Magician (Riftware Sage Book 1)

Borric smiled a little at Arutha’s logic. “Yes If the pass lies northward, we still might chance across it before it is impassable. Once across the mountains, the weather will prove milder in the east—at least that is the rule this time of year. We should be able to walk to Bordon. If we are already north of the pass, then we will eventually reach the dwarves. They will shelter us and perhaps know another route to the east.” He inspected his exhausted company. “With three horses and snow melted for drinking water, we should last another week.” He looked around, studying the sky. “If the weather holds.”

 

 

Kulgan said, “We should be free of bad weather in two, perhaps three days. Farther into the future I cannot judge.” A distant shout echoed over the trees, from deep within the forest below. Instantly everyone was still. Borric looked to Gardan “Sergeant, how far away do you judge them?”

 

Gardan listened. “It is hard to say, my lord. One mile, two, maybe more. Sound carries oddly in the forest, more so when it is this cold.” Borric nodded. “Gather the men. We leave now.”

 

 

 

 

 

Pug’s fingertips bled through his torn gloves. At every opportunity during the day, the Duke had kept the men traveling over rock, to prevent Dark Brotherhood trackers from following. Every hour guards had been sent back to cut false trails over their own, pulling blankets taken from the dead horses behind, obscuring the tracks as best they could.

 

They stood at the edge of a clearing, a circle of bare rock surrounded on all sides by scattered pines and aspens. The trees had grown progressively thinner as they moved up into the mountains, staying on the rougher, higher terrain rather than risk being followed. Since dawn they had moved northeast, following a ridge of rugged hills toward the Grey Towers, but to Pug’s dismay the mountains seemed no closer.

 

The sun stood high overhead, but Pug felt little of its warmth, for a cold wind blew down from the heights of the Grey Towers. Pug hqard Kulgan’s voice some distance behind. “As long as the wind is from the northeast, we’ll have no snow, as any moisture will have fallen on the peaks. Should the wind shift and come from the west, or northwest, from off the Endless Sea, we’ll have more snow.”

 

Pug panted as he scrambled along the rocks, balancing on the slippery surface “Kulgan, must we have lessons, too?”

 

Several men laughed, and momentarily the grim tension of the last two days lessened. They reached a large flat, before another upward rise, and the Duke ordered a halt. “Build a fire and slaughter an animal. We’ll wait here for the last rear guard.”

 

Gardan quickly sent men to gather wood in the trees, and one was given two of the horses to lead away. The high-strung mounts were footsore, tired, and unfed, and in spite of their training, Gardan wanted them removed from the smell of blood.

 

The chosen horse screamed, then was suddenly silent, and when the fires were ready, the soldiers placed spits over the flames. Soon the aroma of roasting meat filled the air. In spite of his anticipated distaste, Pug found his mouth watering at the smell. In a while he was handed a stick, with a large piece of roasted liver on it, which he wolfed down. Nearby, Tomas was doing equal justice to a portion of sizzling haunch.

 

When they were done eating, the still-hot meat left over was wrapped with strips from horse blankets and torn tabards, then divided among the men.

 

Pug and Tomas sat by Kulgan as men broke camp, putting out fires, covering signs of passing, and readying for the resumption of the march.

 

Gardan came to the Duke. “My lord, the rear guard is overdue.”

 

Borric nodded. “I know. They should have returned a half hour ago.” He peered down the hillside, toward the huge forest, mist shrouded in the distance. “We’ll wait five more minutes, then we will go.”

 

They waited in silence, but the guards didn’t return. Finally Gardan gave the order. “All right, lads. Off we go.”

 

The men formed up behind the Duke and Kulgan, and the boys fell in at the rear. Pug counted. There were only ten soldiers left.

 

 

 

 

 

Two days later the howling winds came, icy knives ripping at exposed flesh. Cloaks were gathered around each figure tramping slowly northward, leaning into the wind. Rags had been torn and tied around boots in a feeble attempt to hold off frostbite Pug tried vainly to keep his eyelashes free of ice, but the harsh wind made his eyes tear, and the drops quickly froze, blurring his vision.

 

Pug heard Kulgan’s voice above the wind. “My lord, a storm comes. We must find shelter or perish.” The Duke nodded and waved two men ahead to seek shelter. The two set pff at a stumbling run, moving only slightly faster than the others, but valiantly putting their remaining meager strength into the task.

 

Clouds began to roll in from the northwest, and the skies darkened. “How much time, Kulgan?” shouted the Duke over the shrieking wind.

 

The magician waved his hand above his head, as the wind blew his hair and beard back from his face, exposing his high forehead. “An hour at most.” The Duke nodded again and exhorted his men to move along.

 

A sad sound, a neighing cry, pierced the wind, and a soldier called out that the last horse was down. Borric stopped and with a curse ordered it slaughtered as quickly as possible. Soldiers butchered the animal, steaming hunks of meat being cut away, to chill in the snow where they were cast before they could be wrapped. When they were done, the meat was divided among the men.