The next day had arrived, although Lord Aymon had not been sure it would. The night came fast but had stayed far too long for his liking. He had limited their fires to as few as possible that night. Many slept cold, shivering in the night. Lord Aymon had ensured that the parameters of his camp were watched well.

Blight Malle ordered ten of his men to keep watch, and to wake him at the slightest of noise. They had taken to heart Malle’s words when a bird fluttered out of a tree and a hawk swooped in, squeezing the bird in its talons and lighting up the night with a loud hissing noise.

Sarin had awoken screaming, causing Alaric Aymon to jump out of his skin. He had gone straight to his sword which lay by his side, out of its scabbard. The sound of his steel had aroused the whole tent, creating a chain of fear amongst the camp. Lord Aymon leapt from his tent to find half the camp in disarray, half-asleep with swords drawn. A few were still asleep. Many were awake but with their furs pushed aside and up on one knee. As eyes met and silence befell the camp, a man who had seen the bird’s peril firsthand was able to assure everyone that it had just been a hawk that had hunted its meal for the night.

He was left uneasy, however. As everyone else returned to their places some men drifted back into a snoring sleep, but those men were few and far between. Most held their eyes shut but sleep would not return. It certainly did not return to Alaric Aymon, who emerged from his tent and went to stand with Blight Malle at the edge of camp.

Blight Malle stood with his sword at his hip, hand on hilt. He wore no helm now, granting Lord Aymon a rare sight. Blight stared beyond the camp, gazing into the black expanse of forest that surrounded them on all sides. Lord Aymon’s heavy steps gave him away as he approached.

“It is an odd feeling—being surrounded by darkness. The trees watch us as we sleep,” Blight Malle spoke first.

“The trees are not the only ones watching us,” replied Lord Aymon.

Up above the hawk had returned to its perch upon a branch. Its angry yellow eyes were watching them as they talked. His head moved in a twitch from side to side.

“You cannot sleep, milord?” questioned Blight.

“I have never slept well. Suppose I never well,” said Lord Aymon.

“I understand. I would not sleep even if you granted me the chance, milord.” Blight’s eyes scanned the darkness. “I have seen too many things. For many of these men, it is their first time seeing human remnants. I am bored of such things.”

Lord Aymon turned his head to look at Blight now. “You are a cold man, Blight Malle.” He paused a moment, facing the woods again. “But that is why I brought you.”

Blight Malle had no reaction. The hawk upon its perch flew from its branch, the sound of its wings flapping startled a knight who stood nearby the base of its tree, relieving himself.

“Do you have a plan milord?” asked Blight. Lord Aymon studied his face before answering. Half of his face was hidden in shadow, the other flickered in the flame of the small fire beside them.

“I plan to keep my flesh on my body, if that is what you mean.” Lord Aymon brought his hands together in front of him. “If the wedding is to go on, I mean to be quick about it. No use leaving my lands bare of our best knights with the dead walking around.”

“Do you fear the dead?” Blight phrased in more of a statement than a question, as he often did. Lord Aymon had liked that of Blight—he did not let himself become attached to anyone or anything. He just did. Lord Aymon wondered if that is what bonded them.

The sound of squirrel shrieking somewhere in the darkness rang out in the night, tensing the shoulders of every ear inside camp. Lord Aymon searched for the hawk but did not see him now.

“I do not fear the dead. But I do fear dying.”

“Not death?” Blight scanned the darkness still.

“No. Death is nothing. Dying is suffering.” Lord Aymon held his breath. He continued, “I often think of my father. I fear he suffered for far too long at Dras Kloot. I should let him go before I sent him. He begged me but I could never. My brothers wanted to, but I wouldn’t let them.”

“What happened to them?” Blight seemed indifferent as he spoke, but Lord Aymon appreciated the company, nonetheless. He would rather it this way, elsewise he might try to comfort him. He wanted no such treatment.

“My father began to fear them, for he knew they meant to kill him. He wanted to die, but only by my hand. I like to think he believed I had the heart for it. My brothers…” Lord Aymon trailed off. He breathed a shallow breath and blew it out quickly. “My older brothers just wanted him gone so that they could inherit his lands. Become wealthy lords.”

