Days of Blood and Fire - Katharine Kerr [138]
Rhodry found that a heavy pack sits lighter on a man who’s used to walking. Although his back burned by the end of the first day’s march, bit by bit he grew accustomed to the weight until he could almost keep up with the dwarves, not that he would ever match their stamina fully. Even once he hit his stride, they were still forced to stop for rests they didn’t need and to make camp a little earlier than they would have chosen on their own.
The terrain was hard traveling, anyway—steep, rocky hills, thickly forested valleys, some narrow enough to be called ravines and little more—treacherous enough to make them decide to march during the day. Although Garin seemed sure of the route, Rhodry never was aware of their following anything that could be called a path, merely places where the scrub and brambles grew less thickly. At times, only some hard work with a dwarven ax got them clear of underbrush without doubling back. The traveling might have been easier, of course, if it weren’t for Otho’s constant grumbling, whether he was snarling in rage or merely muttering under his breath. At least once a day Garin would threaten to drown the old man and leave his bones for the ravens.
Every night they camped as high as possible and preferably among rocks, not trees, where they could take turns standing watches and keep an eye out, as Garin said, just in case something was following them. Yet they never saw an enemy, not in the night or even during the day. For the first time all summer, Rhodry slept without dreams of watching eyes. From these high camps he could see for miles, looking back down toward Lin Serr and Deverry itself, lost beyond the horizon, as if it had fallen away from this vertical world of rock and ravine. When he turned north he would see the white peaks, so close in the morning air that it seemed he could jump, stretch, and touch them.
After some six days in wild country, when they were beginning to run low on supplies, the weather began to change. Toward sunset cirrus clouds wisped across the sky from the west, and by the time the moon rose, about halfway between its first quarter and its full, a mackerel sky webbed its silver light. Morning brought a gray roil of cloud. In a whipping wind they broke camp and headed north in silence, looking up as often as they looked forward.
“How far to Haen Marn?” Mic asked.
“I don’t know,” Garin said, chewing on his lower lip. “But we should find the first road stone today.”
“What do you mean you don’t know?” Otho snapped. “You’ve been there thrice.”
“And each time it appeared at a different twist in the road.”
Otho goggled.
“It did, and there’s naught more I can say about it.” Garin shrugged mightily. “Disbelieve me all you want, but I know what I saw. And the third time no one let me in, either.”
“What is this place?” Rhodry said. “A dun? And what kind of people would turn a stranger from their gates, anyway?”
“People who live by different laws than yours, but they made sure I had the food to get myself home again. I’m not saying a thing more, because you won’t be believing me, anyway. You’ll all see for yourselves, you will, and with luck it’ll be soon now.”
Round midday they panted up a particularly steep hill, crested a lifeless rise of black basalt, and looked down into a thickly forested valley, some two hundred yards across at the widest point and about five hundred long. Down this length a stream ran, crossing the middle of a clearing about fifty yards wide and too precisely circular to be a natural formation.
“Oho!” Garin said. “Now that looks promising, lads.”
They fought their way downhill through grasping brambles and thick shrubs to the valley floor, hit the-stream, and followed it back and forth along what seemed to be its entire length. They never found the clearing.
“Ye gods,” Garin whispered. “It’s starting already. Well, we might as well get out of this cursed gulch.”
“Now wait,” Rhodry said. “I for one need a meal, and a clearing like that just