by Dave Duncan
Dantio took over the task of pounding Florengian into Orlad, and Fabia started on Waels. The scrawny old Pathfinder knew some of the jabber, so he insisted on using it too. Orlad learned the Florengian word for “blood” when his hands started bleeding. That was just before Hermesk called for a brief rest, saying that they could go longer next time. Was revenge so sweet, or did he just hate men younger and stronger than himself? He certainly enjoyed giving orders to Werists.
At their second halt, as they sat on rounded boulders to wolf rations and quaff cold, crystal water from a pond—Hermesk had warned that drinking the Milky was a mistake no one ever repeated—Fabia demanded an account of the Nardalborg pass from Orlad.
When he managed to understand her sign language, he said, “Heth always estimates five days to First Ice, five to the Mountain of Skulls, five more—”
She scolded him in Florengian.
“Anconti?” he said. “What’s anconti? Little? … Oh, details? You want details? Well, the Ice isn’t continuous. First Ice is a wall, but when you’ve struggled up that, you still find lots of rock beyond it. There is nothing but rock at the Edge itself. Mountain of Skulls was where Stralg had his first big disaster, a sort of human avalanche. Nowadays there’s a staircase there—part wood, part stonework, part hacked out of the cliff. Another five days gets you to Fist’s Leap, and that’s as far as I’ve been, that I remember. The Edge is about five days beyond that, but all those ‘five days’es are rough guesses and wishful thinking. On the High Ice men can drop dead in their tracks. Storms can blow forever. Heth admits that nobody ever made it from Nardalborg to the Edge in only twenty days. He just likes to keep people hoping. Twenty days coming down is possible, if mammoths are waiting for you at First Ice’.”
Fabia chattered at the Pathfinder. He answered in Vigaelian, more likely because he did not trust his Florengian than out of sympathy for Waels and Orlad. “We’ll reach our closest point in another three days. If we cut across country, we should—if the weather holds and we don’t have any accidents—we should reach First Ice one day after that.”
Fabia said, “So if Saltaja set out this morning, as we did, we should get there about the same time she does?”
“Depends how big an escort she has,” Orlad said. “How many men and how many mammoths. It’s crossing the rivers in relays that takes the time.”
“How big an escort do you expect?” Waels asked.
Dantio said, “Very big. She doesn’t have Therek and Horold lurking in the background to defend her now. She’ll be well guarded.”
“Then we should be able to travel faster than she can.”
“As long as we can stay in front of her to Mountain of Skulls,” Orlad said, “we’ll be fine. There we’ll rip out the stairs. That will slow her. After that we just stay ahead, sleeping in her shelters, eating what we need of her supplies, and burning the rest! We’ll get to Veritano before she does!”
“Sounds good to me,” Waels said. “Maybe we can even tip off the Mutineer’s men that she’s coming.”
Fabia said, “No!”
Although puzzled, Orlad dared not ask what she meant. He had been inclined to trust his strange sister’s motivations ever since a mysterious invisible force had aided the rescue of Witness Tranquility two nights ago, but there were times when Fabia made his blood run colder than the Milky, and this was one of them. Dantio was frowning. Waels and Hermesk just looked puzzled. Those two must never be allowed to suspect that they were traveling with a Chosen.
He changed the subject quickly. “When the Ucrist asked you to name your price last night, Pathfinder, you told him something about Yeti Pass. What did that mean?”
The weatherbeaten man shrugged. “Om fornito presto orotinatori do happo alcuni.”
Orlad curbed his temper. Revenge was a fruit that was sweeter when ripe. After four more days he would not need this old grouch. Then he would see about mending manners.
Fabia took pity on him. “I asked Horth. There is no known pass between the Vigaelian Face and the Cignial-Zer Face, but there is a certain valley, far to the west, where strange apelike animals turn up from time to time. They’re called yetis. They’re always solitary, and always male. No one has ever seen a female yeti in Vigaelia. The males must wander in over the Edge from Cignial-Zer. Father once hired Pathfinder Hermesk to hunt for a pass, but withdrew his support because he was killing too many of his helpers.”
