in front of the other and struggling against the wind. He needed to make as much progress as he could while he had strength and hope that he could somehow force his way through the storm. He had done it before, with weaker storms. There was no retreat, for to backtrack now would cost him a full day just to reach the edge of the Helnor Flatlands. And there was no shelter to be found in the pass, nowhere to wait out the storm even if he had the luxury of time. Nothing but spindly trees and the hard, merciless canyon walls. There was a reason that Terrimore Pass was deserted come November.

He lost track of the hours in the haze of snow and pain that encompassed him as he trudged along, resolute but slower with the passing of each half-buried feature on the rocky wall that he followed. His elven sense kept time like the count of a dying drum: first two miles an hour, then one and a half miles an hour, then one mile an hour, then . . .

Ice