srdonaldson.thepowerthatpreserves-第33节

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　a　day's　hard　traveling；　Triock　caught　hints　of　hurricane　conditions：　cycling　winds　that　ripped　along　the　ground　as　if　they　meant　to　lay　bare　the　bones　of　the　earth；　snow　as　thick　as　night；　gelid　air　cold　enough　to　freeze　blood　in　the　warmest　places　of　the　heart。
　　　　It　lay　directly　across　his　path。
　　　　Yet　he　led　Quirrel　and　Yeurquin　toward　it　for　another　day；　hurried　in　the　direction　of　the　storm's　core　until　its　outer　winds　were　tugging　at　his　garments；　and　its　first　snows　were　packing　wetly　against　his　windward　side。　Yeurquin　was　in　grim　condition…blood　oozed　like　exhaustion　through　the　overstrained　scabs　of　his　wound；　and　the　tough　fiber　of　his　stamina　was　frayed　and　loosened　like　a　breaking　rope。　But　Triock　did　not　turn　aside。　He　could　not　attempt　to　skirt　the　storm；　could　not　swing　north　toward　the　middle　of　the　South　Plains　to　go　around。　During　the　first　night　after　the　battle　with　the　kresh；　he　had　seen　watch　fires　northeast　of　him。　They　were　following　him。　He　had　studied　them　the　next　night；　and　had　perceived　that　they　were　moving　straight　toward　him；　gaining　ground　at　an　alarming　rate。
　　　　Some　enemy　had　felt　his　exertion　of　the　lomillialor。　Some　enemy　knew　his　scent　now　and　pursued　him　like　mounting　furor。
　　　　〃We　cannot　outrun　them；〃　Quirrel　observed　grimly　as　they　huddled　together　under　the　lip　of　the　storm　to　rest　and　eat。
　　　　Triock　said　nothing。　He　could　hear　Covenant　rasping；　If　we　don't　start　doing　the　impossible。　Doing　the　impossible。
　　　　A　moment　later；　she　sniffed　the　wind。　〃And　I　do　not　like　the　taste　of　this　weather。　There　is　a　blizzard　here…a　blast　raw　enough　to　strike　the　flesh　from　our　limbs。〃
　　　　The　impossible；　Triock　repeated　to　himself。　He　should　have　said　to　the　Unbeliever；　〃I　was　born　to　tend　cattle。　I　am　not　a　man　who　does　impossible　things。〃　He　was　tired　and　old　and　unwise。　He　should　have　taken　Lena　and　led　his　people　toward　safety　deep　in　the　Southron　Range；　should　have　chosen　to　renew　the　ancient　exile　rather　than　allow　one　extravagant　stranger　to　bend　all　Mithil　Stonedown　to　the　shape　of　his　terrible　purpose。
　　　　Without　looking　at　him；　Quirrel　said；　〃We　must　separate。〃
　　　　〃Separate；〃　Yeurquin　groaned　hollowly。
　　　　〃We　must　confuse　the　trail…confuse　these〃…she　spat　fiercely　along　the　wind…〃so　that　you　may　find　your　way　west。〃
　　　　Impossible。　The　word　repeated　itself　like　a　weary　litany　in　Triock's　mind。
　　　　Quirrel　raised　her　eyes　to　face　him　squarely。　〃We　must。〃
　　　　And　Yeurquin　echoed；　〃Must。〃
　　　　Triock　looked　at　her；　and　the　wrinkles　around　his　eyes　winced　as　if　even　the　skin　of　his　face　were　afraid。　For　a　moment；　his　jaw　worked　soundlessly。　Then　he　grimaced。　〃No。〃
　　　　Quirrel　tightened　in　protest；　and　he　forced　himself　to　explain。　〃We　would　gain　nothing。　They　do　not　follow　our　trail…they　could　not　follow　a　trail　so　swiftly。　Your　trails　would　not　turn　them　aside。　They　follow　the　spoor　of　the　High　Wood。〃
　　　　〃That　cannot　be；〃　she　replied　incredulously。　〃I　sense　nothing　of　it　from　an　arm's　reach　away。〃
