whirled around the fearful understanding of where and
when
he now was.
Time is not our ally
, Qothan had said yet it was starkly apparent that this grim intruder upon his personal drama had employed some dark magery and hurled them both back down the long aisle of Time, back to an age when Sejeend had been no bigger than a town.
But the more he dwelt upon this nightmarish predicament, the more his fears began to sharpen and close around him. So he thrust the thoughts aside and instead concentrated on matching Qothan’s gait, stretching his own pace to keep from falling behind. The countryside was half wild, half cultivated with only a few birds disturbing the muffled stillness. Before long, the wagon track widened and was joined by another coming from the north, along which a scattering of folk were travelling, mostly on foot with a couple of horse-drawn carts heaped with boxes, bundles and other possessions wrapped in rugs. A few of those who walked carried sputtering torches to light the way as the day waned, and the carts each had a lantern swinging from a bracket near the driver.
Ondene saw the weary misery in their faces and immediately knew that they were refugees, fleeing some unknown calamity to the north. This was a sight he knew well from his years as a sellsword, fighting for the princelings and holdsmen of the Dalbari coasts, and it never failed to make him feel sick at heart. As he walked alongside them he noticed that hardly anyone was talking. Everyone seemed locked within themselves by tiredness and suffering, except for a knot of children chattering to each other in one of the carts. To his ear he could make out a word here and there, realising that they were speaking an old form of Mantinoran, probably with a dialect.
If I open my mouth,
he thought,
they won’t be able to understand me and might get unfriendly…
So he trudged on in Qothan’s wake, saying nothing.
The road passed through a thick copse of black, leafless trees, emerged at the bank of the Valewater and led onto a heavy stone bridge. The appearance of the lights of Sejeend spurred on the refugees and Ondene heard a few of the refugees raise a ragged cheer while others offered up thanks to the Fathertree, their voices ringing with gratitude and sorrow…
On the other side, the road sloped up towards the gates of Sejeend but Qothan stepped off it, heading north along the shore. With a sad backward look at the refugees, Ondene hurried after him across snowy, uneven ground broken by hollows and icy pools that were almost invisible in the descending gloom. And Qothan had quickened his pace and was striding through the snow, heedless of obstacles like bushes which he just barge through. Ondene hastened to reach the man and snatched at his arm, thinking to slow him but instead found himself seized by his own arm and dragged along.
“Wait!….damn you — hold! Why this...mad flight….”
“I told you, captain — time is against us in this,” Qothan said, releasing him and slowing a little. “Soon we shall be swept back to the year and the day and the hour from whence we departed, thus we must be in a safe place.”
“And you know of such a place,” Ondene said.
“I do, and we must reach it very soon.” He glanced at Ondene. “If your strength is waning I can carry you over my shoulder — it would not delay me.”
“I think I can manage.”
“Very well,” and so saying the tall man leaped forward into a long-legged run. Ondene stared in astonishment for the merest moment before dashing after him with all the speed he could muster.
Several wooden piers marched on wooden posts from the shore out to deeper water, and Qothan led the way under them, feet crunching on frost-webbed shingle. Ondene’s memory told him that this part of the bay was — would be — a continuous stretch of massively-built wharfs and quays, so Qothan’s urgency seemed inexplicable. Then they emerged from the weedy shadows beneath another jetty and
when
he now was.
Time is not our ally
, Qothan had said yet it was starkly apparent that this grim intruder upon his personal drama had employed some dark magery and hurled them both back down the long aisle of Time, back to an age when Sejeend had been no bigger than a town.
But the more he dwelt upon this nightmarish predicament, the more his fears began to sharpen and close around him. So he thrust the thoughts aside and instead concentrated on matching Qothan’s gait, stretching his own pace to keep from falling behind. The countryside was half wild, half cultivated with only a few birds disturbing the muffled stillness. Before long, the wagon track widened and was joined by another coming from the north, along which a scattering of folk were travelling, mostly on foot with a couple of horse-drawn carts heaped with boxes, bundles and other possessions wrapped in rugs. A few of those who walked carried sputtering torches to light the way as the day waned, and the carts each had a lantern swinging from a bracket near the driver.
Ondene saw the weary misery in their faces and immediately knew that they were refugees, fleeing some unknown calamity to the north. This was a sight he knew well from his years as a sellsword, fighting for the princelings and holdsmen of the Dalbari coasts, and it never failed to make him feel sick at heart. As he walked alongside them he noticed that hardly anyone was talking. Everyone seemed locked within themselves by tiredness and suffering, except for a knot of children chattering to each other in one of the carts. To his ear he could make out a word here and there, realising that they were speaking an old form of Mantinoran, probably with a dialect.
If I open my mouth,
he thought,
they won’t be able to understand me and might get unfriendly…
So he trudged on in Qothan’s wake, saying nothing.
The road passed through a thick copse of black, leafless trees, emerged at the bank of the Valewater and led onto a heavy stone bridge. The appearance of the lights of Sejeend spurred on the refugees and Ondene heard a few of the refugees raise a ragged cheer while others offered up thanks to the Fathertree, their voices ringing with gratitude and sorrow…
On the other side, the road sloped up towards the gates of Sejeend but Qothan stepped off it, heading north along the shore. With a sad backward look at the refugees, Ondene hurried after him across snowy, uneven ground broken by hollows and icy pools that were almost invisible in the descending gloom. And Qothan had quickened his pace and was striding through the snow, heedless of obstacles like bushes which he just barge through. Ondene hastened to reach the man and snatched at his arm, thinking to slow him but instead found himself seized by his own arm and dragged along.
“Wait!….damn you — hold! Why this...mad flight….”
“I told you, captain — time is against us in this,” Qothan said, releasing him and slowing a little. “Soon we shall be swept back to the year and the day and the hour from whence we departed, thus we must be in a safe place.”
“And you know of such a place,” Ondene said.
“I do, and we must reach it very soon.” He glanced at Ondene. “If your strength is waning I can carry you over my shoulder — it would not delay me.”
“I think I can manage.”
“Very well,” and so saying the tall man leaped forward into a long-legged run. Ondene stared in astonishment for the merest moment before dashing after him with all the speed he could muster.
Several wooden piers marched on wooden posts from the shore out to deeper water, and Qothan led the way under them, feet crunching on frost-webbed shingle. Ondene’s memory told him that this part of the bay was — would be — a continuous stretch of massively-built wharfs and quays, so Qothan’s urgency seemed inexplicable. Then they emerged from the weedy shadows beneath another jetty and
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