Diaries of a Dwarven Rifleman

“I was altitude sick, we all were, and I didn't realize the danger. Berget slipped and fell on the trail, so I picked her up and carried her and she was so cold… then the ox walked into this hollow and wouldn't leave again. I realized we were freezing to death and started the fire.”

She looked at Engvyr and his father imploringly and continued.

“I wanted to search for you both, I did! But I could not leave Berget. All that I could do was watch for you and pray that the Lord and Lady would deliver you.”

“And so they did,” his father said, “and you must not blame yourself, sister, you did right. Had you sought us we would have had no fire to come back to. Likely we would all have died! We've been very, very lucky.”

His Aunt nodded but would not meet their eyes. She went to the pot at the fire and dipped them each a mug of the boiling liquid. Engvyr sipped at it cautiously, wary that it would burn his mouth but it was not hot enough to do so.

“It's barely hot when it boils,” his aunt said, “I think it's the altitude.”

Engvyr nodded without really considering her words. They had found a temporary island of safety but the danger would only grow now that the sun had dropped behind the peaks. Soon it would be true night and the temperature might drop further still.

“We've enough wood to last,” his father said, “I think that we must spend the night and try to get back down the mountain as soon as we have light to do so. We can consider what to do once we are safe.”

They all agreed that was the best course and settled down to rest as best they could. His Aunt's concoction was a strong stimulant. By the time he finished his mug Engvyr felt he might not sleep for a week. The others eventually did drift off and he kept the fire supplied through the night.

At dawn he woke his father and aunt and they fortified themselves with more of the hot drink. Bundling up as best they could they left the shelter. They roped themselves together lest they get separated again and moved down the trail as quickly as they could. They were now in a race against the cold.

They won that race by the time the sun peeked over the mountains. The trail had descended rapidly and soon the cold was no longer immediately life-threatening but they had another problem. They were no longer on the trail that had taken them up the pass. Sometime in the haze of cold and sickness they had taken a wrong turn.

“I think that we have come east of the pass,” his father said after studying the lay of the land.

“Gunnar, what are we to do? We haven't supplies or money to winter over even if we could make our way back to Loevpas.” his aunt said.

His father nodded agreement as he continued to study the mountains. Pointing along the trail he said, “This seems to trend North, around the shoulder of the mountain. Perhaps it runs to another pass, or maybe another road.”

“Can we really take that chance?” she asked.

“I'm not sure that we have a lot of choice,” his father replied. “The only way back is through the Death Chill, and that we cannot do.”

They stopped and broke their fast and then set out. The trail did indeed take them around the mountain and northward, the ground slowly rising as they went. Engvyr kept a weather-eye on the countryside, the lay of the trail and the signs along the way. He was becoming a better tracker and what he saw now disturbed him. He spoke to his father about it as they travelled.

“Have you thought about who made this trail, and where it might lead?” he asked.

His father nodded and cast a quick look at his sister and her daughter, who were following behind.

“I've noticed too. Seems we're following a Goblin trail. I'm not sure what that means for us but it's nothing good. I don't want to alarm your aunt but I reckon she'd best know. I'll tell her at the next stop.”

“What should we do?”

His father shrugged and said, “Keep an eye out and that hand-gun ready. Lord and Lady know what we might find.”

As they rounded another turn in the trail the sky ahead seemed to change, to open out before them. He could tell that for some reason this worried his father more than the Goblin trail did. The altitude sickness returned but it was fairly mild and his aunt's herbal simples helped them to sleep that night. The next day they passed between low peaks and they could see that the country leveled out.

It was a strange land that they beheld, almost flat to the horizon. Odd shapes loomed in the distance and Engvyr could not tell if they were wind-carved rock or ruins, but they made him uneasy. In all the vast expanse stretching before them he could see no sign of life. The wind swirled the dust into disturbing shapes that seemed to whisper in a tongue he did not understand and he felt a thread of fear tickling at the back of his neck.

“Gunnar,” said his aunt, speaking slowly between breaths, “What is this place?”