Darkwalker on Moonshae - Douglas Niles [52]
“I think sorcery is kind of interesting,” admitted Daryth. “Do you really think we’ll see some magic?”
“We’ll be lucky to ride out in the same bodies we take in!” grumbled Pawldo, but he nonetheless mounted and accompanied the others. The three had to gallop for several minutes to catch up with Robyn. They found her, halted, in the center of the road, examining a narrow trail to the side.
She looked up at their approach. “This looks like a trail. With luck, it’ll take us over the highlands into Myrloch.”
“Some luck,” grunted Pawldo softly, as they left the road, passing along the path in single file.
The narrow path wound among vast trunks of oak, hickory, and yew – a place with the look of a forest that had never felt the woodsman’s axe.
For the rest of the day they moved steadily along the shaded path. Ever upward it climbed, moving among great piles of boulders, fording shallow streams, and always holding the general bearing of north. In places the forest opened into small meadows, and they caught sight of the great falcon, circling impatiently as it waited for the time-consuming passage of the earthbound humans.
Finally darkness provided them a respite from the long hours in the saddle. The moon, nearly full, cast glaring shadows among the huge trunks surrounding their camp. They built a small fire, taking care that it smoked little and that its light was screened.
“We’d better keep watches,” suggested the prince. “This is still part of the Kingdom of Corwell, but with Firbolgs and whatever else abroad -”
“Who lives here?” asked Daryth, looking around at the pristine wilderness of their surroundings.
“Very few people – mostly Ffolk who are hunters, or shepherds – people who like the wild places more than they like companionship,” answered Tristan.
“Aye. And we’re not far from the lands of the Llweyrr!” declared Pawldo, looking over his shoulders and suppressing a shudder. “I sense magic!”
“There is no danger here,” Robyn said quietly, staring into the small campfire.
“Still, I’ll vote with Tristan to keep guard. I’ll take the first watch.” Daryth climbed stiffly to his feet and looked around.
“As you wish,” replied Robyn, shrugging. “I’ll take a turn at guard, too.”
The others exchanged uneasy glances, but no one said anything.
They remained vigilant, in shifts, but the night passed without disturbance. They ate cold bread and cheese for breakfast, but even before they finished, the black falcon had launched himself northward from his perch in a tall pine, decreeing that his followers quickly take to the trail again.
Their route climbed steadily, toward the crest of the ridge separating the kingdom of Corwell from the realms of the Llewyrr – Myrloch Vale. As the morning progressed they encountered patches of snow still lying in shadowed places throughout the woods. The higher they climbed, the more snow-covered ground they saw. By noon, they plodded through wet, slushy snow with every step. In places, melting drifts still three or four feet deep covered the path.
After several hours, they finally emerged from the trees onto the rocky upper slopes of the highlands. These rolling mountaintops, subjected to the continual light of the sun, had long ago lost their snowy mantle. Now the companions made good time as the trail wound even higher. Still the falcon soared far ahead.
Robyn rode beside Daryth for much of the afternoon, talking and, occasionally, laughing. Tristan rode at the rear of the party, with Pawldo. He wanted to join them, but felt reluctant to intrude. Robyn and Daryth seemed to share some private agreement. Pawldo was good company, but the hours passed very slowly.
By nightfall, they could see their destination: a high pass in the jagged ridgeline. The trail twisted treacherously among lower peaks before emerging along a sheer cliff and following a narrow ledge to the summit. Sable, an almost invisible speck, hovered over the pass.
They camped in a small clump of miniature pines that