Spring, year 565 of the Varakarian Cycle

  The next week was among the best Kharg had ever experienced. Gone were the harsh winds, treacherous paths, and the aching discomfort of Isam’s filth-ridden streets. Here, in the heart of the mountains, the world opened into a realm of breathtaking beauty. The grassy vales teemed with life at the base of the towering peaks that glistened with distant snow, their rugged slopes melting into rolling green pastures below. It was a welcome change from the semi-barren lands they had left behind. The air carried the scent of wildflowers, fresh grass, and mountain streams. Dew glistened on the leaves in the morning, and by midday, the sun warmed them as they rode, making travel comfortable rather than grueling. The air was fresh, the land vibrant, and Kharg felt truly at peace for the first time since they had set out. His flea bites faded, and the lingering itches that had tormented him for days were slowly disappearing. After a week, they were no more than a scant memory, one of many discomforts that had come and gone. The soreness from long hours in the saddle remained, but even that seemed easier to endure beneath the vast blue sky and breathtaking scenery.

  The sights that greeted them along the way were stunning. Waterfalls spilled from the cliffs above, misting the air so small rainbows formed now and then. In the valleys below, ponds lay concealed, their waters supplied by meltwater that traced clear, twisting streams down the slopes. The water was so clear that Kharg could see schools of silvery fish darting beneath the surface, their scales glinting like coins with each flicker of movement. Game was plentiful. Mountain goats clambered along narrow ledges, hares flitted between rocks, and wild fowl stirred in the tall grass. They all provided fresh meat in abundance and the meals began to improve. Korvak, who had taken over the cooking without a word, proved more capable than expected. He gathered wild onions, mint, and sharp-scented herbs Kharg could not name, tossing them into bubbling stews with a kind of rustic instinct. The food, still simple, had lost its bitterness. The broths carried depth, the meat came seared and smoky, and once, Korvak slow-smoked a haunch in wrapped leaves until its scent drew the others to the fire before it was ready. Kharg still missed the refined sauces and delicate spices of home. But under the fading light and beside the steady crackle of firewood, he ate without complaint and sometimes even with a quiet sense of contentment. He told himself that, when his turn came to lead, he would make fine food a priority. If the journey allowed it, he would.

  One afternoon, they came upon a deep, clear pond tucked between folds of rock and grass. It was too inviting to pass. At Halfur’s signal, they halted. It was a rare pause in their steady march, and they took full advantage of it. When he stepped into the icy water, the cold hit him like a shock. Soon, though, it felt invigorating, clearing away the weariness of the road. Kharg stripped down by the water’s edge, wading in with a shiver and scrubbing one of his two travel-worn shirts against the river stones. The mountain stream was icy, numbing his hands and arms within minutes, but he welcomed the sting. Grime, sweat, and smoke lifted from the cloth in gray spirals, and soon both shirts were wrung out and spread across a flat boulder to dry. He did the same with his spare trousers, then reached for his satchel and pulled out the last clean set he had brought from home, a light linen shirt and fitted riding pants. The feel of fresh fabric against newly scrubbed skin was a luxury beyond words. He sighed as he fastened the last button, glancing back at the two sodden bundles drying in the sun. That was it, nothing clean left now. If the weather turned, he’d be in for days of damp discomfort. The others also took turns scrubbing their clothes in the shallows, laying shirts and trousers across sun-warmed stones to dry. For a little while, they simply lay back and let the warmth of the day soak into their skin.

  It surprised him, how warm it was.

  It was spring, yes, but this far north, he had expected the chill to linger. If he had been home, walking through the pristine gardens of their estate, the air would still have carried a sharp bite, winter’s presence lingering in the breeze. But here in the sheltered vales, the sun was golden and pleasant, a comfort against the mountain winds.

  It was a stroke of luck when, that evening, the men successfully speared a few of these fish, their fat bodies hissing and sizzling as they roasted over the fire. Compared to the ocean fish Kharg had known in Sitch Nar, these were richer, more buttery, and bursting with flavor, their juices dripping onto the embers as they charred and sizzled. He could swear he had never tasted anything as good. But hunger was the best spice, as they said, which might have played a part.

