The Coming Of Wisdom by Dave Duncan Page B

Then the ascent grew steeper, and the cart slowed the party’s progress.
    They should be well hidden from any observers—by the hedges, by the many little woods, and by the curtains of mist drifting across the landscape—but they were leaving an obvious trail. Wallie could only hope that the inevitable pursuit would be delayed for a while yet. Even had he trusted Thondi—and he did not—it was inconceivable that the sorcerers would not investigate further. The swordsmen’s barbaric ritual of retribution was working against him. Every free man on the estate must be in mortal fear of that, so the sorcerers would have willing allies if they cared to ask. Sooner or later they would give chase.
    Again he felt the strange disorientation of jet lag. He was unsure what the time of day was, and the cloud-painted sky provided no clue. He stifled yawns, knowing that he would be much more weary before he could rest.
    They had been following the main trail for some distance before he realized that they had reached it, for it was primitive and indistinct, wandering vaguely across open pasture on the hills. In such a downpour he found it hard to remember that this was an arid land, but the prickly trees stood far apart, and scattered pens of piled stones showed that the wild, unfenced moorland was good for little but raising sheep. Lonely shepherd cottages crouched in hollows, seemingly deserted as all sensible men took refuge from the weather.
    Axle creaked, hooves plodded, rain fell. Signs of human life dwindled away. Gradually the country grew more hilly, rising and falling on a greater scale. Then the ridges were capped by cindery black rubble, the valleys held running water, and the going had become difficult. The rain increased, moved now by a cold, blustery wind.
    If Honakura was reading the gods’ program correctly, the door was going to be shut behind the fugitives. By the third ford, Wallie began to fear that it might close before they were through. The water swirled angrily around his horse’s knees. Some of the animals balked and had to be soothed by Garadooi.
    No one seemed worried about piranha. Honakura had said that they avoided fast water, but this complete lack of concern suggested that they were not found in tributary streams, that only the River itself was instant death. Wallie did not ask.
    The fourth crossing was even worse. Here the valley floor was wooded and the trail marked by an obvious cut in the trees. The stream foamed and rumbled, lapping out beyond its banks to conceal its depth.
    Garadooi studied it apprehensively. “I think the horses can make it, my lord; but the cart may not.”
    He rode ahead, being the best horseman, and even he had trouble persuading his mount to enter the stream. He crossed and then returned, shivering and worried.
    “Do they continue getting worse?” Wallie asked.
    “The next one or two should be better. Then there is a bridge.”
    “Ah! Could we fell that bridge?”
    The lad’s eyes widened. “I expect so.”
    “And that would block the trail?”
    Garadooi smiled then. “Probably.”
    “Then we must trust in the gods!” But Wallie wished he felt as confident as he was trying to appear.
    Without little Garadooi’s expertise they would never have managed that fourth ford. He took two horses across, left one, and returned to drive the cart. It skittered sideways in the rush of water, but he controlled the panicking horse and fought through to the far bank. He came back again and formed the more docile animals into a string, then led them across with the other travelers clinging tight on their backs. Finally he persuaded the rest of the horses, one by one. At last the party formed up as before and trailed off wetly through the trees. But they were making poor time. When the sorcerers learned of their flight and followed with fresh mounts, they would rapidly overtake the fugitives.
     
    Another bare ridge . . . another valley . . . After a while they all seemed