The Sword Of Erren-dar (Book 2) (31 page)

 He smiled back. “Very well. Just remember, don’t look down.”

 She let out a howl of annoyance. “Why did you have to say
that? The moment someone says ‘don’t look down’ that is the very thing one
does!”

 Eimer, who was edging along behind her, said; “Don’t worry,
Sarry, I’m close behind you. You’ll be fine.”

 His sister gave such an exaggerated sigh of relief that it had
Vesarion grinning again. “Oh, that’s all right then,” she declared. “Why did I
ever worry?”

 But they were interrupted by a commotion at the back of the
line.

 Bethro was sending out a stream of protest that was rapidly
rising to a crescendo. “No, you cannot get past me, Gorm! It’s too narrow!
Stop
pushing
! We’ll both fall off, if you keep this up! For heaven’s sake!”

 “Got to keep Sareth safe,” announced one small but
determined Turog.

 Bethro’s bulk meant that there was indeed no room to
squeeze past him on the ledge, so resourceful Gorm dropped to his hands and
knees and to the librarian’s outrage, burrowed between his legs – a process he
repeated with a highly amused Eimer until he was directly behind Sareth, one
leathery paw thrust through the back of her belt.

 “Not fall now!” he announced triumphantly.

 By this stage Eimer and Iska were both quite helpless with
laughter and even Vesarion’s shoulders were shaking, but Bethro was purple with
indignation.

 “Someday, someone is going to murder that horrible little
rodent,” he declared in vitriolic tones.

 “Bah!” spat Gorm, contemptuously. “Let’s go.”

 Alas, the moment of laughter did not last long, for almost
immediately it began to snow again. Huge flakes, like the contents of a torn
eiderdown, silently began to descend from the leaden sky, gently settling on
the already snow-covered ledge. Softly they alighted on hoods and shoulders, on
packs and boots, or spiralled lazily past them on their way down to the valley
floor, now terrifyingly far below them.

 Grimly, the company edged on, numb hands clutching at the rock
face, trying to maintain the purely illusory sense of safety it gave. The snow
was by now forming such a deep, concealing cushion on the ledge, that Vesarion,
who was in the lead, drew his sword and started stabbing it into the snow ahead
of him until he heard the reassuring ‘clunk’ that meant the tip had hit solid stone.
Doggedly, they followed the steeply ascending ledge until almost without
realising it, they found themselves engulfed in the wet embrace of the mist
that hid the mountain peaks. It also hid the course of their path, for it
reduced visibility to no more than a pace or two. The swirling vapour clung
icily to their cloaks, soaking them and making them heavy. It formed droplets
on eyebrows and lashes, further impairing vision, until eventually Vesarion was
forced to stop to wipe the moisture from his eyes.

 “I don’t get a good feeling about this path,” he muttered
to Sareth. “This mist is only going to get worse the higher we go. I can barely
see my hand in front of my face as it is. It’s likely that…..”

 Whatever Vesarion thought was likely, none of the others
were ever privileged to hear, for his sentence was cut short by a flash of
lightning that lit the mist up eerily blue, followed by an enormous clap of
thunder. Everyone, including the redoubtable Gorm, jumped with fright.

 When silence had returned once more, a lugubrious voice
behind Sareth said: “Many storms in these mountains.” Then unable to resist the
usual litany, it added: “Don’t like thunder.”

 “This is impossible!” Eimer exclaimed up the line to
Vesarion. “Snow we can hardly wade though. Mist we can hardly see through - and
now a storm. What should we do? Do we turn back?”

 Again, Vesarion’s reply was cut off by such a dazzling
flash that they were all forced to shut their eyes for a second. The storm was
now directly overhead and there was no longer any gap between lightning and
thunder. With a sound that started like ripping bone and ended in such a crash
that the very rocks of the mountains trembled, it broke in full force upon the
fragile little group clinging precariously to the ledge. But as the last
powerful echo grumbled its way between the frozen peaks, Vesarion detected
another sound that only he, accustomed to mountains all his life, could
identify. A low roaring sound, like breakers on a beach, distant and small at
first but growing in power. The rock ledge beneath their feet began to tremble
and they all looked wildly at one another, unable to comprehend what was
happening.

