“Perhaps we should turn in,” said Echevarian.
The fire snapped in the silence, its power to comfort diminished.
“One last round?” offered Trent.
Echevarian stood, gazing to the southwest. “Let’s save our luck for tomorrow,” he said.
Gray skies greeted them in the morning. After a hurried fistful of breakfast they broke camp and headed back to the road, now a rough track that followed a meandering river, muddy water low in its basin, sandbars dotting its surface. They passed the southern end of the Sandres and now a cold east wind drove at them across the plains. The travelers were silent, each with his own thoughts. At midday they halted to rest their beasts, and ate a cold lunch as they stood.
“Gods must be quarreling,” said Trent. “They say that always makes bad weather.”
“Don’t joke about the gods,” snapped Paethor.
Echevarian and Trent exchanged a glance.
“You religious, Paethor?” asked Trent. “I didn’t mean to offend.”
Paethor gave no answer. Instead he walked away toward the river.
“Let him be,” said Echevarian.
They took to the road again and soon came upon a straggling band of wayfarers, mostly women and boys, walking northward beside two load-beasts that strained at an overburdened wagon. The little group looked up fearfully as the mounted party approached, one of the youths hefting a pike.
“You won’t need that, lad,” said Echevarian, reining his beast to a halt. “Where are you headed?”
“Argonia,” answered the youth.
“Well, you’re there. What now?”
A woman stepped forward. “We seek asylum from King Nigel,” she said. “Can you tell us… how far is his keep?”
“On foot?” said Trent. “A good week, from here.”
The little group’s faces fell. In the wagon a child began to cry.
“Where are you from?” asked Echevarian.
“Sun Mountain,” said the woman. “There was a terrible battle-our Baron was slain two days ago.”
“Slain how?” asked Trent quickly.
The woman’s face contorted, lines of grief furrowing her brow. “A Sword,” she answered. “They said it was a magic Sword. It came from nowhere and struck him down-”
“Where is the Sword now?” demanded Echevarian.
“I don’t know,” said the woman, brushing tears from her cheeks with a sunburned hand. “There was an uproar, and then soldiers from Ravenskeep came-”
“We seek asylum,” repeated the youth. “Will King Nigel help us?”
Echevarian gazed at the pitiful band, his stern eyes softening. “I’m sure he will, lad,” he said gently, “but it’s a hard journey to Argonhall. My hold is closer.” He reached into his doublet and brought out a pencil and a bit of gray paper on which he scribbled a brief note. “Go back along the river to the wide shallows and the cottonwood grove, do you remember it?”
The youth nodded vigorously.
“Turn east and head for the bluffs. My house is in a little valley beyond them, you should reach it by nightfall. Give this note to my steward, Needham. He’ll see you’re cared for.”
“Thank you, my Lord.” The woman bowed as she took the note.
“Have you food enough?”
“Yes. We’re not beggars,” said the youth defiantly.
“We have enough for now,” added the woman. “Bless you, sir.”
“I’m afraid we can’t escort you,” said Echevarian. “We’re on urgent business.”
“We’ll find it, my Lord. Thank you.”
The riders moved on past the refugees, but after a few minutes Echevarian called a halt. He glanced at the road behind them to make sure the southerners were out of sight, then leaned toward Paethor.
“Check now,” he said.
Paethor drew Wayfinder and softly asked “Where is Farslayer?” The blade swung to the southeast. It wouldn’t settle, swaying back and forth in a small arc, but it was clearly pointing away from the refugees.
Trent sighed, and Echevarian nodded curtly. Paethor sheathed the Sword and they started forward again, urging their tired mounts to cover the dusty miles, and only stopped to make camp when failing light made the road dangerous. The lee of a small cliff near the river offered meager shelter from the wind. As the party rode up to it a flurry of wings burst from a twisted tree by the rock wall; an owl, shrieking its anger at being disturbed. Paethor cried out and his mount reared. He tumbled from the saddle, cowering wild-eyed between his beast and Trent’s, then a moment later he swore and jerked at the animal’s reins, leading it up to the cliff.
They made camp silently, pitching only one tent for the sake of shared warmth. A small cooking fire was kindled, and the yeomen made hot soup from dried broth. Bread and cheese filled out the meal, but the previous night’s banter was absent. Trent watched Paethor tear a piece of bread into small pieces, crumbs falling between long, graceful fingers to the ground. The handsome lord wore a haunted look, hollow eyes staring at nothing as the wind whipped his dark curls about his face.
The cooking fire smoked fitfully. Trent poked at it with a stick and added another log. Echevarian stirred and glanced at the yeomen huddled by the cliff wall.
“Let’s stretch our legs a bit,” said Echevarian as he rose. “I’d like to check the beasts.”
Trent climbed to his feet, wrapping his cloak tighter against the wind, and nudged Paethor with a booted toe. “Come on,” he said.
Paethor looked up, startled, then stood. The three lords wandered out of the shelter, buffeted by wind as they headed for the river’s edge where the beasts were staked. The animals stood with heads down, tails to the wind, suffering mutely.
“All right, Paethor,” said Echevarian. “Let’s have it. Where’s the blasted thing tonight?”
Paethor gave him a troubled glance before slowly drawing Wayfinder. “Where is Farslayer?” he said, his words swallowed by the wind. He stood facing south down the river bed, and the Sword wavered in his hands, moving from south to southeast. Finally it swung sharply to the west. Paethor gave a cry of frustration.
“This isn’t getting us anywhere!” said Trent.
Paethor grabbed Echevarian’s hand, pressing the hilt into it. “You do it,” he said.
Echevarian faced south, squared his shoulders, and said “Where can we find Farslayer?” The Sword was still for a moment, then circled inexorably to point past Paethor’s shoulder, west-northwest, into Argonian lands. Clouded moonlight shimmered on the blade as it quaked in Echevarian’s grasp.
Three faces turned to follow the Sword’s bearing. A shadow of gray marked a distant line of mountains.
“That’s the Highmass,” said Trent. “There’s nothing up there, is there?”
“A few small holdings,” answered Echevarian. “And our quarry, apparently.”
“So we turn back? What if it’s gone again by the time we get there?” complained Trent.
“We keep going till we’ve tracked it down,” said Echevarian grimly. “Unless you have a better suggestion?”
Trent sighed. “I need a drink,” he said, starting back toward the camp.
Echevarian held Wayfinder out to Paethor. He seemed reluctant to take it, but did so, sheathing it at once. Echevarian laid a hand on his shoulder as they followed Trent. “Looks like King Nigel gave you a heavier burden than he thought.” Paethor turned a haggard face to him, and Echevarian glimpsed dread in his eyes. Then Paethor quickened his steps for the scant comfort of the cliffside, with Echevarian close behind.
At dawn they retraced their way northward, forded the river at the shallows, then headed cross-country toward the small cluster of mountains called the Highmass. Paethor was calm again, though silent, his fair face pale against the black hood of his cloak.
Travel was slower without a road, and it took them two days to reach the foothills. Wayfinder was consistent at last, pointing steadily to the lonely mountains regardless of which lord held it. Small comfort on the rough journey.
The Sword led them up a narrow valley through which ran a clear, ice-cold stream. The first of Trent’s wineskins surrendered its last drop and was refilled with frosty water. Snow lay in deep drifts along the valley, and the short winter days were curtailed even more by the mountains blocking the sun. Trent killed a hare with a well-slung stone, but even the fresh meat was of little help to lift chilled spirits. On the third morning after they entered the valley, it began to snow.