Annon nestled down amidst his blanket. He stared at Hettie and saw her eyes gazing up at the stars.
“He is right about one thing, you know,” Annon whispered.
“Paedrin or Erasmus?”
“Paedrin.”
She rolled and looked at him, waiting for his explanation.
“You are already free.”
Her lips pursed. “We will see, Annon. We will see.”
He lay his head down, but it took a while before he fell back asleep. Hettie’s warning about Kiranrao lodged in his throat.
“When the Plague strikes, it is different every time. In one generation, the sickness caused sores around the mouth and joints. In another, it caused a red, irritating rash. Each time it leaves a telltale sign of its devastating presence. White spores. Yellow skin. Red flux. When the Plague strikes a community, it ravages it quickly, leaving the majority dead. Some try and flee the Plague, which helps it spread to other cities and kingdoms. The change in symptoms has made it very difficult to cure. One thing is certain. When the Plague strikes, the people die.”
– Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
The climb into the mountains of the Cruithne taxed their strength. Annon had been raised in the woods of Wayland, full of hardwoods like oak and walnut and crisscrossed with streams and brooks and wild berries. The higher they climbed, the more the mountains transformed the surroundings. Towering pine and cedar, rocky ledges, the occasional thunder of waterfalls. The footing was difficult, upward, with the taunting of jackdaws and blue jays. The strain on his legs and breathing revealed a weakness he had not experienced before. Paedrin did not seem troubled at all; neither did Hettie. But Erasmus wheezed and needed to rest constantly.
There was no trail to guide them, but Erasmus knew the way. He would often stop at a tree, feeling the rough bark for a sign of some sort, a memory from the past. He would nod and then point the right way. He seldom spoke, but he observed the woods continually and mumbled to himself.
After two days, the tension in Annon’s mind had begun to ebb concerning their pursuers, but the peace ended abruptly with the whispers from several tree spirits clustered in a grove of pine that warned of danger behind them. Many spirits from Mirrowen traveled alongside birds, and Kiranrao’s band had been spied earlier that day, following their trail closely.
When Annon announced this to the others, he was met with grave looks from Hettie, a dubious one from Paedrin, and a curt nod from Erasmus.
“We are still another day or two away from Drosta’s lair,” Erasmus said. “They have caught up with us faster than I expected. They may overtake us before sunset if we do not hurry.”
“Why not wait for them in a place of our choosing?” Paedrin suggested, tapping his staff against his palm. “We have the high ground and the chance to surprise them.”
Erasmus shook his head. “They outnumber us and I am sure they know about what we can do. We must go faster and reach the lair before them. We have only traveled during the day so far, so we should travel all night now. That improves the odds of outdistancing them…hmmm….a little.”
“Only a little?” Annon asked.
“I have not changed my previous prediction, Annon, that it is nearly impossible. You see, there is a ravine with only one way in or out. We must get there and out before they catch us.”
They pushed harder into the mountains and were not overtaken at nightfall. They were grateful for a waxing moon to offer light. It was an arduous trail and punished their legs and stamina, making the hours pass slowly. The stars shifted noticeably with the passing night. Still they went higher, and the landscape began to transform once more. The trees became more sparse, the scrub more barren. Jagged clefts of rock and boulders appeared next, creating tortuous trails that wound up and back. It was painful going, but eventually dawn greeted them, revealing a new world that the night had hidden from sight.
The waterfalls were even more majestic and imposing, giant clouds of water plumes exploding from ridges and crags, disappearing into a shroud of mist deep into canyons below. As they finally exited the woods, the caps of the mountains became visible at last, higher still and jabbing into the sky like knives. Towers and parapets were grafted into the snow-capped peaks, gushing an unending billow of sooty smoke.
Annon stopped and stared at the massive structures. He could not understand, for a moment, that hands had created them. There was a wall of mountains, and each mountain had twelve to fifteen towers crowning it, each tall and crafted with crenellations and crowned with pennants. The years it must have taken to craft so many. The city seemed older than the world. Bridges connected between some of the towers, and waterfalls tumbled from the upper reaches, mixing the water spray with the soot-smoke. Due to the height, there was perpetual snow, and the contrast between the white snow and the black towers was impressive.