Winter's Gift - Part III

In part three of Gidwyn's tale, Gidwyn and his family visit the quiet mountainside settlement of Sky's Anvil on what they assume will be a quiet and easy day-long trip.

Little do they know, cruelty knows no bounds - and its withered hand hangs low over Gidwyn and his family.


Part III comes slightly later than anticipated due to a busy weekend. Part IV can be expected in around a week's time.





Five days later, the Greylockes and their trio of wolf-dogs found themselves in Sky’s Anvil. The day was as clear and as crisp as the new-fallen snow high upon the mountains’ slopes, with a white-golden sun sat high in an unblemished sapphire sky.

             ‘T’is t’ be a good day today, my loves!’ Gidwyn said as he led Eoina by the hand – who in-turn led Kiryae by hers – down the winding, rocky slope towards where Sky’s Anvil lay, nestled upon a shelf of rock tucked between two tall peaks. The dogs led the way, padding slowly over the rubble-strewn path, their sharp eyes always watching.

The unusual trio who followed the three wolf-dogs were dressed in their thickest, warmest greatgoat-fur tunics and trousers and the hardiest leather boots Gidwyn could find. All three of them were wrapped in thick bearskin cloaks – expensive rarities, heirlooms passed down by Eoina’s grandfather and his brothers on the day of her wedding to Gidwyn.

Galahad had left the Greylockes two days before after his short visit, making his way back down the mountains with a herder taking a small flock of greatgoats to the Old City for butchering. Gidwyn was always sad to see his dear brother go and worried terribly for him – especially since the loss of his arm. But on a bright day, with a whistle on his lips, his wife and foster-daughter beside him and his dogs loping along with them, nothing could keep a smile from Gidwyn’s face.

             ‘A day a beautiful as our sweet one, eh Giddy?’ Eoina said, squeezing both Gidwyn and Kiryae’s hands in her own.

             ‘Oh, aye!’ Gidwyn said, looking back to where Kiryae was walking.

             Kiryae’s deep blue eyes met Gidwyn’s and she smiled at him – one of her rare, genuine smiles. The young she-Elf loved Sky’s Anvil’s market days, but from what Gidwyn had seen, never because of the people there. Though she was the pinnacle of politeness and cordiality with all those who approached her, she was far more interested in the oxen, greatgoats, fowl and most of all the dogs the other mountain-folk brought with them.

As Gidwyn looked at his beloved foster-daughter, he had to admit that there was just something about her that he could just not put his finger on. She glides across the path as if there were nae a stumblin’ rock or trippin’ crack before ‘er. An’ she barely seems to be payin’ heed to where she treads. The Dwarf-man shrugged his shoulders and turned back to the road ahead - and the last turn in the path into Sky’s Anvil. Must jus’ be an Elf thing.

Sheltered from the worst of the chaotic storms that could sweep through the Great Mountains without so much as a moment’s warning, Sky’s Anvil was protected on all sides by tall, jagged rocks. It was an odd settlement – the last port-of-call for many of the surface-bound traders from the Hrudun Underkingdom – but an important link for the mountain-dwelling farmers such as Gidwyn to the rest of their world.

It was a large village: set against the broad chest of Mount Hysaris, several clusters of stone-walled houses that could withstand any weather were collected upon a plate-like ledge overlooked on all sides by the jagged range. The two-dozen or-so domestic buildings collected around a central market-place made of wooden stalls that could be set-up and packed-down at a moment’s notice. A narrow, winding track snaked from the market, down through the jagged natural wall around the village’s edge, and away into the crags and snow-covered bluffs below.

As Gidwyn led Eoina and Kiryae into the village, he pointed to a large hall situated on a small, snow-covered rise at the back of the village, pressed up against the sheer rock of the mountain’s chest. ‘Tha’s where the village jarl or jarlessa lives,’ he said.

‘I know,’ Kiryae said in her faraway voice. ‘I saw Jarlessa Tiritha last Midfire’s Eve. Do you remember, Mother?’

Eoina nodded her head. ‘She liked ye – mayhap we’ll see ‘er today at market.’

