The Castle Of Hape. Caves Of Fire And Ice. The Joining Of The Stone

Ram watched darkness fall. The wind swept cold and damp down from the mountains and across the hills, flattening the tall ruddy grass, blowing the horses’ manes with sharp whipping motions. The darkness was early, hurried by heavy clouds. He looked toward the mountains, which were only a smear now in the falling night, and was gripped with a sudden sharp longing for the wolves, for Fawdref s wolfish grin and his cool wisdom.

It had been more than a year since they had met; Fawdref was growing old—even the great wolves grow old. Growing gray and thinner, Ram knew. He longed to go to him, to hold Fawdref’s shaggy head on his shoulder, to see gentle Rhymannie bow and smile at him; to be alone inside the dark mountains and the old grottoes, among the wolves once more. But he could not.

He had reached out again and again toward Burgdeeth, trying to sense something of what was occurring there. Had Venniver another victim for his fires? But Burgdeeth remained maddeningly locked away from him. He could only hasten, now, up toward the black mountains and into them, to seek as quickly as he could the hidden valley of Eresu, and then to use every skill he possessed to gain the gods’ help in stopping Venniver’s insane murders.

The wind blew clouds across the stars, hiding Ere’s slim moons. He could smell rain, and the wind chilled him through. He dug his leather cape from the pack none too soon, for thunder began to rattle; and then the rain itself came pelting sudden and sharp and cold. The pack mare lurched close to his knee, seeking protection. The night was black as sin, drear and damnably wet. His leather was near soaked through and the horses drenched when he sensed suddenly that a man rode beside him, just beyond his sight in the pounding rain. He felt the rider draw closer. He could see the darker shape then, in the heavy downpour. A tall man, on a tall horse, caped, he thought, and looking down at him. He could feel his stare like a lance. Ram slipped his sword from the scabbard, more irritated than afraid, and waited. He wondered that his horses gave no sign of fear, not a twitch from his mount He wanted badly to bark out a challenge, but held his silence.

The rider lurched suddenly so close to Ram that their boots touched, Ram’s sword poised inches from his chest. And though he had to shout above the driving rain, the man’s voice was uncertain and lost. “Can you tell me—I—what place is this? I seem . . . I seem to have lost my way.”

Ram frowned. “You are in Carriol. We—you ride toward her western border, toward Blackcob. Where do you come from, stranger, that you are so lost as that? Where do you come from that you are out on such a night?”

“I—from the mountains. I come from the mountains and—have lost myself and could . . . I could not stay where I was. You . . .” he reached out a hand then and touched Ram’s shoulder unexpectedly. Ram felt a sudden ease, a sense of comfort. “And you, lad? Unless a man were lost like me, only an urgent mission would bring him out on such a night.” They were both shouting, impossible to be heard otherwise, but their words might have been spoken quietly, almost shyly.

“I ride—I ride on a private mission,” Ran said warily.

“I see. And may I come along with you until I—until I get my bearings? I don’t . . . Or is your mission too private to allow me that?”

“You—you may ride with me.”

“There are—if we are riding toward the west hills of Carriol, there will be fences lad, in the dark . . .”

Ram frowned, puzzled. “There are few fences on this land. Though—though fences—stone walls perhaps, would be useful.”

“Few fences yet? But . . .” The man went silent for a long moment, and when he spoke again it seemed to be with some care. “Carriol—Carriol is not so large a nation, then.”

“Everyone in Ere, I would have thought, knows Carriol’s exact size and strength.”

“I have . . . I have been a long time in the mountains.”

Ram’s unease increased. “No man dwells for long in those mountains, stranger. No man I ever heard of.”

“I come—I have traveled far into the mountains for a time—into the unknown lands these—many years. I do . . . I do not know what has happened in any of the nations of Ere. I must have been wrong about the fences, about remembering. . . . You—you would favor me by telling me the news if you don’t mind shouting over this damnable rain.”

Ram studied the shadow that rode beside him. Who was this man? Why did he seem so confused? How could he remember fences that had never been? Ram knew he should challenge him further, question him, but he could not bring himself to do it. There was a sense of hurt about the man, as if he had suffered, as if his strange confusion came from some painful experience; he felt, suddenly, very gentle with the man, felt as if this man needed to know Ere’s history, as if to tell him would be to help him find himself.