The Riddle - Alison Croggon [50]
They rode steadily all day, following the westward track out of the village. The shadows grew shorter and shorter before them until they shrank to black pools beneath the bellies of their horses, and then slowly stretched behind them as they blinked in the long, level shafts of the sinking sun. Their way led them steadily higher and higher into countryside that was almost completely uninhabited. They passed only a few solitary huts. Their path was a vertiginous track through a scrubby landscape littered with huge lichened boulders and tumbles of smaller rocks. It was unusually desolate for that fertile island.
“We call this place the Bones, I Lanik in the tongue of the Isle,” said Elenxi as he lit a fire for their camp that night. “Have you seen a stream today?”
Maerad thought, and realized she hadn’t.
“By some trick of the hills, all streams fall on the other face of the ridges. And there are no springs. The only water that comes here falls out of the sky. It is said that long ago the spirit of the place offended the Lamedon and was punished by the banishment of the waters.”
Despite this, Maerad thought the next day, this hungry land had a curious beauty; the naked rocks were rich in colors — mauves and pinks and deep purples and white — and they caught the light in curious and interesting ways. Toward afternoon they entered a broad valley, the snowbound peaks of the central range of Thorold rising sheer on either side of them. Now, for the first time in more than a day, she could hear running water; streamlets dashed down the sides of the valley, meeting farther on to make a wide, shallow river that ran over a bed of smooth pebbles toward the northern coast of Thorold. Their path met the river and ran alongside it.
“Soon we enter the belly of the snake,” said Elenxi, looking over his shoulder. “The Idoiravis.”
Maerad felt an obscure shiver run through her at his words. “Are there bandits here?” she asked. It reminded her a little of the Broken Lands near Milhol, a notorious haunt for such thieves.
“There are no bandits in Thorold, my friend,” said Elenxi, grinning over his shoulder. Nevertheless, they instinctively drew closer together as they passed under the ominous shadows cast by the towering cliffs on either side.
Like the Bones, this was unforgiving country; as they pressed into the valley, the slopes on either side grew more sheer and ever higher, until they were riding through a gorge that sliced through the very heart of the mountains, as if they had cracked open in some primordial tumult. It was very cold: even in midsummer the floor of the Idoiravis stayed in shadow for most of the day, only a few direct shafts of sunlight finding their way past the precipitous walls. Sometimes they saw gray piles of snow from the previous winter hidden in crevices in the rocky walls. Maerad called a halt to put on her woolen cloak, which she had not worn since they had arrived in Thorold, and rode on through the chilly gloom. Along the narrow floor of the gorge were low tangled yews and bog myrtles growing above thick carpets of moss, and stands of some fern she hadn’t seen before, with dark fronds. She didn’t like this place so well. It seemed the horses were in agreement; they quickened their pace to a swift trot, their hoofbeats multiplying disconcertingly in the echoes off the stone walls, as if a cavalry were clattering through the gorge behind them.
Perhaps the clamor of the echoes was why they were taken by surprise. Cadvan pulled up his horse and called out a warning. Instantly he raised a defense, just before Elenxi, who was still leading them, threw up his arms and slithered off his own mount. His horse reared in dismay, and then swung around and bolted off. Maerad stopped in shock, trying to work out what was happening even as she drew her sword — an automatic reaction now — and shielded her mind against attack. Her mare shied beneath her, and Maerad fought to keep control as she felt another attack, sensing a dark