Floreskand_Wings
Page 22
Snow-clouds, tinged with pink and purple on their undersides, billowed all around, leaving few patches of stark-blue sky visible. White and attractive, they posed a threat of which Cobrora Fhord would have preferred to remain ignorant. She was afraid. She tried thinking of her white lord, to no avail. Though upon the lower slopes before the sheer rise of the Sonalumes, she trembled as if with extreme cold.
“This is where we part, then, brother.”
Solendoral took Ulran’s hand. “We have thought deeply on what you and your companions have advised. With the aid of your tuition in the arts of mind-and-body, may we find the strength to tread the correct way.”
Ulran nodded and dismounted. “I know Versayr will be in good hands. Till we meet again, then, brother, on the appointed day.”
“And if we don’t make it?” Rakcra asked, similar thoughts uppermost in Fhord’s mind.
Solendoral shrugged. “You know the Hansenand – we will stay in a camp no more than one quarter. No more.”
“Then we will return for our mounts in that time,” said Alomar matter-of-factly. “Simple as that!” And he grinned and handed Borsalac’s reins to a mounted Devastator.
Spread around them were four weighty-looking sacks of hide, crammed with cured food, rope and dry clothing.
Alomar stooped and swung his pack on his back then slipped his arms through the leather straps. “Time passes,” he said.
“True, warrior.” Solendoral looked again upon his half-brother. “Are you sure one man is enough?” he said, nodding at Rakcra.
Solendoral could ill-afford to lose even Rakcra from his horde, albeit temporarily, yet he was willing to pare down his montar further to help carry their load of survival gear. “Yes, enough,” said Ulran. “Rakcra has proved himself able already. And, besides, he volunteered.”
At that moment Fhord felt a little deprived: Rakcra seemed to be getting a great deal of attention. Paradoxically, she felt her place was being usurped by a newcomer – because he was male? That thought was uncharitable and she stamped on it.
As Rakcra lingeringly hugged Woura and bid her farewell, Fhord mentally kicked herself, being jealous of a stout-hearted friend.
Apprehensive probably, she thought.
She felt slightly naked, having accepted Alomar’s advice and divested herself of the majority of idols and charms; those that she had kept were fastened to her belt. Now she too swung the pack on her back and quailed at its weight. They really did need extra men to hump their stores.
And the prospect of their next meal – up there – was disheartening. She cast another reluctant look at the crags of the Sonalumes, all daubed in everlasting snow.
“Farewell, then, friends!”
Solendoral and his entourage rode down the slope to join the main force of the montar, straggled in a long line, the company’s horses and mule being led. Solendoral waved once then turned to ride to the head of the column.
Then they moved on, the wagons jogging – creaking axles the only sound in the still cool morning air. The small caravan dwindled quickly, the flickering red of the fire-wagon in the rear.
Here, it seemed, the rays of the sun lost their power, as though a veil were cast up from the very Sonalumes themselves. A cawcaw’s throaty bird-song broke the uncomfortable silence.
Ulran turned. “Let’s begin – we have a long climb ahead of us.”
Wordlessly, they filed up the grassy slope, ever steepening, the mountain breeze becoming cooler and cooler as they ascended. They soon found the pace best suited to all and kept to it, with Ulran leading, Alomar following, Fhord next, then Rakcra.
The absence of any shrine troubled Fhord. She slowed her pace to let Rakcra catch up and then they walked abreast for a little while.
“I’m no religious man myself,’ said Rakcra, “but I too feel for such an awesome venture as this we should offer up prayers to Hewwa.”
“I suppose they wouldn’t put a shrine at the base of every mountain, only those routes most used by trading caravans – which I fear we won’t be treading!”
“That is correct, Fhord!” barked Alomar, startling both of them. He must have noticed them lagging and had waited. “Now stop wasting valuable breath and start climbing – we want to reach the base of Saddle Mountain by nightfall!”
“You mean we’ve not started climbing the mountain yet?” gasped Fhord.
“No,” laughed Alomar. “These slopes are but folds in the earth’s crust, forged by the Earth Mother. There is the mountain!”