  The mountains themselves were a marvel to behold.

  At times, they rode through narrow passes, flanked by snow-capped peaks that reached the clouds. Yet, despite the snow-covered summits, the valleys remained mild and full of life. Herds of wild goats picked their way across the ridges and birds of prey soared overhead, their cries echoing against the cliffs. The route they followed was easy to ride, with few obstacles and mostly soft green grass on gentle slopes in the valleys. For a few days they rode along the banks of a river with shores filled with rounded stones.

  As they continued their journey, the land remained peaceful. They saw no traces of goblins or other dark folk, no distant fires, no signs of watchful eyes lurking in the cliffs. The silent tension of the earlier weeks faded, replaced by an unspoken ease among the men. Even Kharg found himself relaxing, hardly able to believe the change in fortune. Still, each dusk brought the same careful routine—fires sunk and covered, sentries posted, the camp tucked out of sight.

  But as always, good things came to an end. Seven nights from the pass, as the sun bled behind the ridges, a faint, steady thump rolled across the vales—war-drums.

  The mood in the camp changed at once.

  “Fires out. Pack everything,” Halfur ordered, his voice calm but cutting through the night like steel. “Quiet hands, no talk.”

  At once, the camp came alive in tense, silent motion. Two men kicked earth into the fire-holes while another pressed the square turfs back in place, smoothing the seams until no trace of flame or ash remained. “Bedrolls next,” Halfur said quietly, and men obeyed without a word, rolling their blankets tight and slinging them over shoulders. “Get the horses ready,” he added. “No clatter—bridles wrapped and cover the tack. Two of you stay behind and clear what tracks you can. The rest, follow me.”

  Two of the men peeled off at Halfur’s sharp gesture, lagging behind to blur the worst of the tracks—dragging brush, scuffing ruts, pressing flat what they could. Kharg moved with the others, working by touch in the dim light. The tension was a living thing in the air, coiling through the group as leather straps were buckled and loosened without sound. Halfur strode between them, checking each task in turn, his voice low but commanding whenever he spoke again. “Keep the pace steady. We’re heading for that grove up the slope. Stay close.”

  The faint thump of the war-drums echoed again, deep and distant, like thunder rolling through the vales. No one spoke for a long moment. Then a muttered voice broke the silence.

  “We’d better find a way to keep the horses quiet.”

  Oren answered low, without pausing his steps. “We’ll blindfold them. Blinders help with the panic, but if they start flaring or stomping, we’ll have to work them down by hand and talk softly to them. Keep a grip near the bit, though not too tight, and stay calm.”

  No one disagreed.

  They led the horses by the reins, moving carefully so no hoof struck stone, the rhythm of the drums chasing them up the slope toward the waiting shadows of the trees.

  As they climbed higher, Kharg glanced back at the stream that gleamed like a strip of steel at the vale’s bottom. If dark folk came down to the vale or followed the water, odds were that they would spot the tracks from the horses. There was no way they could cover all their tracks in the soft ground next to the water. Further up the slopes, the grass was much taller and might hide their tracks somewhat. He hoped they wouldn’t find their way to the grove more than a mile upslope.

  They reached the grove and slipped beneath its eaves. It was wider than it had seemed from below, a dense-boughed stand with a shallow depression beside a boulder tall as a cottage. They brought the horses in, turning them inward and tying them short. At Halfur’s command, blinders were fixed over the animals’ eyes. Men spoke to them in low tones, coaxing quiet with voice and touch until the twitching ears began to settle. Korvak crushed a handful of mint and sharp-scented leaves in his palms and smeared the pulp beneath their nostrils.

  All the while the drums went on—steady, patient, somewhere in the folds of the hills. Darkness deepened, made darker by the heavy cover of clouds above. The light between the trunks thinned to nothing. Tension crept through the group like fog. When someone coughed, it died in the throat as Halfur raised his hand.

  They ate cold—dark bread, thin slices of goat, a shared mouthful of water passed skin to skin. What little talk there was kept low and brief. The men moved softly among the horses, offering small handfuls of oats, rubbing muzzles, whispering words meant more to soothe than to speak. No sudden movements. No jangling of buckles. Just the quiet care of hands trained to keep beasts calm when fear pressed in from all sides.

