“A patrol from Khutir’s forces,” the white creature told them. “I had to do some fancy talking to convince them we were on the level, I’m afraid. You were fortunate to have brought me; had I not been able to speak to them in their own Akkokek tongue, we would have been taken in for interrogation. Let us be off before they have second thoughts.”
They took off once more, all three of the others wondering just what the hell the Gedemondan had told those things to make them leave them alone. Brazil made a mental note not to play poker with a Gedemondan communicator.
Cutting across Quilst they saw little sign of a major force, which worried them a little. Where was General Khutir? Had he, in fact, gotten diverted and lured so far away? Was it going to be this easy?
Other creatures occasionally rose from hidden outposts to check them out, but each time the Gedemondan was able to either talk them out of doing anything or give some sort of sign or password that allowed them to continue. The Gedemondan only chuckled when they asked about this ability and stated, that, no, he could not read minds, but he could make weaker minds conversationally tell him what he needed to know. That was all they got from him.
The land had gone down again as they flew over Quilst, a swampy place thick with foliage and vegetation overlaid with stagnant water and huge muddy pools. Here and there could be seen the huge creatures that reminded Brazil of humanoid hippopotamuses doing this thing or that, but the place was remarkably devoid of structures or any real signs of industry. It must be elsewhere, he decided, hidden in the swamps or under the ground. Certainly there was a clearly defined network of broad roads and paths connecting just about every point in the hex with every other.
They passed over the driest spot in the hex, where the land started to rise again in a series of steppes, each rough plateau giving rise to the land. Here had been Khutir’s camp and headquarters, it was clear; the scars—and the equipment—were all too visible, and there were still several hundred creatures of various types there, minding the store or helping maintain at least a tripwire guard to the gateway to the Avenue to their north.
They veered to the south of the camp, hoping to avoid notice, and were soon out of the area and to the west of the great Avenue that could almost be seen in the distance.
They had no intention of approaching from the south or from the east, across hostile Verion, but around and through Ellerbanta, keeping well to the west of the Avenue if at all possible.
It was not the best of Avenues to use, and the closer to it they got the more Brazil realized its disadvantages. The land was mountainous, more like Gedemondas than anything else, and while it wasn’t particularly cold, the elevation was steadily rising, and with that the problems in continuing to fly.
Mavra realized the problem more quickly than he had. She knew that the winged horses had been unable to function in the upper regions of Gedemondas; they had a definite upper limit, aggravated even more by any significant weight, and there was definitely that.
They had to land more frequently now, and landing spaces were becoming harder and harder to find. They wove above the snow line, where footing was more difficult, and still the mountains rose higher to the north and east of them, the distant ones almost totally obscured by clouds.
They got out the maps of the region and, for the first time, Mavra as well as the others could examine them. She couldn’t read the script, but when the relief markings were explained to her it became clear that they could not fly up to the Equatorial Barrier at the Avenue. Not this Avenue.
Using the Gedemondan communicator, whose voice served for both Mavra and Brazil as well as himself in these circumstances, she pointed this out somewhat accusingly to Brazil.
“Well, how was I to know the upper limits of these things?” he grumped. “Hell, I don’t remember them as real creatures at all. They survived on Earth only as parts of the racial memory, mythological beasties and no more. Still, there’s no real choice. We could have gone east, but that would have brought us over Lamotien and Yaxa—and we wouldn’t have stood a chance there. To the west the next hex is completely underwater, which is fine if you’re the underwater type but not otherwise—and we’d have a hell of a fight through there, anyway. Same farther east—the Avenue’s under the Sea of Storms. So this was the only one we could use and we’ll just have to live with it.”
“But we can’t fly much longer or higher,” she objected.
He nodded his equine head. “True, we can’t. So we have to head to the Avenue. I figure it’s over the next range, there, about thirty or forty kilometers at most. It’s the only real pass we’re gonna get. We’ll walk where we have to, fly when we can. Let’s do it.”
There was no other way to go, but all of them could only think that the Avenue, even two thirds of the way up, would be the last place they should go and the first place to meet any determined opposition. No one had any doubt that, between Gunit Sangh and General Khutir, orders for whatever patrols were stationed there would be firm: Kill everything that tried to get up the Avenue. Everything, without exception—and Ellerbanta was a high-tech hex. Anything would work here.
Even the Gedemondan, who felt almost at home in the high, white, and cold environment, shared the apprehension, but there was now no choice.
They came to the Avenue abruptly; a solid mountain wall stood before them, and they decided to make for the top and over in expectation that they would at least sight the Avenue from the summit.
They did more than that. Brazil heaved his large pegasus body over and almost fell into empty space. He looked down, forelegs dangling over the edge, on an almost sheer cliff with a drop of over four kilometers straight down to the Avenue.
He gave a horselike whinny of fear, which brought the others up quickly but cautiously, and together they managed to haul him back from the edge and look out on the sight.
You could hardly see the Avenue at all; clouds, mist, and rock tended to block the view and perspective, but it was there all right, in a couple of tiny clear patches, way, way down. It could be spotted only because it was the one thing nature never seemed to be— straight: A tiny, light-colored straight hairline that was discernible only by the pegasus’s exceptional eyes.
But far off to the north, perhaps peeking up beyond the horizon, they could see a black band stretching east to west as far as vision would take them. The Equatorial Barrier, the access to the Well at the Avenues and the very solid and impenetrable wall that kept the alien North from the equally alien South.
“Can you fly in that gap?” the Agitar asked them.
Brazil and Mavra both looked out, saw the wind and the currents, measured the narrowest points of the gap with the unerring sense of the flying horses, and shook their heads practically in unison.
“No way,” Brazil told them through the communicator. “The air currents are treacherous through there, the valley too narrow in spots. We’re going to have to walk up here as much as possible and try and find a way down there when we can.”
Mavra nodded agreement. “I doubt if any flying creatures could do much in that pass.”
“But it’ll make us sitting ducks for anybody up here,” Brazil said gloomily. “And it’s curtains if somebody’s around who can fly in this altitude.”
They started walking.
The journey wasn’t easy and involved many roundabout diversions and switchbacks just to keep roughly even with the Avenue itself. They made poor time, and spent a cold, hungry night on the mountain.