‘We need a string of days in which we don’t climb,’ Mark agreed. ‘We’re pushing the limits of what we can handle already and it’s getting colder all the time.’
Steven pointed northeast towards an open tract of still-green valley. It looked as though the gods who assembled the Blackstones had forgotten a thin patch, or maybe they wanted a flat stretch for a foothold among the jagged peaks. ‘Look there, beyond those meadows. If we clear that pass tomorrow, we might be able to drop behind that range and run northwest along the valley for seven or eight days. It might be a hundred miles through there.’
‘That’s true,’ Mark said. ‘I’m sure there’ll be some exposed areas along that valley floor, but at least we won’t be at altitude, or risking getting stuck out here overnight.’
‘And in a valley that long, we’re certain to find water.’
‘All right.’ He turned to the others. ‘My friends, it appears we can get away without climbing for a few days.’
‘Thank all the gods of the Northern Forest,’ Garec said, tightening the bandage supporting his swollen knee.
‘But we do have to cross this next valley tomorrow and clear that pass the following day,’ Steven said as he pointed towards the range of cruel peaks awaiting them in the distance. ‘With that done, the going should get easier.’
They reached the tree line by early evening, and Gilmour suggested they continue moving down into the hollow vale before the snow accumulated. ‘We’ll have better footing now,’ he explained. ‘We should push on until it is too dark to see.’
‘Let’s keep moving then,’ Steven encouraged.
‘Wait here a few moments,’ Garec said, ‘then follow me down. I’ll see if I can find us some dinner.’ He slid the rosewood longbow from his shoulder, drew an arrow and sidled quietly into the trees.
An aven later, Garec stoked the fire and rotated a large chunk of meat one-half turn above the flames. He had killed a large boar with one shot through the neck; he could have felled another, but didn’t believe he and his friends would be able to carry so much meat over the pass. They were having problems enough with what possessions they had. And if tonight were any indication, he expected to find rich hunting grounds and ample game in the valley just beyond the next ridge.
As the snow continued to fall the travellers found shelter in a grove of evergreen trees. The aroma of pine and cooking meat mixed in the fresh mountain air, nearly making Steven swoon. The idyllic setting made him grin despite his exhaustion.
‘Garec, that smells so good, I might need to you to go out and kill another just for me,’ he said as he inhaled deeply, savouring the scents.
‘I’m sorry we’re out of wine,’ Garec answered, adding redundantly, ‘It would taste much better with a skin or two.’
While Garec cooked, the others made camp. Sallax hung their cloaks and blankets near the fire, hoping to dry as much as possible. Keeping dry was as important as eating well; Sallax was determined to make it through the remaining mountain pass in as much comfort as possible. He motioned for Garec to unwrap his damaged knee and hung the makeshift bandage near the flames. He was worried about his friend and vowed that he would carry Garec over the next rise if necessary.
Sallax turned to listen as Gilmour and Mark pored over the map sketched inside Garec’s saddlebag. Their breath clouded, then dissipated in the frigid air; Sallax imagined two ancient dragons facing one another, their nostrils a smoky warning of incipient firestorm. Then Gilmour exhaled and the cloud hung in the air, a diaphanous mist floating between the two men. Strangely, it did not fade, or disappear on the breeze. When Mark’s breath joined it, the cloud began to take shape: buttons first, then a shirt, a leather belt. Startled, Sallax drew his rapier and shouted, ‘Rutting lords, it’s the wraith!’
Mark stood, looking about anxiously, and demanded, ‘Where is it?’
‘Right there, right in front of you.’ Sallax approached, holding his rapier like a lecturer’s pointer.
Seeing the misty apparition take shape before him, Mark fell backwards into the snow. Gilmour stood slowly and, inches from the mysterious intruder, reached out one hand and felt his fingers pass through the old banker’s gossamer torso. ‘Sallax, stay there,’ he ordered, firm but calm. ‘It’s all right. He’s not here to harm us.’
Steven rose to join the others. ‘Can you feel it, Gilmour?’
The old sorcerer waved his hand back and forth through the wraith, but if his violation irked the ghostly visitor, it showed no sign. ‘It’s cold,’ he told them. ‘Much colder than the air.’
‘What does it want?’ Brynne asked. She put down the bundle of firewood she had been collecting and edged closer to Mark.
‘It’s taking news of our position back to Malagon,’ Sallax answered. ‘You said we were being followed. This thing has been in contact with Malagon since we left Estrad. That’s why Lessek warned Garec about them. That’s why Malagon has been able to send the almor, the Seron and the grettans out for us. Steven Taylor, use that staff, kill it like you killed the almor.’
Steven looked at Gilmour, but before the old man could respond, the wraith lifted one translucent arm and pointed at Sallax.
‘What?’ the angry Ronan asked defiantly. ‘What is it? I’m right, aren’t I? You’re here spying on us, you horsecock.’
They stood, almost frozen, waiting to see how the wraith would respond to Sallax’s anger. Gilmour realised his hand was still extended inside the spirit visitor and quickly retracted it. Around them the forest was deathly quiet, save for the falling snow and the crackling fire. Slowly, the former bank teller lowered its arm and floated across the camp to face Steven. Its features came slowly into focus and Steven clearly recognised the man from the lobby display case. As before, the wraith tried to communicate, moving its lips exaggeratedly, but before it could complete its first words, Sallax was moving.
He grabbed the hickory staff and raised it to strike at the ghostly visitor. ‘I’ll do it myself.’
‘No!’ Gilmour shouted, reaching for the weapon, but before Sallax could swing, the wraith disappeared, moving with fluid ease inside Steven’s body. A look of rueful consternation passed across Steven’s face. Then his head lolled forward to rest limply on his chest.
Stunned, Sallax froze. Gilmour hastened to Steven’s side and, gripping him by the shoulders, spoke several words in an unknown language. Whatever Gilmour had said, it worked. Mark breathed a sigh of relief as the wraith oozed out of Steven and hovered in the air again. Steven himself sat down hard in the snow and rubbed his temples for a moment before telling Gilmour, ‘It’s all right. He’s here to help.’
Sallax, still unconvinced, moved back into position, but before he could lash out, the apparition moved with mercurial speed, this time entering the big Ronan. Sallax’s eyes rolled back in his head and he choked off a cry. It was gone; as quickly as it had entered it was gliding from Sallax’s body and turning back to Steven. In a final show of good faith, it appeared to smile, then it faded into the forest, invisible against the slate-grey sky between the pines.
‘Sallax!’ Brynne screamed as she dashed over to her brother. Kneeling in the snow, she cradled his head in her lap and waited frantically for his breath to cloud the air. Mark climbed to his feet and hurried to assist Brynne. When Sallax finally exhaled, his sister nearly burst into tears. ‘Mark, Garec,’ she begged, ‘help me move him near the fire.’
They wrapped him in several blankets. Then, after opening his eyes once, looking up through the intertwining pine branches at the falling snow, Sallax drifted off to sleep. Gilmour touched him gently on the forehead, stared down at the back of his hand as if a diagnosis lay hidden among its wrinkles, and smiled reassuringly at the rest of his companions. ‘He’s sleeping now. We should let him rest.’ He reached out and turned Garec’s roast a half-revolution above the fire.