They had silenced Reall Demorat’s drunken accusations for ever.
As he was in a strange city Alomar had no wish to answer questions. With regret he left the murdered champion to the street rats. He had a purpose to fulfil, however, and he would not rest until he had accomplished it or – pleasant thought! – he died in the attempt.
The latest of a long round of duels had been publicised for the next day; Regloma Troglan was billed to fight a brash young contender for his title.
As Alomar took his seat in the duelling room he wondered at the manner of leverage Regloma’s men had used on this contender.
For the majority of the audience the fight was excellent – and there were plenty of thrills – especially when the lithe youngster from Lellul narrowly missed drawing the champion’s blood. But to the eye of Alomar there were a few flaws in the duel. The subtleties were missed when they should have been grasped; openings remained open, to be ignored or unseen.
The warrior looked about him, studying the older, worldlier members of the audience. Strangely, there were few. It was as though the men who had once duelled stayed away by design, knowing too well the travesty of their art that would be performed this day.
All who watched were the sensation-seeking public, ever-watchful for a killing, though by tradition the challenger had the choice of first-blood or death. This aspirant from Lellul had chosen first-blood – as had all Regloma’s protagonists.
At the duel’s close, when the contender received a cut, lost his sword and somewhat grudgingly acknowledged defeat, Alomar tossed his poniard down into the arena.
The dagger thudded into the wood boards and the cheering subsided. His intentions were explicit enough: he challenged Regloma to a duel.
Because of the public challenge, Regloma had to accept. “Two days hence – and who, pray, shall I have the pleasure of depriving of pride?”
Alomar tendered a false name, claiming he harked from Carlash which was so far to the ranmeron few if anyone present would know the peculiarities of a Carlash native. “First blood,” he declared.
That night he expected an encounter with Regloma’s henchmen and he was therefore not surprised to come upon an altercation in an alleyway close to his lodgings.
The spindly silhouette of a tall man towered over a cowering figure at the end of the alley adjoining the inn.
Alomar ran up, shouted, “Stay, villain!” and his voice echoed in the narrow confines.
At that instant, the spindly fellow pivoted round, snarled something unintelligible and slashed his sword side-ways, against a knotted rope that stretched upwards. A wet-wood cage crashed down, trapping Alomar before he could jump clear. He smiled grimly. They had snared him well.
Now, each man lifted a long spear out of the heap of rubbish in the corner and advanced on him.
He felt the wet-wood and appreciated their choice: it would not be cut by axe-stroke, let alone sword; and the combined weight of the cage was too great to lift. He was trapped like a wild mountain beast.
“We want words with you, man of Carlash,” said the tall one. And he jabbed the spear through the bars: Alomar dodged only to be sharply pricked from behind by the other, smaller henchman.
“Say your words, then,” growled Alomar.
“Lose your duel with Regloma, friend. Or else we must perforce claim your life. If you lose, then regard the debt paid.”
Yes, they had chosen well. Somehow, they had guessed aright; he would not welcome being killed as a caged animal. And, as was the custom, because he was at their mercy, his life was theirs – to claim at any time.
Alomar nodded and they both relaxed. “You leave me no choice.”
He grabbed the spindly man’s spearhead, ignoring the cut hand, and pulled the weapon towards him.
So surprised was the fellow, he had no opportunity to let go. Alomar pulled the man’s head through the bars, jerked suddenly, and the crack of vertebrae sounded loud and awful in the night.
While the other tried stabbing with his spear mainly out of rising fear, Alomar parried with his sword and relieved the corpse of the cage keys; they were soon covered with his hand’s blood, slippery and awkward to manipulate, but he finally unlocked the cage.
As he stepped out, the other spearman turned and ran down the alleyway.
Alomar picked up the fallen spear.
His throw was deadly accurate.
The same motley band of spectators was assembled.
Adjusting his bandaged hand, Alomar studied the steely eyes of the gaunt Regloma. He was a good swordsman and not to be underestimated.