  One man, a narrow-shouldered scout with keen eyes and a cloak dark as bark, eased to the grove’s edge. He crouched between two trunks and watched the valley, still and silent. The rest remained near the camp, threading slow paths between the tethered animals. A spear butt never struck stone. A hoof that shifted was gently steadied. The smell of fresh grass and crushed pine hung in the air.

  The drums throbbed like a second heartbeat in the dark, and the grove held its breath.

  Kharg rested with the others, but sleep wouldn’t come. He shifted once, twice, trying to find a position that would fool his body into stillness. The drums changed again, coming from different directions as if signaling or challenging each other. Now and then, the horses raised their heads and froze. One man began to hum low to calm a nervous mare. The sound barely registered, so soft it might have been the wind itself.

  After a while, Kharg gave up. He got to his feet and brushed the dirt from his cloak. Moving carefully, he approached the edge where the scout, now recognizable as Skarn, stood at his post. The man glanced back but said nothing as Kharg sank beside him. Together they watched the valley, but so far nothing moved. Only the grass, restless under starlight, and the wind that carried the drums closer.

  For a long while, nothing stirred. The drums rolled and faded, rolled again, echoing faintly between the ridges. Then Kharg saw it, a flicker of orange on the far slope. A torch. It wavered, vanished behind rock, then reappeared higher up. Moments later, more lights joined it, scattered at first, then drawing together into a slow, deliberate procession descending toward the vale.

  “There,” Kharg whispered, leaning slightly forward. “See them?”

  Skarn grunted something Kharg failed to catch, then said, “Look higher.” He pointed at something halfway up the mountainside. “Above the trees there.”

  Then Kharg saw it, a single bright flame burning steadily.

  “That’s no moving torch,” Skarn murmured. “Likely a cave up there, entrance to the deep. I’ve heard dark folk make their homes in the mountain roots.”

  The torches multiplied as they watched, forming thin streams of light that slithered down the slope. Only a few bore flames, the rest of the figures only visible when a rare gap in the clouds poured moonlight on them. Kharg’s stomach tightened. From their vantage, they saw a bonfire flaring up and something moving there. Kharg’s gaze roamed beyond the fire. More torches had appeared along the distant slopes—tiny, wandering sparks tracing paths through the dark. Some winked out as quickly as they came, others lingered, marking movements across the valley like fireflies in a net.

  By the time Oren crept up behind them to take over the watch, the drums still hadn’t stopped. The sound had sunk deep into the earth now, steady as a heartbeat, unending.

  Kharg didn’t move until Oren touched his shoulder. “You’ll need some sleep as well,” Oren said softly. “I know it feels impossible right now, but try. It’ll come.”

  Kharg glanced down the slope one last time. The dark shapes were stirring again, crossing the stream in loose formation, their torches flaring briefly before vanishing behind the rocks. He nodded once to Oren and slipped back through the trees toward the camp. The others lay still, their faces pale in the starlight. He lowered himself onto his bedroll, drawing the cloak tighter around his shoulders.

  The drums continued, muffled now by distance, but constant. Just before sleep claimed him, a thought surfaced and refused to leave—they had seen only those descending from the far slope, moving eastward. None had climbed from their side.

  Kharg woke to the scrape of boots and the quiet clink of gear being strapped down. The first hint of dawn filtered through the clouded sky, a pale gray light spreading between the trunks. The grove was still, damp with the breath of night, until the soft sounds of men stirring broke the silence. The men rose stiffly from their bedrolls, wordless, gathering tack and gear by touch more than sight.

  Halfur moved among them, his voice low. “Pack up, and stay quiet.”

  They obeyed in silence. Bedrolls were rolled tight, straps secured. The horses were led out one by one, blinders removed with soft murmurs to keep them calm.

