A tempest wailed over the mountainside, wind lashing the strong pines to and fro like slender willow-wythes. Carras stumbled to his knees in the heavy drifts, blinded by the snow, and turned his face away from the driving wall of white. Wearily he got to his feet.
Thirteen days he had been searching the mountains, and had found nothing. And then a sudden storm had taken him unawares as he walked the open slope of the mountain, alone and helpless, and had closed its raging grip about him before he could find shelter. Now it sucked his breath away from him, robbed his sight, beat him to his knees. In vain he struggled against it; his strength was leaving him, and his stride faltered, and he fell. And suddenly he was filled with anger, that he should die in one winter's storm when his quarry had been a danger ten times more terrible. And his anger drove him to his feet again, and he turned a face of defiance to the storm. And he cried aloud, saying, "Era, a ditho gareo caherer!"; which is Thiredanian for, "I will fight to the last".
But as he fell silent and heard the screaming of the wind, he thought that something spoke in it, a cold cry that was like the wind and yet different, for it was fell, and deep. And it came through and under the wind, but was not one with it. And a strange fear came over him.
He stared around him, and with drawn sword he stood, waiting for its return. But it came not.
And when his will could no longer hold him up, he fell, spent with weariness. But before his senses left him he heard a laughter, mirthless and deep; and he saw boots also before his eyes, and knew that a man stood before him. But it seemed to him that it was the mountain that had laughed.