She didn’t like Farshaun speaking to her in such a way, and now she was worried that the Speakman wasn’t stable enough to be relied on. But she had few options in the matter, so she had to try to find a balance between caution and insistence.
When they left the airship this time, they found themselves in hill country. The Fangs still formed a deep wall in front of them, but now they were confronted with rolling terrain riven by deep gullies that looked to have once been riverbeds. This day, like the previous, was misty and clouded over, the sun and sky completely hidden, the air thick with brume. She kept the members of the company close together as they entered the Fangs, with the Druids interspersed throughout the line of march. She led the way with Farshaun and the Speakman and had Seersha and Crace Coram provide a rearguard.
Everyone was told to keep close watch.
Redden and Railing, once again placed in the middle, gave each other a knowing glance. The wishsong, while versatile, wasn’t much good at detecting danger, and their experience with this sort of thing was pretty limited.
“Hope she’s not counting on us,” Redden murmured to his brother, who simply nodded in reply.
This day’s trek through the Fangs was very similar to that of the day before, but more draining physically. Going up and down hills as they wound through the maze of stone formations required more effort, and even though they could see no sources of moisture, the air was oddly thick. The farther in they went, the heavier it got. No one was saying much, and when they did it was whispered and short. Even Redden and Railing, normally comfortable with sharing their thoughts and making wry comments, remained silent, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other.
Twice in the next four hours Khyber allowed the company to take short rests. Each time she spoke to the Speakman through Farshaun, reassuring herself that everything was all right and nothing unusual was in evidence. The Speakman indicated through nods and gestures to Farshaun that this was so.
Nevertheless, she was uneasy. She had discovered about two hours into the Fangs that her compass had quit working. She believed they could find their way out if they needed to even without the Speakman’s help, but she could not be certain in which direction they were going. There were few markers in this wilderness by which to track their forward progress and none to make their way back save those they made themselves. The perpetually haze-clouded sky would not let her read clearly the position of the sun during the day or the stars at night. Everything looked exactly the same. Even after hours of walking she couldn’t be certain which was forward and which was back. She couldn’t even be certain they weren’t going in a circle.
The Speakman had reassured Farshaun they were maintaining a straight line and approaching the edges of the marshland she was seeking. But her confidence in the recluse’s abilities, already badly eroded, had not improved. His disturbing behavior alone was sufficient to cause her doubts. He had begun to mutter to himself, nodding and shaking his head, gesturing with his hands and addressing the ground in front of him as he walked. He shambled as if his balance was off, and he hugged himself. Sometimes he cried. When she looked at Farshaun for an explanation, the Rover just shrugged. This was the way the Speakman was, he seemed to be saying.
Worse still was the hermit’s insistence on saying things that suggested it didn’t matter what they did because they were all doomed. He said them only to Farshaun, but she was frequently present when he did. It was unnerving at best. She didn’t believe it, didn’t think for a moment that he knew what was going to happen from one minute to the next. But the constant repetition of the prophecy was wearing on her, and she asked him to stop saying it.
But he couldn’t seem to help himself, even after Farshaun spoke to him, so she let it go.
The slog through the Fangs wore on. By now they had been walking for the better part of six hours, and while nothing had attacked and no obvious dangers had threatened, time was slipping away and they still hadn’t found the marshland they were searching for.
Then suddenly the smell and texture of the air changed; there was a fresh dampness to it and a fetid scent. She glanced down and saw that the hard rocky earth had muddied in places; hints of what had recently been standing water were visible. She caught up to Farshaun and touched his shoulder.
He turned, saw the questioning look on her face, and nodded. “We’re close now, Mistress. The marshland should be just ahead.”
They continued through a fresh cluster of rock formations, finding swamp grasses and trees strung with moss more gray than green filling the gaps between. The way forward became clogged with vegetation and required more effort to pass through. The edges of the marshland appeared in stagnant ponds and long fingers of weedy swamp that angled about like snakes. There were still no signs of life except for the steady hum and click of insects that only showed themselves in momentary bursts.
Everyone was on edge now. Before, they had seen nothing but blasted rock and rutted earth. Now there were plants and trees with hints of color in the foliage and grasses and dampness, and the tedium of their earlier trek gave way to heightened wariness. The improvement in the look of the terrain should have had a heartening effect, but the abruptness of the shift was unnerving.
Khyber called a halt and walked away from the others a few paces, again going into a deep trance to recall accurately the images skived from Aphenglow’s mind. She settled herself, her breathing slowed, her magic surfaced in an enfolding haze that wrapped her close, and the vision replayed itself in slow motion behind her eyes.
There should be mountains, she remembered.
She opened her eyes, rose, and glanced all around. But the rock formations and heavy undergrowth blocked her view. She was down too low to see anything. She needed to get to a higher place. She needed to climb something.
She shook her head at the idea; she was older now, and had limitations.
“Skint!” she called to the Gnome Tracker, and the others in the search party drifted over, as well. “Can you climb one of these rock formations? Or maybe one of these trees?”
“Not the trees,” the Speakman blurted out at once. He cringed at the sound of his own voice, looking for Farshaun, moving over next to him. “No one should climb the trees,” he whispered.
Skint was studying the nearby rock formations. “I don’t know. There’s not much in the way of handholds.”
“I can do it.” Railing Ohmsford stepped forward eagerly. “Redden and I both, if you want.”
Redden appeared beside him, giving him a look. “You brought grippers?”
Railing nodded. “Do you want us to try?” he asked the Ard Rhys.
Khyber Elessedil managed to keep from grinning at his obvious eagerness. “One of you will do.”
“Then I’ll go. It was my idea.” He dropped his backpack and began rummaging through it. “There’s nothing to it, really. Redden and I do it at home all the time with tougher climbs than this one.”
Moments later he produced a strange pair of gloves and boots that had the appearance of animal paws. He sat down and slipped them over his bare hands and feet, then flexed his fingers and toes and walked over to the closest formation.