The Education of Brother Thaddius and other tales of DemonWars (The DemonWars Saga) Read Free Page A

he should go down to help them construct some kind of shelter or whether he should just hope. Another hour, another couple of miles, meandered by.
    The first few snowflakes drifted down; the wind’s bite increased.
    And then it hit, as if the sky itself had simply torn apart, dumping its contents earthward. What had been a gentle flurry became, in mere seconds, a driving blizzard of wind-whipped, stinging snow. Mather continued to watch the wagons, nodding his approval of the skill shown by the lead driver, the man bunching his cloak against the cold and forcing the team on.
    Another mile slipped past slowly. By then, three inches of snow covered the trail.
    “You can get there,” Mather said quietly, urging the wagons on, for now they slowed and men scrambled together, likely discussing the possibility of stopping to ride out the storm. But they were southerners—likely not one of them had ever been north of Palmaris, which was some three hundred miles away—and they couldn’t appreciate the fury of a Timberland snowstorm. If they circled their wagons now and huddled against the storm, they might find themselves stuck out here, with no help coming from Dundalis, or anywhere else, for many days, even weeks.
    Winter would only get rougher. They’d never survive.
    Mather pulled the cowl of his cloak low, as much to hide his face as to ward the cold, and rushed down to join the group. “Are you looking for Dundalis?” he asked in greeting as he approached, yelling loudly so that the men could hear him, though they were but a dozen feet from him.
    “Dundalis, or any place to hide from the storm,” said the lead driver, a large and strong man, a man who, as Tuntun had said, bore some resemblance to Mather Wyndon.
    “Dundalis is your only choice,” Mather replied, running up to grab the bridle of one of the horses. “You’ve got five miles to go.”
    We’ll not make it,” another man cried.
    “You have to make it,” Mather replied sternly. “Even if you must desert the wagons and follow me on foot.”
    “But all our possessions…” the man started.
    Mather cut him off and looked directly at Olwan as he spoke. “To stay out here is to die,” he explained. “So tie your wagons together, front to back, and drive your teams—and drive them hard.
    “I can hardly see the road before us,” Olwan replied.
    “I will guide you.” As Mather finished, a haunting melody came up about them, music carried on, and cutting through, the howling wind.
    “And what is that?” the stubborn man on the second wagon yelled.
    “Another guide,” Mather replied, silently applauding Bradwarden, understanding that the centaur was using the music to help Mather keep his bearings.
    On they went, against the driving snow, against the howling, stinging wind. Mather, his body numb from the cold, pulled the lead horse along, kicking through the piling snow. Several hours passed, and still they were a mile away, and now the snow was a foot deep all about them and before them, and the afternoon was fast giving way to evening.
    It grew colder, the wind only increased, and the snow did not relent.
    Mather hardly knew where he was, the snow stealing landmarks. He plodded on, yanking at the reluctant horses, and then he found he was not alone, that his brother, with equal determination, was beside him, pulling hard.
    “How far?” Olwan yelled. Mather hardly heard him.
    The ranger glanced around, searching, searching, for something, for anything that would give him some indication. Then he saw a tree, and he knew that tree, and he recognized that they had but one climb to go, a few hundred yards and no more. But it would be a difficult climb, and by the time they capped the last ridge, darkness would be deep about them.
    They fought and scrambled for every foot of ground. At one point, the trailing wagon slipped off the trail and hooked on a tree root. They thought they would have to cut it free, but stubborn Mather, now thinking of this