When he reached the pass, he stopped and sat down in the small, flat area where the saddle rolled over to the west and removed his hood, draping it over his knee. He breathed deeply of the thin cold air and gazed over the country he must pass through to reach the high plains.
There were only more mountains; more sharp, high peaks of cold gray stone jutting into the sky, frosted here and there with icy snow that clung to cracks and crevices in the rock. Clouds lay over the most distant peaks to the west and south – no doubt the topside of a snowstorm. Because of that low-hanging overcast, it seemed to Aram that there was nothing in the entire world but endless peaks arising from the mist.
The canyon that lay before him was as steep and deep as the one behind. The mountainside on his left that trended toward the south was also steep but broken with jutting ridges of rock that might provide purchase for his hands and feet. He did not like the idea of descending into one of the dark canyons; he preferred the heights where his view was clearer and he could judge distance and direction. Besides, there was no reason to descend until he was certain there would not be a difficult ascent to follow.
After eating a slim breakfast of a bit of dried meat, he put the hood back on and edged around the mountain. All that day as he progressed to the south, through corrugations in one mountainside and then another, down ridges of rock as sharp as a knife’s edge, across glaciers of permanent ice, and up narrow, snowy inclines, he kept his eyes on the south.
Every time he came to a summit of sorts on one of the mountainsides, he would stop and peer toward the south, hoping to see the metallic glint of sun on water, but always the low-hanging clouds blocked his view. And they seemed to be thickening and trending in his direction though so far the top of the storm appeared to be below him. As daylight was failing, he came to another saddle between two peaks, where the ground was more level. He found a crevice in a tall spire of rock, squeezed back into it, ate and settled for the night.
With the warmth that the armor had recovered from the unintentional lava flow that morning and the heat generated in its confines by the exertion of his body throughout the day, he would at least be protected from the cold as he rested and tried to sleep. The armor had protected him for several days after he’d first left the mountain; he hoped that this renewal of its protective powers would last, for a while, anyway.
In the morning, he awoke to a howling, swirling, gray confusion filled with white crystalline missiles of driven snow. The storm had come. When he gathered his things and stepped out of the lee of the rock spire to look south and regain his sense of direction, the wind nearly blew him off the mountain. Only by leaning far over into it and keeping his feet spread wide apart was he able to stand. Even then he could make only rudimentary progress up the south side of the saddle toward the heights.
The snow robbed him of sight. Though it could not stick long to the hooded helmet because of the innate heat of the metal, it blew so thick and so hard that he often had to lean forward and feel with his hands for the narrow spine of rock that led southward. Up across the eternal snowfields, now covered with a new and unstable layer of fresh powder, he went stumbling, blinded by the freezing tempest.
When he came to areas where the rock was too steep for the snow to stick and thus were bare, his task grew even more difficult. The millions of tiny flakes of snow, swirling in the space between his eyes and the gray of the rock mesmerized him, and made him dizzy. Several times, he had to lean against the perilously steep rock, hold himself in place, and close his eyes until the sensation lessened.
Finally he came to a place where the rock face to his right was nearly vertical, too steep to negotiate, especially in a blizzard, and to his left a vast snowfield angled upward to the east as if it led to that side of the mountain. He couldn’t go right on the western side of the mountain, and he didn’t want to go east, so he climbed. Slowly, carefully, up a broken spine of rock he climbed and in a few minutes broke through the shredded vestiges of cloud that defined the top of the overcast and came out above the storm.
The world, except for the highest peaks, was gone, buried under cloud. The canyons were full of gray-white, thick mist, smooth like inlets of a calm sea, as though they’d filled up with water during the night. It looked to Aram as if a deluge had come while he slept and flooded the world until only the highest peaks remained, like islands in an endless sea. It would have been hard to imagine, had he not experienced it, that beneath that deceptively smooth surface, a storm of ice raged.
As that day passed, he found it necessary to descend into the thick cloud of storm as he wound through the saddles between the peaks. It was a different world down in the clouds. Wind ever blew up among the high peaks, but when he entered the cloud cover, that wind moved small hard bits of snow with it, like a storm of frozen sand. And down in the storm, out of the bright sunlight, it was dark and gloomy, as if that blizzard blew through an icy hell.
That day and the next four were five of the most miserable days of Aram’s life. Constantly and increasingly cold, despite Kelven’s armor, alternating between viciously bright sunlight and the gloom of the storm with its blinding, driving snow, he began to be disoriented. Eventually, he grew uncertain of his direction, even when above the storm, knowing for sure only when the sun declined toward one horizon or rose above the other.
But as the unending misery of the storm and the treacherous journey over and around the perilous rock of the high peaks continued, and because he was always forced by the need for relative safety to sleep on one of the saddles down in the fury of the storm, eventually he even grew confused about the times of day. If the sun was near a horizon – was it morning or evening? Finally, late on what he thought was the fifth afternoon, he came above the level of the clouds and watched the sun for a while just to make certain that it was in fact setting and not rising. Then, when he knew, he went down again into the snowy maelstrom and passed another terrible night.
