“I’m already glad,” Conor said. A big gust almost blew his blanket off. He gripped it tightly until the wind subsided. “You might want to call in Essix.”
Rollan looked up. The sky had gotten even murkier, and he couldn’t see his falcon anywhere. “Essix!” he yelled. “Come in! There’s a storm brewing!”
The wind gusted again, and stinging pellets of grit hit his face. As the wind died down, he heard the clack of pebbles falling around him, but there was nothing above but the open sky.
“Hail!” Barlow bellowed. “Ride for the rock face!”
Something clonked Rollan on the head. It hurt even through his hood. He now saw that what he had taken for pebbles were balls of ice, growing bigger by the second.
Conor broke into a gallop. Rollan dug his heels into his horse and snapped the reins. As his mount started running, the hail began to pelt down in earnest. Hailstones battered the surrounding rocks, ricocheting wildly.
A stone hit him on the hand, shocking him with the force of it. Rollan ducked his head to protect his face. The wind gusted again, full of projectiles. Tarik and Meilin had already reached the modest shelter. Monte would get there next. Then Conor. Barlow was bringing up the rear.
A hailstone struck Rollan square in the forehead. Before he knew what had happened, he had tipped sideways in his saddle and was leaning crazily over the horse’s flank. One foot remained in its stirrup, but Rollan’s whole weight was off-balance and the ground rushed under him, alarmingly close. Tilting forward, he embraced his horse. To fall on the rocks at this speed would mean serious injuries. His horse slowed to a trot, and a strong hand grabbed Rollan by the shoulder and righted him in his saddle.
“You okay?” Barlow checked, yelling over the wind and the clattering hail.
Considering the circumstances, Rollan figured being alive was the same thing as being okay.
“Let’s keep going!” Rollan replied, leaning into the neck of his horse.
The hail was really coming down. The smallest pieces were now as large as Rollan’s thumb. Some were almost the size of his fist. He could feel the agitated breathing of the horse beneath him as they raced toward the shelter.
Rollan and Barlow reached the safety of the precipice and swung off their horses. Only when Rollan tasted blood in his mouth did he realize that it was spilling down his face from a gash near his hairline.
Tarik had Rollan sit with his back to the precipice, and the veteran Greencloak produced a clean handkerchief. Hail continued to smash down noisily, but it couldn’t hit them directly. Some fragments skipped their way after impact.
Conor helped Barlow and Monte position the horses so they would provide an extra barrier against the wind. Meilin came and crouched beside Rollan, Jhi beside her. The panda leaned over and licked Rollan’s forehead.
“Would you look at that,” Tarik remarked.
“What?” Rollan asked. Something already felt different.
“Your wound is closing up,” Tarik said. He looked up at Meilin. “Did you know what Jhi was doing?”
“I released her and asked her to help him,” Meilin said. “Jhi is supposed to be a gifted healer.”
“It wasn’t a horrible wound,” Tarik explained, “but it might have bled a lot. Thanks to the panda, it’s clotting already. You’re lucky.”
“Is that what you call it when an iceberg lands on your head?” Rollan asked.
“It’s what I call it when most of the harm is undone,” Tarik replied.
Rollan glanced guiltily at Meilin and Jhi. “Thanks. That was kind. I think I can take it from here.” He still felt a little woozy, and wasn’t sure how much panda spit he wanted on his face.
“Happy to help,” Meilin said.
While Barlow and Monte tried to light a fire, Tarik made sure everyone was as bundled as possible. The wind was howling now, but their shelter kept them from the worst of it. The hail shrank to marble-sized pellets, accumulating in drifts.
“I’ve never seen a hailstorm like this,” Monte commented after he gave up on the fire and the group huddled together for warmth. “It can’t be coincidence.”
“You believe Arax sent it to drive us away?” Meilin asked.
“If so, it’ll take more than a little ice,” Tarik said.
“Tell that to my skull,” Rollan grumbled. “No luck with the fire?”
Monte shook his head.
“Too much wind,” Barlow said. “And no good kindling.”
Between the legs of the horses, Rollan could see the hail blowing almost sideways now. With growing desperation, he scanned the skies for Essix, but couldn’t find any trace of her.
“Do you guys think Essix will be all right?” he asked, almost scared to voice the question.
“She probably found shelter before we did,” Barlow said. “Her instincts should keep her safe through worse than this.”
“The ice just keeps coming,” Monte noted.
“We’ll wait it out,” Tarik said. “No storm lasts forever.”
Rollan nodded vaguely, unsure what they should fear more — the storm, or the ram that had sent it.
The hail finally relented around nightfall. Once the wind died down, Barlow and Monte got a fire going. During the night the chill broke, and by daybreak all traces of ice had melted away.
Not long after sunrise, Essix swooped in looking as sleek and glossy as ever. Rollan welcomed the bird warmly, feeding her from his saddlebags. Despite assurances from Barlow, Rollan had imagined Essix wet and suffering, delicate bones pummeled by hailstones. The falcon acted as though nothing unusual had happened, flying away once she had eaten. Rollan accepted her nonchalance with relief.
After two more days of slow trekking, they found giant ram tracks again. This time Briggan located them before Scrubber.
“Not fresh, but not old,” Monte said after examining some of the sizable prints. “Less than three days. Maybe less than two.”
“That’s really close,” Rollan said. He motioned toward some bushes. “Just to be safe, one of us should stay here and hide.”
Monte chuckled. “Maybe two of us.”
Rollan worried more than ever as they followed the tracks onward. Part of him had suspected they would never find Arax. It just seemed so far-fetched to actually encounter a Great Beast. But the fresh tracks made the possibility all too real.
They followed a mountain ridge into even more jagged country. The metallic smell of granite dominated the cool, thin air, although they could still detect a hint of pine. Vegetation became increasingly sparse — small, warped evergreens clinging to life in meager patches of soil. At times, their path led along narrow ledges barely wide enough for the horses. As they traversed a section with a dizzying cliff to the left and a sheer rock face to the right, Rollan tried not to think about what would happen if his horse stumbled. It became harder to find prints on the stonier ground, but Briggan never seemed to lose confidence.