And when they got to the cul-de-sac, they found evidence of how real the danger was.
Huddled against the boulders of the back was what was left of a man.
Rags and bones, mostly. The carcass was decades old, at least. There were no marks of violence on him, except that done by scavengers, and from the way the bones lay Tarma judged he'd died of cold.
"Poor bastard," she said, picking up a sword in a half-rotten sheath, and turning it over, looking for some trace of ownership-marks. "Helluva way to die."
Kethry was tumbling stones down over the pitiful remains, Jadrek was doing his best to help. "Is there any good way to die?"
"In your own bed. In your own time. Here -- can you make anything of this?"
Jadrek dug into his packs while the women were occupying themselves with the grisly remains they'd found. He was aching all over with pain, even through the haze of drugs. Worse, he was slowing them down.
But there was a solution, of sorts. They didn't need him now, and if the weather worsened, his presence -- or absence -- might mean the difference between life and death for the two partners.
So he was going to overdose. That would put him to sleep. If they did find shelter, there would be no harm done, and he would simply sleep the overdose off. But if they didn't --
If they didn't, the cold would kill him painlessly, and they'd be rid of an unwieldy burden. Without him they'd be able to take paths and chances they weren't taking now. Without him they could devote energy to saving themselves.
He swallowed the bitter herb pellets quickly, before they could catch him at it, and washed away the bitterness with a splash of icy water from his canteen. Then he pressed himself up against the sheltered side of Kethry's mount, trying to leech the heat from her body into his own.
Kethry took the sword from her partner, and turned it over. The sheath looked as if it had once had metal fittings; there were gaping sockets in the pommel and at the ends of the quillions of the sword that had undoubtedly once held gemstones. There was no evidence of either, now.
"Poor bastard. Might have been a merc, down on his luck," Tarma said. "That's when you know you're hitting the downward slide -- when you're selling the decorations off your blade."
Kethry slid the sword a little out of the sheath; it resisted, with a grating sound, although there was no sign of rust on the dull gray blade. Tarma leaned over her shoulder, and scratched the exposed metal with the point of her dagger, then snorted at the shiny marks the steel left on the metal of the sword.
"Well, I feel a little less sorry for him," Kethry retorted. "My guess is that he was a thief. This was some kind of dress blade, but the precious metal and the stones have been stripped from it"
"Have to be a dress sword," the Shin'a'in said in disgust. "Nobody in their right mind would depend on that thing. It isn't steel or even crude-forged iron. You're right, he must have been a thief -- and probably the pretties were stripped by somebody that came across the body."
Tarma turned back to her inspection of her mare's condition, and Kethry nodded, shoving the blade back into its sheath. "You're right about this thing," she agreed. "Metal that soft wouldn't hold an edge for five minutes. Damn thing is nearly useless. That pretty much confirms it. The departed wasn't dressed particularly well, I doubt he'd have much use for a dress-sword." She started to stick the thing point-down into the cairn they'd built -- then, moved by some impulse she didn't quite understand, put it into her pack, instead.
There was something about that sword -- something buried below the seeming of its surface, something that tasted of magic. And if there was magic involved, Kethry thought vaguely, it might be worth saving to look into later.
Neither Tarma nor Jadrek noticed; Tarma was checking Ironheart's feet. and Jadrek was pressed up against Hellsbane's side with his eyes closed, trying to absorb some of the mare's warmth into his own body.
Tarma straightened up with a groan. "Well, people, I hate to say this, but -- "
Kethry and Jadrek sighed simultaneously.
"I know," Kethry replied. "Time to go."
Darkness was falling swiftly, and the snow was coming down thicker than ever. They'd given up trying to find a campsite themselves; Tarma had sent Warrl out instead. That meant they had one less set of eyes to guard them, but Warrl was the only one who stood a chance of finding shelter for them.
Tarma was leading both horses; on a trail this uncertain, she wanted it to be her that stumbled or fell, not the mares. She was cold to the point of numbness, and every time Hellsbane tripped on the uneven ground, she could hear Jadrek catching his breath in pain, and Kethry murmuring encouragement to him.
Tarma was no longer thinking much beyond the next step, and all her hopes were centered on the kyree. If they didn't find shelter by dawn, they'd be so weary that no amount of will could keep them from resting -- and once resting, no amount of fore-knowledge would keep them from falling asleep --
And they would die.
Tarma wondered how many ghosts haunted the Comb, fools or the desperate, lured into trying to thread the rocky hills and falling victim to no enemy but the murderous weather.
She half-listened to the wind wailing among the rocks above them. It sounded like voices. The voices of hungry ghosts, vengeful ghosts, jealous of the living. The kinds of ghosts that showed up in the songs of her people, now and again, who sought only to lure others to their deaths, so that they might have company.
How many fools -- how many ghosts --
A white shape loomed up out of the dusk before them, blocking the path. A vague, ivory rider on an ethereal silver horse, appearing suddenly and soundlessly out of the snow, like a pallid harbinger of cold death.
"Li'sa'eer!" Tarma croaked, and dropped the reins of both horses, pulling the sword slung at her back in the next instant, and wondering wildly if Goddess-blessed steel could harm a hungry ghost.
:Mindmate, no!:
Warrl jumped down from the hillside to her right to interpose his bulk between her and the spirit. :Mindmate -- this is help!:
"Peace upon you, lady." The voice of the one astride the strange white beast was not that of a spirit; nor, when Tarma allowed a corner of herself to test the feel of him, was there any of the tingle she associated with magic. The man's voice was not hollow, as a spirit's normally sounded; it was warm, deep, and held a tinge of amusement. "Your four-footed friend came looking for aid, and we heard his calling. I did not mean to startle you."
Tarma's arms shook as she resheathed the blade. "Goddess bless -- warn a body next time! You just about ate six thumbs of steel!"
"Again, your pardon, but we could not tell exactly where you were. Your presences seem rather ... blurred."
"Never mind that," Kethry interrupted from behind Tarma, her voice sharp. "Who are you? What are you? Why should we trust you?"
The man did not seem to be taken aback by her words. "You're wise not to take anything on appearance, lady. You don't know me -- but I do know you; I've talked to your friend mind-to-mind, and I know who you are and what you wish. You can trust me on three counts." He and his horse moved in to stand nose to nose with Ironheart. Tarma saw with no little surprise that even in the fading light the beast's eyes were plainly a bright and startling blue. "Firstly -- that you are no longer in Rethwellan; you crossed the Border some time back, and you are in Valdemar. The enemy on your backtrail will not be able to pass the Border, nor would I give you to him. Secondly, that the man you seek, Prince Stefansen, is Valdemar's most welcome guest, and I will be taking you to him as quickly as your tired beasts can manage. And thirdly, you can trust me because of my office."