“I see.” Blaise flinched when the sound of scuttling came from behind him. He turned abruptly, his hand clenching the hilt. He relaxed when he saw the hare. It had snuck through camp between sleeping men to nibble on the crumbs of dried bread. It scurried off at Blight’s recoil.

“I should rest.” Lord Aymon turned, leaving Blight to himself. Lord Aymon took one more sidelong glance at the small fire beside his legs. “Wake me at first light.”

“It shall be done, milord.” Blight seated himself upon the base of a fallen tree and took to sharpening his blade with a jagged rock. His face suddenly grew dark. He stopped chiseling away. The same sound came from within the woods. He squinted his eyes, confused.

He whistled for one of his men to come near. His man moved warily towards Blight, who gestured for him to listen. The sound of someone whistling a tune and sharpening a rock was just faint enough to hear but not loud enough to pinpoint.

“I think it’s coming from within the woods,” said the knight.

Blight’s mouth hung open and his eyes narrowed. He was straining to hear but the noises had died away. Blight looked at the knight, still straining.

“Don’t look at me, I’m not going in there!” The knight was hushed by Blight, who put a finger to his lips.

The men stood watch for the rest of the night, but no further noises were heard. By the first light Lord Aymon had emerged from his tent on his own, eyes puffy and nose stuffy. The rest of the camp awoke soon after. They can feel it too. No one wants to be here, thought Lord Aymon. There was an odd feeling to these woods. The hawk had vanished. All wildlife had gone eerily quiet. Not even the birds chirped in their trees as they had so often done at the dawn of day.

Lord Aymon’s men wasted no time getting on their way. Lord Aymon’s horse whined nervously as he approached him to mount. “It’s okay Sylvain. It’s okay.” Lord Aymon gave his horse a reassuring pat along its side before rubbing its soft ears with his hands. He brought his head to his horse’s, planting a light kiss on its nose before mounting. Lord Aymon noticed the other’s horses were much the same. Spooked.

The final count came out to ninety-six before they left camp. Four men had likely deserted, although Aymon had thought it odd. He had his men handpicked by Blight Malle as well as the Castellan himself. None of these men were known to back out. Lord Aymon kept his concerns to himself. No use worrying, it won’t bring Creppenhal any closer.

Lord Aymon’s host resumed their riding, finding their way back to the main road. The banners were raised again at the front of their line, riding in pairs of two. Aymon rode alongside Blight Malle. His sister rode two rows back per his own request. He did not want her young ears overhearing their talks.

An hour had passed, and they finally came upon a few scattered huts with smoke rising lousily into the sky from their chimneys. Aymon felt relief wash upon his men. They had been utterly quiet since leaving camp, but the sight of smoking chimneys had washed relief upon them.

Lord Aymon cantered his horse slowly beyond the clusters of houses. The mountains loomed beyond the haze of fog ahead. The huts sat in the crevices of these foothills, bales of hay littering the green hills like bees. A farmer had set about busily stacking wood, a pile of neatly cut wood laying before him as his pickaxe sat buried into the earth. He gave a nod of the head as they passed, spitting Gajra thatch from his mouth. The red juices stained his lips a dark red.

Lord Aymon noticed the same look about the next peasant they passed. This time, though, this farmer was busy herding cattle, using a long harpoon-like tool to guide his livestock. He stopped his day’s work to watch as the host of men in shining armor and blue banners cantered along, moseying by upon their magnificent horses.

“Easy to forget life like this still goes on,” muttered Lord Aymon. Blight didn’t seem to care. His eyes stared ahead, bored. Lord Aymon figured he was tired. He had not slept a wink, although neither had he, if truth be told.

The fog began to clear as they entered its embrace. The clacking of hooves became soothing upon the harder rock they had come upon now. The road was becoming rougher now that they neared Fvrolling’s Pass.

Lord Aymon admired the ramparts that lined the natural fortress for hundreds of miles across. He did not spot any men manning the walls, but he had no doubt men watched from the parapets. Fvrolling’s Pass was one of the lowest points along the mountain’s ridge, allowing for quick passage to the other side. Lord Aymon had never had any trouble crossing, and he did not expect any such trouble now.

