The Riddle - Alison Croggon [183]
For all these reasons she kept running, but another part of her ran for the sheer joy of it. Even her tiredness could not abate her pleasure in her freedom. Her senses rang with the sharp smell of pine sap, the scent and scuffle of a hare bounding for its lair, the sudden strange stink of a fox, the clean, empty taste of snow dissolving on her hot tongue. She could feel the ground stretching far beneath her paws, turning in its ancient, unchanging rhythms as the wolves skated over its surface, leaving not even a mark on the snow, transient and silent as snowflakes. Only the sharpest eyes could have seen them as they ran, white ghosts slipping through shifting curtains of snow.
At about midday, they left the road and climbed to the top of a snow-covered ridge. Maerad found herself looking down on a forest of spruce, which stretched from the knees of the mountains southward. Here, at last, they stopped. Maerad drew up beside the wolf and stood, her sides heaving, too spent for the moment to speak.
We have traveled well, said the wolf into Maerad’s mind after she had caught her breath. But farther would be better.
Yes, said Maerad, speaking for the first time since she had fled Arkan-da. She turned and looked into the wolf’s eyes, resisting the urge to sniff, overcome by curiosity. Who are you? she asked. You are no ordinary wolf, surely. Why did you help me?
You know me better than you think, answered the wolf. I have my own reasons for helping you.
You’re Ardina, said Maerad with a sudden conviction.
The wolf looked at her, and Maerad realized it was laughing. I might be Ardina, if I were not a wolf, she said. You have a sharp wit. Not even Arkan himself would know me in this guise.
The two stood companionably, staring down over the ridge. Maerad did not feel surprised: somehow it seemed completely natural.
Then Ardina’s ears pricked up and she sniffed the air. A moment later, Maerad heard a low rumble behind her and turned her head to look. At first she saw nothing, but then a black cloud rose over the shoulders of the northern mountains. She watched as it boiled upward into the sky, blacker than any cloud she had ever seen, shimmering with forked lightning. Black twisting vortexes snaked down from its belly, striking the mountainside like giant whips. It was spreading out across the sky with a terrifying speed. She strained her ears: could she hear the baying of stormdogs? Maerad flinched and moved closer to Ardina.
The Winterking comes in wrath, said Ardina. She showed no fear. We must move.
The great wolf leaped over the ridge and ran down the long slope toward the forest. Maerad ran at her shoulder, her tiredness forgotten in a fresh surge of fear. She could see the edge of the forest in the middle distance, and the wolves could move very swiftly, but Maerad could feel the storm racing up behind them, swallowing up the thin winter light. He will find me, she thought, and all will be lost. . . .
They reached the forest just as the outriders of the storm hit the trees — a gale so strong it sent their branches thrashing like reeds. At first, plunging through the darkness of the forest, Maerad was grateful for its shelter, but a branch broke and crashed behind her, just missing her tail, and she realized that it had its own dangers. She thought of the iriduguls with their clubs, or the paws of the stormdogs; they could easily flatten the whole forest.
Do not fear, said Ardina as if she heard her thoughts. The Winterking cannot identify us, and neither can his minions, so long as we are creatures.
We do not have to be seen to be crushed, thought Maerad, as they threaded their way through the pale trunks, which glimmered through the forest shadow. Huge hailstones began to clatter through the leaves. One hit Maerad’s flank, and she jumped sideways with a yelp; it was like being struck by a hammer. Now she was sure she could hear the baying of stormdogs,