“But as to the Wizardholt within Black Mountain, I know not whether the same rules apply; I know not whether a road there be, if it matters about the wind, or if slides would dare tumble down those slopes. And if it be a secret Wizard gate we must find, then I say we should turn our backs right now and go elsewhere, for I would deem the cause to be a hopeless one.
“Nay, first we shall look for that with which I am familiar, and trust that Wizards build to account for the same things we Châkka do, for if they do not, then sheer chance alone must guide our steps.
“And if it be sheer chance we find we must rely upon, then I judge it will be a long search, for yon Black Mountain is vast and could hold a thousand gates, gates that are not hidden, and still could we search for weeks and not stumble across even one.”
Onward they plodded, the hooves of the steeds ringing upon the rock, echoes chattering down the grey canyon they passed along, and Elyn eyed the great black mountain towering upward in the near distance. But Thork’s eyes were elsewhere-upon the path they trod-and of a sudden he drew Digger to a halt and leapt down and knelt and studied the stone. Elyn, too, reined to a stop and dismounted, studying the path as well. Thork’s eyes looked up and caught hers, and he grinned fiercely. “This be an ancient roadbed, Princess, fallen into ruin, but a tradeway nonetheless, leading mayhap unto the very Wizards’ holt itself.”
“Ah, my Dwarven Warrior,” laughed Elyn, “well did the Wolfmage title you, when he called you the ‘one to guide.’ ”
“I know not how well named I am by the Mage of the Wolfwood, my Lady,” responded Thork, rising to his feet, “but this do I ken: that it was the Wolfmage who set us upon this route between thumb and first finger of those distant peaks behind us; I deem he well knows how to reach the Wizards’ dwelling, and guided our steps aright.”
All the rest of that day, the two pressed northeasterly, drawing nearer and nearer to the great black slopes. And the deeper they rode into the mountains, the more certain they became that they were upon the correct path, for frequently could they see sign that once this was a road. Ancient pavestones running in unbroken stretches for up to a furlong; a hundred yards of stone curbing along one stretch upon the right; a collapsed bridge over a shallow stream; stone slopes carven away to provide passage alongside sheer rises: by these indications and more did they see that this once was a well-travelled route, a path of commerce.
Now the land began to rise, and they rode up and over ascensions and down again into the folds of the land, slowly gaining elevation. And as they topped each crest they could see far and wide, peaks rising up beyond peaks, to the limit of the eye’s seeing. But always the dominant view was of the great black mountain in the foreground reaching upward toward the sky.
And now the stone about them began to darken, and the deeper they rode, the deeper the shading became. “It is the reach of the Wizards’ Mountain,” noted Thork, “lunging outward to touch even this.”
The cold high Sun passed across the sky and fell beyond the distant mountains, and darkness came upon the land. And once again the two made a fireless camp, settling in for the night among the cold dark stone. His back to a tall black rock, Thork glanced up at the moonless, starless sky, and huddled deeper into his fur cloak. “Princess, this is a harsh unforgiving land we pass through, today and yesterday and yesterdays agone; yet tomorrow I deem it will be even worse, for deep within my bones I feel a winter storm brewing.”
For a moment Elyn shivered uncontrollably, but she did not know why. And a chill wind sprang up, sweeping down from the north.
The great howling storm whelmed down upon the range midmorn of the next day, catching Elyn and Thork upon the open slopes. A thundering wind tore at them, hurling shrieking whiteness before it, and they could not see farther than a few yards. Shards of ice blasted Woman, Dwarf, horse, and pony alike, thrashing upon them, clawing at them, lashing as would iron-tipped scourges, slashing crystals hurtling into eyes and face, burning with cold. And the wind was as a mighty force hammering at them, causing steeds to stumble and reel, and riders to sway and bend low in the saddle to keep from being swept off. And horse and pony struggled forward into the yawling white, yet they were afrightened by the screaming wind, and often balked. Elyn dismounted and led her grey, and so too did Thork lead Digger. And they came to a standing black rock and attempted to shelter in its lee; but the cruel wind shrieked and spun, whipping at them with its harsh eddying.
Elyn leaned her head close to Thork’s and shouted to be heard. “Thork! Mountains are your domain. What now?”
Thork’s black eyes captured hers, and placing a gloved hand behind her head he pulled her face near his and called out above the shrieking wind: “Behind is no shelter, of that we are certain. We cannot stay here. We must press onward, for ere the storm struck I saw in the high distance a fold in the land, a fold where we may find refuge. But it is long from here, and we may perish in the attempt. Yet would I rather die struggling than to yield without a battle.”
A grim smile lit Elyn’s features. “Lead on, Pathfinder; I follow.”
Out from the scant shelter into the yawling howl pressed the twain, afoot, pulling stubborn frightened steeds after. And screaming blinding whiteness swallowed them, pummeling, hammering, sucking the heat from them and hurtling it upon frigid black stone. Yet they toiled onward, bending double in the whelming blast.
Hours fled, and still they struggled upward, stumbling, falling, rising again to go on, each step now a torture, their breath ragged and burning, seeking the fold seen by Thork. And still the white wind crashed upon them, ice shards coating them from crown to foot, weighing them down with its burden.
Night fell, yet it is moot whether or not they even noted the darkness, for the only thing that mattered was the struggle upward. And when the shrieking day gradually transformed into dark howling night, two gasping comrades leading two blowing steeds did nought but fight onward, collapsing, rising, tumbling, getting up, falling in exhaustion, fatigue mercilessly dragging them down, slipping, failing to catch themselves, their hearts hammering with effort, struggling up and on, the wind tearing at them, their warmth fled from them, their energy all but gone.
And for perhaps the hundredth time in a mile Elyn collapsed, falling in the thigh-deep snow, yet this time she did not rise again. Thork stumbled back unto her, and managed to get her upon the withers of Wind, the horse trembling with fatigue.
Back he turned, leading both steeds upward, struggling onward in what he now deemed to be a hopeless cause, yet his stubborn Châk pride would not let him surrender. Upward another mile or so they struggled, taking forever, and then Wind fell, the grey whelming down into the snow, unconscious Elyn pinned beneath.
Weary beyond measure, Thork managed to free her, dragging her from under the downed horse. Swiftly Thork examined the motionless Princess, and nought seemed broken. And then he tried to get the mare to her feet, but Wind was dead, slain by a blizzard, the grey’s valiant heart bursted by a struggle beyond her endurance.
Placing Elyn across the back of Digger, Thork plodded onward, toiling upward, laborious step upon laborious step, chilled beyond measure. Yet forward he went. And the yawling, hammering wind shoved and pounded and mauled him, and ice slashed across his path, and snow barred his way, yet into the screaming blast he pressed, a furlong and then another, fighting for what seemed like hours. And then the pony fell and lay in the snow, its breath coming in grunting gasps.