Urthryn scowled. ‘You’re worse than a Fyordyn to argue with,’ he said.
‘I try,’ Hawklan said. ‘I try.’
Then he became more serious, tightening his grip on the two men affectionately. ‘Loman, you know my heart. Take care in the mountains. I imagine Gulda will have the Fyordyn either in order or rebellion by now. Urthryn, you know more than you realize. Pay heed to Oslang and the Goraidin. Take great care in Narsindal, and plenty of arrows.’ He looked from one to the other. ‘Make no great scene of this parting. We’ll all meet again at Derras Ustramel.’
And with a brief embrace he was gone, striding off into the camp’s busy traffic.
From the top of a nearby tent, Gavor launched him-self after the retreating form. His landing was not one of his best.
‘Whoops, sorry, dear boy,’ he said thrusting his wooden leg into Hawklan’s jacket to gain his balance.
‘How’s the wing?’ Hawklan asked unsympathetically, straightening his collar.
‘Better,’ Gavor declared, hopping up on to Hawk-lan’s head. ‘Better. I’m well known for my great powers of recovery.’
Hawklan sniffed. ‘You’re still yawing I notice,’ he said.
Gavor bent forward and stared indignantly into Hawklan’s inverted face. ‘Don’t get technical with me, healer,’ he said. ‘You stick to your potions, I’ll do the flying.’
Hawklan laughed, but Gavor maintained a stern, figurehead dignity until they reached Serian.
‘All farewells made?’ Hawklan said as he mounted his horse.
‘I’d none to make,’ Serian said. ‘Let’s start this jour-ney now.’
Hawklan patted him. ‘Forward then,’ he said. ‘We’ll head south and then circle out of sight of the camp.’
Within the hour, Hawklan found himself approach-ing a small group of riders heading north. A quick glance told him that he was the last to arrive and as he joined them, the group began to move forward at an easy trot.
They maintained that pace for the rest of the day, and when they finally stopped to camp, Hawklan pronounced himself well pleased. Andawyr was less so, slithering down from his horse with shameless indig-nity.
‘I’m really going to have to put more effort into this,’ he said.
Hawklan laughed. ‘You’re going to have to put less effort into it,’ he retorted.
Andawyr growled sulkily.
Later, in the warmth of their shelter, Hawklan eased the pain in the Cadwanwr’s rebelling muscles. When he had finished, his hands were glowing and he rubbed them together slowly and gently, examining them as he did so.
‘What’s the matter?’ Andawyr asked.
‘Nothing,’ Hawklan replied reassuringly. ‘It’s just nice to be able to heal simple aches and pains again after the… ’ He hesitated. ‘After the hospital tent.’
Andawyr nodded understandingly and stretched his small frame out luxuriously but cautiously. ‘I think you’re going to have plenty of simple aches and pains between here and the caves,’ he said, yawning.
Hawklan smiled. ‘I doubt it,’ he said. ‘You’ve not got this far by refusing to learn, and you’ll be wiser by far in a day or so.’
Andawyr, however, was asleep, and Hawklan’s prophecy was greeted with a snore.
Hawklan’s eyes narrowed at the sound and he leaned forward and gently closed the Cadwanwr’s mouth.
Over the next few days the wind became less strong, though it was occasionally blustery, and throughout had a raw, damp, edge to it that the fitful sun did little to allay. The snows were beginning to thaw.
As the group rode steadily on, well muffled and wrapped, and speaking little, the northern mountains gradually came into view, their white jagged peaks rising eventually to dominate the entire horizon like the teeth of some monstrous trap.
Occasionally Dacu consulted the map that he had been given by Urthryn, but this was usually only to add some note of his own. The route they were travelling was all too clear. Being that which would be followed by both the Orthlundyn and the Muster, it had been well marked by the Muster riders who had been preparing supply caches to ease the marching army’s burden. The tracks of these riders and the slow thawing of the snow also served to disguise the group’s own progress.
Steadily they moved further away from the com-bined army unknowingly following them. Reaching the point where the Orthlundyn would leave their route to follow the one along which the Queen had been brought, the group stopped briefly.
‘Are you sure that those High Guards can find their way back?’ Hawklan asked, momentarily concerned as he looked at the desolate, unwelcoming mountains.
Dacu laughed. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘And so are you. Almost everyone in the army has a copy of the route, and they’re not exactly devoid of intelligence, are they?’
Hawklan raised an apologetic hand and the group continued northwards.
Eventually one point in the scene ahead of them began to displace the dominance of the cold magnifi-cence of the mountains. It was the bleak maw of the Pass of Elewart.
‘Well over a day’s ride,’ Dacu estimated as they paused to look at it.
There were doubting murmurs from some of the others, but Andawyr nodded. ‘We’ll not even reach the caves by tonight,’ he said. ‘School yourselves for another night in the shelters.’ His manner was cheery and somewhat at odds with the sombre mood that the sight of the Pass had induced in the others. With unexpected enthusiasm he clicked his horse forward. ‘And do you think you could do something about whoever’s snoring, Hawklan, he keeps waking me up,’ he shouted back.
Both he and Dacu were correct. As night fell, the Pass seemed little nearer, and they were obliged to make camp again.
The following day greeted them with whirling show-ers of sleet: damp snowflakes and large cold raindrops. Tirke, still cautious of Dacu and his unequivocal wakening technique, was as usual the first awake. He opened the entrance of the shelter, peered out groggily, and broke the news.
‘My favourite weather,’ he said heavily as he crawled out and peered around.
The Pass, the mountains, everything beyond a few hundred paces, was gone, hidden in a dull greyness.
‘Welcome to the mountains,’ Andawyr said, his unwarranted cheerfulness persisting.
Quieter than ever, the small procession of grey sil-houettes set out again, Andawyr taking the lead and the horses picking their way carefully through the damp, treacherous snow.
Hawklan gazed around. Even in the mist, he could feel the mountains nearby, huge and oppressive. It was a sensation quite different from that of the mountains which bordered Orthlund and couched Anderras Darion. Remembering Isloman’s response to the mines, he looked across at him anxiously. The carver however, seemed more intrigued than distressed. He caught Hawklan’s glance and brought his horse alongside. His expression was amused.
‘I do believe you’re hearing the rock song at last, Hawklan,’ he said. Then he laughed, and the sound echoed from somewhere. ‘Mind you, you’d be deaf not to. These rocks have a powerful song indeed. Like nothing I’ve ever heard before. There’ll be some rare carvings to be found here; rare carvings.’ He fell silent for a little while. ‘We must come here one day,’ he said softly, apparently to no one in particular.
‘Doesn’t the Pass disturb you?’ Andawyr asked.
Isloman shook his head. ‘I can feel some distress there, but nothing can disturb me after the mines,’ he said. ‘And this isn’t the same. The mines were like a… deep… purposeful, malevolence. What I feel here is more like an echo-an echo of a long dead rage. Long, long dead. Something whose effects are well buried under eons of rain and wind. I look forward to seeing the Pass. I think it’ll have a strange song all its own.’
Andawyr looked at him approvingly, but did not pursue the discussion.
Gradually the sleet became a fine soaking drizzle and the mist cleared a little. Coming to the top of a small incline, Tirke was about to ask, ‘How much further?’ when Andawyr pointed towards a cluster of buildings which were just becoming visible.