first, complaining that the creature would slow them down or make the narrower paths impassable, but Wydrin had insisted, pointing out that it could carry all their supplies and gear, leaving them able to move freely. And so far, its slim, narrow shape had caused no significant problems, although Frith often found it unnerving to glance back the way they’d come to see two points of eerie green light staring back at him. His own steed, Gwiddion, flew above them in its bird form, sometimes perching on rocky outcrops and waiting for them to catch up.
Looking at the bird made him think of O’rin; his old teacher had never been far from a pack of squawking birds on Whittenfarne. Since Y’Ruen had been cast out of Ede, tumbling through a hole in the sky – a result of O’rin’s own long-planned spell – the god of lies had made himself scarce, preferring to stay at his Rookery, away from the world and its problems. He had paid Frith a few brief visits, usually when he was alone, walking in the Blackwood or in his own bare suite of rooms in the castle. The old god would appear in a flurry of feathers, full of questions and pointed comments about the welfare of his griffin, his great curved beak nodding rapidly. He would pretend that these visits were a result of his naturally curious nature, but Frith suspected that the old god was keeping an eye on him. That, or he was lonely. It seemed ludicrous that such a powerful being could want company, but he was the last of his kind now. And Frith had some idea what that felt like.
They came to the Crippler on the evening of the third day. The path was every bit as hair-raising as Tamlyn had hinted; it curved around the sheer western side of the mountain in erratic fashion, sometimes so narrow that they had to walk single file, leaning heavily against the solid rock to their right, and sometimes so full of rocks and snow that Frith was convinced that they had lost track of it completely. Dizzying drops loomed off to one side, so that more than once he considered calling Gwiddion to his griffin form so that he could fly off ahead, but his pride kept him from doing so. Here it looked likely that they might lose the werken – in several places the path did not look solid enough to support its weight – but it came steadily on, and Frith had to admit he was glad not to be carrying a heavy pack when he needed all his concentration just to stay on the path.
Eventually, the chilly afterthought that passed as daylight in these lands gave way to a dark, freezing night and they agreed to stop and rest. The Crippler had widened enough in this section for them to be able to make a small camp and Frith set about making a fire for the night; a pile of dry sticks from Wydrin’s pack, and the word for Fire inked onto a bandage in his fist. Within seconds he had a merry blaze going and Wydrin and Sebastian drew close to it, holding out their hands for warmth.
‘We are not far now,’ he said, trying to find a comfortable place to sit amongst the rocks and snow. The werken stood behind them as if it were a guard dog, or a statue of one. ‘When the sun comes up we should be able to see the Frozen Steps.’ Gwiddion fluttered down from the shadowy spaces above their heads and perched on top of the werken’s head. The werken did not move.
‘We’ll have a better idea of how we’re getting in there then,’ said Wydrin. She was busily unpacking a small bag; salted meat wrapped in greasy paper, hard black bread, a small cask of beer. She took a knife from her belt and began slicing the meat. ‘And how we’re getting the bloody thing back out. Still, at least we’ve got Mendrick here to carry it for us.’ She slapped the werken companionably on one big stone paw.
‘You’ve named it Mendrick?’ asked Sebastian. He took the cask from Wydrin and began filling their tin cups. ‘I thought the Skald were set against naming their beasts of burden.’
‘It’s after a man I met in the Horns.
Looking at the bird made him think of O’rin; his old teacher had never been far from a pack of squawking birds on Whittenfarne. Since Y’Ruen had been cast out of Ede, tumbling through a hole in the sky – a result of O’rin’s own long-planned spell – the god of lies had made himself scarce, preferring to stay at his Rookery, away from the world and its problems. He had paid Frith a few brief visits, usually when he was alone, walking in the Blackwood or in his own bare suite of rooms in the castle. The old god would appear in a flurry of feathers, full of questions and pointed comments about the welfare of his griffin, his great curved beak nodding rapidly. He would pretend that these visits were a result of his naturally curious nature, but Frith suspected that the old god was keeping an eye on him. That, or he was lonely. It seemed ludicrous that such a powerful being could want company, but he was the last of his kind now. And Frith had some idea what that felt like.
They came to the Crippler on the evening of the third day. The path was every bit as hair-raising as Tamlyn had hinted; it curved around the sheer western side of the mountain in erratic fashion, sometimes so narrow that they had to walk single file, leaning heavily against the solid rock to their right, and sometimes so full of rocks and snow that Frith was convinced that they had lost track of it completely. Dizzying drops loomed off to one side, so that more than once he considered calling Gwiddion to his griffin form so that he could fly off ahead, but his pride kept him from doing so. Here it looked likely that they might lose the werken – in several places the path did not look solid enough to support its weight – but it came steadily on, and Frith had to admit he was glad not to be carrying a heavy pack when he needed all his concentration just to stay on the path.
Eventually, the chilly afterthought that passed as daylight in these lands gave way to a dark, freezing night and they agreed to stop and rest. The Crippler had widened enough in this section for them to be able to make a small camp and Frith set about making a fire for the night; a pile of dry sticks from Wydrin’s pack, and the word for Fire inked onto a bandage in his fist. Within seconds he had a merry blaze going and Wydrin and Sebastian drew close to it, holding out their hands for warmth.
‘We are not far now,’ he said, trying to find a comfortable place to sit amongst the rocks and snow. The werken stood behind them as if it were a guard dog, or a statue of one. ‘When the sun comes up we should be able to see the Frozen Steps.’ Gwiddion fluttered down from the shadowy spaces above their heads and perched on top of the werken’s head. The werken did not move.
‘We’ll have a better idea of how we’re getting in there then,’ said Wydrin. She was busily unpacking a small bag; salted meat wrapped in greasy paper, hard black bread, a small cask of beer. She took a knife from her belt and began slicing the meat. ‘And how we’re getting the bloody thing back out. Still, at least we’ve got Mendrick here to carry it for us.’ She slapped the werken companionably on one big stone paw.
‘You’ve named it Mendrick?’ asked Sebastian. He took the cask from Wydrin and began filling their tin cups. ‘I thought the Skald were set against naming their beasts of burden.’
‘It’s after a man I met in the Horns.
Similar Books
