left rose the tors of the Signal Mountains; before the Warrows the grassland gradually fell away toward the edge of the Wilderland, where lay the Crossland Road and Harth beyond. And down this long, shallow slope they fared, their backs to Gwylly’s homestead, their faces toward the unknown.
Steadily they rode, stopping but a few minutes every hour to stretch their legs and give the ponies a breather or some grain, and to take care of other needs. Too, they stopped occasionally at streams to water their steeds and refill their waterskins, but in the main they rode steadfastly southward.
As the noontide drew upon them, they came through a gentle swale between low, flanking hills and swung their course easterly. In the distance far ahead they could see two tall hills standing against the horizon. “Beacontor and J Northtor,” said Gwylly. “We will camp there tonight, on one slope or the other.”
Faeril gauged the distance. “How far are they?”
“Oh, twenty, twenty-five miles,” replied Gwylly.
Faeril nodded. “Well, Blacktail has gone as much as forty miles in one day, though not day after day. I wouldn’t wish to ask for more than she or Dapper can bear.”
“We will slow down tomorrow, my dammia,” said Gwylly. “I expect that twenty or twenty-five miles a day is well within their means.”
Faeril twisted about and searched in her right-hand saddlebag. She pulled out a folded sheet of parchment, crackling it open. “The sketch Hopsley made in Stonehill shows Beacontor. On it he indicated that Arden is some two hundred fifty miles beyond. At twenty-five miles a day, we’ll be ten days getting there; eleven, counting today.”
Gwylly held out his hand and Faeril passed him the sketch. Once again the buccan twisted the printed page about, as if trying to solve the mystery of the written words by orienting the paper just so. Faeril put her hand to her mouth to cover her smile at his efforts.
I will have to begin teaching him this very night
.
Onward they rode throughout the long summer day, while the Sun passed overhead and then slid down the western sky, casting their lengthening shadows before them. Still they wended forth, the ponies at a walk, moving easterly through green rolling grassland, the Signal Mountains now marching off northeasterly, the Dellin Downs ahead and to the south.
In the late afternoon they at last came at an angle unto the great Crossland Road. Onto the tradeway they stepped their mounts, the road a major east-west thoroughfare, reaching from the Ryngar Arm of the Weston Ocean at its far terminus some eight hundred miles to the west, unto the Crestan Pass through the Grimwall Mountains three hundred or so miles to the east, where it became known as the Landover Road and stretched far across the Realms beyond.
Five more miles they fared, and evening was at hand when they stopped for the night on the southern slopes of Northtor. Slightly east and south rose the crest of Beacontor, the final mount in the chain. Between the two tors ran the road, passing up over the low saddle and on down to the east.
The skies were clear, yet Gwylly used a hand axe to cut saplings for a lean-to. “Just in case,” he said.
Meanwhile, Faeril set rocks in a ring and started a campfire, fixing a pot of water above to make some tea.
Faeril staked out the ponies and while she curried the cinch- and saddle-swirls and -knots from their hair, Gwyllyerected the shelter, using small, supple branches to tie the saplings together into a roof, the buccan chatting all the while. “Dad told me about Beacontor. Used to be where an old watchtower was located. It was part of a chain of warbeacon towers stretching from Challerain Keep up in Rian down to this end of the Signal Mountains. They say in fact, that the Signal Mountains got their name from these towers.
“Anyway, here they’d set a fire alight atop the hill when War came, signalled from the north down the chain by the other warbeacons, or up from
Steadily they rode, stopping but a few minutes every hour to stretch their legs and give the ponies a breather or some grain, and to take care of other needs. Too, they stopped occasionally at streams to water their steeds and refill their waterskins, but in the main they rode steadfastly southward.
As the noontide drew upon them, they came through a gentle swale between low, flanking hills and swung their course easterly. In the distance far ahead they could see two tall hills standing against the horizon. “Beacontor and J Northtor,” said Gwylly. “We will camp there tonight, on one slope or the other.”
Faeril gauged the distance. “How far are they?”
“Oh, twenty, twenty-five miles,” replied Gwylly.
Faeril nodded. “Well, Blacktail has gone as much as forty miles in one day, though not day after day. I wouldn’t wish to ask for more than she or Dapper can bear.”
“We will slow down tomorrow, my dammia,” said Gwylly. “I expect that twenty or twenty-five miles a day is well within their means.”
Faeril twisted about and searched in her right-hand saddlebag. She pulled out a folded sheet of parchment, crackling it open. “The sketch Hopsley made in Stonehill shows Beacontor. On it he indicated that Arden is some two hundred fifty miles beyond. At twenty-five miles a day, we’ll be ten days getting there; eleven, counting today.”
Gwylly held out his hand and Faeril passed him the sketch. Once again the buccan twisted the printed page about, as if trying to solve the mystery of the written words by orienting the paper just so. Faeril put her hand to her mouth to cover her smile at his efforts.
I will have to begin teaching him this very night
.
Onward they rode throughout the long summer day, while the Sun passed overhead and then slid down the western sky, casting their lengthening shadows before them. Still they wended forth, the ponies at a walk, moving easterly through green rolling grassland, the Signal Mountains now marching off northeasterly, the Dellin Downs ahead and to the south.
In the late afternoon they at last came at an angle unto the great Crossland Road. Onto the tradeway they stepped their mounts, the road a major east-west thoroughfare, reaching from the Ryngar Arm of the Weston Ocean at its far terminus some eight hundred miles to the west, unto the Crestan Pass through the Grimwall Mountains three hundred or so miles to the east, where it became known as the Landover Road and stretched far across the Realms beyond.
Five more miles they fared, and evening was at hand when they stopped for the night on the southern slopes of Northtor. Slightly east and south rose the crest of Beacontor, the final mount in the chain. Between the two tors ran the road, passing up over the low saddle and on down to the east.
The skies were clear, yet Gwylly used a hand axe to cut saplings for a lean-to. “Just in case,” he said.
Meanwhile, Faeril set rocks in a ring and started a campfire, fixing a pot of water above to make some tea.
Faeril staked out the ponies and while she curried the cinch- and saddle-swirls and -knots from their hair, Gwyllyerected the shelter, using small, supple branches to tie the saplings together into a roof, the buccan chatting all the while. “Dad told me about Beacontor. Used to be where an old watchtower was located. It was part of a chain of warbeacon towers stretching from Challerain Keep up in Rian down to this end of the Signal Mountains. They say in fact, that the Signal Mountains got their name from these towers.
“Anyway, here they’d set a fire alight atop the hill when War came, signalled from the north down the chain by the other warbeacons, or up from
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