  As Kharg rose and slung his satchel, Halfur passed near and paused. “I’ve crossed this vale six times now,” he muttered, just loud enough for Kharg to hear. “I heard drums once or twice, always far off. Met and fought small bands twice, a dozen or so in them. But nothing like this.” He glanced up the slopes and cursed.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  Kharg felt a sudden fear that their passage was in danger. It wouldn’t be easy to get enough warriors here to defeat a clan, not if they wanted to keep the passage secret. He kept his voice steady as he asked. “What do you make of it? Think a clan has moved in here?”

  “Not likely, I’ve had the impression they avoid these vales. Otherwise, they’d be stripped.” Halfur’s jaw worked. “A tribe of goblins would strip a place like this bare. Meat, roots, berries—gone in weeks. But the goats are fat and plentiful, and the brush untouched. No, I think this is something else. Never seen so many though, don’t like that at all.”

  “I got the impression they came from several slopes last night,” Kharg said quietly.

  “Likely more than one clan then.” Halfur gave a grunt, then turned to the others. “We follow the upper slope,” he said to the group. “Keep to the grass where we leave less sign. Skarn, you take a look at the fire site. On foot.”

  The scout gave a silent nod and broke off downslope, his figure clear against the pale grass as he descended toward the valley floor.

  The rest continued northward along the mountain’s flank, holding to the higher grass a few hundred yards up the slope. The path slanted gently, tracing the contour of the valley wall, with the looming peaks flanking them. The grass rose to their knees in places, rustling softly as they passed, and the wind carried a slight chill from the north.

  By noon they paused for a quick meal and Skarn caught up with them, his cloak dusty and his face drawn. He came over to where Kharg and Halfur sat, still breathing hard from having jogged here.

  “They feasted, all right. Goat carcasses mostly—half a dozen at least, maybe more. And I found two goblins with skulls caved in.”

  Halfur’s brow furrowed. “Never heard of anything like that. Well, not many know much about dark folks besides tales…”

  “Where did they go?” Kharg asked.

  “Crossed the stream in two groups,” Skarn said, kneeling to draw in the dirt. “From the tracks, it looks like most of them turned northeast. Could be they’re headed for the gaps between those peaks there.” He gestured with the stick up the side. “It’s steep ground. Wild country, not easily traveled.”

  Halfur studied the slope. “Let’s hope they’re migrating.”

  “They weren’t hunting, that’s for sure. I didn’t see tracks of hunting bands spreading out,” Skarn said.

  They made good time, but the mood soured as the afternoon wore on. The men rode in silence, broken now and then by mutters too quiet to catch. Shoulders hunched. Eyes scanned the ridgelines. The memory of the drums, and the strange feast Skarn had described, hung over them like a veil. Even the horses seemed more subdued, their ears twitching at every gust of wind.

  Farnul grumbled something under his breath as he adjusted his saddle, rubbing a hand over his face. “Feels like I’ve not slept in days. This pace is wearing.”

  Halfur turned in the saddle, voice curt. “A few nights on half-sleep is nothing. You’re paid to guard, not lounge. And it’s been a soft ride until now, so pray this is the worst of it.”

  The man fell silent. No one else spoke up.

  By midafternoon, they reached a broad shoulder in the valley where the land dipped gently toward the stream below. The water shimmered in patches of sun, winding silver through the stone. The horses shifted uneasily, thirsty after the long ride. Yet the riverbank was little more than mud, too soft to hope they could remove their tracks afterward.

  Halfur pulled Skarn aside. “Find us a better spot to water them. Firm ground, or something with stone if you can manage it.”

  Skarn nodded and slipped away downslope, moving fast through the thinner grasses.

  They waited under a low spur of rock, chewing on dried meat and heel-end of bread. When Skarn returned, he led them to a narrow ledge a little further on where the stream carved through a shelf of granite. The water was clear, cold, and left no sign where hooves dipped in. They led the horses down one at a time and let them drink, keeping a close eye on the heights above.

  Long before dusk, Halfur turned them eastward again, toward a dense line of trees climbing partway up the mountain. The stand of woodland was larger than last night’s and thick with pine and alder. They found a wide hollow within, ringed by dense undergrowth and protected on one side by a jagged bluff. A small pond lay near the center, fed by a trickle that bled from the rocks.

  “This’ll do,” Halfur said, casting a slow gaze about the clearing. “We camp here.”

