by R. J. Grieve
She didn’t correct him, but was content to stand beside him, their shoulders almost touching, the silence that fell between them, companionable. They both stood watching their breath misting momentarily in the moonlit air and listening to the wolves singing their lament, and one of them, at least, knew no desire to be anywhere else.
The valley got steeper and narrower as they climbed higher the next day. They followed the course of the stream until its path became too precipitous and they were forced to abandon it and move deeper into the fir trees. The ground was becoming so steep in places, that the trees appeared to have acquired the knack of growing out of solid rock without the need for soil at all. Gorm was more content now that he was back in his natural environment and clambered cheerfully upwards, still sharp-eyed but less obviously anxious than of late. But the gradient and increasing altitude were causing problems for one over-weight librarian. Bethro brought up the rear, puffing and sweating. Despite the increasing cold, his pudgy cheeks were bright red with the effort. During one of the frequent stops that his breathlessness necessitated, gently out of a leaden sky, the first feathery flake of snow floated gracefully downwards and settled lightly on Iska’s hand before vanishing. They all looked up as one by one the icy flakes drifted onto hair and upturned faces. Without a word being spoken, they unpacked the fur-lined cloaks and gloves that the Keeper had given them and pulled their hoods up – all that is, except Bethro, who was still too overheated from his exertions to contemplate winter clothing.
“It’s strange to think that down below, on the plain, it is still summer,” remarked Sareth, struggling with the clasp of her cloak. “Was it just a day ago that we were riding in the sun wearing linen shirts without even a jerkin?”
Vesarion smiled and taking the clasp from her, fastened the hook.
“At least our four-legged friends seem quieter today,” he observed.
“I don’t know if that’s good,” objected Eimer. “At least when they are howling, we have some idea where they are. You will note that I’m keeping my crossbow in my hand. I imagine one doesn’t get much warning of an attack.”
Iska looked warily into the trees before prodding Bethro into activity. “Come on, you’ve rested long enough. We must keep going.”
Bethro released a theatrical sigh of self-pity and heaved himself reluctantly to his feet.
The air was getting noticeably colder with every step they ascended. Although the light snow shower had done no more than dust the ground before melting away, the heavy sky bore the promise of more to come. Occasionally, when they emerged from the smothering confines of the trees onto a rocky outcrop too bare for even the hardy firs to colonise, they glimpsed the icy slopes above as they reared their proud necks upwards, before demurely hiding their heads in veils of cloud. They still had some distance to ascend through the trees before reaching the snowline but the dark, rather drab greenness was already thinning, giving way to a dusting of white. Unfortunately, Bethro was falling further and further behind, his breath wheezing audibly in the frozen air.
Vesarion drew alongside Eimer. “What are we going to do about Bethro?” he asked, jerking his head behind him. “We are going to reach the snowfields soon, and if he can’t cope with this, how is he going to cope with deep snow?”
Eimer shook his head. “I have no answer, my friend. It’s going to be a slow task crossing these mountains, by the look of it.”
Gorm, who had been listening, had his own suggestion. “Fat Bethro,” he said contemptuously. “Too much food. Too much wine. Leave him here for the wolfs.”
Vesarion and Eimer grinned at one another and as of one accord, re-traced their steps and catching the Keeper of Antiquities by each arm, physically hauled him up the slope.
They would have smiled less had they but known that their luck was just about to run out.
For the rest of the day they continued upwards through the forest, through branches now sprinkled with snow. Eimer, a little ahead of the others, crossbow at the ready, suddenly saw what he had been dreading to see. In front of him, printed clearly into the snow, were many wolf tracks, crossing and re-crossing each other, as if a pack had milled about uncertainly for a while before taking off in a lupine stream up the mountainside.
Vesarion, who had joined him by now, looked grave. “You are more of a hunter than I am, Eimer, but it looks to me as though maybe twenty or so, passed this way – and recently too. If you remember, it snowed a little a short while ago and these tracks have not been touched by it.”
