‘Delighted, dear boy,’ Gavor said, still laughing, and he glided down to land on a small stretch of exposed rock some way in front of the party. There he took three or four painstaking high-stepping strides in cruel imitation of his friends, prompting Loman to bend down to gather up a large snowball. Before the smith could implement his intent however, Gavor’s great black wings stretched out and he flapped up into the cold winter air, laughing raucously
‘Game to the bird, I think,’ Isloman said, banging his snowshoe against a rock to clear it of clogged snow.
No one disagreed.
Gavor’s arrival seemed to have lessened the unease that had been pervading the three travellers but, on his departure, the urgent note of the guiding sound returned to dominate their thoughts.
Abruptly it changed direction and led them from the Riddin path they had been following and up a narrow gulley that could only lead them higher and higher.
Hawklan looked at his friends questioningly. ‘Al-phraan,’ he said. ‘You’ll make our journey easier if you’ll tell us where we’re going.’
The note faltered and became full of apology. ‘None may know, yet,’ said a voice suddenly, very softly. Then it was gone and the guiding sound returned.
‘That’s all we’re going to be told,’ Isloman said, adjusting his pack. ‘Let’s just watch where we’re going and keep putting one foot in front of the other.’
This they did, for the remainder of that day. Gavor returned, but with no news, and their steady walking took them further and further from the normal track and progressively higher.
As the light began to fade, they found themselves on top of a wide ridge. Hawklan stopped and looked round. Everything was still and calm and beautiful. Unusually, there was not even the slightest breeze blowing. He remarked on it.
‘It’s a good job,’ Loman said prosaically. ‘This can be a cold place even in summertime when the wind’s blowing.’
‘You know where we are?’ Hawklan asked.
Both Loman and Isloman nodded. ‘It’s been a long time,’ Isloman said. ‘But we’ve both been up here when we were young, and the only place this ridge leads to, is there.’ He pointed ahead to a distant peak disappearing into the clouds.
Hawklan found he was looking upwards. ‘It looks high,’ he said.
‘It is high,’ Isloman said, looking concerned. ‘The highest local peak by far. And we can’t go a great deal further.’
‘Is it difficult to climb?’ Hawklan asked.
Isloman shook his head. ‘No,’ he replied. ‘At least I don’t think so. Though neither of us ever reached the top; the air’s too thin. What can they want of us here? Are you sure this is safe?’
‘I feel no danger,’ Hawklan replied. ‘All I feel is their urgency. But I don’t see that we’ve any alternative but to continue, do you?’
Both men shook their heads. ‘No,’ Loman said. ‘But we’ll have to camp soon, the… ’
‘There’s no time for rest.’ The Alphraan’s voice in-terrupted him. ‘Hurry. We will guide you, have no fear.’
The three men looked at one another. There was a note in the voice that could not be denied. Loman looked up at the darkening sky and checked his torch.
‘Come on,’ he said resignedly. ‘I doubt any of us would be able to rest anyway.’
Hawklan glanced at Isloman, who nodded, and the three set off again. As they moved slowly forward, the ridge became progressively steeper and the cloud covering the mountain moved down to greet them.
Soon they were climbing through the mist, guided by the Alphraan’s urging note and stepping carefully by the light of their torches. Increasingly they had to stop and rest. It had been a long day and the way was becoming not only steeper but rougher, obliging them to relinquish their snowshoes to scramble over the rocks. The Alphraan allowed them little respite however, their guiding tone if anything becoming more urgent still.
‘Enough,’ Loman said eventually, flopping down on a rock and breathing heavily. ‘This is madness. We’re going too fast and we’re getting too tired. One of us is going to have an accident. Look, even Gavor’s looking seedy.’
Hawklan turned his torch on Gavor. The raven did indeed look subdued, standing in the snow with his head bent forward as if he were listening for something.
‘What’s the matter?’ Hawklan asked him.
Gavor did not reply. Concerned, Hawklan bent for-ward and picked him up, but still he made no response.
‘Alphraan,’ Hawklan said, an edge to his voice. ‘Is this your doing?’
But the question was ignored. ‘Come quickly,’ said the voice. ‘It is only a little further. They need you, but they doubt.’
Hawklan scowled. ‘Enough,’ he said, echoing Lo-man’s plaint, his voice grim. ‘I asked is this your doing?’
The guiding note stopped abruptly. Hawklan looked around. In the sudden silence, it seemed that the darkness beyond the torchlit dome of mist was closing in upon them, as if some great weight were pressing down. Somewhere, he heard… sensed… a sound. A vaguely familiar sound.
Suddenly, Gavor stirred in his arms, then wriggled free violently. ‘This way,’ he said hoarsely, and flapped off into the darkness.
Hawklan swore, and all three turned up their torches. But Gavor was gone, swallowed up in the night and the mist.
‘Come on,’ Hawklan said, turning to the others. But Loman seized his arm.
‘Where, Hawklan?’ he asked. ‘We’ve nothing to guide us now. We’ve been walking steadily uphill since before sunrise.’
He slapped his chest with his hand and took a deep breath. ‘It’s already getting difficult… ’
Abruptly, Hawklan held up his hand for silence. ‘Douse the torches,’ he said. Loman scowled at the interruption but after a brief hesitation did as he was bidden. The darkness closed around them like some ancient predator.
‘What is it?’ Loman whispered.
‘I thought I saw something,’ Hawklan said. ‘But… ’
‘You did,’ Isloman interrupted. ‘Look.’
Gradually, as his eyes adjusted to the intense dark-ness, Hawklan noticed a hazy glow some way ahead of them. Cautiously he started to move forward.
‘Careful,’ Isloman said. ‘There are… figures… moving about.’
Hawklan screwed up his eyes, but his vision was not that of the Orthlundyn carver and he could distinguish nothing but the faint glow. He wondered for a moment if Isloman could be seeing the figures that he had seen gathered around Gulda at their first meeting. But there was no driving compulsion here as there had been in the cold, damp, glen.
‘Who are they?’ he asked softly.
He sensed Isloman shrugging. ‘I can’t see clearly enough,’ he said. ‘But I presume they’re whoever the Alphraan wanted us to meet. Let’s go and see.’
Carefully, using only a single dimmed torch to show them the ground, the three men moved slowly through the crunching snow towards the glow. As they neared it, Hawklan began to distinguish the figures to which Isloman had referred, though for some reason they seemed to become no clearer as he drew nearer. The effect was strangely disorientating, especially when he saw also that prowling up and down in front of them, stark and clear-cut, was Gavor.
Hawklan screwed up his eyes again to make some sense of what he was seeing and realized abruptly that the mist around the figures was denser by far than the mountain mist that surrounded him and his friends. It was as if it were contained in some way. Further, it was the source of the light. It seemed almost as though it was a vague doorway into some bright, private mansion.
‘This is he?’ said a voice. It was soft, gentle, and slightly muffled and it came from one of the figures.
‘This is he,’ replied the Alphraan, their voice, as ever, clear and disembodied and without any direction.
‘Who are you, and what do you want?’ Hawklan said, moving towards the figures.
‘Come no closer… Hawklan,’ said the voice. ‘The mist you see keeps our worlds apart. We have moved as deep as we dare and need it for our protection. If you pass through it you may perish, as would we if we came to you.’