Embers of the Raven: A Christmas Story from Greenland (The Christmas Raven Book 1) by Chris Paton

Embers of the Raven
     
    Snow fell softly upon the little man toiling through the drifts, slipping up the slope, sweating beneath his skins. All the while the raven watched.
    “Humph,” said the little man when he spotted the raven, but he did not stop. The twilight was growing stronger and he had yet to find a suitable qaarusuk for the day. It would be a cold day once again and the little man was loathe to spend another polar day burrowed in the snow like an animal. “A cave is what I needs and wants,” the little man muttered. With lumpy digits he fingered the sealskin pouch tied around his waist, hidden beneath his inner layer of furs. He gave the pouch a reassuring squeeze before withdrawing his hand deep within the heavy cuffs of his skins. As the little man toiled further up the mountainside the raven took to the wing, following him.
    The little man, no more than a dwarf in size, stature and temperament, turned at the sound of the raven in flight. He humphed once more and carried on. The snow was less deep here but the rocks upon which he trod were smeared with a thick gelatinous glass, cold and hard to the touch and treacherous to the lone traveller lost in his thoughts. Mikissok, for that was the dwarf’s name, slipped and fell hard on his knees the impact of which jarred his body, stretched his patience and tried his humour. Mikissok humphed again, closed his eyes and stood once more upon his broad feet and two short legs. Upon opening his eyes Mikissok saw the raven padding about the snow a mere stone’s throw before him. Mikissok rubbed his knees with gnarled, stubby hands. After a moment he stood at his full height and lurched upon the snowy trail until he found his rhythm once more. The raven followed, hopping and flapping behind the dwarf.
    As the moon circled above the dwarf toiled below. He and his raven companion moved quickly through the pass and entered a broad valley that stretched down before them. Mikissok paused a moment at the top of the tongue of snow slipping into the valley below. The dwarf took a deep breath and held it in his lungs. With a quick nod and a wink to the raven Mikissok leaped upon the broad snow-tongue and plunged down the shallow mountainside and hurtled into the valley below. With a yawp echoing about the black walls of the dark winter night, Mikissok slid for a long time. The grim smile upon the dwarf’s leathery face was plain to see in the winter moonlight. Mikissok could care less about gruff dwarven reputations, for all he knew he was the only dwarf this side of winter and besides, this was fun. As his passage slowed and the raven flapped to a stop beside him, Mikissok wiped a tear from his wind-blown eyes and sucked at the salty tip of his finger. He winked again at the raven before pushing himself onto his feet to begin the march along the valley floor. There was a good-sized qaarusuk, one he often used, just a short distance into the valley and Mikissok reckoned he would be there before too long. He fingered the pouch around his waist one more time before setting off.
    Mikissok had gone but a few feet when he felt a chill wind upon his broad neck. Exposing his left hand, Mikissok reached up to check his hood had not been torn during his wild ride along the valley tongue. The hood was in perfect condition and the dwarf was suddenly alert. Mikissok grew still and sank to his knees upon the snow. From a distance, in his dark sealskins, Mikissok looked like just one more boulder strewn upon the valley floor. The raven waddled slowly into his vision. Her black eyes did not rest as she scanned the valley sides.
    “Be still bird,” Mikissok hissed. The raven froze, her wings held tightly to her body. Still, like another small boulder among many, the raven’s eyes continued their furtive questing about the valley. Mikissok sniffed the air as a pungent breath of carrion whispered along the surface of the snow towards him. The dwarf risked a quick glance downwind and