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And she had sent him away in anger； had she not？
The wind picked restlessly at the unsettled snow。
He rode past Ach Samrath on a morning when the storm had abated somewhat； stopping his horse on a rise above the ancient battlefield where Prince Sinnach and ten thousand of his Hernystirmen had been destroyed by Fingil of Rimmersgard and the treachery of the Thrithings…lord Niyunort。 As on the few other occasions he had visited this site； Eolair felt a shiver climb through him as he looked down at the great； flat field； but this time it was not prompted by the grisly past。 With the freezing wind on his face and the cold； blank face of the north staring down at him； he suddenly realized that by the time this new and greater war had ended…whether on a battlefield or beneath a remorseless tide of black winter…it might be in a frenzy of death that would make Ach Samrath seem a petty dispute。
He rode on； his anger turning to ice inside him。 Who had set this great thing in motion？ Who had set this evil wheel to turning？ Had it been Elias； or his pet serpent Pryrates？ If so； there should be a special Hell prepared for them。 Eolair only hoped he would be around to see them sent there… maybe on the end of Prester John's Bright…Nail； if the subterranean dwarrows spoke rightly。
As Eolair came to the edge of Aldheorte； he reverted once more to night riding。 The storm's teeth seemed a little duller here in Elias' realm； only a dozen leagues from the outskirts of Erchester； and he also thought it safer not to count on the infrequency of meeting other travelers any longer… here； that infrequent other traveler was likely to be one of the High King's Erkynguard。
Beneath the shadow of the great wood； the silent； snow…blanketed farmlands seemed to wait apprehensively for whatever might e next； as though this storm were only the precursor of some darker deed。 Eolair knew that these were his own feelings； but also felt strongly that they were not his alone： a sense of dread hung over Erkynland； filling the air like a terrible； will…sapping fog。 The few lone farmers and woodsmen whose wagons he saw on the road did not respond to his greetings except to make the sign of the Tree as they passed him on the moonless roads； as though Eolair might be some demon or walking dead man。 But their torches revealed that it was their own faces that had gone slack and pale as the masks of corpses； as though the fearful winds and constant snow had leached the very life from them。
He approached Thisterborg。 The great hill stood only a few leagues from Erchester's gates； and was the closest he would e to the Hayholt… from which； on certain of the blackest nights； he could almost feel Elias' sleepless malice burning like a torch in a high tower。 It was only the High King； he reminded himself； a mortal man whom he had once respected； although never liked。 Whatever mad plans Elias had made； whatever dreadful bargains； he was still only a man。
Thisterborg's peak seemed to flicker as the count drew nearer； as though high on the hillcrest great watchfires burned。 Eolair wondered if Elias had made it a guard post； but could think of no reason why。 Did the High King fear some invasion from the ancient forest； the Aldheorte？ It mattered little； in any case。 Eolair was firmly resolved to circle Thisterborg on the far side from Erchester； and felt no urge whatsoever to investigate the mysterious lights。 The black hill had an evil reputation that extended back far beyond the days of even Elias' father； King John。 Stories about Thisterborg were many； none of them pleasant to hear。 In such days as these； Eolair wished he could avoid ing any closer than a league or so； but the forest…another dubious place to be at night…and the walls of Erchester prevented such a judiciously wide swing。
He had just started around the north of the hill； his mount picking its way through the ever…thickening trees of Aldheorte's fringe； when he felt a wave of fear sweep over him that was unlike anything he had ever experienced。 His heart hammered and a chill sweat broke out on his face； then turned almost immediately to fragile ice； Eolair felt like a fieldmouse that； too late for escape； suddenly perceived the stooping hawk。 He had to restrain himself from digging in his spurs and riding madly in whatever direction he was already facing。 He whirled； looking wildly for whatever might be the cause of such dreadful terror； but could see nothing。
At last he slapped his horse's flank and rode a short distance farther into the shielding trees。 Whatever had caused him to feel this way； it seemed a product of the unprotected snows rather than the shadowy forest。
The storm was much less fierce here； as it had been since he had entered Aldheorte's lee： but for a sprinkling of snow； the sky was clear。 A vast yellow moon hung in the eastern sky； turning all the landscape to a sickly shade of bone。 The Count of Nad Mullach looked up at the looming bulk of Thisterborg； wondering if that could be the source of his sudden fright； but could see or hear nothing extraordinary。 A part of him wondered if he had not been riding too long alone with his morbid thoughts； but that part was easily ignored。 Eolair was a Hernystirman。 Herynstiri remembered。
A thin sound； an unidentifiable but persistent scraping； began to make itself heard。 He looked down from secretive Thisterborg and turned his gaze westward across the snows； toward the direction from which he had e。 Something was moving slowly across the white plain。
The chill of fear grew deeper； spreading through him like a prickling frost。 As his horse moved unfortably； Eolair put a trembling hand on its neck； the beast； as if it perceived his own terror； suddenly became very still。 Their twin plumes of breath were the only moving things in the shadow of the trees。
The scraping grew louder。 Eolair could now see the shapes moving closer over the snows； a mass of luminous white followed by a lump of blackness。 Then； with the stark unreality of a nightmare； the gleaming shapes came clear。
It was a team of white goats； shaggy pelts glowing as though with captured moonlight。 Their eyes were red as embers； and their heads seemed somehow gravely wrong： when he thought of it afterward he could never say why； except that the shapes of their hairless muzzles seemed to suggest some kind of unpleasant intelligence。 The goats； nine in all； drew behind them a great black sled； it was the sound of the runners crunching through the snow that he had heard。 Seated on the sled was a hooded figure that even across a distance of some hundred cubits seemed too large。 Several other； smaller black…robed figures marched solemnly alongside； hoods tilted downward like monks in meditation。
An almost uncontrollable horror ran up Eolair's spine。 His horse had turned to stone beneath him； as if fright had stopped its heart and left it dead upon its feet。 The ghastly procession scraped past； agonizingly slow； silent but for the noise of the sled。 Just as the robed figures were about to vanish into the darkness of Thistcrborg's lowest slopes； one of the hooded shapes turned； showing Eolair what he fancied was a flash of skel