‘I hope so,’ Kiryae said. ‘She had a beautiful hunting-hawk.’

On the whole, Gidwyn preferred to steer clear of Sky’s Anvil, particularly on market days. He had grown up in the Old City with markets that lasted weeks – thousands upon thousands of Halflings from across the Underkingdom would flock to the lofty, arched boulevards beneath the Great Mountains to peddle wares most could never imagine: from lavish jewellery set with gemstones the size of a man’s fist, to complicated mechanical devices that whirred and twitched when a little water was passed through them, and from weapons so mighty and fierce that the very stone seemed to quake in anticipation of their blows, to traded beasts from the Upper-World, the likes of which Gidwyn could not describe in words. Sky’s Anvil’s little collection of stalls draped in salted meat, heavy hobnail boots, and other necessities was a far-cry from the magnanimity of the Old City’s markets, and when Gidwyn stepped between those low wooden stalls, he found himself wistful and longing to see the Old City again. Streets alive wit’ stalls so vibrant and beautiful, it were as if a silken rainbow ‘ad been draped through the Kingdom. Oh, t’ see it again!

‘Giddy?’

Pulled away from his memories by Eoina’s voice and a tug on his hand, Gidwyn looked about. ‘Sorry, I were daydreamin’.’

‘I know,’ Eoina said, her round face creasing into a smile. ‘But come on, let’s get sorted so as Kiryae can go ‘an look at Ol’ Darla’s cob.’

Gidwyn nodded. ‘Aye-aye.’

It was unusual for Gidwyn and his small family to visit Sky’s Anvil’s small market so soon after a visit from Ramscoldt, but there were certain things the Gnome’s caravan could not provide him with – certain things Gidwyn had to order especially. Plus, the Dwarf thought as he led Eoina, Kiryae, and the three dogs into the snow-strewn village centre, Garris’ oxen-beef steaks are well worth the quarter-day’s walk.

Despite the sparseness of the market – and the fact that anyone who did not have to be outside was indoors, sitting beside their fire-pit – Gidwyn found Sky’s Anvil’s meagre centre surprisingly busy. Folk from the village and the few farms beyond had come for the day’s pickings, and the low hubbub of several dozen Dwarven voices mixed with the whistle of the mountain wind and the smell of cooking.

Perhaps it ain’t so terrible ‘ere after all, Gidwyn thought as he strode into the market.

A host of familiar faces awaited around the snow-touched stalls: brawny, bearded Dwarf-men beamed at Gidwyn as he passed; the ladies, wrapped up in huge, heavy cloaks and covered with hoods, smiled and waved at him as he passed.

‘Father?’ Kiryae said suddenly from where she walked behind Gidwyn. ‘Why are there so few Gnomes here?’

Gidwyn looked around. It was true, there were few Gnomes this far up the mountain, and the two that Gidwyn saw shivering beside a stall neatly arranged with delicate hand-tools – scissors, tweezers, needles – were wrapped up in so many layers they looked as if they could barely move.

 ‘Not had yer fill from Ramscoldt, eh?’ Gidwyn said with a half-laugh. ‘They ain’t so hardy, the Gnome-folk; we Dwarves are a stocky sort. We weather the cold much better than they do.’

Kiryae nodded her head slowly, her piercing eyes fixed on the two Gnomes behind their stall of hand-tools. Not far away, a handful of Dwarf-children played in the snow, chasing each other with sticks and throwing snowballs. Kiryae did not so much as spare them a glance.

Gidwyn had got used to Kiryae’s odd behaviour. Although she was of an age with most of the village children, she only ever joined in their games when told to by Eoina, and even then she presided, preferring to watch others play and step in when someone got hurt or upset than play herself. Gidwyn looked over his shoulder at his beloved foster-daughter to see that her gaze had moved from the two Gnomes to where an elderly Dwarf-man was driving an ox-pulled cart into the small village centre, his wagon piled with root vegetables. Kiryae’s eyes were fixed on the animal.

‘Father, could I-…’

‘Yes, go on,’ Gidwyn said with a sigh. ‘But leave the dogs here – we don’t want ta spook Denmar’s ol’ ox, do we?’