Eyes followed the immortal warrior’s pointing finger.
The crest of this slope seemed about a half-launmark higher. Above this rose a grey and green sheer rock face, cleft with vertical and lateral shadows. Mist swathed above it, occluding the snows higher up.
Fhord jerked round, eyeing the adjacent peaks of the range. All the others seemed as formidable.
“Why this one – I thought we were going through Astrey Caron Pass?”
“Answers in plenty you’ll have soon enough, when we camp for the night.” Alomar looked up. Ulran had already attained the crest, was waving for them to come on. “Now, let’s get moving. The more work you do now, the sooner you will be able to rest – for we don’t stop till we reach the mountain’s base – come night, rain or blizzard.”
Then he strode up ahead of them and was soon out of earshot.
Shamed into silence, and their lungs now straining to breathe with the extra exertion, the pair separated. Fhord slowly gained on Rakcra.
When they reached the crest of the slope, there ahead was an almost identical slope and Ulran was near the top of that while Alomar was halfway up. “A false crest!” Fhord moaned, thoroughly disheartened.
“We must keep going, Fhord – they’re gaining on us.”
The grass was now coarse and straggly, broken up often with boulders jutting out from the black earth. Footing was stable for the most part, sinking into the soft soil. Tussocks provided handy purchase for climbing and the small shell-like rocks were firmly imbedded.
At one heart-stopping point a large wildfowl flew up directly in Fhord’s path, the bird screeching in alarm, huge wings flapping noisily. She made a laborious detour to avoid the nest.
Presently, they came upon a tiny trickle of a stream – barely the span of a child’s hand – that gurgled over shining stones. Fhord was sweating profusely despite the chill wind and knelt a couple of times to drink a palm full of water. It was beautifully clear, cool and refreshing as it passed her lips. But a short while later it hit her stomach where it seemed to lie, cold and heavy. She decided to refrain from further drinking of snow-melt.
Rakcra was still slightly weakened from the loss of his fingers but valiantly kept up, though he swayed dizzily a few times as a rogue gust of wind caught him climbing a spur of boulder instead of circumventing it.
As they neared the crest of this second slope, Fhord had few illusions. And she was not disappointed to see yet another slope ahead, though this one was even steeper and more like a scree, with only a few large patches of moss and lichen dotted about.
Back-ache had set in early on the climb but now was just part of countless dull pains. Climbing was automatic. If only she had a walking stick, she felt sure it would have helped. To stop was worse – for recommencing movement was agony and the will was weak, the body’s circulation having slowed down and cooled. Better to keep moving, she told herself, though her body protested often.
For fully six orms they climbed, virtually non-stop. And, as the day wore on, the bulk of Saddle Mountain drew nearer.
Now Fhord had an uninterrupted view of the peak, snow-clad and ominous, slanting away. The summit glinted white, and in its centre glared the concave formation that most resembled a saddle. But the brief freak winds quickly screened the peak once more, which Fhord felt was just as well, because the prospect of climbing to the summit was too much to contend with just now. These slopes, which were minuscule by comparison, were more than enough for her.
Ulran smiled fleetingly. “See that dark cleft in the rock face to the right – there?”
They nodded, catching breath, glad of the brief respite.
“We’ll camp there. It should afford enough shelter against anything the mountain cares to do to us.”
“Wait one moment, Ulran,” said Alomar suddenly. The eyes of the group were on him as he spoke. “I’ve no personal knowledge of this mountain, but tales of old say this Talus Slope we’re on moves if it hears a man’s voice – even a whisper. I’m not one to believe in fireside superstition,” he said, pointedly looking at Fhord, “but I’ve seen such things happen in the Tanalumes. The sound of a man’s voice is versatile, and has hidden powers. I just counsel that we should tread with care and in complete silence.”
“Agreed,” said Ulran. “We will slacken the pace as well.”
Thank the gods for that, Fhord thought.
