Shelter from the Storm

Riptide Publishing

PO Box 1537

Burnsville, NC 28714

www.riptidepublishing.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. All person(s) depicted on the cover are model(s) used for illustrative purposes only.

Shelter from the Storm

Copyright © 2018 by Kate Sherwood

Smashwords Edition

Cover art: Kanaxa, kanaxa.com

Editor: Carole-ann Galloway

Layout: L.C. Chase, lcchase.com/design.htm

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher, and where permitted by law. Reviewers may quote brief passages in a review. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Riptide Publishing at the mailing address above, at Riptidepublishing.com, or at marketing@riptidepublishing.com.

ISBN: 978-1-62649-778-8

First edition

August, 2018

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A healer and a warrior fight to survive the winter . . . and each other.

Grif is tired of life as a mercenary—tired of life, period. So he heads off into the mountains, not much caring whether he lives or dies. But when his indifference leaves him unconscious in a snowbank, a stranger finds him and insists on dragging him back from death.

Kiernan doesn’t really have time to nurse a stranger back to health; he’s on an important mission. He doesn’t know why the message he’s carrying is significant, but he’s determined to deliver it, even if it means risking his life in the winter mountains. Still, he can’t just walk away from a fellow traveler in need.

Grif didn’t want to be saved, and he sure as hell doesn’t want to be stuck with an annoying, naïve do-gooder. But since when do the mountains give men what they want? The snow is too deep to travel. Food is scarce. Grif and Kiernan learn to depend on each other, and eventually to care about each other. Neither of them wanted it to happen. But sometimes the mountains don’t give men what they want; sometimes, the mountains give men what they need.

About Shelter from the Storm

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Dear Reader

Also by Kate Sherwood

About the Author

More like this

Grif knew better. Hells, a beardless pup who still thought his dick was only a piss-tube would know better than to hike through the Whitetooth Mountains this late in the season, and there had been a lot of long, hard years since Grif had been that young. Aye, Grif knew better; he just didn’t care.

Well, he hadn’t cared half a moon ago when he’d set out from Burtonsford. There were many people in that little town who wanted him dead, and he’d be damned if he’d give any of them the satisfaction of taking him down. The mountains might kill him, but at least they wouldn’t enjoy it.

So he’d wrapped himself in the warmest clothes he’d been able to steal and started walking. He’d filled his belly when there was something to hunt and gone hungry when there’d been nothing, and he hadn’t much distinguished between the two states. Day after day, working his way up and down the endless slopes, trudging toward a future he didn’t care to see. Maybe he’d finally found the state of peaceful acceptance those monks over in Bitramar had always gone on about. Maybe the monks weren’t as crazy as they’d seemed after all.

When the wind picked up, sweeping down the narrow pass like a rushing, icy river, he knew it was the end. Not enough snow on the ground to burrow into and find shelter, but too much of the damn stuff in the air for a man to see farther than a half step in front of himself. Would Grif lose his way and stumble off a cliff, or would he freeze to death? Were the gods up there somewhere, sipping their wine and idly watching him, taking bets on his horrid end?

No. The gods had no interest in a man like Grif Longreach.

Longreach. His favorite of the surnames he’d earned over his lifetime. It was the only one he wanted to take with him to the next world, so he tried to focus on it as he walked on. Not Battleaxe, not Sellsword, not even Runner, as he’d been known as a child. Not Goatblood, not Rivermud, not Seapuke. So many names, so many stories—so many things he’d rather forget.

Longreach, he chanted in his mind as he trudged on, leaning against the wind as if it were a physical wall. He was tall. He had a long reach. That was all. No blood, no battle, no weapons, no pain. Longreach. Longreach.

He stumbled and caught himself.

Then he stumbled again, couldn’t catch himself, went down—and struggled back to his feet.

What was he doing? Had he forgotten already? Was he too damned stupid to keep one simple idea in his mind? You don’t care, Grif Longreach. It’s time to stop. Time to let go. Time to give up.