Eimer, who had been squatting on his heels, examining the prints, looked up. “That means that they are probably less than two hours ahead of us.”
“Yes, and just to make matters worse, we are taking the same direction.”
Gorm untied the little asymmetric bow that hung from his pack and fitted an arrow to the shaft. Eimer smiled when he saw the gesture. “I appreciate the sentiment, Gorm, but you are not going to bring down a full-grown wolf with that little toy.”
Gorm was busy testing the tension of the string. “Get wolfs in the eye,” was all he said.
The Prince rose to his feet. “When do they most often attack?” he asked Vesarion.
“Any time,” was the uncompromising response. “But in my experience, most often at dusk.”
“Then we must ensure to build a large fire tonight.”
They never got to build the fire. Just as the cold mountain light began to fade, gently thread by subtle thread, giving way to the advancing darkness, Sareth, glancing through the trees looking for a defensible place to camp, saw staring back at her out of the gloom a pair of icy, pale eyes.
Chapter Seventeen
Wolf Pack
She drew in her breath sharply and slowly reaching out her arm, grasped Vesarion urgently by the sleeve. He followed the direction of her stare. The wolf’s cold eyes swivelled towards him, as he smoothly and quietly began to draw his sword. It heard the soft scrape of steel and sensing the hostility in the action, drew back its lips from its gums and exposed a set of teeth designed for ripping flesh. Softly, it issued a low growl. Everyone had seen it by now and had frozen where they stood. Gorm’s little bow was already pointed at it, the arrow cocked, and Eimer’s finger was hovering over the release of the loaded crossbow. The wolf took a pace forwards, its teeth still exposed, its attention now on Eimer.
Vesarion, sword now fully drawn, noted that it was larger and darker than the wolves of Westrin. It had a thick ruff of fur around its neck that was so dark it was almost black. Again, a menacing snarl sounded deep in its throat, then all at once it turned and bolted off through the trees. At the same moment Eimer’s crossbow bolt thudded resoundingly into the tree where it had been standing a moment before.
“Do we pursue it?” he asked.
“No,” answered Vesarion tersely. “Recover your quarrel and then we must find somewhere defensible where they can’t surround us – for without doubt they’ll be back. Quickly! We haven’t much time.”
The others needed no urging. Even Bethro, who had been convinced he was down to his last gasp, managed to summon up a surprising amount of energy.
They scrambled up the slope between the laden trees, the snow now rendered bluish by the fading light.
“Keep together,” ordered Vesarion, herding Bethro before him. “No one is to get separated – understood?”
They began to run, picking up speed, until with a suddenness that was almost shocking, they burst through the last of the trees to discover themselves on the edge of a blue-white, virgin snowfield. On the far side, grey, iron-hard precipices reared up, too steep for snow to cling to.
Sareth took a few steps into the snow and promptly sank up to her knees.
“It’s deep,” she called, “and getting deeper. We are never going to outrun them in this.”
Vesarion, who had halted at the edge of the trees, used the last of the light to scan the rock face arising sheer out of the far side of the snowfield. His eyes narrowed in concentrati
on as something caught his attention.
He called to Sareth, who was now some distance into the snowfield, almost up to her waist in snow, followed by a struggling Gorm. The only portion of the Turog’s anatomy visible was his head, from which emitted a steady stream of invective in some incomprehensible tongue.
“Sareth, look ahead of you at the cliff rising up. Do you see a ledge running up the side of it? Are you close enough to see clearly?”
Before she could answer, a long, echoing howl issued from the forest behind them.
Sareth’s eyes scanned the hard, bare granite. “Yes! I see it! It seems to go up some distance. It’s almost like some kind of path.”
“Head towards it,” shouted Vesarion, before turning to the others. “Iska, take Bethro and follow the track that Sareth has made. Head for the ledge and don’t stop no matter what happens. Eimer and I will hold them off for as long as we can.” He gave her a little push. “Now go!”
Bethro needed no pushing. Another mournful yowl from the depths of the forest sent him ploughing through the snow with Iska in his wake.
