The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [96]
“. . . where are they?”
“. . . can you hear them?”
“. . . they’re north . . .”
“. . . I heard something over there . . .”
Slowly, slowly, his path guided by the winds and not by his eyes, Creslin picks his way around the fringe of the Cretan troop and toward the pass that cuts across the corner of Certis to the west before again twisting northward. He takes a deep breath, then reaches a bit farther, twisting and yanking even colder air into the clouds above, wincing as ice forms.
Threp . . . threp . . . threp . . . threp . . .
Most of the hailstones fall near the road.
“. . . demons . . .”
“. . . frigging captain. Ought to be here.”
Through the gloom and fog, Creslin can sense Megaera’s twisted smile even as he feels his legs shake, his eyes burn. He takes a deep breath, for they have not yet gone far enough.
A hand touches his wrist, and a sense of warmth flows into his body. It is Megaera, her mount’s flank nearly touching the chestnut’s. The weakness in his knees retreats, but they must continue to move onward. He releases the hail and takes another deep breath as he senses the walls of the pass begin to close on them.
“Where—” begins a mercenary.
“Shut up.” The iron-edged whisper is the redhead’s, not Creslin’s, but it has no less power because of the sex of the speaker.
Another kay passes slowly, and Creslin releases more winds as -they climb upward and out of the fog. He looks back. The pass, and the valley onto which it opens, remains swathed in white, almost as white as the faces of the three mercenaries.
“Oh . . .”
Creslin’s body is nearly too tired to catch the redhead as she collapses across the neck of her mount. The two heavy packs behind her saddle hamper him as he tries to keep the horses together.
He swallows—realizing the cost of the warmth he had received—as he leans to support her partial weight, still attempting to keep the horses together for the moment and wishing that he knew how to return her favor.
She breathes, and he can only hope that her swoon is simple exhaustion. The Spidlarians help him move her in front of him, where he can hold her as they start downhill. His knees tremble, but he will not let her go, not when this may be one of the few times he can hold her.
He looks up and toward the lead mercenary. None of the three men meet his eyes, not even the one who takes the reins of Megaera’s mount. The now-riderless horse looks like a packhorse, with clothes and other items stacked behind the saddle.
As the five horses head down toward the Sligo road, Creslin frowns. Why could he twist the winds the second time without the agony he felt after his first effort?
He looks up at the storm clouds marching in from the north, promising rain, cold rain, and takes a deep breath.
LIX
“HE BESTED BORTREN,” Hartor says with disbelief.
“Bortren was a fool. He should have just helped the Certans. Still, it’s hard to see how Creslin avoided two full troops on the Sligo road.”
“Why don’t you ask the guard who came back? This was your idea, and now we’ve got two monsters on the loose.” He turns toward the doorway.
“Hartor.”
The other stops. “Yes, Jenred?”
“It was my idea. We also lost only five men and one wizard, not an entire army. If Bortren had listened, we would have had no losses and a far less obstreperous viscount in Jellico. You will also note that the Duke did not provide Creslin and Megaera with his own guards.”
Hartor’s face remains impassive.
“Get the guard,” Jenred orders. “Perhaps you should join the pursuit yourself to give greater importance to the effort.”
“I might . . . after you hear the guard.”
Hartor leaves, and Jenred waits as a young road guard trembles his way toward the table. The youth stops but does not look at the High Wizard.
“What happened?” Jenred demands.
“He . . . I don’t know, but somehow . . . I mean . . . Jekko and Beran and the new guy, they turned to ice . . . and the wind near threw us right