  The men set about unpacking with muted relief, then tethered the horses near the pond and gave them plenty of oats and grain as there would be no grazing tonight either. Fires were allowed for cooking, but the flames were kept low, the wood chosen carefully for dryness so as not to smoke. Halfur walked the camp twice, inspecting each fire. “Out and buried before sunset,” he warned. “I want nothing smoldering to give us away.”

  They ate hot that evening—stew of beets and goat meat one of the scouts had brought back during the day’s ride. The warm meal lifted spirits, but only briefly. As the sun dipped behind the peaks and the sky dimmed to cobalt, the drums returned. They came low and slow at first, like a distant heartbeat, then grew steadier and stronger.

  Kharg and Oren took first watch, crouched low behind a tangle of brush near the treeline. A handful of the other guards remained awake as well, staying in the camp to mind the horses. This night the sky was clear, and the moon cast a pale sheen across the valley floor. Kharg found himself holding his breath more than once, every rustle of leaves or distant snap of twig setting his nerves on edge.

  They spotted torches, faint flares high up on the opposite slope. Then more below. One band crossed the stream, then another, and another after that. Groups of twenty or more. The torchlight made the dark forms around them flicker and shift, impossible to count. Kharg tried to study them, but the distance was too great. Just shadows moving—fast, with purpose.

  “Why are they headed uphill?” Kharg murmured, squinting.

  “They’ve got something waiting above,” Oren replied quietly. “Look how they bunch—no foraging, no scouts.”

  Then Oren’s hand closed over his arm. The older man leaned close and whispered, “I need you to go. Quietly. Wake the others and tell them to get ready for a fight. Then come back here.”

  Kharg looked at him, confused. “Why? They’re miles off.”

  Oren pointed down the slope, past the treeline, into the shadowed folds of the mountain’s shoulder.

  Kharg followed the gesture, and then he saw them.

  Not torchbearers. No flicker of flame. Just large, dark shapes climbing steadily up the incline below them. Still quite some distance away, moving slowly up the slope. Ten of them, spread in a shallow wedge. Hulking, broad-shouldered. They moved differently than the rest—deliberate, balanced. Even at this distance, Kharg could see the heavy gait, the thick arms and shoulders.

  “Orcs?” he asked, voice a breath.

  “Looks like it,” Oren replied. “Go.”

  Kharg slipped through the undergrowth, careful not to snap a twig, his heart pounding against his ribs as though it would escape. The drumming never stopped. The camp was quiet but watchful—every man already roused by Halfur, who stood at the center like a rooted tree, issuing commands in a low voice.

  “Orcs coming our way,” Kharg said, louder than he meant. His throat was dry.

  Halfur’s expression barely changed. “How many?”

  “Ten, maybe more.”

  A flicker of alarm ran through the line, but the men held their composure. A few sharp breaths, a curse quickly stifled—then silence again, waiting for Halfur’s word.

  “Shut your mouths and move,” Halfur said, not raising his voice. “Chainmail on, if you’ve got some. You three, rouse the others quietly and then you see to keeping the horses calm.”

  After alerting the others, Kharg returned to the tangle where Oren crouched. The brutes were closer now, perhaps four hundred paces. Kharg’s heart was thudding as he studied them. They made his knees go weak. A few had metal helmets, and most wore scattered plates of rusted armor, while two had full breastplates that caught the faint gleam of moonlight. Many carried spears and bows, others bore shields—some marked with a red symbol that he could not make out.

  “They’re coming straight at us. Let’s head back to camp,” Oren murmured.

  “I roused them,” Kharg whispered back. “Think we’ll have to fight?”

  “Hard to say, still some hope they pass to the side. The woods are dark at night, and fifty paces to the side might hide us.”

  They retreated through the trees, keeping low, their movements measured and silent. Every dry twig seemed a threat waiting to betray them.

  At the camp, Halfur already had the men awake and arming. The older man’s voice was a low rasp, all command and composure. The men were garbed in mail or studded leather by now, dull iron helmets protecting their heads.

  Just as they saw the clearing ahead, Kharg heard Halfur’s voice, low and firm. “I want a line of you there, swords and shields ready. We’ll hold them if they come. Archers ten paces behind the line. No one talks from now on.”

