Gahspar was cold and miserable. His joints ached from the cold. He realized now that he had been riding with his shoulders hunched up to ward off the cold. They flared in pain every time he moved his arms.
They were ready to move on when they saw three men on horseback, coming their way at a fast gallop. They were coming fast, and with intent of some sort, judging by their speed, though Gahspar didn’t know if it was good or bad. He wished Siggrun was with him. Siggrun had a way of talking to people, especially strangers.
The three men rode up, scowling. They had dirty faces and were dressed in layers of ragged clothing. They sat astride their horses, looking at Gahspar and Nammar.
Nammar didn’t seem inclined to say anything, so Gahspar did.
“Hello,” Gahspar began, “We are traveling north, over the pass and into Orngaart. We wondered if we might ask for shelter for the night?”
The men had hard, cold eyes surrounded by dark wrinkles. Gahspar noticed that one was older, the other two maybe his grown sons.
The older man nodded slightly and dismounted, then the other two did the same.
“Come inside,” the man said.
The five of them squeezed into the small cabin. Every time he moved, Gahspar was afraid he would bump into something or knock something off a hook. He tried to make himself small. The men didn’t look happy, or the least bit friendly.
The three men maneuvered easily in the cramped space. One tended the fire, another poured some type of liquid into hearty mugs, the last dragged in more wood. All this they did in between shedding layers of clothes, hanging hats, and shucking off their boots. It was like a clumsy little dance they had practiced countless times in this constricted space. The only difference was that now, Gahspar and Nammar were squarely in the way.
It occurred to Gahspar that as cold, sore, and tired as he felt, these men did this every day of their lives. They rode in the mountains, tended sheep and looked for strays, all outdoors, every day, summer and winter. The thought made him feel weak.
The older man handed heavy mugs to Gahspar and Nammar and sat down with a nod. The other two men joined them a moment later. Gahspar took a sip. The strong drink burned his throat and nearly made him choke. He looked at Nammar through surprised, watery eyes.
“We don’t often drink the strong stuff,” the man said. “This is our last night up here. Tomorrow we go down to our lower place for the winter.”
“You are … shepherds?” Nammar asked.
“Yes,” one of the men said.
There was silence after that. The three men seemed to be fine just sitting there, sipping their drinks and not talking, but it made Gahspar very uncomfortable.
“We came from the forest near Errborg. We fought in the battle there. We were camping in the woods.”
“I don’t get involved with people and their stupid little fights,” the older man said.
There wasn’t much conversation after that. Gahspar sat with his drink, feeling the warmth of the cabin surround him. Outside he could hear the wind blowing. It even sounded cold out there.
The men never did introduce themselves. They did, eventually, serve a thick brown stew which Gahspar assumed was lamb. There were slabs of hard bread and there was more of the strong drink. Gahspar offered to get some food from a bag that he had on his horse, to add to the meal, but the older man wouldn’t hear of it.
Once in a while one of the men would break the silence with some detail that needed to be done the next day, something that needed to be checked or packed or put away. One of the sons asked Gahspar a question about his horse. Gahspar realized that the men were not mean, or angry, they were just stern, quiet men. They lived a hard life in a difficult environment that gave them nothing. Everything they gained, they gained by hard work.
After supper, the men moved the furniture and laid out soft lambskin hides on the floor. The quarters were close, but everyone managed to find room to sleep.
The three men woke long before daylight and started into their routine. They had eaten, packed, put out the fire, and swept the place before the sun had made an appearance.
Gahspar and Nammar stood near their horses. They both dreaded another long day in the cold, though there was no other option.
The older man approached.
“You have enough food?”
Gahspar was embarrassed. They had a little salted meat, some dried fruit, and some other items they had taken from camp before they left, but it wasn’t much.
“We’re okay. We don’t want to take anything you might need,” Gahspar said.
The man looked toward the cabin, then back at Gahspar.
“Perhaps we could trade.”