Blight Malle lead his horse forward before his lord as the path narrowed. The two lines merged into one long line. Their banners hung high above their heads, the sigil hidden amidst the hanging clouds and fog.

Lord Aymon could make out the Guards of Fvrolling’s Pass up ahead. They were less than hundred yards now and the path began its sharp incline. Men had become visible along the ramparts now. He noted that many had arrows knocked and drawn. Odd, thought Aymon. They had not done that before. He figured they could not make out his banners—the fog did seem particularly thick this day.

Cold air puffed like smoke from Blight Malle’s lips as he spoke. “It is not like the Mountain Men to show a dark eye to travelers. We should approach with caution.”

“Fance. Fance!” called Lord Aymon. Fance’s steed crept along the outside of the narrow path to make its way up to the front. “Do you have our coin ready?”

“It shall be ready at once milord.” Fance set about unsaddling a large bag that sat on his horse’s rear. Coins bulged from the felt cloth bag. He withdrew two golden coins and a silver.

“This should do,” said Fance. He was a skinny lad of no older than twenty. Pimples and boils littered his face and his hair hung straight as an arrow across his forehead. Fance led his horse to the front of the line, behind only the bannermen.

The sound of streams flowing calmly down the mountain’s steep cliffside had prompted Lord Aymon of his thirst. He raised his canteen to his mouth, drinking its final drops. He eyed the crystal-clear stream, wishing he could dismount for a drink. They were too close now, so he waited.

The air was much cooler as they approached the gate. The ramparts spread along the entire mountain side and then opened up into a gate at Fvrolling’ pass where a host of men in neatly polished golden-plated armor of all sorts of designs awaited them. Guards in dull helms and rusted linked chainmail stood guard outside the gate, standing on an outstretch tree trunk that grew conveniently out of the mountainside on either side. A layer of snow covered the tree’s finer branches will grew wildly from its base.

“Open the gates!” came a cry from a stout man who stood waiting upon the ramparts. Lord Aymon’s host waited patiently as the gates were slowly pushed by a crank that took all of five men to throw some back into. The crank clicked and the gates locked in place. Lord Aymon’s bannermen entered through first, guided to stand upon one side of the ramparts whilst Lord Aymon dismounted with Fance to bargain with the stout man who awaited them.

The first thing Lord Aymon noted was the black bob cut of the gatekeeper. His stubby legs gave him a dwarf-like appearance and his bush of neatly cut hair reminded him of a mushroom with a rounded top.

“Bannermen of House Aymon, I see. Your brothers passed these gates not more than a fortnight ago. The one with the jagged teeth and hunched back really threw me—I have not seen such an ugly man in all my days standing guard here. Are you certain he is of the same parents as yourself?”

“Your tongue is potent Emo, yet you boast a most unpleasant face yourself. Or maybe it is just my hearing, it is hard to here you all the way up here, little man.” Lord Aymon’s face had not altered besides the moving of his lips.

“It is pronounced Ymo, with a ‘Y’. But I should never except a wealthy lord to remember such things, his squire does his thinking for him.” Ymo’s face snarled defensively. He crossed his arms. “I know that look. Do not belittle me. You have fifty arrows knocked and dying to be loosed.”

“I did not come to start conflict, Ymo. Give us fair passage and we’ll be on our way.” Lord Aymon had often paid well over double the normal rate for lack of care, but he was not alone this time—and he knew Ymo meant to make a fortune on their passage.

“Fair passage, you say? Well, let us start here—where are you headed?”

“Creppenhal. I have business with the King.” Lord Aymon could see realization dawning in Ymo’s eyes. “And he will deal with insolence accordingly. I will be sure to inform him if we are charged unfairly.”

“Creppenhal…ahhh…I see. I’ll charge you fair. In fact, I’ll offer you lower than my standard. Fifty gold, a dozen silver, and ten shillings. No less, no more. You will not pass for less than that.” Ymo’s held his head high, his arms still crossed. Men on either side of him stood still at statues, crossbows locked and raised.