When he awoke on the sixth morning, the storm had faded. Except for ragged wisps of cloud caught among the rocky defiles, the air was clear; the canyons were once again dark, empty wounds in the earth. At mid-morning, he found a saddle that crossed his path at right angles between two peaks, allowing him to move further to the west where, hopefully, he could then trend southward on a tangent more in line with the distant high plains. There were still only vistas of more mountains before him to the south, and over the next two weeks he ever looked for passages that would take him west as he went south.
From the beginning, Aram had rationed his food, but now, especially with the loss of one of his knapsacks, he began to worry that his supply would fail before he passed through the wilderness of rock and reached the highlands of the horses. Then, one morning, as he wound around onto the western slope of another nameless mountain, he looked toward the south and saw water, far below him in altitude but not so far in distance. And this time it was actual water, not an illusion of cloud – a vast sea, going out of sight into the south and filling the entirety of the world that he could see in the gap between the peaks.
The Inland Sea.
At last, he was nearly out of the mountains. He could see the end of them as they fell toward the sea. Finally, then, he descended toward the bottom of a canyon, working his way carefully down across the steep rock. Nightfall found him still up on the slope of the mountain but at timberline, where a few ragged trees braved the heights. He slept in a small copse of stunted, twisted trees, hardy, mangled cousins of those more healthy specimens that grew somewhere below.
The next day, he reached the bottom of the canyon and found a stream that flowed unseen beneath ice and tumbled toward the sea is sharp drops. Where it fell over rock walls – no doubt magnificent waterfalls in the summer – now there were only massive towers of ice; any water that retained liquidity was hidden inside. As he struggled down the steep canyon, trees gradually became more numerous and eventually, the canyon leveled out, becoming wider and a bit gentler and he walked more easil
y through snow-laden forests. But still, that day, he did not reach the sea.
He burrowed back in under the sweeping branches of a massive fir and really slept for the first time in more than a week. In the morning he ate and checked his supplies. His stock of food was getting very low and winter still lay heavily upon the land. For the duration of the passage through the mountains he’d survived by eating snow for hydration, and it had left him feeling wasted and parched; now he wanted water. He went down to the frozen stream and listened until he found a place where the water bubbled near the surface.
For just a moment he considered using the sword of heaven to quickly melt the ice – he had unintentionally witnessed its great power and knew that it could do so with ease. In the end, however, he used the plain steel blade of his ordinary sword and hacked a hole in the ice until the running water was exposed and he drank his fill.
At midday he came out of the trees onto the shore of the sea. The day was clear but a stiff wind whipped the surface of the sea into whitecaps. To his left, the massive ramparts of the mountains turned sharply and went into the south – he’d come out near the eastern edge of the sea, almost at its extreme northeastern corner. He could not see the western shore or the rumpled uplands of the high plains beyond. He now faced a long walk to the west along the northern edge of the sea through the deep snows of a hard winter.
It took him seventeen days to pass the sea’s northern border, some days making less than ten miles through the waist deep snow. To his front, as he struggled along the narrow strip of land between the mountains and the water, to his southwest across the cold gray sea, the high plains gradually came into view and resolved themselves on the horizon. Then, at last, the sea curved away to the south and he found himself on a gentle slope above the outlet of the river upon whose banks, two years before and a hundred miles to the west, he’d faced down Durlrang and his band.
The river was broad and frozen completely over, the ice extending out into the sea to the point where the ceaseless waves broke it up. He fought his way down through the snow and trudged across the ice. He had no fear of breaking through; the winter was still bitter and the ice was thick. Once across, he struggled up the other slope of the gentle valley and into a thick tangle of trees on the ridge. There, he collapsed, cold, hungry and exhausted.
The passage through the mountains and across the northern end of the sea had used him up, physically and mentally. He should have been overjoyed to have reached the high plains safely in the dead of winter but he was too weary and worn to care. He crawled back in under the sweeping branches of a fir and found a place where the snow had not penetrated. He dug a hollow place into the layer of compacted needles near the trunk and curled up. Though it was still early in the afternoon, he hadn’t eaten, and it was very cold, he fell asleep.
Eight
He awoke two hours later with the vicious cold gnawing at him through the armor, which by now had finally succumbed to the effects of more than a month’s exposure to the frigid winter air since the incident on the mountainside. Aram had to start a fire, he had to get warm, if not, he would weaken further and sickness would seek him out and find him. He gathered deadfall from beneath the trees and stacked it against an outcropping of rock that rose among the trees at the top of the ridge. Then he gathered handfuls of moss from the lower branches of the trees, shoved it under the stacked brush and went to work with his flint and ironstone.
But the moss would not light. It had been a wet fall, followed by a snowy, cold winter. Everything was soaked with moisture and the moisture had frozen inside all woody substances. Try as he might, the fire would not start. By now he was shivering as much from the weakness brought on by unending exertion as he was from the cold. He sat back and considered.
Kelven had stated that the sword was his to use, and that this stricture had been specified at the highest level. Well, then, he would use it. Reaching over his back, he slipped the sword of heaven from its sheath. The sun was setting in the west, beyond the rock, and when freed from its sheath, the sword instantly tugged his arm in that direction. The pull of the blade was surprisingly strong, and in his weakened state he found it difficult to resist.