Eimer had re-loaded his crossbow and was facing the forest, his concentration intense.
“You are probably only going to get off one shot before they mob us,” Vesarion advised, “so have your sword at the ready. Retreat into the deep snow. It will slow them down.”
He had time to say no more, for out of the twilight between the trees, were staring several pairs of basilisk eyes, filled with menace.
Vesarion shot a rapid glance behind him. Sareth and Gorm were about half way across the snowfield, struggling against drifts that just seemed to get deeper and deeper. Bethro and Iska were faring better because they were gaining the advantage of the path beaten by their precursors.
The sky was now almost dark but the white snowfield was throwing back a pale illumination of its own. Step by stealthy step, the wolves moved sinuously closer, fanning out through the trees on either side of the two men. Eimer and Vesarion backed towards the snowfield, not keen to be outflanked. Still their opponents slunk towards them, coarse fur bristling, canines bared, but utterly silent.
Then one to the right of Vesarion launched its attack. It took a short run, then sprang at him. The crossbow twanged and a heavy bolt thumped into its side, bringing it down in a snarling, tangled heap. As if this had been the signal they had been waiting for, the others came flying though the trees at the two men. Desperately, they lashed out with their swords. Finding his crossbow now something of an encumbrance, Eimer dropped it and shot his sword outwards, as a fury of fur and teeth launched itself at him. His aim was true and the keen blade sliced though bone and sinew, cutting off its foreleg. Vesarion, too, was hard pressed, fighting double-handed, as was his custom, eviscerating one with a powerful thrust, instantly whipping his blade clear to sweep it upwards at jaws snapping perilously close to his face. The wolf uttered an demonic shriek of pain as the sharp steel slashed across its muzzle. But despite these successes, more and more just kept emerging from the trees.
“Into the snowfield!” yelled Vesarion, backing towards the open whiteness behind him. Soon they were thigh deep and found that the depth did indeed hamper the predators. They could no longer launch the flying attacks that they had been using to such fearsome effect but were reduced to negotiating the drifts at an awkward, bouncing run. Yet still they did not give up.
They achieved one of their aims by separating the two men. Eimer found himself besieged by three of the creatures at once. Swinging his sword at one, he took a step backwards and immediately sank into a suddenly deep drift that unbalanced him and brought him down. In an instant one of the wolves sprang, scenting its chance. Eimer had a terrifying glimpse of snapping teeth within an inch of his head, when he heard a sharp thud and the wolf was knocked sideways. There, only a few yards away, was Gorm, already stringing a second arrow to his bow. His first shot had found the mark he had said it would – deep in his victim’s eye. The wolf lay twitching and writhing, smearing the pristine snow with blood until Eimer finished it off with a downward plunge of his sword.
Vesarion was also receiving help. Sareth, the burnished blade of her sword flashing in the dull light, had drawn off one of his assailants and was keeping it busy while Vesarion went to work on its companions with brutal aggression.
Finally, daunted by the rough treatment they were receiving, the remaining wolves backed off a bit. They left their dead in the snowdrift and retreated to the eaves of the forest – but they didn’t go. Silently, they milled around beneath the trees, watching with malevolent eyes while their erstwhile victims struggled through the snow to the granite cliffs.
By now Bethro had reached the ledge, his bulk cutting an easily followed swathe through the snow. The ledge did, indeed, resemble a path winding its way narrowly up the cliff face, rising ever higher towards the mist-shrouded peaks. The light was now reduced to that indistinct gloom that is as dark as it ever gets where there is an extensive area of snow, but the path was so precipitous that it was deemed too dangerous to proceed further until morning. They retreated just far enough up the ledge to make themselves an unattractive proposition to the wolves, then sank down exhausted, their backs against the cliff, their feet hanging out over the void.
“Just as well it’s too dark to see properly,” Sareth confided to Vesarion, “ because I would not be sitting here so blithely if I could see the drop below us.”
“I thought Eimer was joking?”
“Not entirely.”