Gidwyn and Eoina stopped in the centre of the village, Karveth, Coren and Synera obediently sitting beside them. The three enormous wolf-dogs watched as Kiryae swept across the snow-covered cobbles through the crowd of Dwarves to stop before the wagon. She spoke for a moment with the driver before turning to the large, horned oxen and stroking its nose. The beast seemed enraptured by her touch, and nuzzled her hand fondly.

‘D’ya think it’s an Elf kinda thing?’ Eoina said from beside Gidwyn.

Scratching Coren’s chin just where he liked it, Gidwyn shrugged his shoulders. Eoina had asked him the same question dozens of times before. ‘She loves the animals. They love ‘er. Must be, no?’

Gidwyn turned to look at Eonia. Beneath the hood she wore, her face was thoughtful. ‘I don’t know,’ she said slowly, as she always did. ‘We’ve always said, there’s just somethin’ ‘bout ‘er-…’

‘…That we cannae put our finger on, aye,’ Gidwyn finished. ‘But she’s kind, m’love,’ he said, putting his arm around Eoina’s shoulders and moving his hand to scratch Synera’s muzzle. ‘And there’s an absence o’ kindness in this world. But c’mon.’

Taking Eoina by the hand, Gidwyn led her and his three wolf-dogs through the Dwarf-folk coming and going across the village centre. He made straight for a wide wooden shed just in front of one of the stone homes, tucked behind a ledge of rock to protect it from the elements.

Gidwyn could smell the pungent tang of urine and leather before he was even inside. He paused outside the door and turned to Eoina. ‘D’ya mind waiting out here with the dogs?’

Eoina scoffed. ‘Nae, I was lookin’ forward to standin’ in a shack tha’ stinks of cattle-piss!’ she cuffed him on the arm and grinned. ‘Jus’ be quick, ye ol’ lump.’

Gidwyn grinned and kissed his wife’s forehead before turning to the door. As he pushed it open, a great wave of foetid air washed over him and he hand to stop himself coughing.

Inside, the room was dark. Lit only by a few candles and a small fire-pit in the centre of the floor, long shadows were cast of everything – and everyone – in the room.

‘Hello, Fyori!’ Gidwyn called as he walked into the room.

             From beside the fire-pit, a figure looked up. Long-faced and elderly, with a hooked nose and sagging cheeks, the figure shot Gidwyn a filthy look. ‘Yer late, Greylocke,’ the figure said. ‘Late as always.’

             ‘Ah, m’dear,’ Gidwyn said, walking further into the dark shed, the walls of which were covered in dozens of pairs of heavy leather boots. ‘You know me-…’

             ‘By the Fire, all too damn well,’ came the cutting reply.

             Gidwyn sighed and looked at the elderly woman before him. Fyori was bent-backed and miserable, walked with a terrible limp and had spent so much of her life around leather and shoes she permanently stank of urine. Notoriously ill-tempered and unkind, she was also the eldest living Dwarf on the mountains – rumour saying she was at least three-hundred and seventy years old. Fer all yer damn faults, Gidwyn thought as he eyes the elderly figure by the fire, yer the best shoemaker in the Underkingdom. ‘I take it ye’ve finished, then?’ he said.

             ‘Of course I’ve finished!’ The figure snapped and stood slowly, presenting a pair of heavy boots to Gidwyn. ‘Good enough?’ the figure spat.

‘Oh, they’re beautiful!’ Gidwyn walked towards the elderly woman. The shoes she held were made of fine leather with thick laces up the front. The insides were lined with thick rabbit’s fur, and the soles reinforced with heavy iron nails. ‘Kiryae will love ‘em!’

‘Pah,’ Fyori snarled. ‘Making shoes for an Elf. I never thought I’d see the day.’

Gidwyn took from inside his heavy coat a large, clinking pouch and passed it to Fyori. ‘What we agreed – an’ a little extra as a special thank-ye.’

Fyori snatched the purse from Gidwyn’s hand. ‘Very good,’ she said. ‘Now, off you go.’

Gidwyn turned to leave, but had gone less than a step when raised voices from outside drew his attention. As he paused to listen, the door to the shed was flung open – and a familiar-looking figure walked in.