 Only Vesarion was in no doubt.

 “
Quickly
!” he yelled, turning back towards them,
shoving Sareth before him. “Quickly! Get under that overhang we just passed!
Move
!”

 They all turned, his tone brooking no argument and Bethro
now found himself in the lead with five anxious companions pushing and shoving
him willy-nilly along the ledge as if it were as broad as a highway. The mighty
roar grew ever louder until the ledge was quivering  in fear at what was
coming.

 The leading four made it under the over hang before the
avalanche struck – but Sareth and Vesarion did not.

 A roaring, ground-shaking cataract of white spewed off the
cliff above them, shooting out beyond the overhang to plunge suicidally over
the precipice to the valley below. The heavy falls of snow of the last few
days, unable to withstand the vibration caused by the thunder, had lost their
grip on the upper reaches and were now careering in an almighty tidal-wave of
white down the path of least resistance. On and on it went, as the disturbance
loosened more stretches of snow, fuelling the cataclysm. The travellers, cowed
by such power, shrank against the cliff face, aware that only the  presence of
the overhang was saving them from being swept away. Bethro was moaning in
terror, though no one could hear him, and Gorm was curled into a ball with his
arms protectively over his head. Eimer held Iska in tight against the face of rock
that should have felt solid but was instead vibrating like a leaf in an autumn
breeze. Everyone was completely deafened by the noise that roared on, seemingly
for an aeon.

 Then, just when they thought they could bear it no longer,
it began to slacken. The cacophony of sound eased until they were able to hear
the last distant rumble of thunder as the storm drifted away to the north. The
stream of white overshooting their rock-shield started to ease until it was no
more than a trickle.

 Ashen-faced and gasping, they began to raise their heads,
cautiously looking around, listening nervously to the continuing sound of smaller
after-slides from above. But it was then that they made a discovery that caused
every heart to stand still -  Vesarion and Sareth were missing.

 They all looked along the ledge to the place where they had
been. Beyond the protection of the overhang, huge heaps of snow were built up
against the cliff face, burying the path in tons of impassable frozen debris.
The pristine whiteness was sullied by chunks of grimy, grey ice and some
sizeable boulders torn out of the mountainside.

 Iska was standing wide-eyed and stricken, staring
disbelievingly at the piled up snow where their companions should have been
standing.

 “Eimer,” she whispered, “ Eimer, tell me we haven’t lost
them? Tell me!”

 But the Prince could not reply, his mind unable to cope
with what he saw.

 Only Gorm seemed capable of action. He wriggled along the
ledge, pushing the others out of the way, until he reached the enormous pile of
snow, then casting off his pack, he frantically began to dig using his large,
leathery hands. Desperately, he shot snow out behind him, as he scooped and burrowed,
tunnelling into the obstruction.

 Eimer, finally able to move, came up behind him and grabbed
his shoulder.

 “It’s no use, Gorm. Look at the size of those rocks. Even
if they have not been swept off the ledge, they could not have survived.”

 But Gorm shook him off angrily and redoubled his efforts.
“Got to find Sareth,” he muttered to himself. “Got to find Sareth.”

 He was by now some distance into the heap, tossing lumps of
snow over the edge, until suddenly he stopped with a cry.

 Peering over his shoulder, Eimer saw that he had uncovered
a gloved hand. He tried to shove the Turog out of the way, but Gorm would not
be dislodged and as there was only room for one, Eimer, burning with urgency,
was reduced to helping by pushing the debris over the cliff.

 With manic energy, using hands that despite their
toughness, were bleeding, Gorm excavated the snow until an arm and shoulder
were uncovered,  then he stopped abruptly and sat back on his heels.

 “Not Sareth,” he declared in a flat voice. “Vesarion.”

 “Here, let me at it,” ordered Eimer, finally squeezing
past.

 Labouring hard, with Iska helping, he finally unearthed
Vesarion lodged in a cavity in the snow created by his pack. His eyes were
closed and he appeared to be unconscious but he was clearly alive.

 Eimer reached his shoulder and shook him.

 “Vesarion? Are you hurt? Wake up!”

