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find the Unfettered One。 For such a risk； the only possibility of success lay in speed。
With their supplies repacked and their weapons cleaned； they left the valley through its narrow northward outlet at a lope。
They traveled during the day now for the sake of speed。 Half dragging Yeurquin behind them； Triock and Quirrel trotted doggedly due west； across the cold…blasted flatland toward the eastmost outcropping of the mountains。 As they moved； Triock prayed for snow to cover their trail。
By the end of the next day； they caught their first glimpses of the great storm which brooded for more than a score of leagues in every direction over the approaches to Doom's Retreat。
North of that defile through the mountains； the parched ancient heat of the Southron Wastes met the Gray Slayer's winter； and the result was an immense storm； rotating against the mountain walls which blocked it on the south and west。 Its outer edges concealed the forces which raged within； but even from the distance of a day's hard traveling； Triock caught hints of hurricane conditions： cycling winds that ripped along the ground as if they meant to lay bare the bones of the earth； snow as thick as night； gelid air cold enough to freeze blood in the warmest places of the heart。
It lay directly across his path。
Yet he led Quirrel and Yeurquin toward it for another day； hurried in the direction of the storm's core until its outer winds were tugging at his garments； and its first snows were packing wetly against his windward side。 Yeurquin was in grim condition…blood oozed like exhaustion through the overstrained scabs of his wound； and the tough fiber of his stamina was frayed and loosened like a breaking rope。 But Triock did not turn aside。 He could not attempt to skirt the storm； could not swing north toward the middle of the South Plains to go around。 During the first night after the battle with the kresh； he had seen watch fires northeast of him。 They were following him。 He had studied them the next night； and had perceived that they were moving straight toward him； gaining ground at an alarming rate。
Some enemy had felt his exertion of the lomillialor。 Some enemy knew his scent now and pursued him like mounting furor。
〃We cannot outrun them；〃 Quirrel observed grimly as they huddled together under the lip of the storm to rest and eat。
Triock said nothing。 He could hear Covenant rasping； If we don't start doing the impossible。 Doing the impossible。
A moment later； she sniffed the wind。 〃And I do not like the taste of this weather。 There is a blizzard here…a blast raw enough to strike the flesh from our limbs。〃
The impossible； Triock repeated to himself。 He should have said to the Unbeliever； 〃I was born to tend cattle。 I am not a man who does impossible things。〃 He was tired and old and unwise。 He should have taken Lena and led his people toward safety deep in the Southron Range； should have chosen to renew the ancient exile rather than allow one extravagant stranger to bend all Mithil Stonedown to the shape of his terrible purpose。
Without looking at him； Quirrel said； 〃We must separate。〃
〃Separate；〃 Yeurquin groaned hollowly。
〃We must confuse the trail…confuse these〃…she spat fiercely along the wind…〃so that you may find your way west。〃
Impossible。 The word repeated itself like a weary litany in Triock's mind。
Quirrel raised her eyes to face him squarely。 〃We must。〃
And Yeurquin echoed； 〃Must。〃
Triock looked at her； and the wrinkles around his eyes winced as if even the skin of his face were afraid。 For a moment； his jaw worked soundlessly。 Then he grimaced。 〃No。〃
Quirrel tightened in protest； and he forced himself to explain。 〃We would gain nothing。 They do not follow our trail…they could not follow a trail so swiftly。 Your trails would not turn them aside。 They follow the spoor of the High Wood。〃
〃That cannot be；〃 she replied incredulously。 〃I sense nothing of it from an arm's reach away。〃
〃You have no eyes for power。 If we part； you will leave me alone against them。〃
〃Separate；〃 Yeurquin groaned again。
〃No！〃 Anger filled Triock's mouth。 〃I need you。〃
〃I slow you；〃 the injured man returned emptily； fatally。 His face looked pale and slack； frost…rimed； defeated。
〃e！〃 Triock surged to his feet； quickly gathered his supplies and threw his pack over his shoulders； then stalked away across the wind in the direction of the storm's heart。 He did not look behind him。 But after a moment Quirrel caught up with him on the right； and Yeurquin came shambling after him on the left。 Together； they cut their way into the blizzard。
Before they had covered a league； they were stumbling against wind and snow as if the angry air were assaulting them with fine granite chips of cold。 Snow piled against them； and the wind tore through their clothes as if the fabric were thinner than gauze。 And in another league； they lost the light of day； the mounting snow flailed it out of the air。 Quirrel tried to provide some light by uncovering a small urn of graveling； but the wind snatched the fire…stones from the urn； scattered them like a brief burning plume of gems from her hands。 When they were gone； Triock could hardly make out her form huddled dimly near him； too cold even to curse what had happened。 Yeurquin had dropped to the ground when they had stopped； and already he was almost buried in snow。 Ahead of them…unmuffled now by the outer winds…Triock could see something of the rabid howl and scourge of the storm itself； the hurricane or blizzard shrieking at the violence of the forces which formed it。
Its fury slammed against his senses like the crumbling of a mountain。 Peering at it； he knew that there was nothing erect within it； no beast or man or Giant or tree or stone； the maelstroming winds had long since leveled everything which had dared raise its head above the battered line of the ground。 Triock had to protect his eyes with his hands。 Impossible was a pale word to describe the task of walking through that storm。 But it was his only defense against pursuit。
With all the strength he could muster； he lifted Yeurquin and helped the injured man lurch onward。
Black wind and sharp snow clamped down on him； stamped at him； slashed sideways to cut his legs from under him。 Cold blinded him； deafened him； numbed him； he only knew that he had not lost his panions because Quirrel clutched the back of his cloak and Yeurquin sagged with growing helplessness against him。 But he himself was failing； and could do nothing to prevent the loss。 He could hardly breathe； the wind ripped past him so savagely that he caught only inadequate pieces of it。 Yeurquin's weight seemed unendurable。 He jerked woodenly to a halt。 Out of a simple and unanswerable need for respite； he pushed Yeurquin away； forced him to support himself。
Yeurquin reeled； tottered a few steps along the wind； and abruptly vanished…disappeared as pletely as if a sudden maw of the blizzard had swallowed him。
〃Yeurquin！〃 Triock screamed。 〃Yeurquin！〃
He dashed after his friend； grappling； groping frantically for him。 For an instant； a dim shape sc