“I am comforted by this information,” Dantio said wryly.
“Half my life I have spent looking for Yeti Pass,” the Pathfinder said. “And now I have a backer who never fails.”
“That’s right,” Fabia agreed sadly. “If there’s gold to be found, Horth will find it. He never fails. None of his ventures ever loses. And no success can ever make him happy.”
By evening, even grass had disappeared, and the Milky wandered through a land of rock and lichen. Mount Varakats glowed red against a cobalt sky. The travelers slept on the cold ground, their bedrolls huddled together for warmth and their heads tucked under the upturned canoe in case of rain.
The next day the Milky shrank to a brook and they had to portage around shallows. Waels and Orlad, as the strongest, were given the honor of carrying the canoe itself. Later Hermesk left the river altogether and took to the lakes—small lakes, big lakes, winding and twisting, portage after portage. Even when snow flurries blotted out the world, the Pathfinder never hesitated, guided by his goddess.
As the day grew steadily colder, though, he began to grumble about ice. At the noon break he suddenly balked. “We must turn back. The lakes are starting to freeze.”
“We are not going back,” Orlad said.
“Fool boy! You do not know what you are saying.” The old man’s voice grew shrill. “Ice will destroy the canoe, understand? If you step on a rock under the snow and twist an ankle, you will never be able to climb the pass. Would I tell you how to fight a battle? My goddess tells me we must turn back or we will die.”
Orlad said, “My god tells me we must continue. We’ll vote on it. Waels?”
“We go on, lord.”
Waels had been a safe bet. “Fabia?”
She smiled wanly. “I yield to the authority of my brother.”
Long may that last!
Dantio looked almost as worried as the Pathfinder. “He speaks the truth, Orlad.” He leaned closer and touched his brother’s cheek. “But you haven’t lost your seasoning. I vote to continue.”
“We go on,” Orlad said. He removed one mitt and formed the bear’s paw. Half a year ago, on an epochal first night in the chapel, the agony of battleforming had almost stunned him, but now he was ready for it and did not even flinch. It was Hermesk who cried out when the black fur and the deadly claws appeared in front of his face.
“We go on!” Orlad repeated. “Or I rip your precious canoe to shreds. You will deliver us to Varakats Pass at First Ice, as you swore to do, or you will die with us. If you cannot return to High Timber from there, you are welcome to accompany us to Florengia.”
“This is madness!”
“Yes, but you will address me as your lord.”
By nightfall the lightest pack seemed to weigh more than an ox, and even going back over flat ground for another required serious effort. Orlad decided he had underestimated the advantages of mammoth travel. He remembered to collect all the paddles and make sure they spent the night in the bedroll between him and Waels.
By morning, snow was still falling and in places had drifted waist-deep. There was ice around the lakeshore.
Orlad awoke dreaming that he had been dreaming in Florengian. In reality he could ask some simple questions now and even understand some of the answers. He was certainly learning faster than Waels was, so his childhood memories might be returning.
They had hardly struck camp when the snow turned to rain. Later the sun came out. The weather changed faster than a weathervane could spin.
Late on the fifth day, a long rainstorm lifted to reveal a lan
dscape Orlad recognized. He was not surprised, because for some time the ground had been littered with old mammoth dung. The Celebres had arrived at First Ice and the Nardalborg trail.
That morning they had left the canoe wedged between rocks so it would not blow over. They had been walking ever since. Although he and Waels carried the heaviest packs, he had expected to walk the other three clean off their feet. He had not. The problem here was not legs and strong backs, it was lungs. And cold. He was soaked through. He felt as if he had never been warm in his life. It might be a long time until he was. All the others were in as much distress as he was.
In the far distance stood a cluster of barns and sheds, a lonely outpost of humanity in a rocky, barren hollow flanked on three sides by slopes of dirty ice. He looked around anxiously, afraid that the lifting of the rain might have left him exposed in full view of Caravan Six. Fortunately, the rolling slaggy landscape stretched off to the south as a desolation of rock, ice mound, and water, apparently empty of life.