“I did not bring my entire wealth with me, dwarf ling. If I had known I would have arranged for a dozen carriages to accompany me with your demands. I do not mean to force my way through, but I will if I have to.”

Ymo caught his bluff. He laughed. “You are a funny man, lord Aymon. If by ‘force’ you mean digging through the center of this mountain, by all means, have your way. You won’t make it very far. I don’t think the gods have replaced rock with sand last time I checked.”

Lord Aymon glanced back at his host. Blight Malle sat with his usual bored stare. Lord Aymon wondered if that stare would remain bored if he were to hear the terms they were dealing with.

“We’ll go around then.”

That had set even sent Ymo’s men doubled over laughing. So, I guess his men do have souls. Shortly thereafter his men returned to their stances, helms covering all but narrow slits for the eyes.

Lord Aymon gestured towards one of Ymo’s men with his crossbow pointed. “Tell me, Emo Eynra, why—”

“YMO! It’s Ymo, not Emo,” corrected Ymo, fists curled.

“You have a big temper for a little man, did you know that dwarf ling?” Lord Aymon was amused.

“Don’t call me that. You’re lucky I’m letting you through at all. Now pay the standard or be gone. There’s no going around either. These walls span for hundreds of miles.”

“I’ve got time to spare.” Lord Aymon knew he had Ymo close to hysterics. He was not a patient man, he had learned.

“Pay. Now.” Ymo grumbled.

“We’ll pay two gold and a silver, no more. That’s the standard I paid last I came through this pass. That was not long ago, I’m sure you remember.”

“Of course, I remember, I’m not some childish fool.” Ymo reminded Aymon of a stubborn child, despite his claims. “Kenjo, bring me my stool.” A large guard in heavily dented armor moved for the stool and placed it before Lord Aymon.

“For me? I am already twice your height…dwarf ling,” Lord Aymon sneered.

Ymo took his place upon the stool. He was eye level with Lord Aymon now. “When I bring out the stool, I am in no mood for jesting. My men can attest to it.” His men made no attempt to speak. They remained still as statues.

“I will speak with my men.” Lord Aymon turned and dropped from the ramparts, leaving Fance alone with Ymo. He pulled Blight aside from the line of men, whispering in a hushed tone. The two spoke for a short time, and then Lord Aymon returned to the ramparts, the crossbows following him every step of the way.

“I like you Ymo. You’ve got a funny way about you. I have decided I will pay the price you have requested. I only demand one condition.” Lord Aymon had a finger upon his chin.

“Well…what is it?” Ymo’s hair bobbed at the slightest tilt of his head.

“My men cross first. I will wait on the other side until my last man has crossed, and then I shall pay the toll.”

“And you will cross too, I trust?” asked Ymo.

“Of course. I didn’t come all this way to leave now.”

“Fair enough. Have your men dismount and walk their horse across. It is slippery upon the ramparts and an accident work be most unfortunate.” Ymo turned his back, striding to the other side of the rampart. “I have seen it all, you surely know. I’ve been here a long time, Lord Aymon.”

Too long, far too long, actually. Lord Aymon nodded to his bannermen who crossed first, then followed Fance. Soon after, Blight Malle led Sarin and the squire Qavrin across. Lord Aymon had to force Qavrin to go, who didn’t feel right about leaving his lord on the other side. He finally obliged, however, leaving around eighty men left to cross.

Overhead, the screeching of a hawk pierced the air, but he was unseen amidst the fog. Ymo looked up, scrunching his nose in an attempt to see what was causing the noise.

“I want it dead. I’ll have no large birds up here. They mean to take my coin.” Ymo signaled to his guards, who took their aim off Lord Aymon for the first time since he’d arrived. The guards swooned their bows, desperate for sight of the hawk. “I’d like it done sooner rather than later. Go on, shoot! Loose!” shouted Ymo.

“Lord, I cannot see it.” Said a guard.

“It is hidden in the clouds,” shouted another.

The hawk cawed again, and this time he seemed very close. Lord Aymon watched as the hawk swooped dangerously close to Blight Malle just as he was crossing the rampart. Its talons were dangerously close to ripping his face to shreds.

