They could not simply trudge with head down, for occasionally cornices of overhanging compacted snow jutted out, just waiting for a skull to collide against them.
By now Fhord was concerned for her fingers. If she had not been toughened-up before tackling the Sonalumes, she kept telling himself, she would not have survived so long.
“Let me see,” Ulran said, pulling her into the lee of a cornice. They sat for a moment on the compact snow. “Yes, you’ve got problems,” he said. “Your body tissues have been too long exposed to cold – see.” He touched Fhord’s fingers and received no response. “They’re already deadened. Eventually–” He stopped, desisted from explaining that gangrene would set in, with dire results.
Ulran turned away, squinted down the valley, his nose twitching a couple of times. “The biter – I’d say its set is manderon... not far off, either.” He jumped up, called to Alomar. “We can’t fight the biter indefinitely! As soon as we find reasonable shelter, we’d best stay there!” He helped Fhord up. “Come on, shelter is what your hands need.” And they moved on, pace quickening.
The innman’s prediction was not wrong in any major detail. Without warning, the wind hit them, squalling down the mountains from the manderon, cold and dry, and feeling almost solid as it beat against them.
All three braced against it, leaning well forward, and their backs strained with the effort. Their breathing was stertorous, chins deep against chests.
No amount of furred clothing kept out the cutting chill.
Soon after the biter hit them, they were all cold to the marrow, and body temperatures plummeted dangerously.
After two orms of it, they had made little headway against the biter’s force. Then the blizzard came down, gusting ice spicules into their faces, and covered the front of their bodies with a thick crisp coat of permafrost.
Ironically, all three felt the benefit almost immediately, for the frosted clothing became a strong barrier against the harsh freezing winds. Warmth very gradually returned to them, where it mattered most, in the body-core – the trunk.
But they could not weather the blizzard much longer, Alomar realised, and rankled inwardly at not finding a suitable shelter yet. Where was the guardian of caves now?
Then, at last, an overhang beckoned dimly through the slanting curtain of ice, hail and snow. All sound diminished in his ears as he concentrated on the place, a cleft dug deep under the overhang. Already a snowdrift had built up on the manderon side of the cleft.
“Over here!” he shouted repeatedly, waving as he ploughed heavily forward, spirits rising.
Abrupt calm and the decrease in howling noise impressed them as soon as they stumbled in.
Alomar half hauled Fhord under the overhang, and a few steps behind them staggered Ulran, his throat racked with a thick chesty cough; some phlegm bubbled on his lips and froze there.
“Must keep awake,” mumbled Alomar, pummelling Fhord’s thighs vigorously. As she responded and knelt without aid, Alomar unsheathed his sword. “We must build a shelter, quickly – reduce the wind-chill and draught.”
The warrior hacked out slabs of frozen snow and heaved them to the slope they had climbed and placed them under the overhang. Ulran helped.
Gradually, for they were all near exhaustion after the cruelty of the biter, the snow wall grew and blocked their entrance completely. Light filtered through small niches and from above, but soon this ingress of daylight was blacked out.
The silence was incredible. They could hear each other’s laboured breathing and the crackling of snow underfoot.
By now Fhord was able to assist in small measure by compacting snow into the cracks and crevices. They left a gap as far from the brunt of the winds as possible; this was their air-hole. Eventually they sat back against their man-made wall of ice and rested, jerking repeatedly as their heads sank temptingly onto their chests.
Ulran knew that not even he could stave off sleep. His throat felt inflamed, his tongue was slightly swollen and his voice cracked when he spoke. Swingeing headaches assailed him in spasms, without warning. But he knew he was on the mend.
Oddly, Fhord’s situation did not deteriorate as Ulran and Alomar had feared. Eyes shut, she sat upright, facial muscles moving; she even talked, though infrequently. She seemed distant. Her demeanour was quite unlike any trance Ulran had seen or been subjected to. It was as if Fhord had become two people, one weak and suffering, the other stoical and unbowed by the travails that beset them.
