Cadmoryth frowned. ‘Perhaps only half a day,’ he said softly after a long silence.
Girvan’s body was shaking and uncertain with the ceaseless battering it had received through the night, but Cadmoryth’s simple statement started a trembling moving through it that was quite another response. Half a day! He pushed his hands deep into the pockets of his bulky waterproof cloak, and turned to one of his men nearby.
‘Take two riders and make full speed to the Ffyrst. Tell him the Morlider are here, perhaps half a day off-shore. The local Lines have been roused and we’ll start evacuating the local villages immediately. We’ll be ready to give them a welcome, but… ’ He left the sentence unfinished.
As the man ran off, Girvan turned to Cadmoryth. ‘Your people had best get to horse, fisherman,’ he said gently.
It was not unusual in Orthlund for the days following the Feast of the Winter Festival to be characterized by widespread inactivity.
This year was only different in that lethargy reached almost epidemic proportions, with further snowfalls conspiring with over-indulgence to impede all forms of physical effort.
Orthlund’s great healer fared little better than his charges for the first few days, but towards the end of the week the relentless clump of Gulda’s stick prowling the corridors of Anderras Darion began to remind him, and others, of the virtues of diligent application to useful tasks.
It was not, however, the immediate threat of Gulda’s caustic presence that galvanized Hawklan abruptly, nor the knowledge that the spectre which had avoided the feast was still there to be faced. It was an Alphraan voice speaking softly in his ear.
‘Hawklan, come quick,’ it said, simple and clear, though in a tone filled with nuances of terrible urgency.
Hawklan jerked into wakefulness and screwed his eyes tight as the torches, sensing his awakening, burst into life.
‘What is it?’ he managed, swinging out of bed almost without realizing it, and sleepily groping for his clothes.
‘Come quickly,’ the voice said, more urgently than before.
‘Where?’ Hawklan said, as he began to struggle with buttons and buckles.
‘Follow. Bring your sword,’ came the reply, and the sound that had guided him and his companions through the tunnels in the mountains rang out again in his small, spartan room.
‘Where?’ Hawklan insisted, a little more firmly.
There was a brief pause, then, ‘Into the mountains. Come quickly.’
‘Into the mountains!’ Hawklan muttered to himself in some exasperation as he pulled off his tunic and reached for several layers of more appropriate clothing.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asked. ‘Are we being at-tacked? Has someone been hurt?’
‘No, but come,’ said the voice. ‘Before the wind changes. It is most important.’
Hawklan stopped dressing and scowled at this en-igmatic reply. ‘I can feel that,’ he said, his exasperation mounting. ‘But I need to know where I’m going, and for what, so that I can take supplies. I don’t know how you survive in the snow, but humans tend to die very easily.’
The sound faltered. ‘Supplies are being prepared,’ the voice said after a moment.
Briefly, Hawklan considered further interrogation but rejected the idea; urgency was humming all around him. He nodded and began dressing again. ‘Waken Loman and Isloman,’ he said.
‘They have,’ came the voices of the two brothers simultaneously. Hawklan started and glanced around involuntarily to see if they had both entered his room unheard, although he knew they had not. Carrying their voices thus was a device the Alphraan had not used before, but he chose not to remark on it; the unspoken sense of urgency was growing.
‘What about Gavor?’ he said, dragging on his boots.
There was a slightly embarrassed pause in the sound. Hawklan looked up.
‘Wake him!’ he shouted. ‘A little profanity won’t hurt you.’
Before any reply came, there was a knock on his door.
‘Come in,’ Hawklan shouted, irritably. The door opened and Isloman walked in, fully dressed for a long trek through the mountain snow and looking not dissimilar to a large jovial bear. ‘Loman’s packing supplies,’ he said by way of greeting.
Hardly a minute from his bed, Hawklan rebelled. ‘What in thunder’s going on, Isloman?’ he demanded.
Isloman shrugged. ‘I know as much as you do,’ he replied. ‘They woke me and Loman up and just told us to start getting things ready. Two or three days they said-perhaps. But they seemed so anxious about something we didn’t feel inclined to argue.’
Hawklan’s irritation could not sustain itself. Some-thing serious had happened beyond a doubt. He nodded. ‘Are we going to be allowed to eat before we start on this errand?’ he asked, buckling on his sword.
Isloman grinned and patted his pocket. ‘Apparently we must eat as we walk,’ he said. ‘Although the amount you put away at the Feast should keep you going for another three days at least.’
Hawklan raised a menacing forefinger. ‘That is a calumny, carver,’ he said. ‘Delicate and discerning are the words you were searching for to describe my appetite.’
Isloman gave a nod of ironic agreement. ‘Would you like some help with that belt?’ he offered.
Within the hour, the three men had left the village and were heading up into the mountains following the Alphraan’s guiding sound. Daylight was easing its way through a uniformly grey sky and, as it became brighter, so the snow-covered mountains came increasingly into view. They were magnificent, spreading into the misty distance like a jagged frozen ocean, though all three travellers knew that for all their beauty the winter mountains held dangers far greater than those to be encountered in summer.
The sound pulled them forward relentlessly, but Hawklan reproached their unseen guide. ‘We’re travelling as quickly as we can,’ he said. ‘The going’s difficult. Too fast and we’ll be exhausted very quickly, and if one of us falls and is injured then we’ll never reach wherever it is you want to go. We’re trusting your guidance; you must trust our pace.’
There was no reply, though the guiding note seemed to become a little more patient.
Some while later they were joined by Gavor, who landed clumsily on Hawklan’s head.
‘I hope someone’s got a reason for all this,’ he said in the manner of a strict schoolteacher roused from a clandestine slumber.
‘Ask your little friends,’ Loman said.
Gavor studied the grey sky. ‘We’re not speaking at the moment,’ he replied with haughty indifference. ‘Their intrusion was most… inopportune.’
All three men laughed. ‘They can’t be all bad, then,’ Loman said.
Gavor glowered at him indignantly and then gave a martyred sigh. ‘It’s very difficult coping with people so lacking in delicate sensibilities,’ he said. Then, thrusting a wing in Hawklan’s face, he said in an injured tone, ‘Look, dear boy. All my stars have gone.’
‘Thus passes the glory of the world,’ Hawklan com-miserated insincerely. ‘But I’m sure all your friends love you for what you are, not your vulnerable exterior.’
Loman gave a snorting chuckle but Gavor ignored him. ‘Thank you, dear boy,’ he said to Hawklan. ‘I see there’s some hope for humanity yet.’ Then, he leaned forward towards Loman. ‘You might take some solace in that yourself, smith,’ he said. ‘Coming into the moun-tains looking like a bear, with your fur coat and all.’ He paused and peered intently downwards. ‘And what in the world have you all got on your feet?’
‘Snowshoes,’ Loman said, warily.
Nearly falling off Hawklan’s head in his anxiety to examine the footwear, Gavor flapped his wings to regain his balance and then laughed loudly. ‘You do cheer up a deprived soul, dear boys,’ he said. ‘I really don’t know why you don’t practice a little harder and learn to fly. It’s not difficult. I’ve done it since I was barely an egg. Walking does seem to present an awful lot of strange problems, and some very strange solutions.’
Hawklan interrupted Gavor’s merriment. ‘Walking presents even more problems when there’s a large overfed bird standing on your head,’ he said. ‘Would you like to fly on and see if there’s anything unusual ahead?’