‘Ramscoldt,’ Gidwyn said coldly.

The sour-featured Gnome paused in the doorway as he saw Gidwyn standing in the shack. His face curdled with dislike. Behind him walked his knot of guardsmen. ‘Greylocke. I thought those were your mutts I saw outside.’

‘I’m surprised ye got so close after last time, eh?’ Gidwyn shot back.

‘What?’ Ramscoldt said, a look of feigned confusion on his face. ‘Oh no, not the dogs. I was talking about your wife and that thing you call a daughter.’

Gidwyn’s grip on the boots he had just purchased tightened in anger. ‘What are ye doin’ ‘ere? Ye were supposed to be back at the bottom of the mountain days ago.’ he snarled.

‘I was held up,’ the Gnome said, ‘and I’m obviously here for some shoes. I know you think me a snake, but I do have feet and I walk these paths just as you do,’ the Gnome said, his voice icy.

‘A snake? Nae,’ Gidwyn said. ‘A worm is more fittin’.’

Behind Ramscoldt, his men bristled, touching their swords and axes. The Gnome, however, simply smiled and waved them down. ‘There’s no need,’ he said. ‘Mister Greylocke isn’t worth our time. I do, however, have a question for him.’

Gidwyn laughed. ‘An’ wha’ makes ye think I’ll answer it?’

Ramscoldt shrugged. ‘Just hear me out,’ the little Gnome said. ‘What happens when Kiryae gets older?’

Gidwyn’s eyes narrowed. ‘Wha’ are ye getting’ at?’

The Gnome shrugged. ‘Elves, though long-lived compared to Humans, still do not live as long as we Halfling-folk,’ Ramscoldt said. ‘What will you do when she grows old? When she gets to, say, one-hundred and forty? You’ll be, what, nearing two-hundred and still have a few decades in you at the least.’ Ramscoldt’s mouth twitched into a cruel smile. ‘Will you be able to watch her wither and die?’

Gidwyn clenched his jaw behind his thick, dusky-blonde beard. Anger boiled in his chest, hot and furious. ‘Ye shut yer mouth right now,’ he snarled. ‘Or I’ll-…’

‘Or you’ll what, Greylocke?’ Ramscoldt sniggered. Behind him, his guards began to touch their swords and axes again.

Gidwyn said nothing. He was not a violent men, but the Dwarf had to fight the urge to hurl Kiryae’s boots aside and throttle the Gnome – he desperately wanted to feel his thin neck contort and crack in his hands, watch him plead to take back the words he had said about Kiryae. My daughter, he thought as he glared at the Gnome. My only daughter. Ye cowardly little…

 Glaring at the Gnome as he went, Gidwyn stormed out of Fyori’s shed without uttering another word. He found Eoina outside on the other side of the small village centre, Kiryae by her side, the three wolf-dogs calm.

‘We saw ‘im go in,’ Eoina said as Gidwyn approached. ‘Wha’s he doin’ ‘ere?’

‘Delayed, apparently,’ Gidwyn said, his voice grating. He looked away from Kiryae, trying to shield her from the fury on his face. He did not want to upset his dear daughter.

‘Fer five days?’ Eoina pulled a face.

‘Tha’s what I thought,’ Gidwyn said. The anger still boiled in his stomach and made his hands tremble, but he did what he could to hide it from his family. He took a deep breath and turned to face Kiryae. ‘But enough about Ramscoldt,’ the Dwarf-man said and turned, beaming up at his foster-daughter. ‘How was tha’ ox?’

Kiryae’s face lit up. ‘Happy,’ she said, her face breaking into a smile beneath her heavy hood. ‘He likes having his ears scratched. Not many people do it for him.’

‘Well, I’m glad to hear it,’ Gidwyn said, the light in Kiryae’s eyes making his own grin come easier.  After a moment, he held out the boots in his hands. ‘These ‘ere are fer ye.’

Kiryae looked at the boots for a moment, her eyes wide. ‘For me?’ she said.