　　　　〃You　have　no　eyes　for　power。　If　we　part；　you　will　leave　me　alone　against　them。〃
　　　　〃Separate；〃　Yeurquin　groaned　again。
　　　　〃No！〃　Anger　filled　Triock's　mouth。　〃I　need　you。〃
　　　　〃I　slow　you；〃　the　injured　man　returned　emptily；　fatally。　His　face　looked　pale　and　slack；　frost…rimed；　defeated。
　　　　〃e！〃　Triock　surged　to　his　feet；　quickly　gathered　his　supplies　and　threw　his　pack　over　his　shoulders；　then　stalked　away　across　the　wind　in　the　direction　of　the　storm's　heart。　He　did　not　look　behind　him。　But　after　a　moment　Quirrel　caught　up　with　him　on　the　right；　and　Yeurquin　came　shambling　after　him　on　the　left。　Together；　they　cut　their　way　into　the　blizzard。
　　　　Before　they　had　covered　a　league；　they　were　stumbling　against　wind　and　snow　as　if　the　angry　air　were　assaulting　them　with　fine　granite　chips　of　cold。　Snow　piled　against　them；　and　the　wind　tore　through　their　clothes　as　if　the　fabric　were　thinner　than　gauze。　And　in　another　league；　they　lost　the　light　of　day；　the　mounting　snow　flailed　it　out　of　the　air。　Quirrel　tried　to　provide　some　light　by　uncovering　a　small　urn　of　graveling；　but　the　wind　snatched　the　fire…stones　from　the　urn；　scattered　them　like　a　brief　burning　plume　of　gems　from　her　hands。　When　they　were　gone；　Triock　could　hardly　make　out　her　form　huddled　dimly　near　him；　too　cold　even　to　curse　what　had　happened。　Yeurquin　had　dropped　to　the　ground　when　they　had　stopped；　and　already　he　was　almost　buried　in　snow。　Ahead　of　them…unmuffled　now　by　the　outer　winds…Triock　could　see　something　of　the　rabid　howl　and　scourge　of　the　storm　itself；　the　hurricane　or　blizzard　shrieking　at　the　violence　of　the　forces　which　formed　it。
　　　　Its　fury　slammed　against　his　senses　like　the　crumbling　of　a　mountain。　Peering　at　it；　he　knew　that　there　was　nothing　erect　within　it；　no　beast　or　man　or　Giant　or　tree　or　stone；　the　maelstroming　winds　had　long　since　leveled　everything　which　had　dared　raise　its　head　above　the　battered　line　of　the　ground。　Triock　had　to　protect　his　eyes　with　his　hands。　Impossible　was　a　pale　word　to　describe　the　task　of　walking　through　that　storm。　But　it　was　his　only　defense　against　pursuit。
　　　　With　all　the　strength　he　could　muster；　he　lifted　Yeurquin　and　helped　the　injured　man　lurch　onward。
　　　　Black　wind　and　sharp　snow　clamped　down　on　him；　stamped　at　him；　slashed　sideways　to　cut　his　legs　from　under　him。　Cold　blinded　him；　deafened　him；　numbed　him；　he　only　knew　that　he　had　not　lost　his　panions　because　Quirrel　clutched　the　back　of　his　cloak　and　Yeurquin　sagged　with　growing　helplessness　against　him。　But　he　himself　was　failing；　and　could　do　nothing　to　prevent　the　loss。　He　could　hardly　breathe；　the　wind　ripped　past　him　so　savagely　that　he　caught　only　inadequate　pieces　of　it。　Yeurquin's　weight　seemed　unendurable。　He　jerked　woodenly　to　a　halt。　Out　of　a　simple　and　unanswerable　need　for　respite；　he　pushed　Yeurquin　away；　forced　him　to　support　himself。
　　　　Yeurquin　reeled；　tottered　a　few　steps　along　the　wind；　and　abruptly　vanished…disappeared　as　pletely　as　if　a　sudden　maw　of　the　blizzard　had　swallowed　him。
　　　　〃Yeurquin！〃　Triock　screamed。　〃Yeurquin！〃