When their feet, clothing and boots had been dried, wrung out or replaced by dry clothes, Alomar and Ulran agreed to take watches in turn to rest, so that they could monitor the other two and ensure that no regression or heat-loss affected them. If so, he was to wake them at once, to rejuvenate circulation.
Time lost all meaning for them but both were used to solitude and accepted it readily enough.
But the behaviour of Fhord was different, unsettling.
There was no way of knowing when the heat first increased, but Ulran, asleep, was the first to notice the change.
Subtle to begin with, but definitely a rise in temperature not attributable to their collective body-heat.
The innman slowly sat up, eyed Alomar, with a raised eyebrow.
The warrior shrugged, thumbing at Fhord. “I’ve just noticed, myself,” whispered Alomar.
Fhord was hunched up in a shadowy corner, and all her clothes were crumpled-dry. A strange emanation or irradiation enveloped her. An orange warm glow shimmered around her entire body, slightly affecting the surrounding snow and seeming to cross towards the two companions in undulating half-visible waves of energy, sometimes glimpsed, sometimes not. But the effects could now be constantly felt. Warmth. Comforting, life-giving warmth.
Ulran stood up, his face passive but Alomar doubtless perceived his intentions. “No, Ulran – don’t shake her out of it!”
“But she’ll drain herself to keep us warm!” Ulran snapped, unable to conceal his concern and annoyed at his pounding head, his raw throat and the lethargy that stole over his frame.
“She knows best what she’s doing. I’d say that as a psychic she has more reserves than we suspect.”
“All right.” Ulran nodded. “But from now on we take turns at watching her. Any increase in pallor, any sign of exposure and we knock her out of it, no matter what.”
“Agreed.”
Ulran had intended treating Fhord’s severely frost-bitten fingers, but a close scrutiny revealed that they were on the mend already. He suspected the healing process had something to do with the heat-transmitting ability she had acquired.
That waiting cave – how long ago? – something there had transformed Fhord, something beyond mortal ken.
***
Judging by the number of times light had winked through their air-hole, Ulran calculated this was dawn of the Second Dloin of Darous. “Time we broke out, I think.” His lethargy and headache had gone.
Using knife and sword, they hacked at the air-hole, slowly enlarging it.
Outside seemed calm again, ghostly silent.
Resting for a moment, Ulran checked on Fhord.
She was a little improved. Her skin felt fever-hot and looked flushed yet she had no complaint as her eyes opened for the first time in two days.
A smile from Fhord and a nod. “Seeing the Way, at last,” was all she said.
Ulran understood this, though was puzzled at her behaviour and intentions.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
IRREA
Mud, the vesture of decay
It besmirches life, to betray.
– Where, a Tear by Laan Gib
(1830-1998AC)
All three felt better for the rest and the unexpected warmth. As they set out, Fhord’s flush lessened and she regained her previous pallor. The gradual descent of the snow-carpeted pass was ever winding. As dusk settled they came upon a ravine.
Once through this, they were confronted by eight great acroliths, esoterically entwining with each
other, detailed to the finer degree of hairs on the backs of hands and veins and the delicate patch-work of palm-grooves. The whole gleamed with icicles; and their heads and shoulders were snow-topped so that Fhord almost thought she could see goose-flesh on the naked figures.
Fhord mumbled some unintelligible prayers and then they were past them and through another narrow ravine, their departure accompanied by a faint unnatural tinkling sound.
Night had sneaked up on them whilst they stared at the statues.
They camped just outside the weird ravine.
***
On through the pass, descending, winding, the days mounted. Again they virtually carried Fhord. Despite her drained and exhausted state, she was not suffering from the cold.
Ulran’s violent headaches and sore throat did not return, and he steadily improved.
After a full day’s continual walking, they were grateful for a rest. But all knew that time was running out.
