The trail they were following took them further and further into the hills, each one higher than the one before. The days were warm, the sun hot, but they were happy to burrow under their furs at night. Then one morning at dawn Har-Havola called out happily and pointed ahead at the place where the rising sun was touching the high white peaks on the horizon. These were the snow-covered mountains they would have to cross.
Each day the track they were following rose higher and higher, until the mountains ahead were a barrier stretching away into the distance to either side. They looked unbroken, formidable. Only when the sammads were closer could it be seen that a river valley led gently up into their heart. The water ran quickly, cold and gray. They walked beside it, following its turns, until the foothills were lost from sight. The landscape changed as well; there were fewer trees and most of these were evergreens.
One afternoon there was a stirring on the mountainside above them and they looked up to see white, horned beasts bounding to cover. One stopped on a ledge, looking down, and an arrow from Herilak’s bow sought it out, dropped the creature tumbling down the cliff face. Its fur was curled and soft, the flesh, when they cooked it that evening, delicious and fat. Har-Havola licked the last of the grease from his fingers and grunted happily.
“Only once before have I eaten mountain goat. Good. Very hard to stalk. They live only in the high mountains. Now we must think of fodder for the mastodons and wood for our fires.”
“Why is this?” Herilak asked.
“We go higher. Soon there will be no trees, then even the grass will be thin and scarce. It will be cold, very cold.”
“Then we must take what we will need,” Herilak said. “Without the tents the travois are lightly loaded. We will cut wood, load it. Young branches as well with leaves for the beasts. They must not starve. Will there be water?”
“No, but it does not matter since there will be snow to melt. It can be done.”
Although the days were still warm they found frost on the ground now when they awoke in the morning, while the mastodons rumbled their discomfort, breaths smoking in the chill of dawn. Although there were complaints about how thin the air was and old Fraken gasped loudly and could not walk so rode instead on one of the travois, Kerrick found himself filled with a happiness that was new to him. The clarity of the arr pleased him, as did the silence of the mountains, the stark cleanliness of sky and rock. So different from the damp heat of the south, the sweat and insects. The Yilane could have their swamps and endless summer. They were suited for it. They would find life here unbearable. This was not their world here — could they not leave it to the Tanu? Although he looked always at the sky Kerrick saw none of the great raptors or other birds that might be marking their passage. Perhaps the Yilane would not follow. Perhaps they were safe from them at last.
“That is the highest pass, there,” Munan announced one afternoon, pointing ahead. “Where those clouds are, where it is snowing. I remember now how the clouds sweep up from the west so that it snows there more often than not.”
“We cannot wait for the snow to stop,” Herilak said. “There is little wood and fodder left. We must press on.”
It took a long day of continuous struggle to reach the summit of the pass. The snow was deep and the mastodons broke through the crust and foundered in the heavy drifts. It was an exhausting struggle for them all, pushing ahead step after slow step. At nightfall the sammads were still on the slope and were forced to spend a sleepless night there, with the beasts squealing in discomfort through the darkness. Unable to light fires they could only wrap themselves in furs and shiver until dawn. At the first light they went on, knowing only that frozen death awaited them if they did not.
Once past the crest the going was even more difficult, working their way down the steep and icy slope. But they could not stop. The feed was gone and the mastodons would not survive another night in the snow. They went on, feeling their way through the banks of cloud that rolled up the slope to them. They reached the broken scree of rocks and boulders in the afternoon and found that it was even harder to walk on than the snow had been. It was almost dusk when they broke through the clouds and felt the setting sun warm on their faces. The valleys opened out below them and, far distant yet, there was a trace of green vegetation.
Darkness fell but they stopped only long enough to build a fire and light torches. In their flickering light the exhausted sarnmads stumbled onward. It wasn’t until they were aware that the ground was softer underfoot that they realized the ordeal was over. They stopped then, on a slope beside a rushing stream of snowmelt where the ground was tufted with clumps of grass. They dropped, exhausted, while the mastodons squealed and tore out great clumps of grass with their trunks. Even the preserved murgu meat tasted good that night.
The worst was past; going down the valleys proved to be far easier than climbing them had been. Very soon they were back among the trees where the mastodons gorged themselves on the green leaves. The hunters were happy. They had seen the fresh droppings of mountain goat that day and in the morning swore that there would be fresh meat. But the goats were too wary and climbed to safety, vanishing well before the hunters were within arrowshot. It was the following day, in a meadow set between the trees, that they stalked a herd of small deer, killing two before the others fled. There were not only deer to eat here, for the pine trees were a kind they had never seen before, with sweet nuts inside the pinecones. The mountains were behind them, the future bright.
It was on the next day that the stream they were following ended in a rocky pool. There were the tracks of many animals in the mud beside it. The pool itself had no outlet. The water must run underground from this place; they had seen this happen before.
“This is where we will stop,” Herilak said. “There is water here, grazing for the beasts, good hunting if we have read the signs right. Here is what we will do. The sammads will stay in this place and the hunters will bring in fresh meat. There are berries, roots to be dug. We will not go hungry at once. I will go on with Munan who has been here before to see what lies ahead. Kerrick will come with us.”
“We must carry water in skins,” Munan said. “There is little water after this, none in the desert.”
“That is what we will do,” Herilak said.
The change began at once, as soon as the three hunters were lower in the hills. There were few trees now, the grass was dry, and there were more and more of the spiny, dangerous-looking plants. As the foothills grew flatter the grass became sparse and they walked on gravel and drifts of sand. All of the plants now were spiny and dry-looking, each spaced far from the others. The air was dry and motionless. A lizard wriggled out of sight when they approached. Nothing else moved.
“It has been a long hard day,” Herilak said. “We will stop here, one place is like any other. Is this the desert you talked of?”
Munan nodded. “It is all very much like this. Some places with more sand, sometimes broken rock. Other than these spine-plants nothing grows. There is no water.”
“We will go on in the morning. It must have an end.”
The desert was hot and dry and despite what Herilak had said it appeared to be endless. They walked for four days, from sunrise to sunset, resting in the middle of the day when the sun was high and it was too hot to go on. At the end of the fourth day the mountains were only a gray line on the horizon behind them. Ahead the desert was unchanged. At sunset Herilak stood on a small rise, shading his eyes as he looked west.
“The same,” he said. “No hills or mountains, nothing green. Just more desert.”
Kerrick held up the water skin. “This is the last.”
“I know. We return in the morning. We have come as far as we can. Even now we will have no water for the last day’s walking. We will drink well that night, when we reach the hills again.”
“What will we do then?” Kerrick asked, piling up dry twigs for their fire.
“That must be thought about. If the hunting has been good perhaps we can stay in those hills. We will see.”
When it was dark there was a hooting of an owl, close by. Kerrick shook himself, suddenly wide awake, feeling a sudden chill. It was just an owl, nothing more. They lived here in the desert, eating the lizards. Just an owl.
The Yilane could not know they were here, could not have followed them through the snows of the mountain passes. They were safe.
Yet that night he dreamed of Alpeasak, was once again among the scurrying fargi. There was Inlenu* at the other end of the lead. He moaned in his sleep but did not wake, did not know that he lay with his fingers clamped on the iron ring about his neck.
