The Stonegate Sword

Chapter 9: The Western Wall

Long was the night and cold. Don slept fitfully, waking several times to hear the keening of the wind and feel it clawing at his face. Swirling eddies swept through the camp. Twice, the nearby stamping of his horse's feet made him start and grab for his sword.

The eastern glow of daylight came sullenly at last, dimly lighting the slate-blue sky. A glance to the west showed the towering blue and white wall, now tinted with a hint of rose. It loomed across his path like the jagged fangs of a timber wolf. Dusky stands of fir hid the low country between him and the peaks. The passes could not be seen at all.

Don had a tent in his pack, but he had been too tired to put it up. So his only shelter for the night had been a corner in the lee of several large boulders at the toe of a narrow, rocky ridge. A few small bushes had made fuel for a fire, which had long since gone out.

The Ancients had called this place "Stove Prairie." The first word had meant a metal firebox, which was a bit of irony, he reflected. It was nothing like a stove this morning! Don's bones ached as he wormed out of his bedroll and stomped his feet into icy boots. Cursing his stiff fingers, he fumbled with tinder, flint and steel and finally kindled a small fire. A battered copper kettle held several hands full of snow, which he put on the coals to melt. His breath made a long plume as he measured a quart of grain for each of his horses.

Snap and the packhorse, Red, both pricked up their ears and greeted him with low nickers as he approached and buckled on their feedbags. They were standing with their heads downwind, facing in the direction of Stonegate. The breeze blew their tails and manes like pennants.

Don already missed Hardtack. He had gone to Gray John and tried to buy him for his trek, but had been curtly refused. Gray John, when he learned of Don's intentions, only said that if he did not stay to answer the charges raised in the inquiry he would probably be declared outlaw. He had stalked off without another word. Sven and Bob had taken him aside and given him counsel on what route to take and filled his arms with useful items. They had also helped him buy two sturdy mounts, both of which appeared to be sensible and sound. Their parting words gave some hope for a reconciliation.

"Gray John is hurting," Sven had said, apologetically. "He will get over it. He does not hate you, you know."

"That's right, Donald," Bob had agreed. "He told us that you could keep your armor and weapons -- whatever you have at the lorehouse. But he can't let you take a Stonegate horse."

Don had taken the new horses to the tavern stable and had left at first light two mornings before. He left quietly, saying goodby to no one. It seemed fitting, since he was leaving in disgrace. He did not expect to see the city walls again, so when he had passed out of the gate of weeping he had glanced back and taken a long look. It truly was a citadel on a green hill. He had saluted the guard as he passed out, and received a small wave in return.

That was all.

Now it was the morning of the third day. Don had taken the precaution of hobbling the horses as well as picketing them. He was glad that he had done so, because Red had slipped his halter. From the tracks and the way that the clumps of bunch grass had been grazed, he had not gone far before circling back. With his front legs bound by the hobbles, he had apparently had trouble walking. Fortunately, he had not learned that it is perfectly possible for a hobbled horse to gallop. Nor did Don know how much nourishment the dried grass held, but he was glad that the south-facing slope was bare of snow and that the horses had both had something to eat, at least. The grain made catching Red an easy task.

As the horses munched, Don began the ritual of breaking camp. He remembered what Gray John had said when training troopers: "Your horses are your life out here. Take care of your mount and pack beasts. A man afoot is a dead man in the mountains with times as they are." John had always been ready with good advice. It was strange that he had advised him to give up on Rachel and stay for the inquiry instead. If that was also good advice, then to hell with good advice! Maybe there is a time to cast caution aside, and if following a cold trail into the teeth of death was foolhardy, then he would be a fool.