A Winter Far From Home

A pale white mist rolled lazily into the frozen sky, dissipating in the glow of a half-moon overhead. A burly middle-aged man huddled close to the soft rubicund glow of a fire, a heavy fur cloak wrapped tightly about him. Thick muscles knotted and coiled their way down the length of his build, tense in the frigid night air. Between the nasal of his half-helm, two easy blue eyes scanned the horizon, white hot sapphires burned in his face. Searching, always searching.
To his left, a huddled mass lie upon the craggy surface of the mountainside outcrop, rising and falling to the steady rhythm of snoring. An elegant bow rested near the figure’s makeshift pillow. Runes and scripts of some bygone time flowed down the ebony limb, marking it as a weapon of some great significance. Now and again the man would fidget, or make as if to lash out in defense of something. It was always something. His nightmares got the better of him sometimes. Another snort burst from the man’s nose.
The valley at the base of the Beregh Mountains stretched for miles in every direction. A pallid river coursed its way through the valley floor, snaking its way through clumps of emerald woodland that dotted the landscape, fed by the melting snow turned icewater that slid down the steep mountainside in miniature rivulets. The man who had first watch drew his cloak to his face as tiny diamonds of snowfall fluttered nonchalant from the great spread of heavens above. In that instant, a gust of wind picked up from the frosty summit, some thirty-thousand feet above the deciduous woodlands below, it seemed. Incandescent tongues licked their way ever higher from the flame, flickered, went out. Somewhere in that autumnal expanse a wolf threw back his shaggy greyblue head and ahooooed into the night. The cry for his pack was met with another howl, then another, and another. The hair on the back of watchman’s neck stood stock straight. Something isn’t right, he thought.
Suddenly, the man was on his feet. His cloak let loose from its confines and flapped haphazardly, as if yearning to be carried off in the gales. Under his cloak, he wore a boiled leather jerkin, material flayed and fading from use. A two handed longsword clung to his back, a steel dirk in a jewel encrusted scabbard on his hip. He knelt before the sleeping man, waking him with a lurch. “Vaaryl, come. You must wake up,” he said in a gruff, coarse voice. “Something stirs in the valley.”
The man who had been sleeping a moment ago now propped himself up on his elbow, rubbing the sleep from his weary eyes. A thin scar ran from temple to philtrum. His nose was horribly crooked. The bone jutting out; it threatened to poke through the cartilage at any time. Vaaryl looked at the man before him for an instant, yawning. “What could it possibly be, my sweet Garrlan? I have only just begun to rid myself of these nightmares, and here you are now disturbing my ever so peaceful sleep.” A thin smile traced his lips, but only for an instant.
Garrlan was unabated. “Something has disturbed the wolves; I fear it might be the Regalii again. They have not stopped their pursuit since the Kingsriver.”
“I have my doubts to your story, brother. For one, how could they possibly have tracked us through the valley? It was completely awash when we traversed it, and the river has spilled over thrice since our passing. I am tired, let me go back to sleep.” It was true, Garrlan knew. They had not slept in three days. There was just no time for it. He is so young, so careless. He should not have fears in his life. But there was no time for regret. The Regalii knew they were here, and it was only a matter of time before they came upon the rag-tag group. Garrlan expressed his concerns. “I understand your fears, Garrlan, but how could they possibly know we are up here?” Garrlan looked regretfully at the smoldering pile of embers, the only vestige of their watchfire, and nodded.
“I told you it would not be a good idea, brother. Even with a small fire, it can easily be seen for miles from the valley below.”
Vaaryl knew he was right, but it made no matter to him. He was tired and hungry. What he really wanted was a warm featherbed and a hot cup of ale, but risking such luxuries came at the cost of being recognized. He eased himself back into his stony mattress. “Wake me in the morning, perhaps I will be more cautious after a nice long sleep,” he yawned. “Perhaps the Regalii will have lost our track by then.” A leather boot jolted against his back. Vaaryl howled in pain, rubbing his haunches.
“Perhaps,” said Garrlan, “and perhaps we will wake tomorrow to the points of a dozen spears at our throats.” He stooped to pack his belongings in a roughspun sack. Two garrons tied to a gnarled tree stump shied nervously, stamping their hooves in disapproval. Whispering a few words of comfort, Garrlan eased himself onto his saddle, strapping the sack to it. A few rolls of cheese, nuts and berries foraged from various bushes and underbrush, a piece of hardening venison, and a roll of maps. It made for a meager show, but it was all they had besides their underfed horses and weapons.
Muttering curses under his breath, Vaaryl at last abled himself on two feet and made a grab for his bow, slinging it across his back. “If we must go, I say we head south from the valley, to Karvenhaal. Might we be able to lose them there.”
Karvenhaal was a thousand years old, a great stone city built upon the ground of the First Landing of the Dwellers. It was said to have been built by the Ancients, a people over nine thousand years old who, upon happening on Dweller lands, conquered them and built the city as a tribute to the Ancient Gods of Ten. Garrlan thought about it for a moment, uncertain.
“We must first get off this mountain,” Garrlan declared, “then we will stop and figure our next move”.
Vaaryl drooped his head, disenchanted. When he brought it back up again, his onyx black eyes were full of longing, the customary joyfulness burnt and faded like the watchfire before it. “And what do we do between then?” He already knew the answer, though.
A sad smile formed across Garrlan’s lips, his hopes freezing and flapping away as a blizzard picked up around the pair. “Run.”

TO BE CONTINUED