Chapter 59 - Nyal's Story part 8

To his credit, and cementing his position as favorite grandson, Gilad did not object to her scheme to go to Old Stone Man. She thought he might be hesitant because Gon had frightened him on the Mound of Ghosts, but Gilad agreed almost immediately. The only thing he said was, "Can I eat first?" He had gone all day without eating, pursuing the Foul Ones through the valley and to the outer reaches of their territory. It was a wonder he had not already collapsed in exhaustion, but Gilad was part Fat Hand, and he had the endurance of his forefathers.

"Yes, of course, but make it quick," Nyal said urgently. "The longer we delay, the further away those devils will carry my granddaughters."

Gilad jogged to his wetus to grab some food. Nyal paced restlessly as she waited for him to return, glancing repeatedly toward Gon's mountain. The light of the setting sun glowed on the side of Old Stone Man. It looked like floes of molten rock. Or blood.

Her people were still gathered outside the Siede, debating how best to set up their defenses should the Foul Ones raid the village again. Posting a guard now was like checking for snakes after dropping your breeches, Nyal thought. The Foul Ones would not come back. Not soon, anyway. Not from what she remembered of them. They had what they wanted. They'd taken eight children, three of which had been recovered. They'd lost four men in the process, and killed two of Nyal's people: Ypp'ham's little boy and a young mother named Yort, who had defended her babies to the death. Several other members of the tribe were grievously wounded and might yet join their ancestors in the Ghost World. It was a dark day for the People of the River.

Gilad came jogging back, his face set determinedly. He had put on some long-legged breeches and his wolverine skin hood, was chewing on a strip of dried venison. A knife and his water bag bounced on his thigh. Nyal hoped no one looked in his direction. It was very obvious that he was up to something.

"Are you ready?" he asked, only slightly out of breath. When Nyal nodded, he bent to pick her up.

"What are you doing?" Nyal hissed. "Not here! Walk with me down to the river, and then I'll climb on your back."

Gilad nodded. He took his grandmother by the elbow and escorted her from the main camp.

"Don't look back," Nyal said from the corner of her mouth. "We don't want anyone to notice us leaving."

"I don't know why you want to come along, Grandmother. You should be resting in the Siede. I can run there much faster if I don't have to carry you."

"Gon may not give you an audience. He doesn't know you. But he will speak to me."

Gilad nodded.

They followed the path down to the river. The Foul One was still lying dead beside the trail, though his head had been cut off. The stump of his neck was raggedly hewn. Nyal kicked the headless devil again as she passed. It gave her a terrible amount of satisfaction.

"It will be dark soon," Nyal said, peering at the purpling sky.

"I can see well enough in the dark," Gilad boasted. "If we travel through the night, we should be there by daybreak."

Nyal's heart was full of pride at her grandson's courage. The wilderness was a dangerous place, full of hungry creatures eager to devour those foolish enough to tempt the fates. The thought that she was also daring the jaws of those forest beasts didn't register on her consciousness. Of course she would do it! It was her carelessness that had thrust her granddaughters into the clutches of those perverse creatures! She would smear honey on her hind end and wag it in a bear cave if it would get Korte-Anthe and Ganni back.

On the stony shore of the river, Gilad turned his back to his grandmother and squatted down. "Here, Grandmother, climb on my back," he said. "The water runs fast in the middle of the river. You won't be able to cross it."

Nyal put her bony arms around the boy's muscular neck. When he rose, she hooked her legs around his waist. Pain flared in her joints when he stood and her weight settled upon them, but she ignored the pain.

"Do you have a good grip?" Gilad asked.

"Yes, yes, let's go," Nyal said.

Gilad started across the river, feet splashing. It was not a deep river, not at the moment. It was still early in the spring. When th

e snow and ice melted completely from the high wooded ridges that surrounded the valley, the runoff would swell the river to twice its width and depth. More if the rains were heavy. But for the time being, Gilad was easily able to cross it. At its deepest point, the water rose only to chest height before receding back down his body.

Gilad stumbled once on the slick, smooth stones on the far shore of the river, but he recovered quickly. Muttering an apology to his grandmother, he continued on.

Past the stony shore, the ground sloped quickly upwards, the edge of the forest thick with tangles of brush and new tree growth. Cutting through the undergrowth, a well-worn path wagged uphill, leading toward the Mound of Ghosts.

Still breathing easily, not yet breaking a sweat, Gilad jogged along the path toward the eerie forest. They passed over the first ridge, tromped across the broad open dale on the other side, then headed into the Mound of Ghosts. The pines closed in on them, dimming what was left of the day's light. The carpet of fallen pine needles, orange and soft as bedding, seemed to absorb all sound in the immediate vicinity so that the piney woodland was strangely quiet. It's why the People called this place the Mound of Ghosts. The hush had an ethereal quality.

"How are you doing?" Gilad asked. "Do you need to rest?

"I'm fine," Nyal answered. "If you can run, run. Fast as you can. Don't worry about me."

He could run.