Their progress was not as swift as it had been the previous day. The increased difficulty of the terrain was complicated by the air pouring and gusting down from the ridge. Fistfuls of ice-crystals rattled against the wood of me sleds, stung the faces of the travellers. White plumes and devils danced among the company. The edges of the landscape ached in the wind. Diamondraught and food formed a core of sustenance within him, but failed to spread any warmth into his limbs. He did not know how long he could hold out against the alluring and fatal somnolence of the cold.
The next time he rubbed the ice from his lashes and raised his head, he found that he had not held out. Half the morning was gone. Unwittingly, he had drifted into the passive stupor by which winter and leprosy snared their victims.
Linden was sitting upright in her sled. Her head shifted tensely from side to side as if she were searching. For a groggy instant Covenant thought that she was using her senses to probe the safety of the ice. But then she wrenched forward, and her voice snapped over the waste:
“Stop!”
Echoes rode eerily back along the wind: Stop! Stop! But ice and cold changed the tone of her shout, made it sound as forlorn as a cry raised from the Soulbiter.
At once, the First turned to meet the sleds.
They halted immediately below a pile of broken ice like the rubble of a tremendous fortress reduced by siege. Megalithic blocks and shards towered and loomed as if they were leaning to fall on the company.
Linden scrambled out of her sled. Before anyone could ask her what she wanted, she coughed, “It's getting colder.”
The First and Pitchwife glanced at each other Covenant moved to stand beside Linden, though he did not comprehend her. After a moment, the First said, “Colder, Chosen? We do not feel it.”
“I don't mean the winter,” Linden began at once, urgent to be understood. “It's not the same.” Then she caught herself, straightened her shoulders. Slowly and sharply, she said, “You don't feel it-but I tell you it's there. It's making the air colder. Not ice. Not wind. Not winter. Something else.” Her lips were blue and trembling. “Something dangerous.”
And this north is perilous Covenant thought dully, as if the chill made him stupid. What kind of peril? But when he opened his mouth, no words came.
Honninscrave's head jerked up. Pitchwife's eyes glared white in his misshaped face.
At the same instant, the First barked, “Arghule!” and sprang at Covenant and Linden.
Thrusting them toward the sleds, she shouted, “We must flee!” Then she wheeled to scan the region.
Covenant lost his footing, skidded into Cail's grasp. The Haruchai flipped him unceremoniously onto his sled. Linden vaulted to her place. At once, Honninscrave and Mistweave heaved the sleds forward as quickly as the slick surface allowed.
Before they had taken three strides, the ice a stone's throw ahead rose up and came toward them.
The moving shape was as wide as the height of a Giant, as thick as the reach of Covenant's arms. Short legs bore it forward with deceptive speed. Dark gaps around its edge looked like maws.
Cold radiated from it like a shout The First slid to a halt, planted herself in the path of the creature. “Arghule!” she cried again. “Avoid!”
Pitchwife's answering yell snatched her around. His arm nailed a gesture toward the ridge. “Arghuleh!”
Two more creatures like the first had detached themselves from the rubble and were rushing toward the company.
In the south appeared a fourth.
Together, they emitted cold as fierce as the cruel heart of winter.
For an instant, the First froze. Her protest carried lornly across the wind. “But the arghuleh do not act thus.”
Abruptly, Findail melted into a hawk and flew away.
Honninscrave roared a command: “Westward!” He was the Master of Starfare's Gem, trained for emergencies. With a wrench that threw Covenant backward, he hauled his sled into motion. “We must break past!”
Mistweave followed. As he laboured for speed, he called over his shoulder to Linden, “Do not fear! We are Giants, proof against cold!”
The next moment, the arghuleh attacked.
The creature approaching the First stopped. At Pitchwife’s warning shout, she whirled to face the arghule. But it did not advance. Instead, it waved one of its legs.
From the arc of the gesture, the air suddenly condensed into a web of ice.
Expanding and thickening as it moved, the web sailed toward the First like a hunter's net. Before it reached her, it grew huge and heavy enough to snare even a Giant At the same time, the arghule coming from the south halted, settled itself as though it were burrowing into the waste. Then violence boomed beneath it: ice shattered in all directions. And a crack sprang through the surface, ran like lightning toward the company. In the space between one heart-beat and another, the crack became as wide as the sleds.
It passed directly under Vain. The Demondim-spawn disappeared so quickly that Covenant did not see him fall.
Instinctively, Covenant turned to look toward the other two arghuleh.
They were almost close enough to launch their assaults.
The sled lurched as Honninscrave accelerated Covenant faced again toward the First.
The web of ice was dropping over her head.
Pitchwife struggled toward her. But his feet could not hold the treacherous surface. Cail sped lightly past him as if the Haruchai were as sure-footed as a Ranyhyn.
The First defended herself without her sword. As the web descended, she chopped at it with her left arm.
It broke in a blizzard of splinters that caught the light like instant chiaroscuro and then rattled faintly away along the wind.
But her arm came down encased by translucent ice. It covered her limb halfway to the shoulder, immobilized her elbow and hand. Fiercely, she hammered at the sheath with her right fist But the ice clung to her like iron.
The sleds gained momentum. Nearing the First, Honninscrave and Mistweave veered to the side in an effort to bypass the arghule. The crack which had swallowed Vain faded toward the north. Findail was nowhere to be seen. Linden clutched the rail of her sled, a soundless cry stretched over her face.
Cail dashed past the First to challenge her assailant.
As one, she and Pitchwife shouted after him, “No!”
He ignored them. Straight at the creature he aimed his Haruchai strength.
Before he could strike, the arghule bobbed as if it were bowing. Instantly, a great hand of ice slapped down on him out of the empty air. It pounded him flat, snatched him under the bulk of the creature.
Covenant fought to stand in the slewing sled. Cail's fall went through him like an auger. The landscape was as white and ruined as wild magic. When his heart beat again, he was translated into fire. Power drove down through him, anchored him. Flame as hot as a furnace, as vicious as venom, cocked back his half-fist to hurl destruction at the arghule.
Then a web flung by one of the trailing creatures caught him. The two arghuleh from the north had changed direction to pursue the company; then one of them had stopped to attack. The snare did not entirely reach him. But its leading edge struck the right side of his head, licked for an instant over his shoulder, snapped on his upraised fist.
Wild magic pulverized the ice: nothing was left to encase him. But an immense force of cold slammed straight into his brain.