Twenty-two days to go. And, apart from getting through the pass and out of the Sonalumes, they had almost all of Arion to cross. And it was a hostile land into the bargain.
On the Second Sufinma they reached a tree-line where they decided on a halt. But their rest was short-lived.
Fhord spotted the movement first, though she was unaware of its significance. “The trees – they’re moving.”
The other two looked up. Powdery snow was in the air above the trees and, clearly visible in the moonlight, a tall pine tree stood proudly upright, moving slowly downhill towards their position.
“Avalanche!” yelled Ulran and Alomar simultaneously.
Then they were engulfed.
Fortunately, this time they were on the very edge of the snowfall and all survived, only suffering some slight bruising. Neither equipment nor weapons were lost.
Brushing himself clear of snow, Alomar grunted. “We were lucky indeed – perhaps your prayers back there helped, Fhord.” He grinned. “I’ve seen big villages after being hit by such an avalanche as that – smashed as if by a mighty fist. Flattened.”
The three of them looked on in silence as the snow rumbled and fell down the valley they were to tread.
The sound diminished, echoing.
Next day, tired with travelling all night, they came upon a narrow defile where both sides were thick with ice – a spur-hanging glacier. And within the ice were entombed bodies, the corpses of men staring wild-eyed in death. They did not linger.
As they descended, the snow broke up into patches. The stream meandered, appearing intermittently from underground. They reached a straight stretch and could see greenery ahead and below – a valley!
At this point it was decided they must rest. Fhord’s legs were terribly weak.
They camped for the Second Durinma upon some couch grass by the stream. Ulran administered mashed and diluted herbs to Fhord. He could not promise her their journey was nearly over, for it wasn’t. He feared her strength would give out before they reached Arisa; but the herbs just might keep her going a little longer.
The following day they came to a pass in a ridge, affording a route-way from one side to the other and here at last they attained the end of the snowline. Here, too, the tiny stream developed into a cascade, a series of small trilling waterfalls, gushing down rocky steps to the green valley a couple of hundred marks below.
It was a weird sensation, still being hemmed in yet able to see the valley a long way ahead and below.
Now they climbed down narrow ledges of granite and black rock, the same black stone that was believed to have been used for the foundations of Arisa itself.
“We must be wary of patrols from here on,” remarked Alomar in a whisper. “There’s an outpost near here, if I recall aright.”
Shortly afterwards, their progress was halted by the formidable presence of a large brown bear in their path.
Alomar left his arrows untouched and his companions did not urge their use. Though unsaid, the thought of fresh meat made their mouths water. But they would be able to carry so little of the carcass, the rest would go to waste.
After incuriously eyeing the travellers, the bear turned and vanished behind a jumble of boulders.
That evening, they set up camp in a small cluster of trees and undergrowth.
Fhord was slightly recovered; Ulran hoped the herbs were working. At least she was able to walk unaided. The proximity of grass and trees in contrast to the bitter rugged snow-laden landscape behind them probably lifted her spirits. Fhord’s determination to go on was evinced by her insistence on walking round the camp for a while. “To strengthen my legs,” she said later.
They left early next day, and continued to descend the gradual slope. About mid-morning they glimpsed the outpost, carved into the rock face to their right.
A little later they evaded a patrol, though it wasn’t difficult. The patrol members – all accoutred in steel and bronze, and with knapsacks untidily packed with mountain-climbing and protective clothing – were easily heard from a long way off. The soldiers of Yip-nef Dom obviously envisaged no interlopers on these mountain slopes for they joked and talked loudly and incessantly. But they were just too distant for the three to pick out any sense in the soldiers’ conversation.
It was fortunate that great stealth proved unnecessary most of the time, as Fhord found it difficult to squirm along like a snake, and to crouch in bushes for any length of time sent her stomach into agonising cramps. But she persevered.
At times that day they came upon and hid behind the semblance of a dry-stone wall, many of which began nowhere special and ended as pointlessly, seemingly unfinished – as though they were thought unnecessary by some new ruler of Arisa long ago. These walls also made good resting places for the local populace of chereses and carabeetle.