Gahspar felt his face redden. He had nothing but the clothes he wore, the axe and sword on his belt, his shield, a little bit of food, and the thick blanket tied behind his saddle.
“You have two weapons,” the man pointed out, “maybe you would trade me your axe?”
“We have some dried meat,” one of the other men said. “It’s good.”
Gahspar looked to Nammar who nodded a bit too vigorously.
In the end, a trade was made. Gahspar’s axe was exchanged for a large sack of meat, an old pair of warm gloves, and a hat spun from wool. The hat and gloves had been thrown in near the end of the negotiation, and Gahspar felt like the old man had added them because he felt bad for Gahspar. When the deal was done, the older man reached a hand out to Gahspar and Gahspar did the same. They clutched each other’s forearms in a quick form of handshake.
“When you come back in the spring, maybe you bring us some fish from up north. We’ll trade again,” the man said.
“The Spring?” Gahspar said.
“Yes. The pass is very high, lots of snow.” The man pointed up at a gap between two high mountains “Another few weeks, it will be closed, until the snow melts in Spring.”
Gahspar followed the man’s pointing finger. The tall, jagged peaks wore mantles of solid white, even now. The gap in between was a few thousand feet higher than where he stood.
Gahspar’s heart sank. Partly it was fear. Fear of the deep snow, the howling wind, the dangerous conditions up there, but there was something else. For the first time, Gahspar was leaving his country. Part of him feared that he would never make it back.
Gahspar’s items were stored away, his blanket secured. He mounted his horse, ready to ride.
Nammar looked at him, incredulous.
“We haven’t made an offering, or formed the glyphs.”
Gahspar had to get off his horse and wait patiently. The three men waved goodbye and rode off. A sky, as gray as old wash water, spit random snowflakes. Nammar said a prayer and Gahspar joined with him as well as he could. Then Nammar produced a greenish paste from a small vial and painted a symbol on his horse, then did the same to Gahspar’s horse.
“A glyph, so that travelers do not become lost,” Nammar said.
In a way, not knowing the prayers and the ritual made Gahspar feel bad, different, like everyone else knew something that he didn’t. On his farm they had paid more attention to the Gods of fertility, for the crops. Rather than scheduled rituals, they felt like they dealt with the Gods every day, when they planted, watered, harvested. A good crop meant they were in good standing, a bad one said they needed to appease more. The Gods that oversaw crops and animals were never indifferent. On the farm, you could not stop your work to recite prayers, though you might say a quick one between tasks. At the farm, Gahspar had also set out offerings for the different supernatural sprites that frequented the barn and the fields. If those creatures felt unwelcome they could cause real problems. These were the things that Gahspar believed, the things he did on a daily basis. He was taught to live a certain way, a way that was good and honest. That, he thought, would make the Gods happy. He had never had the time or the inclination for formal prayers or rituals. Nammar’s devotion made him wonder if his way was lacking.
After he was done, Nammar packed up and they mounted their horses.
They skirted a steep slope, eyes flicking up to the pass looming above them. It was cold, and Gahspar considered his new gloves and hat a Godsend.
They climbed and climbed, the horses occasionally stumbling on a rock in the snow or slipping a hoof on the snowy slope. The weather remained crisp, the air stinging their faces. The snow got steadily deeper; the cold settled into their bones.
Gahspar glanced up at the pass. Though they had ridden for hours, it didn’t seem to be getting closer.
They crossed a wide ravine choked with low, thorny plants and snow covered shrubs. On the other side they joined the road that went up through the pass.
By afternoon they could look back and see the valley where they had started, thousands of feet below them. It made Gahspar feel strong, like he had accomplished something special. Looking forward and up, however, the pass seemed endless and depressing. The road was covered with snow, the mountains on each side tall and imposing.
Nammar shouted to Gahspar, as if he had been reading his thoughts.
“We’ll have to stop up there somewhere,” Nammar said. “There are a few cabins built for travelers.”
