The next morning he was wakened by a gentle shak-ing. He sat up jerkily, scratching himself and yawning. His guest was holding a bowl of food out to him.
‘I took the liberty of making some breakfast for you,’ he said. His voice was quite deep, and rich with the sing-song Riddin lilt. ‘It’s from my own supplies,’ he added hastily.
Andawyr squeezed the remains of his broken nose. ‘Thank you very much,’ he said. ‘That was kind of you. I’m afraid it’s a meal I’m apt to neglect.’
‘No, no,’ the stranger said. ‘It’s I who must thank you for looking after my horse and taking me in.’
Andawyr smiled behind his bowl and paused. Typi-cal Riddinvolk, he thought. Horse first, rider second. Without asking, he knew that the man would have been out to check on the animal before attending to his own needs.
The man misunderstood Andawyr’s hesitation. ‘Is the food not warm enough?’ he asked, his voice concerned. ‘I had a little difficulty with your stones; they’re not very good, I’m afraid. They look as if they’ve been baked to me.’
Andawyr shot the stones an evil glance then re-turned to his guest. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘The stones could be better-bad bargain I’m afraid. But the food’s fine.’
‘My name’s Agreth,’ the man said, sitting down heavily and extending his hand. ‘Don’t do the travelling I used to,’ he added, then flicking a thumb upwards, ‘This lot wouldn’t have caught me out once. Judgement’s going, I’m afraid,’ he added.
‘I’m not so sure,’ Andawyr said. ‘It’s unseasonal to say the least, and it came on very suddenly.’ His face became intent.
‘Agreth?’ he said, testing the name until its familiar-ity brought it into place. ‘You’re one of Ffyrst Urthryn’s advisers aren’t you?’ He was about to name Agreth’s House and Decmill by way of a brief cadenza, but he remembered in time that the Riddinvolk enthusiasm for lineage and family was not something to be lightly released, and he held his tongue.
Agreth smiled. ‘Indeed I am,’ he said. ‘Though when he finds out I nearly froze to death like some apprentice stable lad, he might be looking elsewhere for advice.’
Andawyr laughed and, laying his bowl down, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘And what’s one of the Ffyrst’s advisers doing alone in the middle of the mountains, halfway to Orthlund, if I might ask?’ he asked jovially. ‘Morlider come back again?’
He noted the flicker of reaction in Agreth, though it barely reached the man’s eyes before he had it under control. ‘No, no,’ the man replied, with a hint of surprised amusement. ‘Just some private business in Orthlund.’
Andawyr nodded, and waited for the counter-attack.
‘And may I know the name of my rescuer?’ Agreth asked.
Andawyr teased him a little. ‘Ah,’ he said smiling broadly. ‘That’s the name of your horse. I’m only your host. But my name’s Andawyr.’
This revelation produced a reaction that he had not expected. Agreth frowned briefly then, as recognition came into them, his eyes widened and, reaching forward he seized Andawyr’s wrists.
‘From the Caves of Cadwanen,’ he said almost breathlessly. ‘Oslang’s leader. On your way, as I am, to Anderras Darion to spread your news and to see what’s happened to this man Hawklan.’
Despite himself, Andawyr’s mouth fell open.
‘Yes,’ he managed to stammer. ‘But… ’
Agreth raised a hand. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, and un-sealing the entrance he thrust his head outside. Drawing back, he said, ‘The wind’s dropped, but it’s still snowing. Let’s get moving while we can still see. With luck the travelling should get easier as we move down.’
Andawyr opened his mouth to speak again, but Agreth was taking charge. ‘I know Oslang’s tale, and therefore yours,’ he said, cutting ruthlessly through all discussion as he quickly fastened his cloak about him. ‘Let me tell you mine as we travel.’
Andawyr looked through the open entrance. Agreth’s advice was sound. Visibility was reasonable, but the sky was leaden and the snow was falling heavily. Nothing was to be gained except danger by staying here to relate histories.