After the salute, they closed and the first clash of blades sent a roar of expectation from the crowd.
Thrust and parry, attack and retreat, until sweat covered both men and the crowd as one sat on the edge of its seat. Word of the long duel had obviously passed out into the street, for many of the once-empty seats were filling.
After four orms of fierce swordplay, Alomar decided he had sufficiently worn down the wiry body of Regloma. At their next clamorous clinch, he snarled, “I killed your two henchmen, fraud!” And he whispered his real identity.
His words had immediate impact. Regloma pushed free and shakily backed off, amidst cat-calls from the crowd. Those once-smug eyes briefly reflected fear: now, he must fight in earnest.
Another clinch, and Alomar said, “I shall let you win this fight, Regloma – but any more you wish to win will be done so on your own merits... or I shall return...”
Alomar had no wish to become a champion, fighting duel after duel, as if by rote. He had needed to be footloose and uncluttered to seek the Navel. He let Regloma cut his hand and disarm him, though no one would have guessed.
He kept a wary eye on the champion, however, ready to use his poniard should betrayal enter Regloma’s heart.
But Regloma accepted his defeat in victory. He was acclaimed with tumultuous cheers, the most riotous praise for any victory he had ever “achieved”.
Leaving the champion to his victory circuit of the arena, Alomar caught an empty look in the man’s eyes.
A bitter pill to swallow, indeed, to taste the ecstatic jubilation of the crowd, knowing it would be for the first and last time. For once tasted, it would become a drug.
*
Cobrora Fhord shivered not only with the cold. “And–?”
“And,” supplied Ulran, “Regloma lost his next duel and never again won, though he travelled to all the duelling houses in Floreskand.”
“The audiences of Endawn’s duelling rooms once again comprised duelling men,” ended Alomar.
A thoroughly miserable night, reflected Fhord as she stretched stiff legs over the edge. Dawn streamed down the crack.
Breakfast consisted of birds’ eggs, which Ulran had picked on the previous day’s ascent.
Then they were on their way again – though at Ulran’s behest they took off the hide clothing. “At this altitude we should be warm enough – the climbing alone will cover us in sweat. If we donned these clothes now, we’d sweat moreso and weaken, our bodies losing all their vital heat.”
Though no words about the expedition had been spoken, the immortal warrior now took up the rear of the company, with Ulran again leading.
“I thought we were crossing the Sonalumes through Astrey Caron Pass?” queried Fhord as Alomar passed her and Rakcra to take up his position.
“Astrey found the pass in 86 BAC: and why had no-one else done so before him? Simple – the pass is beyond these two mountain peaks we’re climbing. It’s guarded at the ranmeron entrance, so we’re joining it half-way along.”
“Two peaks?” Rakcra groaned.
Fhord fell to silence as Ulran started to scale the crack they had sheltered in. There were plenty of hand-holds but it was tiring work, and her shoulders ached before she was half-way up. The cold of the rock penetrated through the fabric of her gloves, numbing fingers. Her mind swam and she latched onto her patron white lord: she would put her faith in Osasor.
Breathless, she crawled over the lip of the crack at the top to see Ulran clambering slant-wise up a steep granite slope that led to a massive overhang.
Fhord swallowed hard and leaned down to give Rakcra a hand. The Devastator was missing those three fingers now, she realised.
Much further down, Alomar was panting heavily, his armour chinking against rock. Suspended on the warrior’s pack, the shield rapped its steel boss repeatedly on stone.
The pair tried standing erect on the granite escarpment but to do so they had to twist their ankles to a dangerous degree so they settled for clambering up on all fours.
Fifteen marks up and they were beneath the great overshadowing round buttress, a steep rock wall jutting out from the mountainside.
Ulran divested himself of his pack and unravelled a length of rope. He secured the rope’s end to his waist, then found suitable hand- and foot-holds. “Once I’m on top, I’ll find some kind of anchorage and you can tie my pack to the other end and then one of you can climb up.”
Fhord and Rakcra nodded.
