The cold seemed to be thickening, despite the wind which made his exposed skin burn and his eyes water. The smooth-worn granite cobblestones somehow seemed harder and more unyielding under his feet than before.
As he neared the Library, a new sound began to impinge upon his awareness, but this one was more distinct. It was the sound of iron-shod feet and guttural voices, speaking no tongue that he could understand. He could see small groups of black shapes, running furtively to and fro, several blocks away yet. They were obscured by a dank mist which seemed to accompany their presence.
Impelled by a growing sense of urgency, Mraan decided to make his way to the Library. To his father, assuming Haloch still lived.
Moving in a low crouch, angling his way furtively from doorway to alcove, water-barrel to overturned cart, he stopped often, listening carefully. The voices, a large group of them, were receding. He felt instinctively that the other evil things, whatever they were, had preceded the ones making guttural utterances, whose feet were iron-shod, and from the sound of things were despoiling whatever they came across with impunity.
Something caught his attention and he stiffened, listening. It was a sound, ever so faint; an Elf voice, quietly sobbing. He raised himself up, turning his head from side to side in an attempt to locate its source. But the hard stone of the narrow street and the high stone walls on either side contrived to deceive him, making the despondent voice sound as though it could be coming from anywhere. Frustrated, Mraan decided to break his silence, reasoning that whoever was weeping would have drawn ruin upon him or herself already.