Big, wet flakes clung to them. The cold gripped them. Gahspar didn’t like the thought of sleeping somewhere in those forbidding mountains, but he knew there was no choice.
The road wound along the granite face of a hard, frozen mountain. On their right, there was only a narrow shoulder past the road’s edge and then the ground fell dramatically and steeply. If anyone went off that edge, the fall would be hundreds of feet, maybe more.
Late in the day they climbed over a small rise and the ground flattened out. Up ahead there was a wide flat spot. Trees provided a potential wind block.
Gahspar was riding in front, Nammar following. Gahspar turned, Nammar nodded through the thick cloth scarf wrapped over his red face. Time to stop, to let their rumps stop the ceaseless collisions against hard saddles. They had not stopped for hours. It was time to stretch their legs, to force blood back into unfeeling feet.
Gahspar relaxed, thinking how nice it would be to stand up again. His face was numb, his fingers stiff. He pulled onto the flat spot and slowed.
Men appeared from the trees, two in front of them and one appearing from each side. Gahspar’s frosty brain reacted slowly. Before he knew it, the men had produced long knives and axes. They were surrounded.
Gahspar stopped his horse. He heard Nammar stop just behind him, on his right. The men had ruddy, wide faces, and beards flecked with frozen snow. They were dressed in heavy skins and furs, and held their weapons in gloved hands.
“Stop right there,” one of the men said, looking them over. “We need your weapons, your money … and those blankets.”
Gahspar reacted. He yanked his sword from its scabbard, holding it left-handed as he kicked his horse forward. The horse lurched as the man next to him tried to grab its bridle. Gahspar swung the sword awkwardly, connecting with the side of the man’s face. Luckily, even a badly swung weapon was heavy and sharp. The blade cut deep along the side of the man’s head, just below his ear. As the man jerked back, the length of the blade carved a crimson line below his ear. Blood flowed down his neck.
Gahspar bolted forward, shouting at Nammar, though later he couldn’t remember what he’d shouted. He fumbled the reins in his right hand and tried to grab the horse’s mane in desperation. He swung his blade up and over the horse’s neck trying to slash at the man in front of him. It was a clumsy, futile gesture, but it was enough to make the man jump back, out of range. Gahspar was charging forward, the horse rising and falling beneath him. He lost his balance, grasped the mane and held on. The horse’s hooves thundered through the snow.
When Gahspar had made his move, a stunned Nammar had followed. He hadn’t thought to draw his axe, but he had spurred his horse forward, turning left to avoid the men in front of him and to follow Gahspar. One of the men quickly drew a small blade, stepped forward, and threw it. Nammar was racing away, hunched over his saddle horn. He felt the knife hit him in the left shoulder blade. It stuck momentarily, buried in the skin and muscle. After a few rough strides of his horse, the knife lost its hold and dropped into the snow.
Far to the south, Vorus’ mercenary waited to meet with Chieftain Lars Lorendon, the most powerful man along the southern coast of Surgaart.
There were people scattered along the rocky coast, people who depended on the sea for their living. The so-called villages were really only places along the coastal road where people gathered each Thorinsday to trade fish, vegetables, and dried meat. Chieftain Lorendon was acknowledged for miles as the wisest man along the coast, and the most fair. The jarls inland did not consider him on their level; the population was so small along the coast, and the petty squabbles of fishermen were minor compared to their inland problems.
The chieftain walked into the low stone room where the mercenary waited. He was a small man with a long gray beard and gray hair swept back from his windburned face. He had a rugged look about him, like a man who had spent much of his life outdoors. The chieftain walked slowly, as if it pained him. He stopped just inside the doorway.
“You are the messenger?” the chieftain said.
The mercenary stood, unrolled the scroll, and began to read.
“Vorus Blackfist, ruler of all Surgaart, sends me with this ultimatum. You must submit to his authority or your men will be killed, your children taken, and your village burned to the ground. Vorus Blackfist expects your response within the week, or he will assume your answer is no.”