  When they reached the clearing, the four archers had taken position in a rough crescent a dozen paces behind the makeshift shield wall at the treeline’s edge. The moon cast a pale glow through the branches—enough to see by, cruel enough to feel exposed beneath. Oren hurried over to Halfur and said quietly, “Afraid they’re coming our way. Ten brutes with scimitars or spears, and shields… some in armor.”

  At once, the quiet around them tightened. Guards exchanged glances, shoulders stiffening. Someone muttered a curse. Another sucked in a breath and began stringing his bow with fingers that trembled.

  Kharg crouched next to the archers, trying to see something in the shadows under the trees where the orcs would come. The thought of the fireball coiled in his mind, ready but held back. His pulse drummed painfully against his temples, and the quiet around them made every breath feel too loud. Oren joined them, buckling on a boiled leather jerkin and taking a place beside the others as he deftly stringed a short bow. He caught Kharg’s eye and gave a brief nod.

  Near the bluff, the horses stamped and shifted, their nerves catching the scent before any man did. One snorted and tossed its head. A guard whispered to it, low and soothing, hand brushing down its mane, offering a palm full of oats. Another beast blew out sharply, ears flicking, then another. The guards there moved quietly, doing what they could—soft crooning, steady hands—but the air was thick now, alive with tension.

  A sharp crack split the air, a dry branch breaking somewhere beyond the trees. Every man froze.

  Another noise followed—a low clang, metal against metal. Then a harsh voice barked something from the trees, guttural and strange. The words meant nothing, but the tone sounded angry and commanding, the syllables harsh.

  Kharg’s stomach turned cold. Silence fell again—tight, waiting silence.

  One of the horses snorted and jerked its head, nostrils flaring. The guard nearest caught it quickly, murmuring low, stroking its neck, whispering soft nothings. “Easy, easy now…” His voice was steady, but Kharg could see the tension in his hands. Another horse stamped once. The guards there bent low, offering oats, rubbing muzzles, trying to keep the panic from spreading through the line.

  From beyond the trees, another rough voice called out in a mocking tone, answered by a burst of coarse laughter. Dry, ragged, deep-throated. Kharg swallowed, pulse hammering. He could hear them now—heavy steps, the faint scrape of armor, the wet, rhythmic exhale of something breathing hard from the climb.

  Oren’s grip tightened on his bow. “They’re close,” he mouthed.

  Another crack, closer this time. Every bowstring stretched tight, but no one dared to draw. The men’s eyes followed the sound in unison. Shadows moved between the trees, shifting where no wind stirred. They were shifting right. He heard the change in their movement—brush rustling, twigs snapping—but not ahead anymore.

  “They’re moving,” Oren whispered, lips barely parting. “North. Past us.”

  Kharg nodded, not daring to speak. He gripped the dagger in his belt and focused on the pressure of fire coiled in his core, ready if needed.

  More steps. A weight dragging through dry grass. Another branch gave way with a crack, louder now. The moonlight caught the faintest shape between the trees—too far to strike, too near to ignore. A harsh grunt came from the right, followed by a short, rasping exchange. Then silence.

  One of the horses snorted, sharp and sudden, its hooves shifting in the dirt. The nearest guard was there at once, whispering soft words, hand pressed to the muzzle to still the sound. The beast’s breath came fast and wet, the whites of its eyes flashing in the dark.

  Kharg’s fingers twitched toward his dagger, ready to call fire if he had to, but Oren raised a hand and shook his head. Wait. One of the guards turned his head slightly, eyes wide, straining to follow the sound.

  Still they waited. Still no signal. The drums went on—dull, distant, maddeningly steady.

  The orcs passed, one by one, their laughter fading and footsteps stretching wider apart. They were climbing again. Not toward the camp, but close. Kharg could feel it in the earth, in the breathless stillness the grove held. His knees ached. His jaw clenched. Time bled past in long, frozen strokes.

  And then, nothing. Only the steady shuffle of horses and the rustle of wind in pine.

  “They’re gone,” someone whispered.

  “Not yet,” Oren breathed. “Wait.”