‘Very well, Line Leader,’ he said with a smile. ‘We’ll walk and talk awhile.’
It took the two men only minutes to dismantle and stow the tent and soon they were strapping their packs on to Agreth’s horse.
As he secured the load, Agreth looked around, his face anxious.
‘What’s the matter?’ Andawyr asked.
‘I’ve never travelled these mountains before,’ Agreth replied. ‘I’ve a map, but it’s hard to read and I’ve been relying on the path to a large extent. Now… ’ He shrugged and gestured at the snow-covered landscape.
Andawyr looked at him and then followed his gaze, trying to view this cold, beautiful terrain with the eyes of a man brought up on the broad, rolling plains of Riddin. The Riddinvolk loved the mountains that bordered their land-but only to look at.
‘Give me your map,’ he said simply.
Agreth fumbled underneath his cloak and eventually produced the document. Andawyr pulled the Riddinwr towards him and, with their two bodies sheltering the map from the falling snow, carefully unfolded the map.
‘It’s a long time since I travelled this route, myself,’ he said. ‘But I can remember it quite well. However, there’s no point in you just following me. If I get hurt or if we get separated, you’ll have to lead, so, with respect, adviser to the Ffyrst, I’ll spend a portion of our journey showing you how to read this.’ He tapped the map gently.
Agreth seemed doubtful, and anxious to be on his way, but Andawyr was insistent.
‘This is not bad,’ he said after a moment. ‘There’s some very good detail. See, we’re here.’ Agreth screwed his eyes up in earnest concentration. Andawyr’s finger jabbed at the map and then out into the greyness. ‘That is that small peak over there, and that is the larger one next to it.’
For a few minutes, for the benefit of his reluctant pupil, Andawyr identified on the map such of their surroundings as could be seen, then the two men set off slowly and cautiously through the deepening snow.
As they walked, Agreth told Andawyr of Sylvriss’s unexpected arrival in Riddin, and of her strange tale of the corruption and decay of Fyorlund. He concluded with the interrogation of Drago, and the news that the Morlider were preparing to attack Riddin, united now by a leader that was presumed to be the Uhriel, Creost.
Andawyr stopped walking and looked round at the mountains, grey and ominous in the dull wintry light. Not a sound was to be heard except the soft hiss of the falling snow.
Oklar ruling a divided Fyorlund, Creost uniting and guiding the Morlider, Rgoric murdered, Vakloss torn apart, Hawklan struck down and perhaps even now lost in these snow-shrouded hills. He put his hand to his head.
‘Are you all right?’ Agreth asked anxiously.
No, Andawyr cried out to himself in self-disgust. No. How can I be all right? Me, leader of the Cadwanol, Ethriss’s chosen watchers and seekers after knowledge, who slept when all the demons of the ages were waking and running amok! I just want to lie down in this cold grey silence and become part of it-free from all this horror forever.
‘Yes,’ he said out loud, letting the now familiar re-proaches rage unhindered and unspoken. ‘It’s just that so many things seem to be moving against us.’ He looked up at the snowflakes spearing down into his face, grey and black against the dull sky. ‘Even the weather’s moving against us,’ he said as his distress slowly began to fade away. It would return many times yet, he knew.
Agreth looked on, uncertain what to say.
Andawyr gave a dismissive grunt. ‘Still, all we can do is walk forward, isn’t it?’ he said, stepping out again. ‘And we find help in the strangest places, don’t we?’ He looked at his companion. ‘In the midst of this lonely and ancient place, you find a cosy billet for the night, and I find someone to carry my pack.’
He laughed suddenly, and held out his arms wide. ‘I used to love this weather when I was a boy,’ he said. ‘Sledging, snowballing. How can this be against me?’ Impulsively he walked over to a nearby rock and scooped the snow on top of it into a single heap. Then he began compacting and shaping it.