The innman cast a quick glance down the escarpment then started to climb. It was slow work, and often he had to lower himself and find a new avenue.
To Fhord, Ulran resembled a cherese, legs and arms sprawled out, virtually slithering over the gigantic rock’s outcropping surface. Ulran was approaching the topmost section, where the rock was vertical.
Alomar joined them.
Now, Ulran had to move with even greater caution, finger- and toe-holds had to be deep and sure or else gravity would tug at his legs and he would be suspended by hands alone. The rope dangled from his waist. The onlookers could see the sweat streaming over the innman’s features, and Fhord harboured unexpressed fears that if Ulran’s hands were also sweating, then he might slip.
And sweating he was. His utmost concentration was on his breathing, keeping it shallow, and maintaining a low adrenaline-flow, as he gripped tenaciously to the hard rock. This, he knew, was the worst part. Suitable cracks in the surface were there in plenty, but holding on to them whilst upside down so high was not easy.
Fingers ached almost to numbness, as did his calf-muscles.
Slowly, surely, he moved one hand above his head, attempting to see with his aching fingers, feel a reasonable crack, whilst gripping tightly with the other hand and both feet. This time his hand held; he took the weight that his other hand had, yes... and now he slid one foot out, pressing up always, clamped tight, knowing that somewhere there had been a good hand-hold, and – finally – finding it.
Time spanned an age for each move and yet, eventually, he was gaining the rounded section. At last he was able to let his feet dangle over the outcrop, the sudden relaxation inducing a mild cramp in calf-muscles.
Then he brought a knee up, jammed it in a crevice.
After that, his strength – once ebbing – returned, and he pulled himself up the remaining two marks of the sloping rock, to a narrow shelf formed with tumbled boulders, embedded many ages past.
When he gained the shelf his hands trembled.
Finally in control again, he secured the rope to a narrow rock pinnacle and called, “The rope’s fast!” His words echoed around the various nooks and crannies. “Start climbing, Fhord!”
Fhord had hoped it would be a lot easier using the rope, and it was. But, after only pulling herself up about three times her own height, her arms were weak and aching.
“Take your weight on your feet!” bawled Alomar.
Her arms became weaker and weaker as she struggled. Her confidence was flagging when Alomar held the rope steady and she was able to loop it over one foot and under the other and stand with the weight on her legs. Not a moment too soon.
“When you’ve got your breath back, lass, take your weight on your arms, slide your legs up the rope and take your weight on your legs again.”
Presently, she did this. The rope was now sending dust particles from the outcrop above into her eyes: she kept blinking, eyes watering.
“That’s it – now stretch up with your arms and pull – that’s it. Keep it up – you’re nearly there.”
They secured all four packs to the bottom end of the rope.
When Fhord called down that she had reached the shelf, Rakcra followed. The Devastator had learned by Fhord’s instruction, which was just as well as his deprived hand was next to useless. He was slower, but made it.
Alomar came last, and having rested at the buttress’s base, he was quickly up and over. Once on the top of the buttress, the warrior hauled on the rope and the others aided him, and up came the packs.
Vegetation in the form of couch-grass still clustered here and there, but now it was frost-feathered – as were the rocks – on their windward sides. The tussocks occasionally gave additional useful purchase and the rime crunched underfoot.
The climb was more vertical here, but the rock face was indented and cracked enough to give ample grip.
The wind was biting-cold from the varteron, but fortunately still not too strong. Bearable – if only just.
In some places, hand-holds were scarce. Then, Ulran resorted to jamming his hand into cracks to gain a hold: “That’s it, Fhord – hand-jam as you go. But take care you don’t lose your gloves – else you’ll have no fingers come nightfall!”
Gradually, all vegetation gave way to large rock slabs, smoothed with runnels of ice and whitened on the left with rime.
Shortly afterwards, they reached a great cluster of rocks and boulders which looked as though some god had cleanly sliced them into segments, so smooth were the cracks. “The force of nature,” remarked Ulran. “The result of alternate freezing and thawing.”