　　　　He　dashed　after　his　friend；　grappling；　groping　frantically　for　him。　For　an　instant；　a　dim　shape　scudded　away　just　beyond　his　reach。　〃Yeurquin！〃　Then　it　was　gone；　scattered　into　the　distance　like　a　handful　of　brittle　leaves　on　the　raving　wind。
　　　　He　ran　after　it。　He　was　hardly　conscious　of　Quirrel's　grip　on　his　cloak；　or　of　the　wind　yammering　at　his　back；　impelling　him　southward；　away　from　his　destination。　Fear　for　Yeurquin　drove　every　other　thought　from　his　mind。　Suddenly　he　was　no　longer　the　bearer　of　impossible　messages　for　the　Lords。　With　a　rush　of　passion；　he　became　mere　Triock　son　of　Thuler；　the　former　Cattleherd　who　could　not　bear　to　abandon　a　friend。　He　ran　along　the　wind　in　search　of　Yeurquin　as　if　his　soul　depended　on　it。
　　　　But　the　snow　struck　at　his　back　like　one　vicious　blow　prolonged　into　torment；　the　wind　yelped　and　yowled　in　his　numb　ears；　unmoored　his　bearings；　the　cold　sucked　the　strength　out　of　him；　weakened　him　as　if　it　frosted　the　blood　in　his　veins。　He　could　not　find　Yeurquin。　He　had　rushed　past　his　friend　unknowing　in　the　darkness…or　Yeurquin　had　somewhere　found　the　strength　to　turn　to　one　side　against　the　wind…or　the　injured　man　had　simply　fallen　and　disappeared　under　the　snow。　Triock　shouted　and　groped　and　ran；　and　encountered　nothing　but　the　storm。　When　he　tried　to　turn　his　head　toward　Quirrel；　he　found　that　inches　of　ice　had　already　formed　on　his　shoulders；　freezing　his　neck　into　that　one　strained　position。　His　very　sweat　turned　to　ice　on　him。　He　could　not　resist　the　blast。　If　he　did　not　keep　stumbling　tortuously　before　the　wind；　he　would　fall　and　never　rise　again。
　　　　He　kept　going　until　he　had　forgotten　Yeurquin　and　Covenant　and　messages；　forgotten　everything　except　the　exertion　of　his　steps　and　Quirrel's　grim　grasp　on　his　cloak。　He　had　no　conception　of　where　he　was　going；　he　was　not　going　anywhere　except　along　the　wind；　always　along　the　wind。　Gradually　the　storm　became　silent　around　him　as　the　crusting　snow　froze　over　his　ears。　Leagues　passed　unnoticed。　When　the　ground　abruptly　canted　upward　under　him；　he　fell　to　his　hands　and　knees。　A　wave　of　numbness　and　lassitude　ran　through　him　as　if　it　were　springing　from　the　frostbite　in　his　hands　and　feet。
　　　　Something　shook　his　head；　something　was　hitting　him　on　the　side　of　his　head。　At　first；　the　ice　protected　him；　then　it　broke　away　with　a　tearing　pain　as　if　it　had　taken　his　ear　with　it。　The　howling　of　wind　demons　rushed　at　him；　and　he　almost　did　not　hear　Quirrel　shout；　〃Hills！　Foothills！　Climb！　Find　shelter！〃
　　　　He　was　an　old　man；　too　old　for　such　labor。　He　was　a　strong　Stonedown　Cattleherd；　and　did　not　intend　to　die　frozen　and　useless。　He　lumbered　to　his　feet；　struggled　upward。
　　　　Leaning　weakly　back　against　the　wind；　he　ascended　the　ragged　slope。　He　realized　dimly　that　both　wind　and　snow　were　less　now。　But　still　he　could　see　nothing；　now　the　storm　itself　was　wrapped　in　night。　When　the　slope　became　too　steep　for　the　wind　to　push　him　up　it；　he　turned　to　the　side　which　offered　the　least　resistance　and　went　on；　lumbering　blindly　through　knee…deep　snow；　letting　the　blizzard　guide　him　wherever　it　chose。
　　　　Yet　in　spite　of　th