“I don’t know.”
“If either of you had the sense the Three and Twenty Wise Ones gave a dung beetle, you might infer the identity of your savior.” The peevish voice emerged from the satchel propped against the bank. “Though why I should expect gratitude from the likes of you I’ll never know.”
Fost drew himself up on one elbow, peering through the darkness at the spirit’s jug. “You? But how?”
“Moriana didn’t. You certainly did not. Whom does that leave?”
“I didn’t know you were a magician, spirit. What else have you concealed from us? Remember the Josselits, Erimenes.”
“No magic was involved. A mere trifle of mind control. Why, even when alive I could have accomplished such a feat with ease. My thirteen hundred ninety-nine years of contemplation have only honed the edge of my abilities.”
Moriana’s eyes met Fost’s in the darkness. “The savants of Athalau were noted for their mental abilities, apart from sorcery,” she said.
“Which explains how,” the courier said, “but not why. Why, when you were on the verge of seeing our blood shed as you’ve so avidly desired before, did you rescue us?”
“Even if I felt called upon to account for my actions to some lout of a courier…”
“The Josselits, Erimenes. Remember them.”
“…I strongly doubt you have the mental capacity to follow my reasoning,” the spirit said testily. “As for your incessant caviling about the Josselits, I can only observe that they would be as stimulating company as you’ve proven this night. Lying beside you is a lovely wench who owes her life and soul to you, and yet you lie there like a pious divinity student without doing a thing about it.”
Erimenes’ comment made Fost aware of an urgent tickle below his belt. He gazed at Moriana for a minute. Her expression was unreadable in the starlight.
“No,” he said at last. “I think not. After what you’ve been through today…”
Moriana kissed him lightly on the lips. “Thank you, Fost.” With that she rolled over, snuggled herself against him, and went promptly to sleep.
In a short time he too slept, but his dreams teemed with enemies and screaming faces.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Like damp, rumpled cloth gradually dried and drawn taut over a frame, the land flattened from undulating prairie to a virtually featureless steppe. High gray-green grass, bowing before the ceaseless wind, stretched as far as the eye could see in all directions. Winter and the nearness of the polar zone had dropped a blanket of dreariness on the land. Leaden gray-clouds rolled across the sky, building an impenetrable wall above the low, black bulk of the Rampart Mountains. Even the sunlight was robbed of its brilliance and cast a wan radiance. And every step took the fugitives deeper into bone-chilling cold.
Fost and Moriana had spent three days winding through the labyrinth of ravines. Twice flights of war-birds had flown over, but overhanging banks had provided them cover from observation. By the time they emerged from the broken country, not an eagle could be seen through the whole vast dome of the sky.
From there on, they had to traverse open country, which gave no shelter from the keen eyes of Rann's eagles. So they decided to travel mostly at night, halting at the first pallid tint of dawn to dig places to sleep away the daytime. The roots of the steppe grass reached deep. They knew they could cut up great chunks of sod and then pull them back into place over them to provide camouflage.
For their own reasons, the two felt increasingly eager to reach the city in the glacier and the treasure it concealed. Yet their path did not lead directly toward the Gate of the Mountains, the pass that lay due north of Athalau. The swallowed city rested on a southeastward line running through Thailot to Brev. The travelers’ weary legs, however, carried them almost directly south.
Moriana broached the subject the evening they emerged from the ravines. They had just finished the celebration denied them the night of their escape from the City in the Sky. Facing one another, naked, they pressed close with the aftermath of passion.
“If we make straight for the Gate of the Mountains, Rann’s men will have us before we go thirty miles,” she said, the words slightly distorted as she lay with her cheek against the courier’s chest. “Their eagles have poor night vision, but on the steppe they don’t need to see well to make out moving figures.”
“What can we do about it?” Fost asked as he absently stroked her golden hair.
“I remember hearing of a way through the Ramparts near the Great Crater Lake directly south of here.” She rubbed her smooth cheek across his chest. “Synalon has some scheme in mind; I don’t think she’ll let Rann have many men to hunt us. He’ll concentrate on the straight path to the Gate. If we make for the Crater Lake we’ll have a better chance of eluding him.”
“Hmmm,” Fost rumbled thoughtfully to himself. “I remember something about a western passage on that map I took from Kest-i-Mond. I don’t recall exactly, but I have the impression there was something ominous about the name.”
“The Valley of Crushed Bones, it’s called.” Erimenes’ tones seemed even more sour than usual. “If that sounds at all ominous to you.”
“It does. But no name, however awful it sounds, scares me as much as Rann and his bird riders.”
“Nonsense. You’ve dealt with the Sky Guardsmen before.” Erimenes made a sound as though clicking a vaporous tongue. “Really, Fost, I cannot fathom your timorousness.”
Fost made a rude noise.
“What became of the map?” Moriana asked him.
He grimaced. “Obviously Synalon knew its value. I had it in the satchel you stole from me.” He felt her tense at the words and patted her rump affectionately. “Never mind. That’s long gone by now. At any rate, I don’t have the map any longer.”
“And Rann does,” Erimenes said. “He’ll know of the westward route. He’ll lay a trap for you, mark my words.”
Moriana eased her head around to look at the satchel. “I have the feeling there’s something about the Crater Lake country that our distinguished colleague dislikes. Why don’t you want us going to the Great Crater, Erimenes?”
Erimenes mumbled something about them regretting such ill-considered judgments and spoke no more.
“Another mystery,” Moriana said to Fost. “First he renders us invisible to the Guardsmen despite their protection spells. Now he displays this curious reluctance about the Great Crater Lake. I wonder what it means?”
“Nothing but good, if it shuts him up like that,” Fost replied. He reluctantly pulled away from Moriana’s grip and sat up, the cold wind from the steppes whipping around him. But the wind felt good, clean, fresh, and crisp after the blood and death they’d been through. “Let’s be on our way. The night soon will be dark enough to cloak our movement from Rann.”
“I suppose you’re right,” sighed Moriana. She straightened and stared southward.
Fost didn’t have to be a mindreader to know what she was thinking. On this score, their thoughts were as one. The City in the Glacier. The Amulet of Living Flame. Immortality.
Immortality!
They had endured much at the hands of Synalon and Rann. They had defeated them. Now only reward lay ahead for the courier and his princess in the southlands.
“Come on, let’s move!” Fost cried, struggling into his clothing. “The sooner we’re off these steppes the better I’ll like it.”
“Yes, Fost,” agreed Moriana, dressing as quickly as the courier. Neither could hide the soaring anticipation they felt.
“Why you’re so eager to freeze, going in this direction, I’ll never know,” sniffed Erimenes. “There’s nothing this way you could possibly want, mark my words.”
But Fost and Moriana ignored him. They strode off onto the night-shrouded steppe with a spring in their walk, hand in hand, knowing the worst lay behind them.
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E. Vardeman, 01 - The Sundered Realm
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