She shrugged. “Just something Orlad told me. I’ll tell you later.”
SALTAJA HRAGSDOR
was extremely unimpressed by mammoth riding. The howdah seating was sadistically uncomfortable and the weather perversely appalling. Lodging and food were as bad as any she had known since her childhood; even the river had been better than on her journey to First Ice.
She was more than seventy years old and even Chosen did not live forever. Without the power she could draw from the Old One, she would not have survived the first day. Although the sacrifice she had offered in Tryfors had brought her great favor, she must hoard that influence for the worse ordeal ahead. She now had Heth Hethson well Dominated, so he needed no further work for the time being. The girl, Guitha, was biddable without any Control at all. An angry word or a slap worked on her. But Saltaja did expend power on Cutrath Horoldson.
Shaping was her greatest skill and she had forgotten how enjoyable it was. She kept him at her side, sitting on the wind-swept howdah or rolled in a blanket next to hers in the shelters at night, completely unaware of her subtle prying in his mind. He was an excellent subject, being of her own blood and never having formed a character of his own. What personality he did have was totally dominated by fear of his father’s displeasure and brutal discipline. She enjoyed whittling away Horold the ogre.
She needed something to replace him, though, and it took her a while to identify the vague shape lurking deep in Cutrath’s dreams. She had expected his dead brothers or some other commanding young Hero. To her anger and astonishment, the mysterious idol turned out to Benard Celebre. He was strong, he was clever, he was Ingeld’s lover. Even before that disaster happened, the young Cutrath must have sensed that his mother preferred the Florengian hostage to him, yet he dared not model himself on Benard when his father despised Florengians (wrong color), hostages (losers), and artists (sissies). But Benard was all Saltaja could find in there and he would have to do. She began to Shape a better Cutrath around his own view of the sculptor: physically strong, confident, courageous, popular with men, attractive to women. She was annoyed to think that the real Benard might not be too far removed from that image.
She had seen right away that the other men despised Cutrath. They snubbed and mocked him. She also knew that he would never be able to carry on the family business until he could command warriors’ respect. Wondering if Werists could smell fear, as other predators could, she concentrated on erasing Cutrath’s terror of his father. She knew she was making progress on the sixth night of the trek, when the expedition reached the shelter at First Ice. While she waited for hot water to be brought for her bath, she saw him talking with some other men. They no longer spurned him. They even laughed at some of his jokes. He was probably giving obscene answers to their questions about her, but she saw his flush of joy in the firelight.
Given time, she could make something of Cutrath.
The next morning was the worst part of the trek so far. Heth’s chosen assassins had disposed of the Nastrarians in the night; at dawn the mammoths rampaged. Some went off in search of vegetation, bulls began fighting over cows, still others tore open the barns to loot the last of the hay.
Saltaja’s carrying chair had been unpacked and assembled. Heth had picked out the strongest eight men in the hunt to be her bearers, two teams of four, and she interviewed each of them briefly, imposing only a trace of Dominance, just lancing each man’s venom enough that he would not be tempted to drop the Queen of Shadows over a cliff somewhere en route. She found the chair a tight fit with all her robes and cushions, but she would have taken to it sooner had she known it would be so much more comfortable than a howdah.
The path up the Ice was rarely wide enough for more than one man at a time. Foreseeing this problem, Heth had designed the chair with poles long enough that the bearers could walk between them, in single file. They took the weight on shoulder straps, leaving their hands free to hold the guide ropes. Her military aide fussed and fretted along close behind them, although Xaran alone knew what good Cutrath thought he could do.
At the top Saltaja saw a line of men heading off over a white plain toward a snowy ridge and the indigo sky beyond. The Edge itself was still days away. Westward the view was dominated by Mount Varakats and the wall of the world. Below her the buildings of First Ice blazed furiously and the last of the mammoths were disappearing over the stony desert. There was no turning back now, and no chance of pursuit. All she had to do now was live through the journey. Her eyes filled with tears, but it was the icy wind doing that, not sentimental thoughts of being reunited with Stralg after all these years.
It was cold! She closed the shutters against the wind and made herself comfortable.
The road wound up and down endlessly. Wind and cold were their companions now. There was no real scenery, no mountains, only rock and ice. Even snow was rare. Stars shone in full daylight. She had nothing to do but endure, and yet she found herself growing weaker. Soon she could not sleep, she had no appetite. The constant cold was as bad as the lack of air, making her lungs ache and throat burn. She wished she had sacrificed more young men to the Mother of Lies.
Each night they came to a shelter that seemed smaller and cruder than the one before. The walls were built of local stone, without mortar. Everything else, from the doors to the roofing beams, had been carried up from First Ice on men’s backs. The roofs were of slate or leather and the floors gravel or bare rock.
Every shelter had been provisioned with enough food and fuel for a two-night stay. Each morning the men were allowed to load up as much as they could carry of whatever had not been consumed. Then the huts and their remaining contents were burned. At the fourth shelter the weather turned so bad that they had to stay three nights, huddled together in fetid misery, listening to the wind howling through the chinks. The food lasted, just, but the fuel did not. On the last night they could drink only if they sucked on fragments of ice.
Next morning the weather was little better, but now they must move on or die. The march was resumed in a thick blizzard. Snow was drifting in a few places, but mostly it just blew and the ground was scoured to bare rock. Fortunately the way was marked and led mostly downhill, in a long but easy slope. When Saltaja judged that the day was near to ending, she passed the word for Cutrath and he came to trudge alongside the chair. He was just another huge man swathed in furs. It was not until he spoke that she could be sure it was he.
“Another pot-boiling to go, Aunt.”
“Why do we keep going down? We are not over the Edge yet, surely?”
“No, Aunt. We are coming to Mountain of Skulls, they say. A big climb tomorrow. Stralg lost more men there than he ever lost in battle. So they tell me.”
She thought it was also where his brothers, Finar and Fitel, had died, but did not say so, not being sure. “I was not satisfied with my quarters, these last three days. I want you to go ahead with the advance party and pick out a place next the fire for me.”
Cutrath sighed. “My aunt is kind.” He disappeared into the mist. His father had used exactly that sort of impudence when he was young.
It seemed near two pot-boilings before she saw him again. The hut was smaller than ever-absurdly small for four sixty men-and still icy cold. It was also dark, full of grumbling, jostling shadows as the men filed in, but there was a fire. Cutrath was sitting on a keg beside the hearth, and she went to claim it. She sat and pulled off her mitts to warm her hands.
“I need Guitha,” she said. “Find her.”
Cutrath loomed over her, very big in his furs. “The huntleader is carrying her. She has frostbite. She can’t walk.”