  And so they did.

  Minutes passed. An owl called once, far off. The drums had stilled—no beat, no signal. Even the mountains seemed to be holding their breath.

  Only when Halfur stepped forward, one finger raised in a slow gesture, did the guards begin to shift their weight again. No one stood down. No one spoke. Not yet.

  Finally, Halfur’s whisper cut through the dark. “Hold your posts till dawn. We’ve got three or four days more until we leave the vales.”

  Kharg let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. His hands were shaking, but his voice stayed steady when he murmured to Oren, “They passed us...”

  Dawn came gray and thin, the first light bleeding slowly through the mist between the trunks. The men moved like ghosts through the grove, faces hollow with exhaustion. No one had truly slept. The horses drank greedily from the pond, their snorts and the slosh of water the only sounds in the cold stillness. Kharg rubbed grit from his eyes and forced himself to chew a strip of dried meat that tasted like ash.

  They broke camp in silence. Bedrolls were tied, packs slung, every motion dulled by weariness. The smell of damp earth clung to them as they led the horses out beneath the pale light of morning. Halfur walked ahead, his shoulders rigid, scanning the slopes below. A few muttered to one another, low and hoarse from the long night. “Almost seems like tribes are moving,” one man said. “They’re not hunting or foraging, that’s for sure. Looked like they were crossing the mountains.”

  Another spat into the grass. “Hope they’re not on the tundra as well,” he muttered. The words hung heavy in the chill air. No one answered. The column pressed on, boots whispering through the wet grass, the silence between them deeper than before.

  Kharg rode beside Halfur that morning, the sun a pale smear behind the clouds. The older man’s face was lined with thought as he studied the slopes ahead. “This is mighty strange doings,” he said at last. “Dark folk don’t move with order unless something’s driving them. Not from what I’ve heard. Not unless they’re gathering under the banner of a warlord or something.”

  Aghast, Kharg stared at him. “A warlord? You think there’ll be war, an invasion?”

  Halfur shook his head, though his gaze stayed fixed on the distant ridges. “Don’t borrow trouble just yet. They’re gathering north of the tall ridges, so they’re not striking south. And I doubt the tundra can feed a horde.”

  “Then, what’s happening?”

  “I don’t know, that’s why I call it strange.” A long, thoughtful pause followed. “Even stranger… Why didn’t we see any before we’re halfway through? Almost like there was a call, one that reached halfway into the mountains but not further. Mighty strange, I tell you.”

  Neither spoke after that. The only sounds were the creak of leather, the steady clop of hooves, and the quiet press of unease that followed them through the morning light.

  The following night, the scouts found a cave higher on the slope, deep enough for the entire caravan to take shelter. They slipped inside gratefully, the horses quieting once the shadows closed around them. For the first time in days, they slept without fear of sudden fires being seen or horses heard. In the dim light of dawn, one of the guards discovered a patch of wall where carvings and faint colors lingered beneath the grime. Kharg brushed the stone clean with a sleeve and studied it. Most of the color had faded, but the scene was still plain to see. Robed figures stood beneath leafy trees, their hands raised while animals gathered quietly around them. The green in the paint had dulled to gray, but it seemed to hold a life of its own—malachite perhaps, or something older, drawn from the earth itself.

  They hid their fires, moved quietly by day, and slept in the cover of trees. The drums still rolled now and then, far south of them and they began to relax. Another two days brought them almost out of the mountains and the drums had at last fallen silent. Slowly, the vales grew sparser, the mountains shrinking in the distance. The lush grass thinned, giving way to hardier shrubs and rocky outcroppings. The temperature, once pleasantly warm, began to drop, creeping in like an unwelcome guest. By the time they left the last of the sheltered valleys behind, Kharg could see his breath curling in the morning air. Muttering a few words, he wove his protective spell against the cold, protecting himself from the worst of it. The warmth wrapped around him like a cloak, dulling the bite of the wind, but it wasn’t enough. Before long, he was unpacking his heavy coat and gloves, wrapping them tightly around himself. The warmth of the mountain vales was behind them now. Ahead, the world grew colder. And whatever lay beyond would not be as kind.