On Third Sabinma they kept moving, taking advantage of the full moon. They continued to descend in a meandering fashion, encountering less rock and more grass.
Finally, they reached the end of the pass, though still a good launmark above the plain of Arion.
From the beginnings of this valley they overlooked Arion’s meadowlands – an undulating panorama of temperate grassland. Such contrast to the white hell they’d been through. But other, man-like dangers were there to replace the chill of nature. It was light enough for them to observe the sheep and cattle being herded into enclosures by mere dots of farmers.
With that reassuring view before them, they set up camp.
Dawn arrived to the chorus of birds. From the camp they could see Thap Taal immediately ahead and some thirty launmarks manderon of it Olest Taal and twenty launmarks to the varteron the third Taal of the group, Irrea.
Almost equidistant from all three taals was Tritaalan, a small village surrounded by tilled and blooming fields. To left and right of the group were the lower slopes of the Sonalume Mountains. And towering high on their left, the twin peaks of Soveram Marle and the largest, Soveram Torne, which at this time of day loomed black and forbidding. The rest of the plain of Arion was indistinct in the morning haze.
For the next two days and nights they stealthily descended the lush valley and continually avoided patrols. They hid in undergrowth, often savaged by thorns, and even resorted to tree-climbing to evade discovery.
Fhord was thoroughly exhausted. What little rejuvenation the herbs had given her had dissipated, leaving her weaker than before. She was a liability and all knew it. But she had been responsible for creating the warmth when they had needed it and that alone probably saved them all. They couldn’t abandon her now; she deserved more than desertion; and all this they agreed upon without a spoken word between them. Cobrora Fhord had affected them greatly.
***
On the Third Dloin of Darous three figures, crouched low, wove their way through the morning mists of the grassland and headed for Thap Taal. They made use of every piece of conceivable concealment, and yet it took them a day.
The dash was too much for Fhord. And Ulran, whilst overcoming a jabbing cramp, nee
ded recuperation. They were forced to camp by the taal.
From here they were within earshot of some kind of festival in Tritaalan.
Torchlight endowed the night-sky around the village with an orange glow. Fences and wooden buildings showed in silhouette. The voices and music pricked their curiosity: full moon festivals were not normal in Arion.
Ulran, almost fully recovered, suggested he reconnoitre. Perhaps they could lose themselves in the festivities for a time.
Reluctantly, Alomar agreed.
At a conservative guess, it would take him a good orm to reach the village. Ulran crouched low and set out, but had not gone far when raised voices alerted him, from the direction of their concealed encampment. Cautiously, he hastened back.
He had been out of the camp only a little while yet complete disaster had fallen in that time.
Many soldiers clustered about the camp, wielding torches and spears.
With the utmost stealth, Ulran slithered through the grass away from the searchers and looked upon the camp.
Four dead soldiers lay spread-eagled on the dusty ground, another crumpled up by the fire the soldiers had built. About six others were limping or nursing body wounds.
Ulran was surprised to see three suffering from what appeared to be burned hands and faces – which he found slightly odd since their party had not built a fire. Alomar was shackled from head to toe and his right arm dribbled black; the wound remained untreated and spilled the warrior’s life-blood – not that Alomar seemed to care.
Fhord lay tethered with stout ropes and a gag in her mouth, immobile save for her defiant eyes which flashed at her captors, the whites shining in the flames. Fhord, evidently, had put up a struggle, despite her weak condition.
Ulran contemplated a rescue attempt, though not sufficiently recovered to combat so many at once. But when he overheard the sergeant-at-arms tell his men to prepare his captors for the long journey to Arisa, he decided against freeing his friends – unless they were subjected to any barbaric tortures. But he thought not; the urgency of the captain’s voice, cajoling his sergeant-at-arms, indicated that Yip-nef Dom wanted the captors quickly and in one piece.
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