approach.
They passed like a wild hunt from a child’s nightmare. The figures were armored, chain glinting under the moon as they hunched over swift, champing steeds whose decaying bodies revealed their sliding bones and trailing strings of sinew. There were dogs, too, rotting, ravenous war hounds that bounded alongside the horses, braying into the night. Scores of deathknights galloped by, a spectral company girded for war and racing east toward the front. Several bore Prusias’s standard—a border of wheat sheaves encircling three gold coins. For an instant, Max glimpsed it fluttering in the moonlight and then it was gone—fading into the gloom as the company hurtled past and was swallowed by the mists at the mountain’s foot.
Returning to David and Toby, he found them huddled behind the trunk of a fallen tree, looking cold, wet, and miserable.
“Wh-who was it?” chattered the smee, half burrowed in David’s cloak.
“Soldiers of Prusias,” replied Max. “They’re not searching for us—they’re riding too fast. I’d guess they’re outriders or cavalry heading off to the war with Aamon.”
“What should we do?” asked David.
“I think we should press on,” said Max. “If the horsemen are outriders, there may be an army or some larger force coming up behind us. We don’t want to get caught up in that. We’ll stick to the woods and hike up into the mountains until the terrain gets too steep. Then we’ll have to return to the road—it’s the only way through the higher passes.”
“So we’re to have no roof?” moaned Toby. “No fire or a proper supper?”
Max shook his head. “Sorry. Not tonight at any rate. I have some jerky if you want.”
“Jerky,” sniffed the smee disdainfully. “I might as well chew your boot.”
David coughed into his cloak, a convulsive wheeze that shook his entire body.
“Let’s get going, then,” he wheezed. “The ground is freezing.”
For hours they felt their way through the woods, walking from one moonlit patch to another. Toby had become a lynx to better see in the dark and guide them through the close-pressed firs and spruce that blanketed the foothills. It was hard going, but Max was grateful for the forest’s cover. More than once, a wind came howling through the treetops as fell spirits flew past in the night, their ghostly cries fading as they tore through the mountain passes on some unknown errand.
By dawn, the three had climbed high enough for the trees to thin. The freezing rain had departed, but a cold mist lay about the hills. The air was rich with the smell of pine and resin, the branches sagging with ice. Max stopped to check on David’s progress.
Rowan’s little sorcerer was leaning heavily on a walking stick as his feet stumbled along, some twenty yards back. Throughout the night, David had not uttered a peep of complaint, but anyone could see he was flagging. Max set down his pack.
“Sun’s coming up,” he observed, pointing at the range’s golden rim. “I’d say we have another five miles, most of it road, before we reach the guardstones. We’ll need energy for the final push, and I’d say it’s foggy enough to risk a small fire. Get comfortable and I’ll make breakfast. Are your socks wet?”
Coughing into his fist, David nodded wearily and eased down to rest his back against a tree.
“Put on fresh ones,” said Max. “We’ll dry the others and your boots by the fire.”
Without magic, a fire would take some doing. The nearby wood was soaked through and Max had to scour for some drier sticks beneath the branches of a dense fir. Using pinches of lint as tinder, however, he soon had the wood hissing and then crackling with flame. Sitting down, Max rummaged through David’s pack, finding a string of sausages and half a loaf of Marta’s bread wrapped in crinkling brown paper. He soon had the sausages cooking in a small skillet. Toby practically hovered over the pan, licking his lips and sniffing at the sizzling pork until a drop of fat spattered on his whiskered chin. Yowling, he jumped back and settled by David, who was rubbing his stocking feet.
The three wolfed down their breakfast, sopping up the skillet’s grease with the remaining bread. Color had returned to David’s face and even Toby appeared companionable. Standing, Max gazed down at the mist-veiled road and up at the shrouded peaks.
“I think we should head downhill. The terrain only gets steeper ahead. Once we’re back on the road, we need to move quickly. Do you think you can do that?”
David nodded, but glanced anxiously at the ugly blister on his instep.
“Let’s bandage your feet,” Max suggested, digging for a roll of clean linen. “As soon as your socks get wet or start to rub, let me know and we’ll stop and change to others. It’s no good toughing it out and allowing it to get worse—you’ll only slow us down later. Toby, do you think you could manage a mule for a short while?”
“If I must,” sighed the smee.
Minutes later, the three made their way down the precarious slope. While Toby’s mule was sure-footed, David was an inexperienced rider and Max had to walk alongside and steady his friend as they navigated their way down the hill. It took the better part of an hour. When they finally reached the bottom, the sky had blushed to a pinkish blue and a sprinkling of fresh snow covered the ground.
Max kept them to the road’s farthest edge so that they could shelter beneath rock ledges and leaning trees as they wound their way up the lonely passes. When they’d climbed to some new crest or vantage, he stopped and scanned the valley below with his spyglass. Snow was swirling about, weightless little flakes that danced before the lens. Squinting, Max saw no one on the road. Indeed, he saw no living thing but for a pair of circling hawks high above the vale and an elk trotting across a stream. The landscape was so quiet and peaceful; the riders of the previous night seemed naught but a bad dream.
“I didn’t know you were a romantic, Toby,” said David, smiling and patting his withers.
“Then you know nothing about smees,” the mule retorted, flicking his ears. With a parting glance at the valley, he turned and pressed on.
For the next hour, the three pushed steadily up the mountain, following the pass as it switched back or tunneled through a narrow cleft to rise again on the other side. As they climbed, the snowfall intensified, swirling about them as mist blew past like tattered shrouds. When the road finally began to widen, Max knew they were near the goblin caverns.
“Toby,” he said. “Up ahead are the Broadbrim guardstones. Do you think you can become a bird or something small and scout ahead for us? I need to know if there’s a good spot where we can settle down unseen and keep an eye on the entrance.”
“What do the guardstones look like?” inquired the smee.
“You can’t miss them,” said Max. “They’re huge slabs of red granite.”
“Very well,” said Toby as David climbed off. The mule disappeared and Max stared down at a plump gray jackdaw, hopping about the snow and letting the wind flutter through his feathers. A moment later he was gone, flying off on his black-tipped wings.
“I hope Skeedle can help,” Max muttered, well aware that the goblin might be en route to or from some distant trade destination. And goblins tended to be greedy, grasping creatures quick to exploit those weaker than themselves. What if Skeedle had lost his cheerful bloom and adopted the harsh habits of his elders?
“If he can’t, we’ll try something else,” said David with a sanguine air. “We’ve traveled to the Sidh, Max. I have every confidence we can make our way to Piter’s Folly and bluff our way in to see a smuggler.”
Max grinned; David’s spirits were reviving.
A moment later, Toby fluttered back and landed with an inexpert, skidding series of hops.
“We’re in luck,” he reported. “There’s a small ledge across from the guardstones, some twenty or thirty feet above the road. Not an easy climb, but it should be manageable.”
David glanced dubiously at his stump of a right hand.
“Worst case, I can carry you,” Max offered.
“Did you see any guards?” David asked Toby.