“I want it dead!” Ymo was squealing now. The hawk ascended back up into the clouds in a wide swoop. The sound of bolts clicking and leaving their crossbows filled the air. The hawk screeched at the top of its lungs and Ymo growled angrily.

The hawk sat upon a parapet some fifty yards away down the rampart. Everyone froze. Lord Aymon watched it happen in slow motion. The bolt clicked, his finger pulled, and the heavy lead at the tip of the arrow burrowed itself into the neck of the hawk. The hawk dropped from the parapet, plummeting down below the side of the mountain to its death.

“Well…that was quite…erm…unseemly, one might say.” The relief was evident in Ymo’s voice. The paused line of men crossing the ramparts resumed their walk, the reins of their horse in one hand and the other held out for balance across the icy walkway.

By the time the last man had crossed, the look upon Ymo’s face had become quite smug. He moved back to his place before Lord Aymon, blocking his path with his hand held out. His robes appeared to be old Emperor’s robes that had been cut down to fit his size, Aymon noticed. His legs appeared shorter than they were thanks to the job that the robe did to conceal them.

Ymo had his back to his men on the ramparts, facing only Lord Aymon and the landscape of swaying hills that sat beyond.

“Go on then, pay up. I don’t mean to stand out in the cold all day. I’ve got fair ladies waiting for me inside.”

Lord Aymon just smiled. He dropped a thick bag of coins into his hand. Ymo had to bring his other hand to prevent the bag from dropping. Ymo turned, and then froze as he did. All of his guards stood with swords to their throats, Aymon’s men standing behind each guard. Blight Malle was looming over Ymo now.

“We’ll pay the standard. Drop the bag.”

Ymo’s lip quivered and his head did a quick scan in hopes of a savior. None were forthcoming.

“You idiots!” he spat at his guards. “How did you not see them coming? Your only job is to stand there and point your bows. How hard can it be?” His voice had raised to a scream by the end and spit flung from his mouth.

Lord Aymon pursed his lips, dropping a small sack of three coins in Ymo’s palm.

“Never let a man pass until he has paid. It is the first rule of tax collecting, dwarf ling.” Lord Aymon gave him a brief smile and then strutted across the ramparts with his horse. Once he had crossed, Blight Malle gave his men a nod and then removed their grip on the guards.

“You will be back, Aymon! I know you will. And next time, you will pay double what I offered today.” Ymo could only watch as the host descended the other side of the Fvrolling Pass, disappearing into the fog.

“Shoot them. Now.” Ymo demanded of one of his guards.

“They took our arrows, lord.” Came the reply.

Lord Aymon’s men finished retreating down the steep mountain and were thankful to mount their horses again. The men filled up on fresh water from the running brook at the foot of the mountain’s base before setting off again. Lord Aymon drank thirstily as Qavrin came in beside him. The host continued on, riding until the last of the day’s light. They came upon a man-made encircling of tall boulders, a tell-tale sign that the Slabrakhi met here.

“What do the Slabrakhi need this for, anyways? I never understood that faith.” Qavrin was rubbing his finger along the smooth boulders that stood three times his height.

“What I don’t understand is how they even moved these things. These boulders weigh more than you’d imagine.” Retorted Fance.

Blight had set about setting up a small fire. Lord Aymon joined him, Sarin huddling by his side with a light blanket wrapped around her. Alaric Aymon removed his fur skin from his shoulders and draped it over Sarin, who leaned her head upon his arm.

Men had begun to turn in for the night unless they were on watch. Sarin yawned. Aymon wondered if Blight was tired yet. An hour then passed, and not a word was spoken except for the occasional cackling of the flames. Alaric Aymon’s eyes became warm and tired from the dancing flames.

Blight spoke, “Milord, I recommend—” he was interrupted by the sound of a screeching bird up ahead. Blight and Aymon rose from their seat by the fire, eyes darting up ahead. The sound of flapping wings accompanied another screech, and the men turned.

Lord Aymon lifted his eyes. Sitting upon a tall boulder with talons sharp as steel was the bare skeleton of a hawk.

And it was staring right at them.