Fantasy fiction; Imaginary wars and battles -- Fiction
Now when it was April, and the sun moving among the signs of heaven was
about departing out of Aries and entering into Taurus, and the melting
of the snows in the high mountains had swollen all the streams to
spate, filling the mighty river so that he brimmed his banks and swept
by like a tide-race, Lord Juss said, “Now is the season propitious
for our crossing of the flood of Bhavinan and setting forth into the
mountains.”
“Willingly,” said Lord Brandoch Daha. “But shall’s walk it, or swim it,
or take to us wings? To me, that have many a time swum back and forth
over Thunderfirth to whet mine appetite ere I brake my fast, ’tis a
small matter of this river stream howso swift it runneth. But with our
harness and weapons and all our gear, that were far other matter.”
“Is it for nought we are grown friends with them that do inhabit these
woods?” said Juss. “The crocodile shall bear us over Bhavinan for the
asking.”
“It is an ill fish,” said Mivarsh; “and it sore dislikes me.”
“Then here thou must abide,” said Brandoch Daha. “But be not dismayed,
I will go with thee. The fish may bear us both at a draught and not
founder.”
“It was a wise woman foretold it me,” answered Mivarsh, “that such a
kind of serpent must be my bane. Yet be it according to your will.”
So they whistled them up the crocodile; and first the Lord Juss fared
over Bhavinan, riding on the back of that serpent with all his gear and
weapons of war, and landed several hundred paces down stream for the
stream was very strong; and thereafter the crocodile returning to the
north bank took the Lord Brandoch Daha and Mivarsh Faz and put them
across in like manner. Mivarsh put on a gallant face, but rode as near
the tail as might be, fingering certain herbs from his wallet that were
good against serpents, his lips moving in urgent supplication to his
gods. When they were come ashore they thanked the crocodile and bade
him farewell and went their way swiftly through the woods. And Mivarsh,
as one new loosed from prison, went before them with a light step,
singing and snapping his fingers.
Now had they for three days or four a devious journey through the
foot-hills, and thereafter made their dwelling for forty days’ space
in the Zia valley, above the gorges. Here the valley widens to a
flat-floored amphitheatre, and lean limestone crags tower heavenward on
every side. High in the south, couched above great gray moraines, the
Zia glacier, wrinkle-backed like some dragon survived out of the elder
chaos, thrusts his snout into the valley. Here out of his caves of
ice the young river thunders, casting up a spray where rainbows hover
in bright weather. The air blows sharp from the glacier, and alpine
flowers and shrubs feed on the sunlight.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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