Roger Taylor - The Return of the Sword

Pinnatte put his hand to his face momentarily, then swore and began scrabbling about, gathering more stones.

‘Perhaps we can talk to them,’ Vredech said weakly. ‘Perhaps we’re worrying unnecessarily. Maybe they can help us find a way back.’

Pinnatte was openly scornful. ‘Use your ears, man,’ he said. ‘That’s not some clerk and his family out for a quiet evening’s ride. I don’t know what they are. I’m not even sure they’re people, making a noise like that. But they’re bad, that I do know.’ He waved an encompassing arm. ‘And look at this place. Anything that lives here is going to be like nothing either of us have ever met.’ He thrust some rocks into Vredech’s hand. ‘I don’t suppose you can fight either, can you?’

Vredech toyed with the stones nervously. Irregular and jagged, with sharp edges and many facets, they were unlike any stones he had ever seen before.

‘You suppose right,’ he said. ‘I’m a Preaching Brother, not a warrior.’ He glanced down again at the riders. They were still making the same unhurried progress. Almost as if they had seen him watching, a rasping cry greeted him. It was a chilling sound and it gave Pinnatte’s remarks a grim validity. ‘But if we get caught, we still try talking before using these,’ he said sternly, rattling the stones in front of Pinnatte’s face. ‘If we start throwing first we’ll only have one option then.’

Pinnatte paused and thought for a moment, then nodded and returned to gathering his ammunition. Vredech looked again at where they were. Born amongst mountains, this ought to be more his kind of country that it was Pinnatte’s but it did not help. There was a newness about this place, a harsh violence, that was quite different from the age-sculpted landscape of Canol Madreth. Sheer rock faces swept up to improbable peaks and ridges that looked as sharp as crystal and which seemed to be striving to tear down the sky itself. Like the stones that Pinnatte had given him there was nothing about them that indicated the touch of wind or rain or any of the rigours of an endless parade of summers and winters. And, too, there was a barren monotony, a deadness, about the place that weighed on him and that he could not properly identify.

In front of them – the way the riders would have to come – was a rough slope that, reassuringly, fell quickly out of sight. On either side of them the ground swept up with increasing steepness to high peaks and offered nothing but more exposure and no escape. To their rear, the ground rose a little to the top of the col.

‘You wait here. I’m going to have a look over the top,’ he whispered to Pinnate. ‘There might be somewhere to hide on the other side. Or we might be able to lay a false trail.’

‘No!’ Pinnatte exclaimed anxiously, seizing his arm again. ‘We came here together, we must stay together. I don’t want you going over there, then suddenly, poof, you’re gone and I’m left here on my own.’

‘Or the other way round, for that matter,’ Vredech said soberly. ‘We’ll go together, then.’

Another glance told him that the riders would soon be out of sight beneath the curve of the slope. As they finally disappeared, he and Pinnatte set off up the short scramble to the top of the col. It did not take them long. Pinnatte was nimble, Vredech was mountain-bred, and both were frightened.

In so far as he had expected anything, Vredech had assumed that the col would leave him at the top of a slope down into another valley, and, he hoped, with choices to make. It was thus with a cry of outright terror that he came to a sudden halt, swaying precariously on the very edge of a vertical drop. Indeed, he might have fallen had not Pinnatte, a few paces behind him, hastily seized his jacket and dragged him roughly backwards.

It was some time before either of them recovered sufficiently to talk coherently.

‘I’m all right,’ Vredech gasped several times, patting Pinnatte’s supporting arm with an urgency which showed quite clearly that he was not. Pinnatte returned the reassurance, then eased himself forward on his stomach to peer over the edge into the dark blue void that had nearly taken his companion. Not unused to the rooftops of Arash-Felloren, he prided himself that he was unafraid of heights. This, however, was different. The edge was as abrupt and clean as that of any man-made wall, and the rock face that fell away from it plunged giddyingly into an unseeable blue darkness that seemed to reach up into Pinnatte as he involuntarily drew in a sharp breath. With an effort, he forced himself to look from side to side. The edge curved away, fading into the same impenetrable shadow. The view disorientated him; not least, he realized, because though there was the darkness of shadow to be seen everywhere, there was no sun to cast it, nor any other light than the pervading blueness.

Even more carefully than he had approached it, Pinnatte pushed himself away from the edge and rejoined Vredech.

Though still breathing heavily, Vredech was more himself. He was looking upwards at the surrounding peaks and gesturing for silence. Pinnatte became still. As he did so he became aware of a faint whining all around them. It tinged the bitter air mockingly.

‘My cry,’ Vredech said, his face pained and fretful. ‘Echoing and echoing. If they didn’t know we were here before, they do now.’ His lip curled into an uncharacteristic snarl. ‘These mountains must carry every sound as far as they reach. They’re like nothing I’ve ever known.’

‘I gathered that, the way you nearly ran over that edge,’ Pinnatte retorted acidly.

An unexpected touch of humour in his manner cut through Vredech’s frustration and anger and drew a soft, snorting chuckle out of him. As if in confirmation of his estimation of the treachery of the mountains, the sound bubbled up to join the fading echoes of his cry, shaking and disturbing them. But, too, something was lifted from him. Nothing had changed about their predicament, and his heart was still pounding from his near accident, but he felt a little lighter.

‘It seems we’ve nowhere to go but down – towards our hosts,’ he said, standing up shakily. Pinnatte’s eyes widened. ‘Well, have we?’ Vredech pressed, before he could voice any protest.

‘I… I suppose not,’ Pinnatte stammered. ‘But…’

Vredech laid an earnest hand on his shoulder. ‘They come up one way, we go down another,’ he said.

‘And if there’s only one way up and one way down?’

Vredech shrugged. ‘Then we meet them a little sooner, that’s all.’

‘But…’

‘Come on!’ Vredech tugged Pinnatte’s arm encouragingly and set off down the slope. They had only gone a few paces when Pinnatte looked down at his hand and swore.

Vredech turned to see the young man sucking his hand and then spitting.

‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.

‘I’ve cut myself, that’s all. Everything’s so sharp.’

Vredech quickly examined the cut. It was at the base of the thumb and though it was not deep it was very fine and bleeding quite profusely. Pinnatte sucked on it and spat again, splattering an uneven purple stain on the ground. Vredech unearthed a kerchief and bound the hand. ‘It looks clean,’ he said. ‘Just keep this tight if you can.’ Then he looked at his own hands. There were one or two thin scratches there that he had no recollection of receiving, but none of them was bleeding. It was a timely warning, he thought. Every edge in this place did seem to be relentlessly sharp. Another cruel difference between here and the mountains he knew.

As they reached the place where they had first found themselves, Vredech paused, trying to estimate which way the riders might be coming. With nothing to guide him, however, he opted for what looked to be the easiest way. Pinnatte followed him without question.