Pran studied the sparsely wooded slope before them mistrustfully. Deborah followed his gaze, and saw what appeared to be mist or low cloud, moving slowly downwards towards them.
‘What is it?’ She asked him.
He looked grim. ‘Something comes,’ he told her, ‘and brings with it this unnatural winter. There is something concealed in that fog which I do not wish to contest. Though it is far off yet, I can nonetheless feel its might.’
Éha noticed it too, and watched the hillside apprehensively. ‘Can we go now? I don’t want to be here!’
Pran assented, not taking his eyes off of the ominous fog. ‘Come, let us mount again, and ride to a point more southerly.’ He was referring to the round hill which stood at their left.
This way was less travelled and slow-going. The undergrowth hampered their mounts, and the hard ground became uneven, often giving way to broken knees of rock, and steep, narrow ravines. Eventually they came to the river, the round hill appearing high above them. Leading his mount to the water, he cautioned the others before entering.
‘Ware! Although this stream is not deep, it is nonetheless fast-moving. Let your horse find his own way, at his own pace.’