“We’ve won,” Dantio said. “We’re here first. Nothing shows within my range. Those droppings are not recent.”
Orlad sat down on the gravel and wriggled free of his pack. “Need a break.” The others dropped beside him to do the same. “Pathfinder, you have amply fulfilled your side of the bargain. Fabia, give him the receipt.”
“Of course.” She fumbled in pockets and produced a small leather bag. She put five tiny pebbles in it, then passed it across to Hermesk. Horth would recognize the bag and five pebbles as the agreed signal from her that the contracted services had been delivered. “I am grateful, Master Pathfinder.”
“You should be.” He spoke sourly, but he did take the bag.
Orlad had given up dreams of teaching him manners. “Will you come with us, or try to find the way home alone?” If he could portage the canoe single-handed, he was a better man than Orlad.
“Finding the way is no problem,” Hermesk said sourly. “Surviving the journey will be.”
Dantio spoke up. “It is your decision, Pathfinder. If you choose to come to Florengia with us, and if our father still rules Celebre, then he will give you an immense reward for aiding our return. I swear this.”
The surly oldster sneered. “Enough to buy a farm and put my feet up? Watch the weeds grow? Your father cannot reward me. Horth could—with Yeti Pass.” He stared up at the lowering, darkening sky. “I will decide in the morning. At least we can sleep under cover tonight.”
Orlad sighed. “I’m not sure we can. If Stralg’s forces are anywhere near here, they’ll certainly push hard to arrive by nightfall. We’d be sitting ducks in there.”
“They can’t travel in the dark, can they?” Fabia was staring at him in open dismay. She was exhausted—face pale under its windburn, dark shadows below her eyes, straggles of black hair escaping from her equally black hood. Why did she wear black furs when there were so many other colors available? Saltaja had worn black on the one occasion Orlad had met her.
“They could follow the mammoths’ trail,” he said. “They’d only need a single torch. We’ll have to bivouac near here somewhere, far enough away that we won’t be seen if Saltaja arrives with a horde.” The glacier climb beyond the camp was an ordeal for tomorrow, and no place to be benighted.
“Saltaja may be dead,” Dantio said quietly. “The Werists may have all switched sides, as Huntleader Karrthin did. We know that you killed Heth’s father, but he may not. There may be no one coming up that trail at all.”
“But there may be.”
“We must dry off,” the seer insisted. “Right now pneumonia is a bigger threat than the Queen of Shadows. Believe me, wet clothes are more dangerous than the dry cold of the Edge.”
A prickle of alarm worked its way through Orlad’s weariness and discomfort. Until now he had been leader. Dantio might have been deferring to him because of his local knowledge, or just to humor Baby Brother, but if the two of them disagreed, then the seer’s age and experience must prevail. Orlad would be deposed.
He found a face-saving compromise. “Let’s follow that gravel ridge. We’ll be able to see a long way from the top of that, and if there’s anyone coming, we can hide behind it real quick. If we don’t see anyone by the time it gets dark, we’ll go indoors and sleep in luxury.”
“Good idea.”
“You going to burn this place when we leave tomorrow?” Waels asked.
Orlad said, “They might still catch us. If we can stay ahead until we get to Mountain of Skulls, that’s where we could really slow the pursuit.”
“Makes sense.”
“Does it?” Fabia muttered.
Dantio was staring at her with clear alarm. “What do you mean? You said something like that before. What do you have in mind? What are you planning?”
She shrugged. “Just something Orlad told me. I’ll tell you later.”
SALTAJA HRAGSDOR
was extremely unimpressed by mammoth riding. The howdah seating was sadistically uncomfortable and the weather perversely appalling. Lodging and food were as bad as any she had known since her childhood; even the river had been better than on her journey to First Ice.
She was more than seventy years old and even Chosen did not live forever. Without the power she could draw from the Old One, she would not have survived the first day. Although the sacrifice she had offered in Tryfors had brought her great favor, she must hoard that influence for the worse ordeal ahead. She now had Heth Hethson well Dominated, so he needed no further work for the time being. The girl, Guitha, was biddable without any Control at all. An angry word or a slap worked on her. But Saltaja did expend power on Cutrath Horoldson.
