The King's Might: A Legend of Averdan

Part Seven, Chapter One

Author's Note--

I have to confess. Lukere is my favorite person in here. Who's yours? I like to talk to you guys. Otherwise, I have to talk to the people all around me, and that's just scary.

Love,

EFR

SEVEN

SIRILI

*****

ONE

In Which There is Rejoicing, But People Are Very Confused

They found the Northern army easily. An entire army is, after all, a hard thing to miss.

The road they walked on, following steadily more recent footprints, became bad. Not the sort of bad where a few cobblestones were pushed up and the horses had trouble finding their footing, but nearly obliterated sort of bad--as though the road itself had not been in use for a very long time. The trees, which had grown bigger and bigger since they crossed out of the Southern territories and through the Mountains, were now giant evergreens, twisted and bifurcated trees that looked from a distance almost like huge sleeping animals. The army was forced to walk ten abreast, then five. Seeing the long train of it stretching out into the distant snows behind them, Lanon was achingly conscious of the possibility of ambush.

As was Lukere. "This is madness," he muttered, pulling his cloak further over his frozen face. "A bad, narrow road, trees and hills on either side--we might as well be advertising for someone to come down and break us. The tracks are undeniable, but I just can't believe someone as experienced as the Sedat would lead men this way."

"Yet he obviously did," Lanon said. "I'm guessing whatever is at the end of this road was worth the risk to him. Therefore, it must be worth the risk to us."

"Probably worth the risk because he knew we'd follow him."

"Stop being so dark."

Lukere only grunted from the depths of his hood.

But Lanon was beginning to fear the worst as well. They had come prepared for cold--it would obviously be, in the lands of the Northmage, cold--but not for cold of this magnitude. Not bone-chilling, uncompromising, glacial cold. The men, wrapped up in their cloaks and puffing jets of white steam into the still air, were beginning to grumble. Their felt boots, the only kind really worn in the Souchlad, were sodden. If they continued to be sodden, toes would be lost. And then, Lanon suspected--then, a morale problem would really begin.

"I think it's beautiful," Alair said. "The snow, I mean. So much white."

"Sand's white too, you know," Lukere said darkly. "Or it's close enough. You won't think this is nearly so pretty when you have to sleep in it."

"Posh, because you've had to sleep on the ground so much. I've seen those silk tents you sleep in on campaign."

"Not in this one. The wind was too high through the Pass--kept blowing them down. We slept on rocks and between rocks. On snow, in the bloody wind. It hasn't been a lot of fun, you know." Lukere grimaced bitterly. "Still, it's beginning to look positively like the tropics, compared to this."

Alair shuddered, shivered. "No wonder they keep pressing the borders. It's too cold to live up here."

"I don't know. I heard some things, down in the Borderlands...strange things. Apparently it's never like...well, I think it's supposed to be more like that."