Douglas Niles - Goddess Worldweaver

“Well, no!” Shandira replied crossly, her spirited answer raising Miradel’s morale considerably. “We have to do what we came here to do, or what’s the point? And besides, I don’t see a stream nearby, do you?”

“No. And yes, you’re right. I mean, what’s the point of stopping now?”

Miradel wasn’t going to mention the gargoyle’s minor change, but her companion raised the issue as darkness closed around them. “Did you see it has its eyes open?” Shandira wondered.

“Yes… that happened after I climbed down to get my pack. I was afraid it saw me and was going to come after me, but it didn’t move. It’s still best to stay out of sight as much as possible,” Miradel suggested.

The pair huddled together, using all four of their cloaks and their shared body warmth to survive the cold, cold night. They were both awake before Lighten and decided to get moving right away, reasoning that activity would be a better defense against cold than anything else within their power.

Once more they stuck to cover as much as possible, and as light returned to the worlds, they saw that the gargoyle remained fixed in place. Miradel couldn’t escape the uncanny feeling that the great, stone eyes were seeking her, and once again they strove to stay out of sight throughout the long morning’s climb.

It wasn’t until late in the day that the incline began to level out, and they came into view of the great notch through the mountains, the pass that led into the shadowy maze of the Deathlord’s citadel. The druids remained off the road, skulking along just below the roadside retaining wall, using that barrier as concealment from above. But now they had come to an open approach, and if they continued forward, it would be in full view of the stony sentry.

“I don’t think we should go in there,” Miradel said, abruptly halting.

“I don’t like the looks of it either,” Shandira said. “But what are the options? Should we wait here and see if the Deathlord comes strolling out?”

The elder druid chuckled in spite of her fatigue, her mood, their surroundings… everything. Then she laughed outright. “Well, that would serve us well. Might answer a lot of questions, in fact. But I was thinking more along the lines of us finding a different way to continue on.”

Shandira nodded thoughtfully and looked skyward, toward the great summit rising on their right. “Such as… that ridge? The one that climbs around the far shoulder of the mountain?”

“That’s what I had in mind. If we can stay on the right side of it until we’re halfway up, it looks like the we could follow the crest the rest of the way and still be out of sight of the gargoyle.”

“First light, then, let’s give it a try.”

They spent another cold night in the Fifth Circle, this time wedged into a crack between two rocks. It was cramped and rough-edged, but the close quarters seemed at least to help them conserve their body heat. Miradel found that she slept better than she had since their arrival… How many days ago had it been? It was getting very hard to keep track of time.

Again they were up before the Lighten Hour, chilly and sore but anxious to get started. Their loads were noticeably lighter, Miradel thought-either that, or her muscles were getting so used to the strain that the backpack had seemed to become a part of her. She felt strangely invigorated, ready to continue the climb.

Shandira led the way around the base of the mountain until they were safely beyond the view of the gargoyle. Then they started to ascend in earnest. This slope was even steeper than the vast incline that had led them up to the pass. The ground was covered with loose rock that broke away without notice, and the going was very slow. They paused every two dozen steps for a quick breather, then resumed the ascent.

Miradel was amazed at the change in her condition: far from the pain and exhaustion that had afflicted her during their first days, she now felt strong and invigorated, ready to continue each time she caught her breath. Even the shadowy twilight did not seem so oppressive. All this and more could be endured, she decided, with courage and the comfort of a good comrade.

By midday-during which it was no lighter than a cloudy twilight upon Nayve-they estimated that they had reached the point where they could climb to the ridge crest. They did so and were pleased to find out that they were now blocked from the gargoyle’s view behind a shoulder of the mountain on the opposite side of the pass. Continuing on, they now followed the top of the ridge, which still rose steeply upward but seemed to offer better footing than the scree-dappled sides of the edifice.

By the Hour of Darken they felt as though they were nearing the top, though it remained impossible to see any great distance above them. But they resolved to continue on, slowed only slightly by the lack of light. An hour later, the two women made their way to the very top of the knife-edged ridge crest and collapsed there, finding a pair of boulders barely the size of narrow bunks. But each was solidly resting in the mountain rock and provided the first flat space they had encountered in the last six hours.

In the pale starlight they could see little of what lay beyond. Miradel perceived a maze of deep valleys and steep ridges, all leading toward a vast gulf of dark space some five or ten miles away.

Next the druid looked at the distant sun, now merely the brightest star high above Nayve, so far away across the Worldsea, and she shivered against the feeling of unnatural chill. Shandira, a short distance away, lowered her head and murmured an inaudible prayer.

The elder druid lay on her back and watched the stars, full of fatigue but hopeful of their purpose. Then she stifled a gasp, clasping a hand to her mouth and staring.

“What is it? What did you see?” Shandira whispered, crouching at her side.

“Something was flying up there,” Miradel said, still trembling. “It was huge, and its wings were so broad they seemed to blot out the stars. Look, there it is, flying around the side of the mountain.”

“It is what we feared,” Shandira said bluntly. “The gargoyle has taken wing.”

T HE trolls ran from their riverside camp, pushing through the thickets that grew in the lowlands, streaming among the oaks that had started to take root on the gentle hillsides rising a mile back from the Swansleep’s banks. Awfulbark forgot about being king, abandoned any notion of trying to control anything but the direction of his own and Roodcleaver’s flight.

He did remember to hang on to his sword, however, and in fact the blade proved quite useful on those occasions when one of his countrymen was moving too slowly in his path. A swift stab proved remarkably persuasive, either convincing the laggard to hurry up or persuading him that he had better get out of the way or face an even more aggravating thrust.

They fled over the low elevation and across the smooth grassland beyond, running for hours, it seemed, until finally fatigue began to take its toll. Trolls collapsed from exhaustion by the dozens, while many others staggered wearily along, losing any sense of direction and purpose.

“Gotta stop,” Roodcleaver groaned, tugging on Awfulbark’s hand. His first instinct was to yank her along for another dozen steps. He bulled forward until he heard an unfamiliar sound. When he stopped to look, he saw that his wife was sobbing and nearly exhausted. Her rough shoulders heaved, and she drew ragged, rasping breaths-breaths that emerged as great, grieving bleats of misery. When Awfulbark let go of her hand, she simply slumped to the ground and buried her face in her hands.

“Okay, we stop, rest for a bit,” the king acknowledged. Looking around, he saw that the throng of trolls had thinned considerably. It occurred to him that many of them, weaker and lacking his own strong will, had probably already collapsed. Too bad for them… they were probably already caught by the…