Shaping was her greatest skill and she had forgotten how enjoyable it was. She kept him at her side, sitting on the wind-swept howdah or rolled in a blanket next to hers in the shelters at night, completely unaware of her subtle prying in his mind. He was an excellent subject, being of her own blood and never having formed a character of his own. What personality he did have was totally dominated by fear of his father’s displeasure and brutal discipline. She enjoyed whittling away Horold the ogre.
She needed something to replace him, though, and it took her a while to identify the vague shape lurking deep in Cutrath’s dreams. She had expected his dead brothers or some other commanding young Hero. To her anger and astonishment, the mysterious idol turned out to Benard Celebre. He was strong, he was clever, he was Ingeld’s lover. Even before that disaster happened, the young Cutrath must have sensed that his mother preferred the Florengian hostage to him, yet he dared not model himself on Benard when his father despised Florengians (wrong color), hostages (losers), and artists (sissies). But Benard was all Saltaja could find in there and he would have to do. She began to Shape a better Cutrath around his own view of the sculptor: physically strong, confident, courageous, popular with men, attractive to women. She was annoyed to think that the real Benard might not be too far removed from that image.
She had seen right away that the other men despised Cutrath. They snubbed and mocked him. She also knew that he would never be able to carry on the family business until he could command warriors’ respect. Wondering if Werists could smell fear, as other predators could, she concentrated on erasing Cutrath’s terror of his father. She knew she was making progress on the sixth night of the trek, when the expedition reached the shelter at First Ice. While she waited for hot water to be brought for her bath, she saw him talking with some other men. They no longer spurned him. They even laughed at some of his jokes. He was probably giving obscene answers to their questions about her, but she saw his flush of joy in the firelight.
Given time, she could make something of Cutrath.
The next morning was the worst part of the trek so far. Heth’s chosen assassins had disposed of the Nastrarians in the night; at dawn the mammoths rampaged. Some went off in search of vegetation, bulls began fighting over cows, still others tore open the barns to loot the last of the hay.
Saltaja’s carryin
g chair had been unpacked and assembled. Heth had picked out the strongest eight men in the hunt to be her bearers, two teams of four, and she interviewed each of them briefly, imposing only a trace of Dominance, just lancing each man’s venom enough that he would not be tempted to drop the Queen of Shadows over a cliff somewhere en route. She found the chair a tight fit with all her robes and cushions, but she would have taken to it sooner had she known it would be so much more comfortable than a howdah.
The path up the Ice was rarely wide enough for more than one man at a time. Foreseeing this problem, Heth had designed the chair with poles long enough that the bearers could walk between them, in single file. They took the weight on shoulder straps, leaving their hands free to hold the guide ropes. Her military aide fussed and fretted along close behind them, although Xaran alone knew what good Cutrath thought he could do.
At the top Saltaja saw a line of men heading off over a white plain toward a snowy ridge and the indigo sky beyond. The Edge itself was still days away. Westward the view was dominated by Mount Varakats and the wall of the world. Below her the buildings of First Ice blazed furiously and the last of the mammoths were disappearing over the stony desert. There was no turning back now, and no chance of pursuit. All she had to do now was live through the journey. Her eyes filled with tears, but it was the icy wind doing that, not sentimental thoughts of being reunited with Stralg after all these years.
It was cold! She closed the shutters against the wind and made herself comfortable.
The road wound up and down endlessly. Wind and cold were their companions now. There was no real scenery, no mountains, only rock and ice. Even snow was rare. Stars shone in full daylight. She had nothing to do but endure, and yet she found herself growing weaker. Soon she could not sleep, she had no appetite. The constant cold was as bad as the lack of air, making her lungs ache and throat burn. She wished she had sacrificed more young men to the Mother of Lies.
Each night they came to a shelter that seemed smaller and cruder than the one before. The walls were built of local stone, without mortar. Everything else, from the doors to the roofing beams, had been carried up from First Ice on men’s backs. The roofs were of slate or leather and the floors gravel or bare rock.
