“I don’t think we should go in there,” Miradel said, abruptly halting.
“I don’t like the looks of it either,” Shandira said. “But what are the options? Should we wait here and see if the Deathlord comes strolling out?”
The elder druid chuckled in spite of her fatigue, her mood, their surroundings… everything. Then she laughed outright. “Well, that would serve us well. Might answer a lot of questions, in fact. But I was thinking more along the lines of us finding a different way to continue on.”
Shandira nodded thoughtfully and looked skyward, toward the great summit rising on their right. “Such as… that ridge? The one that climbs around the far shoulder of the mountain?”
“That’s what I had in mind. If we can stay on the right side of it until we’re halfway up, it looks like the we could follow the crest the rest of the way and still be out of sight of the gargoyle.”
“First light, then, let’s give it a try.”
They spent another cold night in the Fifth Circle, this time wedged into a crack between two rocks. It was cramped and rough-edged, but the close quarters seemed at least to help them conserve their body heat. Miradel found that she slept better than she had since their arrival… How many days ago had it been? It was getting very hard to keep track of time.
Again they were up before the Lighten Hour, chilly and sore but anxious to get started. Their loads were noticeably lighter, Miradel thought-either that, or her muscles were getting so used to the strain that the backpack had seemed to become a part of her. She felt strangely invigorated, ready to continue the climb.
Shandira led the way around the base of the mountain until they were safely beyond the view of the gargoyle. Then they started to ascend in earnest. This slope was even steeper than the vast incline that had led them up to the pass. The ground was covered with loose rock that broke away without notice, and the going was very slow. They paused every two dozen steps for a quick breather, then resumed the ascent.
Miradel was amazed at the change in her condition: far from the pain and exhaustion that had afflicted her during their first days, she now felt strong and invigorated, ready to continue each time she caught her breath. Even the shadowy twilight did not seem so oppressive. All this and more could be endured, she decided, with courage and the comfort of a good comrade.
By midday-during which it was no lighter than a cloudy twilight upon Nayve-they estimated that they had reached the point where they could climb to the ridge crest. They did so and were pleased to find out that they were now blocked from the gargoyle’s view behind a shoulder of the mountain on the opposite side of the pass. Continuing on, they now followed the top of the ridge, which still rose steeply upward but seemed to offer better footing than the scree-dappled sides of the edifice.
By the Hour of Darken they felt as though they were nearing the top, though it remained impossible to see any great distance above them. But they resolved to continue on, slowed only slightly by the lack of light. An hour later, the two women made their way to the very top of the knife-edged ridge crest and collapsed there, finding a pair of boulders barely the size of narrow bunks. But each was solidly resting in the mountain rock and provided the first flat space they had encountered in the last six hours.
In the pale starlight they could see little of what lay beyond. Miradel perceived a maze of deep valleys and steep ridges, all leading toward a vast gulf of dark space some five or ten miles away.
Next the druid looked at the distant sun, now merely the brightest star high above Nayve, so far away across the Worldsea, and she shivered against the feeling of unnatural chill. Shandira, a short distance away, lowered her head and murmured an inaudible prayer.
The elder druid lay on her back and watched the stars, full of fatigue but hopeful of their purpose. Then she stifled a gasp, clasping a hand to her mouth and staring.
“What is it? What did you see?” Shandira whispered, crouching at her side.
“Something was flying up there,” Miradel said, still trembling. “It was huge, and its wings were so broad they seemed to blot out the stars. Look, there it is, flying around the side of the mountain.”
“It is what we feared,” Shandira said bluntly. “The gargoyle has taken wing.”
T HE trolls ran from their riverside camp, pushing through the thickets that grew in the lowlands, streaming among the oaks that had started to take root on the gentle hillsides rising a mile back from the Swansleep’s banks. Awfulbark forgot about being king, abandoned any notion of trying to control anything but the direction of his own and Roodcleaver’s flight.
He did remember to hang on to his sword, however, and in fact the blade proved quite useful on those occasions when one of his countrymen was moving too slowly in his path. A swift stab proved remarkably persuasive, either convincing the laggard to hurry up or persuading him that he had better get out of the way or face an even more aggravating thrust.
They fled over the low elevation and across the smooth grassland beyond, running for hours, it seemed, until finally fatigue began to take its toll. Trolls collapsed from exhaustion by the dozens, while many others staggered wearily along, losing any sense of direction and purpose.
“Gotta stop,” Roodcleaver groaned, tugging on Awfulbark’s hand. His first instinct was to yank her along for another dozen steps. He bulled forward until he heard an unfamiliar sound. When he stopped to look, he saw that his wife was sobbing and nearly exhausted. Her rough shoulders heaved, and she drew ragged, rasping breaths- breaths that emerged as great, grieving bleats of misery. When Awfulbark let go of her hand, she simply slumped to the ground and buried her face in her hands.
“Okay, we stop, rest for a bit,” the king acknowledged. Looking around, he saw that the throng of trolls had thinned considerably. It occurred to him that many of them, weaker and lacking his own strong will, had probably already collapsed. Too bad for them… they were probably already caught by the…
Only then did he stop to consider what, in fact, had been the cause of their flight. With a sheepish look backward, he remembered the quake, the awful feeling that the world was lurching beneath him, actively seeking to do him, King Awfulbark, personal harm.
Of course, he had not been the only one to take off in flight, but he reflected that, perhaps, he could have set a better example. Natac had explained to him that it was important to keep the ghost warriors from crossing the river, and the trolls had really not done a very good job of that, not if the enemy had decided to advance some time in the last few hours.
Awfulbark had become a very chagrined troll by the time he saw the great, winged shape in the sky. Glumly he stood and waved, spotting Natac astride the great dragon’s neck. Then the monarch of the forest trolls slumped in shame, looking at the ground as the serpent landed, and the general dismounted to speak to the troll.
“Greetings, King Awfulbark,” Natac said politely. “I am relieved to find you well. I saw the damage wreaked in your grove by the quake.”
The troll, expecting a rebuke for cowardice, was rather pleased by the general’s words. He took a moment to ponder his answer. “Yes… some killed. But I lead trolls away from that place. We go back now?”
“I appreciate your courage, my loyal monarch,” said Natac, reaching up to clap the lanky creature on his bark-rough shoulder. “But there has been a change in our battle plan. The quake we felt was caused by powerful magic-magic that brought the Delvers across Riven Deep. Now, we must fall back from the river.”
“Fall back-you mean run away?” Awfulbark was stunned at first, and then indignant. “But we was winning fight!”
“I know. Your trolls did a magnificent job,” the general declared, but he shook his head. “Even so, to stay here is to face ruin-so we must retreat.”
“How far?” The king had only a vague idea of Nayve’s geography, but he knew this was an important point.
“March toward the center,” was the answer. “We will have to go as far as the Ringhills to make another stand.”
“Okay,” Awfulbark agreed. “You points us the way, and we goes there. And if the ghosts come, we fight!”
“Very good,” Natac replied, seemingly sincere, though the troll king had never quite grown accustomed to sincerity. “The Fourth Circle is depending upon you, and you have answered the call, brave leader. Now, lead your warriors away from here, so that they may fight again tomorrow.”
Awfulbark, feeling very pleased that he had not been rebuked for his impetuous flight, did just that, bellowing and cajoling even as the general and his mighty steed took to the air. His trolls gathered to him, and all within earshot echoed his orders to those who were too far away to hear the king directly. Gradually, the army of the