“You should not have risked yourself by coming back to help.”
He felt her shrug in the darkness. “It was all Gorm’s fault, really. He was determined to show off his marksmanship to Eimer, so what could I do but tag along?”
He smiled to himself, amused by her off-handedness, but remarked seriously to her: “We must not fall asleep tonight. Apart from the risk of falling off this ledge, we could all freeze to death. As much as possible, we should try to move around. Besides, one of us must be on guard in case those animals try their luck.”
“I’m too cold to sleep anyway,” she said, her teeth chattering slightly.
“You’d be surprised how easy it is to fall asleep in these conditions – you forget that I am well used to this during the wintertime at home. Westrin is often cut off for weeks at a time by heavy snow. It can be a pretty inhospitable place at times.”
“And yet you love it.”
“Yes,” he conceded. “Though I sometimes don’t know why.”
“Love is like that,” she said a little sadly. “There’s no use looking for reason in it.”
The cold night was achingly slow in passing. Vesarion tried to make sure that everyone moved around to keep warm, but their options in that respect were limited for fear of falling. It merely consisted of standing up, gingerly holding on to the cliff-face behind and shifting from one foot to the other. Gorm and Bethro both completely refused to co-operate and sat solidly disregarding him.
Yet despite his determination to stay vigilant, in the dark hours before dawn, Vesarion drifted off into an uneasy sleep, into the confusion of fragmented dreams and fractured images that swirled in dizzying confusion until out of the chaos one searingly clear image began to emerge. Before his eyes, lit by a golden light behind it, was the sword of Erren-dar. He gazed transfixed by it, unable to tear his eyes away, drawn by some power towards it. He saw the deadly beauty of its shining blade, incised with the elegantly entwined chalice flowers and as he watched, faintly he heard a whisper, a susurration so soft as to be indistinct. He strained to hear it, convinced in his dream that it was of the utmost importance that he should and at last the words obeyed his will and came to him.
“Call me by my rightful name, heir of Erren-dar, and I will serve you well.”
Then, just like the day he had stood in the Ivy Tower and Bethro had shown him the empty cushions where the sword had lain, he felt it in his hand – even though in reality he had never touched it. He could feel the leather,
with which the hilt was bound, against his palm. How perfectly it fitted in his grasp. He could sense the fine balance of the blade, long and surprisingly slender, but as flexible and responsive as if it were an extension of his arm. He could even hear the soft, deadly hiss as the keen edge sliced the air.
Then, in the unpredictable manner of dreams, his vision changed. The sword faded from sight and touch and instead, taking shape before him was Sareth’s face. He was leaning over her and she was looking up at him, directly into his eyes, with the sort of look that would have made any man’s heart race. Her brown hair, streaked with gold, was fanned out across a white, lace-edged pillow. For a long time, it seemed to him, he looked into the depths of those smokey-grey eyes and as he did so a great weight lifted off him, bringing in its train a sense of lightness and joy. And all at once he experienced the overwhelming desire to kiss her. Unable and unwilling to resist, slowly he bent towards her, drifting closer until his lips almost touched hers.
At that moment, to his intense frustration, he awoke. He sat up, startled by his dream, thwarted desire burning so intensely in him that although the night around him was still bitterly cold, he felt no chill at all. He turned his head in the darkness, knowing that the subject of his dream was huddled beside him in a cold, uneasy doze, oblivious to his state of mind. And for the first time since their engagement had been broken, for the first time since he had let her go, he experienced the first tiny shoots of doubt.
As soon as it became bright enough to view their surroundings clearly, the stiff and weary companions made the welcome discovery that the wolves appeared to have taken themselves off in search of easier prey. But they also discovered something less welcome – the valley had funnelled into a dead end, with the narrow ledge being the only means of escape. The surrounding peaks had closed in, jostling and crowding one another until the valley seemed to end in an impassable wall of stone that sprang up dizzyingly towards the clouds. Only the fragile ledge, which wound its way upwards until it disappeared into the mist, offered any possibility of escape.