And just above was the snowline, yet still sporadic and only thick in parts, where it had been carried on wind-eddies.
“That’s a rock chimney,” explained Ulran, pointing ahead with his sword.
Above was a hole in the rock, black against the white snow. To either side of the black hole was sheer rock, feathering to right and left and creating a precarious spine that led up to the hole. “We’ve only one way to go – along this spine... then up that chimney...”
So saying, Ulran went first, this time on all fours and slowly.
Once the innman had reached the hole, he waited till the others had joined him. “It’s just wide enough – see.” The sky as a pinpoint of light at the top of the chimney. “We’ll back up – I’ll go first.”
Again, Ulran took the rope with him and it dangled in his wake.
It was more back-breaking than anything Fhord could remember, but she persevered, hunching her back into one side of the chimney and her feet firmly against the other. Her lower back and thighs ached in agony yet on and on the rock chimney seemed to rise, then suddenly daylight burst all around him. Yet she was only half-way up.
By now Ulran had located somewhere to tie the rope and called down for them to climb using it for support. Fhord made better progress then, almost walking up the chimney’s side as she rose hand over hand up the rope. The entire chimney was dotted with snow where little outcrops jutted and in other places the sun now glinted on frozen rivulets of once-thawing water.
Ulran helped her out.
She could hear the chiming of Alomar’s armour as he heaved himself up, feet flat upon the chimney wall.
Eventually, all four gathered round the chimney mouth and hauled up the packs. Snow gleamed, virgin save for the infrequent bird-foot imprint, as far as they could see in all directions. And there, the summit, still a long way above!
Crisp and clinging the snow gave under their tread, but only a little. Fhord noticed that even here Ulran stepped lighter than the rest.
Shortly, they stopped to catch breath and put on their hide clothes: “The wind’s getting up,” Ulran remarked. “It’s set at varteron now – but I reckon it might swing suddenly.”
Starting again, they trudged on, and on, into the blinding glare of snow. It was easy to lose oneself, Fhord mused, if you took your
eyes off the track ahead made by Ulran. How did the innman manage, though?
At last: Saddle Mountain summit. On each side, the upward sloping ends of the saddle, and ahead, the wide expanse of untrodden snow, almost circular in shape, as though filling a volcano cone. It must have measured half a launmark in diameter, sloping slightly to the manderon.
It took quite a while to cross the Saddle’s seat of white and as the four stopped on the manderon side she beheld an incredible sight.
Snow-clad mountains were all around and, towering higher than the varteron pommel of the Saddle, reared Soveram Torne, ragged and beautiful.
Snow-caps slanted down from inaccessible peaks to the dunsaron and there, below them and heading in a meander to the manderon, a long hog’s-back of snow led from this mountain to the one opposite, which Ulran called Glacier Peak. And now, blinking in the wind against the sun-glare on snow, Fhord could see why.
Seeming glasslike, a snake of immense width ran down the ranvarron side of the mountain, apparently terminating at the point where the hog’s-back touched, falling away to each side, deep into mauve shadow, thousands of marks deep.
Fhord peered across at the Glacier Peak. In the clear air it seemed quite close, illusory. And, though the rest of the sky was clear, on the dunsaron side of the peak a trail of thin cloud eddied. A matter of moments later and a sudden violent burst of wind pounded into the company and caught Rakcra off balance and threw him into the snow. Fortunately, the gusts were short-lived.
“Let’s get down before a worse squall hits us,” said Ulran, lifting Rakcra to his feet.
The Devastator nodded, absently brushing off the powdery flakes.
They were all hungry, not having eaten since breaking fast at dawn. What with the exertions, they couldn’t go much further, and Ulran appreciated this. He alone showed no outward signs of fatigue, but he recognised imperceptible failings in himself: he too needed food and rest.
Dusk was slinking across the skyline, spreading like an ink-blot from the dunsaron, bringing with it ponderous-looking black-and-purple clouds.
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