“Every feature was exaggerated. The riverbeds were gouged from sheer rock like battle scars. The water coursing through them ran so icy and blue you feared to drink it, lest the chill go right to your bones. On all sides the Tatry Mountains climbed at a pitch that seemed geologically implausible, shooting upward to peaks that might have been honed by a storm-god's ax. Life clung precariously to the land here: sand-colored wisps where grasses had waved in summer; dark holds of spruce whose ragged... tips imitated the mountaintops; more rarely, stripped-down blackened stalks of some native flower jutting from gaps between pale gray rocks, their pods rattling faintly with the tiny seeds inside. This land was shaped with no regard for soft-skinned creatures. And so history had flowed around it, crossing and recrossing the Polish plain to the north, creeping east onto the Ukrainian steppe, welling like a tide from the old imperial cities in the south. The war, too, had mostly bypassed the Tatrys, as it had the rest of Carpathia.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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