Quickly, he lowered the blade and shoved it into the stacked wood. There was an instant eruption of fire as the power of the sword drove the moisture from the wood and kindled the flames. In seconds the whole stack was alight, burning fiercely. He sheathed the sword, blunting its power and the terrific pull it exerted against his weakened arms, and lay back against the rock, letting the soothing warmth from the fire flow through him.
After a while, when the worst of the cold had been driven from his bones, he removed the hood and stored it in his pack on the far side of the fire. Then he ate a supper of the dried meat – of which he was growing weary – and went back and sat against the rock as close to the flames as he dared. Overhead, the sky was deepening and the first stars showed in the firmament. He looked around at the monochromatic snow-covered landscape, fading from view with the passing of the day.
His camp was in a grove of fir trees on the crest of a low ridge between two streams – the river to the north and a smaller stream to the south. Both flowed gently here in the low country near the sea, their outlets to that vast body of water becoming little more than bays and backwaters during the warmer months; now both were frozen over. Everywhere across the high plains as far as he could see the snow lay deep. It would be some time before he felt like challenging that snow cover and attempting any progress to the south and west toward Rigar Pyrannis. It didn’t matter; the horses would still be in their winter quarters, well to the south of that ancient city.
As he brought his gaze back to the dancing flames of the fire, he was startled to see the dark shape of a man standing beyond it, at the edge of the light. He started to jump up, reaching instinctively for his sword, but then he recognized the tall hooded figure and got up more slowly. Once on his feet, Aram inclined his head. “Lord Joktan.”
The dark figure waved an arm of its billowing robe and indicated the fire. “That was a nice trick. Is that how you start all your fires, now?”
He spoke in an audible voice, richly modulated, and Aram started at the sound of it. Then he nodded respectfully. “It is a pleasure to see you again, my lord.” He looked down into the flames and laughed quietly. “If you have been here long you’ll know why I did that.”
Joktan chuckled in turn. “I would have done the same, I assure you. Sit down, Aram, I know that you are weary.”
Aram complied, glad to rest his muscle and bone.
The specter turned his hooded head and looked back to the north. “So, you came down through the mountains?”
“I did, my lord, but surely you already knew that.”
The hood turned back toward Aram and studied him for a moment. “I do not always follow you, Aram. There are other things that concern me. I can be at but one place at any time and traveling takes nearly as long as when I lived.” Joktan moved closer to the fire. “I wish that I could feel the warmth of it,” he said, somewhat wistfully.
Aram looked up at him in surprise. “Are you cold, my lord?”
“No.” The hooded head made a slight lateral movement. “No, Aram, I am neither cold nor warm. I am – nothing. Well, I am weary, weary of the world. Weary of its trouble. Ten thousand years is a long time to search for the resolution of a matter.”
There was an odd note of bitter fatigue in the specter’s voice and Aram was uncertain of how to answer such observations so he said nothing. After a long silence in which Aram watched the fire eat away at the stacked wood and Joktan appeared to do the same, the ancient king spoke again.
“I don’t think anyone has ever done such a thing, Aram.”
Aram looked up at him curiously. “My lord?”
“Passed through the northern mountains.” Joktan waved a sleeved arm toward the north. “I don’t recall anyone ever having done it – not even in the summer. They were always assumed to be i
mpassable.”
Aram shifted his tired and battered body and grinned ruefully. “They are, my lord, believe me.”
At this, Joktan tipped his hooded head back and laughed aloud, the sound ringing through the low, sweeping branches of the firs. He had a pleasant laugh, deep and full.
“It seems that you are always doing things, Aram, which no one believes possible.”
“I only do what I must, my lord.”
“That cannot be so.” Joktan disagreed. “You could have stayed on the mountain until spring and met the horses on the plateau or in Vallenvale.”
Aram considered that for a moment, thinking of Kelven and Sera, of the mists of regret and sadness that lay upon the summit of that great mountain, and then shook his head. “No, my lord, I could not. I could not have stayed there a day longer.”
Joktan seemed about to reply but then said nothing. He turned his hooded head and gazed into the darkness to the south for several minutes and then looked back at Aram.
“The horses are more than two hundred miles to the south and they will not come north until the snow is gone.”
Aram nodded in agreement, staring at the fire. “I know.”
“The snow is very deep on the plains everywhere.”
Aram looked up at him. “Yes, my lord, it is.”
“When the thaw comes, all these rivers will flood.”
Aram nodded slowly. “I suppose that is true.”
He could feel Joktan’s eyes studying him.
“How much food do you have, Aram?” The specter asked.
“Are you worried about me, my lord?”
Joktan nodded. “I confess that I am.”
Aram thought about it for a moment. “I have enough food for two weeks or so, if I ration carefully.”
The tall figure of the ancient king turned away and gazed into the darkness. “That may not be enough. This winter will last for some time yet.”
Kelven's Riddle Book Two Page 12