To reach the dark cleft about a launmark to the right they had to traverse the steep slope of sharp angular rocks. They trod with the utmost care, placing little weight on the foremost foot, tested the surface for firmness, then lowered body-weight and moved the other foot forward. Painstaking work, and all the time their packs threatened to topple them down the scree.
Only once, as they stopped to gauge the going further ahead, Fhord braved a glance back.
She gasped. The view was extraordinary and unsettling.
The way they had come to the Talus Slope was clearly imprinted, like footprints in mud or sand; then the tussock slopes peeled away, steeply, to a brim and the rest of the slopes could not be seen. Over the brim, far below, the trail the Hansenand had taken veered to the varteron, towards Goldalese.
And such was the freak nature of the weather and air here that she was afforded a view of Goldalese, shimmering yellow in sunlight and haze – over five hundred launmarks, she estimated – as though floating on a cloud-surface. Mirage, possibly, she thought, having read of such phenomena. But weird, all the same. The clear air might have aided her vision, also. But she had to turn away because the surrounding scene made her too dizzy.
Occasionally, some of the scree slipped, but only a little. Enough to send hearts hammering. By the time they reached a hard basalt surface that slanted upwards in great slabs and was pocked with indentations from long ago, all four were lathered in sweat, their clothes sopping.
Ulran unfurled a length of rope and paid it out to the others then scaled the rock, using the tiniest of hand-holds in cracks.
Finally, the innman scrambled onto a relatively wide ledge. He found a suitable rock anchor for securing the rope then hauled each member of the party up, one by one. The cleft was quite sizeable, and admirably placed to shelter them through the night. There was room for two to stand abreast in the cleft and the ledge itself was wide enough for one man to stand or sit comfortably.
Dusk was creeping upon them; no moon was visible.
“This will do,” said Ulran. “First, we must change into dry clothes – before we lose our entire body-heat. The night, I fear, will be very cold.”
Fhord attempted to dismiss the embarrassment she felt as she undressed and put on dry clothes from her pack. The men respected her modesty, looking away, and she did the same for them as they changed.
Ulran’s fears were borne out: temperature dropped dramatically as the sun went down. Wolves howled in the foothills, their cries even penetrating the high-pitched whistle of wind.
The four huddled close in the confined crack and dozed fitfully, always brought back to chill wakefulness as one of the company broke into a bout of violent shivering or the night-winds howled through some fissure or other nearby, the sound haunting and insistent.
Those who suffered most were Fhord and Rakcra. Ulran sat cross-legged and barely seemed to be breathing, but even he was often woken to help warm the others. Alomar, hunched in his armour, clinked repeatedly as his body shivered in an attempt to create more body-heat which in turn was lost.
Their first night on the mountains, and they were already suffering from mild exposure, even in dry warm clothes. All four were grateful for the loan of the Kellan-Mesqa winter-hides, fur-lined and -trimmed jackets and trousers, together with hide gloves and hoods. Ulran had urged everyone to don them on top of their dry clothes after they had eaten the cured meat. Swilling this down with a little water from the leather water-sacks, they huddled close. Alomar had some difficulty getting his hide clothes over the armour and refrained from wearing the hood.
“With the wind howling as it is,” said Ulran after a restless vain attempt at sleeping, “it seems doubtful we shall get much sleep tonight.”
Courdour Alomar grunted.
“I agree,” said Fhord. “Why not exchange duelling stories – though I have none to relate personally, I have come by many through hearsay and reading.”
“It would help pass the time,” Rakcra said, teeth chattering.
“Do you recall hearing about Regloma Troglan?” Alomar asked with a grin.
“Indeed – a famous duellist – oh, about fifty years ago,” supplemented Fhord, remembering the books in the Archives. She had so envied those adventurers, little dreaming she would become one.
Alomar chuckled. “If our bookworm can recall, all the champions he unseated were special–”
“No, I can’t remem – wait, they held their champion-sword for less than two quarters each?”
“True enough, but no, I was thinking of their personal lives. Perhaps that was an unfair question. Of course, I’m speaking from personal experience now.” He markedly ignored Rakcra’s surprised gasp. “All the champions he unseated had something to lose which meant more to them than any championship – be it family, wealth, esteem in business, whatever.”
