“Might there have been storms?” the prince asked. “We got hit by a dozen strong storms out of the south. I lost a dozen men, and saw a village flattened by wind.”
“Nay, not so I recall except that one thunder boomer in Cintre that blew a bit of snow on it off the peaks. But for that, it hasn’t rained much the last two months. See how the streams are low. Look at all that bare rock on the heights. Where’s the snow? That’ll bring drought, mark you. Drought this summer already, and drought this autumn, and worse to come if there’s not snow this winter.”
He was a voluble man accompanied by an exceedingly pretty granddaughter who seemed delighted to flirt with a noble prince who was, once again, without his wife. It was at times like this Sanglant missed Heribert most, but in truth Hathui proved a stronger fence; she had a hard gaze and a way of snorting with laughter that suggested amusement at the foibles of mankind.
“The men have cleared the trees away, my lord prince,” Hathui said now, riding up to him where he waited on the road. She eyed the granddaughter, rolled her eyes, and went on. “Two were felled by axes. You can see the bite of a blade in their trunks.”
“Bandits?” he asked.
“No bandits up here, my lord,” said the old guide, “unless they’ve come north from Zuola because of hard times there. No man winters up here. That’s a death sentence.”
“The monks winter over at St. Barnaria’s Pass.”
“Well, they ain’t rightly men, are they? Clean-shaven like women—begging your pardon, my lord—and women can take the cold better, that’s for certain.” He patted his granddaughter fondly. She was a sturdily built girl of no more than fifteen or sixteen years with the thick buttocks and legs of a person who hikes and climbs every day. She smiled at Sanglant, displaying remarkably even, white teeth, sign of strong stock. Hathui snorted. He flushed and hastily turned his attention to other things, tilting back his head to survey their route.
They had reached the pass’ summit yesterday after struggling through a complex warren of stones cast across the road in stages that had seemed to be the remains of three different rockfalls. Now the road wound almost level at the base of a barren valley, which they had mostly climbed out of before this latest barrier had brought the vanguard to a halt. They had crossed through a land of rugged mountains capped with bare rock which dropped down on this side in north-facing slopes where green alder bushes grew along the furrows and alpine rose on the higher slopes where water did not collect. There were no patches of snow on the slopes at all, not even in the shade. According to Ucco, they had come three quarters of the way across and tomorrow would start their final descent through the foothills of Zuola and, beyond that, down through steep valleys onto the northern coastal plain of Aosta.
“Is it possible they know we are coming?” he asked, eager to discuss war rather than lust.
“They might know,” Hathui admitted reluctantly, “if it’s true Wolfhere betrayed us.”
“We must suppose that he did. To believe otherwise is folly.”
Her frown was answer enough to a question she didn’t like the sound of, no matter how many times it bowed before her. “Wolfhere is a good man,” she insisted.
He shrugged. Behind, the male griffin huffed, and Sanglant dismounted.
“We’d best stop for the night,” he said, wiping his forehead. There hadn’t been rain for weeks. Even Ucco had difficulty finding enough drinking water for their entire army and all their stock.
“I’ll let Captain Fulk know, my lord.” Hathui reined her horse away.
The male griffin was limping, and even the female—bigger and stronger—suffered from the altitude.
“I didn’t think they’d hurt like this just from climbing,” said Sibold, standing clear of the huffing griffin as he watched the prince approach. “They never seem to catch their breath.”
“Domina hasn’t flown once since we reached the mountains,” said Sanglant. Lewenhardt had shot a bear yesterday and Sanglant fished a hank of meat out of a barrel and walked right up to the griffin so that it fed out of his hands. He respected the sharp curve of its beak, but more and more he had come to think of Argent as a cross between his horse and a jessed eagle. Though it loomed larger than a warhorse, and could send him flying with a swipe of its foreclaws, it never did, and he felt easy around it now, although Domina still held herself aloof. After Argent fed, he stroked its downy head-feathers until it rumbled with pleasure deep in its chest, rather like a cat. Still, its breathing was labored, and it huffed twice more, too much like the dry cough of a man who has caught a fever in his lungs and can’t squeeze it out.