Oh, shit. That was the problem. He’d blown it. Now that he was thinking of it as giving up, he couldn’t do it. There was another name from the past—Grif Mulehead. His own father had given him that one, and then tried to beat the reason for it right out of him. Of course the beatings had only driven Grif away from home, turned him into Grif Breadthief and Grif Sweetmouth until he’d learned enough to become Grif Quickhands and then Grif Smallboss.

Now, though, it was as though he’d gone back to the beginning of it all. Grif Mulehead. Struggling to his feet after every blow, refusing to lie down, refusing to give up. Refusing to be beaten, even by a force as powerful as his father, as powerful as winter in the mountains. So he kept going.

But he was slowing down. Freezing up.

That was okay, though. There was no shame in dying. No shame in losing. It was the quitting that was a disgrace.

So on he trudged. Falling more often, and starting to feel warm, which meant the end was near. Too damned cold to know he was cold; it was like being too stupid to know he was stupid.

It took him a while to realize the ground had started sloping downward instead of upward. Maybe a valley? Maybe somewhere the snow had drifted, accumulated enough to give some shelter. Or had he made it over the peak of the mountain range? Was he past the dry, windswept eastern slopes and heading into the snowy, windswept western slopes?

Maybe. But he was too far gone. No strength left to build a burrow, no heat in his body to warm even the smallest nest. He was done. It was over.

He knew that was true, but still, when he took the last step and his foot kept going with no ground to stop it, he tried to pull himself back. He flailed his arms, desperate to find something to hold on to, something to save him, but there was nothing but frozen air. He was falling. He was finished.

Grif Wrongstep. That was the name on the top of his mind as his body tumbled over the edge. Then everything was gone.

The man was heavy, almost too heavy to move. And, of course, moving him might kill him. He’d fallen from a good height, as far as Kiernan could tell, and after a fall like that, the most careful shifting could be enough to further scramble whatever might have gone wrong inside the body. The bank of snow had gentled the man’s landing somewhat, but not enough for him to be up and walking, or to be conscious at all.

Kiernan winced as his heel connected with the man’s lolling head. Dragging him by the arms had seemed better than by the legs, but the ground was uneven and slippery, and the man seemed to be getting heavier with every step. No, this treatment wasn’t good for someone who’d had a serious fall.

But freezing to death would be worse, so Kiernan kept working his way forward.

Luckily he didn’t have far to go. He’d set up his light shelter in the lee of the very cliff the man had fallen off. If Kiernan had taken a few more steps away before he’d loosed his trousers and painted the snow yellow, the man would have fallen on top of him and they’d both have been injured. The gods were looking out for Kiernan. Looking out for for the other man as well, because since Kiernan was healthy, he was able to help.

When he reached the opening of his tent, he dropped to his knees and crawled backward, dragging his burden with him. He pulled his mittens off and took a moment to warm his hands over the low candle he’d been burning for warmth rather than light, then turned his attention to his patient.

No, not his patient. He wasn’t a healer, and there was no point pretending he was. He was helping this man because there was no choice, no real healer to step in and take charge.

Kiernan’s fingers fumbled with the scarves wrapped around the man’s face. They were a solid mass, the result of hours of breath crystalizing in the cold air. The candle wasn’t enough to keep the air of the tent above freezing, and judging by what Kiernan could feel of the man’s face, the patient wasn’t going to be able to create much heat of his own.

The solution was obvious, but Kiernan still hesitated. He snugged his hands in against the man’s jaw, his neck, hoping to find . . . well. To find either too much or too little. If there was enough warmth, Kiernan wouldn’t have to do anything, and if there was no life at all, no vital pulse in the neck, then it was too late and the problem was solved.

But the pulse was there, weak and distant beneath skin that felt waxy in its chill. So Kiernan made himself act. He worked gradually, prying at the man’s frozen garments, being as gentle as he could, but as rough as he had to be. There wasn’t much he could do, up there on the mountain alone, for a man with a damaged spine, but there was something he could do for someone who was freezing to death, so he focused on that.

He couldn’t bring himself to strip the man completely. He managed to get the top half exposed, though he left the man’s arms in his sleeves, and then tugged off the outer layer of pants. The leggings underneath seemed dry enough, and not