 A pair of rather dazed eyes opened. “What happened?”
Vesarion asked hoarsely.

 “You got caught in the avalanche and were buried in snow.
It’s a miracle you were not swept over the cliff. Are you hurt?”

 Vesarion struggled up onto his elbow. “I don’t think so –
apart from my head. Hard to tell because every part of me is numb with cold.”
Casting his eye along the line of anxious faces, he said sharply: “Where’s
Sareth?”

 “We don’t know,” replied Bethro baldly. “She was with you
when the avalanche struck.”

 Vesarion struggled onto his hands and knees and pulled his
pack from the cavity. He looked back into the hollow.

 “She’s not with me now,” he said in a constricted voice.

 But Gorm, who had lost interest in the rescue mission the
moment he had established that it was not his beloved Sareth, had been sniffing
along the ledge, hunting back down the path until he finally leaned dangerously
out over the edge and gave vent to a very un-Turog-like squeak.

 “I see her! I see her!” He began to leap up and down in the
sort of reckless manner calculated to deprive the company of one of its
members. “ Look!
Look
!
Down there!
Hurry!
”

 They all leaned out, thankful that the mist had thinned a
little, and following his pointing finger, saw a small dark figure lying face
down on the snow that had piled up on a large spur of rock projecting from the
mountainside some distance below them.

 Rather ominously, the figure was not moving.

 Vesarion, galvanised into action, and completely forgetting
his own hurts, spun round to Eimer.

 “Have we any rope?”

 “Yes, a little. I found some in my pack.” He pulled out a
length of rather thin-looking rope. Vesarion looked at it dubiously. “It will
have to do.”

 Eimer began to rapidly uncoil it. “I’ll go,” he declared.

 But Vesarion had other ideas. “You will not,” he snapped in
a tense voice.

 Eimer, emotions raw with worry, turned on him. “She’s my
sister,” he announced angrily. “You broke the engagement, so, with the greatest
of respect, it’s none of your damned business any more.”

 Vesarion’s dark brows drew together. “Like hell it’s not!
Just get out of my way!”

Iska, knowing the male psyche, intervened pacifically.
“Eimer, this is a job for Vesarion because it’s going to take brute strength to
get Sareth up here again. She’s almost as tall as you, and you are of slighter
build than Vesarion, not to mention the fact that he is more skilled at
climbing. I think we should go with whatever plan has the best chance of
success and not waste time arguing.” Although the two men were still staring rigidly
at one another, she turned to Bethro. “We are going to need you, Bethro, to
help pull them back up the cliff again. Secure the rope around your waist and
you will be our anchorman.”

 Bethro, a bit white around the gills, complied, and the
others, including Gorm who insisted on being at the front, took up their
positions on the rope. Vesarion, divested of cloak and any other encumbrance,
grasped the rope and prepared to descend.

 Eimer looked him awkwardly in the eye. “I...er…know I was a
bit short, but it’s just that…..”

 “I know.”

 “Bring her back, that’s all.”

 Vesarion merely nodded in reply and cautiously, inch by
agonising inch, began to descend the sheer rock face.

 He was desperately cold and his head was still swimming a
little from being knocked unconscious but his determination never waivered.
Ignoring numb hands and the tight little knot of fear in his stomach, he
cautiously made use of every crack and foothold he could find, knowing that two
lives depended on him descending safely. Resolutely, he disregarded the
insidious whisper at the back of his mind that she could not have survived such
a fall. He could hear Eimer’s hasty words echoing in his ears –
it’s none of
your damned business any
more
– and without realising what he did,
he began to whisper over and over: “Please let her be alive. Please, just let
her be alive.”

 When he had descended to the point where he was suspended
by the rope a few feet above her, his feet braced against the rocks, he
urgently called her name.

 “Sareth? Can you hear me? Answer me, Sareth!”

 But she neither replied nor stirred in any way.

 Rapidly he assessed what needed to be done and realised
that she was poised precariously on top of  a pile of fallen snow heaped up by
the avalanche that looked far from stable. Its steeply sloping sides tailed
away into nothingness and one false move on his part could cause her to slide
off the spur of rock into the void. He glanced up to see Gorm’s anxious face
peering down at him.