‘Aye,’ Gidwyn said and nodded his head. ‘Yer getting’ too big fer yer current boots – ye’ll need new ‘uns come winter. We won’t be journyin’ far from th’ house fer a few months, so there’ll be no way to get ye some new ‘uns then.’

Gidwyn had expected Kiryae to be over them moon – for her face to light up and for her to laugh with joy. But instead, the young she-Elf held the boots in front of her face for a moment, her features pensive. ‘They’re so well-made,’ she said, her large blue eyes drinking in every detail of the craftsmanship, her features almost forlorn. ‘But does it not make you sad, Father, that they’re made from animal-flesh?’

The question caught Gidwyn off-guard. ‘Er,’ he stammered, glancing at Eoina. ‘Well, a little, aye. T’is always a shame when somethin’ ‘as to die, eh Eoina?’

Eoina nodded and put her hand on Kiryae’s arm. ‘Aye, but when us ‘ere on the mountain put a creature to death, we do it wit’ dignity, aye? We don’t waste it, no – its pelt keeps us warm and its flesh fills our bellies. We even use its bones an’ its hooves and horns for everythin’ from broth to drinkin’-cups! Nae, t’is always sad when an animal ‘as to die, but if we put it to death we ‘ave a responsibility to the animal to make proper use of it.’

Kiryae continued to look at the boots for a moment longer, then smiled. ‘I see,’ she said. ‘Thank-you, Mother and Father.’ She turned her piercing blue eyes to Gidwyn again, her smile widening. ‘Thank-you for everything.’

Despite Ramscoldt’s cold words still ringing in his ears, Gidwyn was unable to stop himself from beaming. Kiryae’s sensitivity had touched him, and he felt tears in the corners of his eyes but quickly wiped them away – any moisture would freeze in the mountain chill. Instead, he threw his arms around his foster-daughter and held her tightly in a warm embrace. ‘I love ye, sweetheart,’ he said as he held Kiryae in his arms. ‘I love ye so much.’

Kiryae laughed as Gidwyn’s beard scratched her neck. She buried her head in the thick padding of his heavy, fur-covered leather coat and wrapped her arms around his back. ‘I love you, Papa,’ she said.

And in that moment, everything was perfect.

*

Gidwyn, Eoina, Kiryae and the three dogs did not linger long in Sky’s Anvil; with winter nearing, Gidwyn knew well that sudden mountain storms could blow in at a moment’s notice. Thick and blinding snow could appear from nowhere in great blizzards, carried on violent winds strong enough to tear Dwarf-folk clean from the mountains. Gidwyn occasionally found bodies deep in the snow – shattered figures, hurled from cliffs and bluffs, dashed to pieces on rock and ice. I’ll no’ let my family go the same way.

As Gidwyn led his small family and three wolf-dogs back the way they had come, they followed their tracks from the morning. They were easy enough to spot – two small, squat pairs of boot-prints, side-by-side, accompanied by more slender prints surrounded by the tracks of a dozen large paws. They ran like a frozen river across the snow-buried mountain paths Gidwyn knew by intuition, occasionally crossed by the tracks of a mountain hare or bird.

The two Dwarves and their Elven foster-daughter said little as they walked – there was no need to. The trio walked in a comfortable silence through the crags and gullies and across the rope-bridges and frozen streams that lay across their passage home.

Gidwyn was unsure when he had last felt so happy. As he looked to Eoina at his side – his life-partner, his soul-mate – to the she-Elf who had been gifted to them by the mountain. There was a wide, silent grin on Kiryae’s face as she walked through the shin-deep snow, kicking great clouds of white up before her with her new boots. Eoina watched her with loving eyes and a warm smile on her face as Karveth, Coren and Synera padded around them.

Gidwyn was unsure if he would ever again feel as happy as he did that afternoon, walking in silence through the snow with his family. Is it even possible? he thought as he squeezed Eoina’s hand through the heavy leather mitten she wore.

She turned to look at him. ‘Aye, m’ love?’

Gidwyn leaned forwards and nuzzled Eoina, touching their noses and foreheads together. ‘I love ye.’

She reached up into his beard and gently held his face, closing her eyes for a moment as they paused in the snow. ‘Nae as much as I love ye.’

