“His name is Olwan,” Tuntun explained. “Olwan Wyndon. I thought you should be told.”
“Why? And why now?”
“Because Olwan has decided to make the Timberlands his home,” Tuntun explained. “You will know him when you see him, for there is indeed a resemblance. He rides north with his family and two other wagons, headed for the settlement called Dundalis.”
“This late in the season?” Mather asked incredulously, for few ventured north of Caer Tinella after the beginning of the ninth month, and here they were, halfway through the eleventh, and those who knew the region were somewhat surprised that winter had not begun in earnest. It was not wise to be caught on the road during the Timberland winter.
“I said he was your brother,” Tuntun replied dryly. “I did not say that he was intelligent. They are on the road, two days yet from the town, and a storm is growing in the west.”
Mather didn’t reply, didn’t blink.
“I thought you should know,” Tuntun said again, and she rose up and straightened her clothes.
“And am I to tell him, this Olwan, who I am?”
Tuntun looked at the man as though she did not understand the question.
“About my life?” Mather asked. “About who I am? That we are brothers?”
Tuntun held her hands out and scrunched up her delicate face. “That choice is Mather’s,” she explained. “We gave you gifts: your life, your training, your elven title, Riverhawk. But we did not take your tongue in payment, nor your free will. Mather will do as Mather chooses.
“To tell him that I was trained by elves?” the ranger asked.
“He will think you crazy, as do all the others, no doubt,” Tuntun said with a laugh. “We have found that the Alpinadoran barbarians to the north and the Toi-gai horseman to the south have oft been accepting of rangers, but the men of the central lands, the kingdom you call Honce-the-Bear, so smug in their foolish religion, so superior in their war machines and great cities, have little tolerance for childish tales. Tell Olwan your brother what you will, or tell him nothing at all. That, you may find, could prove the easier course.”
“They’ll not make the towns before it breaks,” Bradwarden said to Mather, the two of them watching the caravan of three wagons trudging along the north road. They were still ten miles south of Dundalis, half a day’s travel, and Mather knew that the centaur spoke truly. Tuntun had returned to him before dawn, warning of an impending storm, a big one, and also warning him that she had seen quite a bit of goblin sign in the region. Apparently, the trio Mather and Bradwarden had killed were not the whole of the group.
Mather had not disagreed with either grim prediction. He too, had noted signs of the impending storm, and of the goblins, and all of this with his brother making slow time along the road to the south.
So Mather had come out, and Bradwarden with him, to watch over the caravan. When he looked to the western sky, dark clouds gathering like some invading enemy, and when he felt the bite of the increasing northeastern wind through layers of clothing, he thought it a good thing indeed that he had not waited for their arrival in Dundalis.
“I cannot go down to them,” Bradwarden remarked. “Whatever ye’re thinkin’ ye might do to help them through the storm, ye’ll be doin alone.’
Mather nodded his understanding and agreement. “And with the weather worsening, I fear that Dundalis might become the target for the desperate goblins,” he said. “So go back and look over the town. Find Tuntun, if she is still about, and make sure that you keep a watch.”
With a nod, the centaur galloped away. Mather continued shadowing the caravan, silently debating whether he should go down to help them construct some kind of shelter or whether he should just hope. Another hour, another couple of miles, meandered by.
The first few snowflakes drifted down; the wind’s bite increased.
And then it hit, as if the sky itself had simply torn apart, dumping its contents earthward. What had been a gentle flurry became, in mere seconds, a driving blizzard of wind-whipped, stinging snow. Mather continued to watch the wagons, nodding his approval of the skill shown by the lead driver, the man bunching his cloak against the cold and forcing the team on.
Another mile slipped past slowly. By then, three inches of snow covered the trail.
“You can get there,” Mather said quietly, urging the wagons on, for now they slowed and men scrambled together, likely discussing the possibility of stopping to ride out the storm. But they were southerners-likely not one of them had ever been north of Palmaris, which was some three hundred miles away-and they couldn’t appreciate the fury of a Timberland snowstorm. If they circled their wagons now and huddled against the storm, they might find themselves stuck out here, with no help coming from Dundalis, or anywhere else, for many days, even weeks.
Winter would only get rougher. They’d never survive.
Mather pulled the cowl of his cloak low, as much to hide his face as to ward the cold, and rushed down to join the group. “Are you looking for Dundalis?” he asked in greeting as he approached, yelling loudly so that the men could hear him, though they were but a dozen feet from him.
“Dundalis, or any place to hide from the storm,” said the lead driver, a large and strong man, a man who, as Tuntun had said, bore some resemblance to Mather Wyndon.
“Dundalis is your only choice,” Mather replied, running up to grab the bridle of one of the horses. “You’ve got five miles to go.”
We’ll not make it,” another man cried.
“You have to make it,” Mather replied sternly. “Even if you must desert the wagons and follow me on foot.”
“But all our possessions…” the man started.
Mather cut him off and looked directly at Olwan as he spoke. “To stay out here is to die,” he explained. “So tie your wagons together, front to back, and drive your teams-and drive them hard.
“I can hardly see the road before us,” Olwan replied.
“I will guide you.” As Mather finished, a haunting melody came up about them, music carried on, and cutting through, the howling wind.
“And what is that?” the stubborn man on the second wagon yelled.
“Another guide,” Mather replied, silently applauding Bradwarden, understanding that the centaur was using the music to help Mather keep his bearings.
On they went, against the driving snow, against the howling, stinging wind. Mather, his body numb from the cold, pulled the lead horse along, kicking through the piling snow. Several hours passed, and still they were a mile away, and now the snow was a foot deep all about them and before them, and the afternoon was fast giving way to evening.
It grew colder, the wind only increased, and the snow did not relent.
Mather hardly knew where he was, the snow stealing landmarks. He plodded on, yanking at the reluctant horses, and then he found he was not alone, that his brother, with equal determination, was beside him, pulling hard.
“How far?” Olwan yelled. Mather hardly heard him.
The ranger glanced around, searching, searching, for something, for anything that would give him some indication. Then he saw a tree, and he knew that tree, and he recognized that they had but one climb to go, a few hundred yards and no more. But it would be a difficult climb, and by the time they capped the last ridge, darkness would be deep about them.
They fought and scrambled for every foot of ground. At one point, the trailing wagon slipped off the trail and hooked on a tree root. They thought they would have to cut it free, but stubborn Mather, now thinking of this storm as an enemy, would not surrender anything. He went behind the wagon and grabbed it with hands that could hardly feel, and with strength beyond that of nearly any living man, began to lift.
And then he was not alone, Olwan beside him, setting his legs and his back and hauling with all of his strength, and somehow, impossibly, the two brought the wheel over the root and shoved the wagon back onto the trail.