“Go on,” urged Fhord eagerly.
*
Courdour Alomar had entered the Lorgen’s Fable inn on his way through Endawn when he thought he recognised an old acquaintance, though he was lief to think he was mistaken.
Then the man, slumped over the table in a shadowy corner, rose unsteadily and swerved, demanding another drink.
In the light now, though unshaven and wearing old and patched clothes, his black hair in disarray, the man was Reall Demorat, until but recently a champion duellist of Endawn.
Recognition did not flicker in Demorat’s eyes as Alomar held him by the shoulder and guided him back to his shadowy table. The warrior ordered another bottle of wine and settled down to talk.
Strangely, after the first new goblet of wine, Demorat seemed to sober up, and recognition slowly dawned.
After their first expressions of surprise and pleasure at this coincidental meeting, Alomar asked, “By what ill fortune have you come here, Demorat?”
“Regloma!” Demorat seethed, gripping the wine bottle till his callused knuckles whitened. “I owe it all to that devil-spawn cheat!” And, shakily, he poured another goblet full to the brim.
Demorat raged with an obsession that the present unbeaten champion duellist, Regloma Troglan, was a fraud, for he employed two henchmen to threaten any champion or contender listed to fight Regloma. The threat was basic enough: lose the fight if you wanted to see your family without disfigurement or death.
Despite the amount of wine Demorat imbibed, Alomar tended to believe his friend; such chicanery was typical for the city of Endawn. “But you weren’t married – nor even involved with any–”
“My body – they threatened to cremate me!”
Of course, now Alomar remembered. Demorat belonged to a rare sect who staunchly believed that they must be interred after death; to be burned to ashes meant that the soul would dissipate and wander aimlessly for evermore. He had to admire Regloma’s men, they had chosen the only chink in Demorat’s personal armour. What was a duelling championship title compared with eternal oblivion?
After a while it became evident that Demorat wished to leave, though now almost i
ncoherent. Alomar gathered that the hostel where Demorat slept shut its doors shortly; and the streets of Endawn were not safe after mid-moon had passed.
Alomar paid for the wine and, with his right arm round Demorat’s back supporting him, Demorat’s limp arm round the warrior’s neck, and taking the main weight on his right shoulder, Alomar guided his drunken companion out into the dark alleyway.
Demorat vaguely indicated they should move to the right.
They had not gone far when Alomar’s sixth sense detected movement in the shadows. He stopped, propped Demorat up against the rough-stone wall, and withdrew his sword as the four attackers stepped out of the darkness.
Alomar was hard put to it to keep all four at bay, but presently one of his assailants erred in his judgement and the warrior’s sword ensured that no more errors of judgement would be committed by that man.
Demorat seemed to realise his life was at risk, and, though drunk as he was, he reached for his sword: with his trusty blade in his grip, he tended to sober a little, and clashed swords with one of the remaining three.
Alomar shattered the sword of another attacker and as its blade fell with a loud ring to the cobbles, the two other assailants faltered then backed off, and soon took to their heels.
Aware of the silence at his side, Alomar turned: Demorat was crouched against the wall, his back to Alomar. The other assassin lay dead; but a knife protruded from Demorat’s side.
To withdraw the blade now might mean a slow death, life-blood oozing away; Alomar gripped the handle and with a tremendous jerk he snapped it at the hilt, leaving only the blade slightly protruding. Gently lifting Demorat to his feet, Alomar adopted the same carrying method as he had earlier before the attack.
When the two distinct thuds sounded Alomar pitched forward with Demorat, unmindful of the hard cobbles.
There he lay, unmoving though his ears were attuned to any untoward sounds from the night.
After some time had elapsed, he risked rising watchfully and slowly.
Whilst he had been fortunate, his companion had fared badly: one arrow shaft had sunk in the nape of Demorat’s neck, the other in his arm roughly in the same position where it had been limply resting over Alomar’s neck.