The mercenary lowered the scroll and looked to the chieftain for a reaction. The chieftain saw a nearby chair and lowered himself into it.
“So it’s true, what they say?” the chieftain began. “Men made of bones? Dark magic? This man rules Surgaart?”
“Yes, the major cities, Oakbridge, Brynhelm, Harvat, Errborg. They are ruled by him or they are heaps of charred rubble. If you do not submit, every settlement along the coast will be burned, as well.”
The chieftain looked away. He sat there flexing gnarly, arthritic hands. When he looked back up at the mercenary, he had the faraway look of a man who had just seen a ghost. He didn’t speak.
“Vorus expects your answer within the week,” the mercenary repeated, handing him the heavy envelope. “This coin is a gift from him.”
The chieftain looked surprised. He opened the envelope with shaking hands, pulled out the heavy coin.
“Gold?” the chieftain said “This is worth a fortune.”
He looked confused. A threat and a gift at the same time? Who was this dark master?
More importantly, he wondered, what would he do about this situation?
Gahspar rode fast, his horse’s feet tossing up little clouds of snow. He looked over his shoulder at Nammar. His friend’s long face was pinched and serious looking. Gahspar assumed it was because of the cold and the stress of running from the bandits. He didn’t know that Nammar had been struck by the thrown dagger.
After several minutes of hard riding, Gahspar slowed his horse to a trot. He knew his horse was tired and cold. If he ran the horse to exhaustion he would never forgive himself. It would also mean that he would never get out of these mountains alive. He glanced back again.
“We need to keep going. If they catch us …”
Nammar just nodded, gritting his teeth.
They rode for more than an hour, pushing their speed as much as they thought they could. Eventually Gahspar stopped in the middle of the road. Nammar pulled up next to him.
“The horses need to rest, we’re going to kill them.”
Nammar just shook his head.
“I should have done the protective glyph as well,” Nammar said. “Stupid.”
Gahspar just blinked, his eyelashes frosty and stiff. He looked back along the road.
“Do you think they followed us?” Gahspar said.
Nammar looked around. There was only snow and cold, towering rock on one side, a deep void on the
other.
“Where else would they go?” Nammar answered.
There was a long silence punctuated by the sound of little ice crystals bouncing off their clothes.
“The man threw a knife. I was hit in the back,” Nammar said.
Gahspar’s eyes went wide.
“How bad?”
Nammar seemed calm, almost nonchalant.
“Who is to say? It’s all in the hands of the gods now.”
Gahspar pulled his friend to the high side of the road, close to the rock face. He turned him around and had him lift his shirt. Nammar struggled with the layers. There was an angry red gash high on his back. Blood had trickled down and disappeared below his belt line.
“I have no herbs to put on it, do you?” Gahspar asked.
Nammar just shook his head slowly.
“The gods will decide,” Nammar said, pulling his clothes back into place. “I just need to say another prayer, make the protective glyph. I should have done it this morning.”
Nammar began to pull items from a small pouch; his religious items. Gahspar could see this whole situation getting worse. They needed to keep moving, not stop and pray. The longer they stayed, the more certain it was that the bandits would catch them, but there was no arguing with his companion. You didn’t come to be called Nammar the Devoted for nothing.
Gahspar waited, impatient and nervous, while Nammar made the necessary entreaties to the Gods. He drew a protective glyph on each horse and on Gahspar’s shield while Gahspar looked nervously back along the road. They mounted up and started climbing again. Gahspar wished he had the proper herbs to put on Nammar’s wound.
Gahspar relied on the herbs he knew, Nammar relied on the Gods.
They rode until past dark, staying close to the sheer, gray wall of stone on their left. Gahspar was exhausted, frigid. He knew the trip was taking its toll on his horse, as well.
The night was cloudy with little moonlight. Gahspar kept picturing himself stepping off the sheer edge and into oblivion.
They came to a place where a steep ravine full of big boulders came down to the road. Back off the road several feet there was a tiny cabin.
The Brave and the Dead Page 12