Somehow, I’m happier, Gidwyn thought as he stepped back and continued to lead his small family onwards.

             The afternoon was drawing long by the time Gidwyn, Eoina, Kiryae and the three wolf-dogs reached Hammersmote Pass – the last, long fissure through which they had to pass before reaching their home on the mountainside. As much as he had always loved living on the mountain, Gidwyn always felt a little uneasy when he waked through Hammersmote Pass: the path which he led his family down was narrow and treacherous, full of cracks and crevasses that could snap an ankle, and the sheer, dark rock walls that rose on their side of him were so large that they blotted out the sun.

             Although he knew it was nonsense, Gidwyn had an irrational fear of the enormous rock walls either side of him collapsing on him. The thick, black rock had stood for thousands of years, barely scratched by the wrathful elements that scourged the mountains every day. I’ve been buried under avalanches an’ snowfall more time than I can count, Gidwyn thought as he led Eoina by the hand – who in turn led Kiryae – along the jagged, zig-zagging rock path, but buried under rock? He shuddered.

             So when the bright, unobscured light of the late-afternoon day broke over Gidwyn’s face as he led his family from the narrow gulley and out on to the last plateau they had to cross before reaching home, he heaved a sigh of relief. In the distance, he could see his small house against the snow, little more than a grey-stone speck on the near-horizon, surrounded by dozens upon dozens of pinprick-sized greatgoats, many of which were crowded around the covered troughs Gidwyn kept out for them.

‘Ach, I hate it in there,’ Gidwyn muttered as he turned to make sure Eoina and Kiryae had made it alright.

             The two women greeted Gidwyn with smiles as they stepped out of the deep cleft behind him. Gidwyn looked up at the wall of sheer rock they had passed through, and up to the tip of the mountain high above it. ‘All accounted for?’ he asked, a big grin on his face.

             ‘I believe so,’ Eoina said as the three-wolf dogs loped out from behind Kiryae and stopped, their bright eyes on Gidwyn.

             The blonde-bearded Dwarf grinned. ‘Brilliant, onwards-…’

             Gidwyn’s words paused on his lips as, borne on the mountain wind came the bleat of a goat.

             ‘Y’ hear tha’?’ Eoina said.

             Gidwyn nodded. ‘Sounded close,’ he said. ‘Musta wandered off or got separated whilst we were gone. Probably stuck somewhere on the cliff above.’ The Dwarf raised his eyes to the sheer face of rock, the indomitable cliffs through which Hammersmote Pass ran. ‘Fire take the accursed thing.’

             Eoina waved a hand. ‘Take Synera an’ go an’ find it,’ she said. ‘Karvie and Coren can get Kiryae and I home.’

             ‘If yer sure,’ Gidwyn said.

             Eoina gestured towards the house. ‘I can see the damn farm, Gid; I know where I’m goin’, y’ worrywart.’

             ‘Alright, alright,’ Gidwyn waved a hand at Eoina. ‘I’ll see y’ in a while.’

             Eoina nodded. ‘I’ll ‘ave some dinner on fer ye. Maybe even find a bottle o’ fire-ale.’

             Gidwyn grinned. ‘A finer woman there ne’er was.’ He squeezed Eoina’s hand before turning to Kiryae. ‘Look after Ma, m’ love.’

             Kiryae’s large, blue eyes shone. ‘Yes, Father,’ she said. ‘See you shortly.’

             Gidwyn called Synera’s name and the large female wolf-dog left her pack-brothers to follow him. The group split in two, Gidwyn leading Synera away along the sheer face of rock in which Hammersmote Pass was cleft, and Kiryae and Eoina, accompanied by Karveth and Coren, made their way out across the snow-covered plateau to where their home waited in the distance.

             As Gidwyn made his way along the wall of dark cliff, he could not help but glance back at his wife and foster-daughter. They were an odd pair to look at, crossing the snow with their enormous wolf-dogs. Kiryae, though only ten years old, was already taller than her mother who was wrapped up in so many layers she was almost as broad as she was tall. Gidwyn could not help but smile fondly.

             Gidwyn was brought back to the task at hand as Synera nuzzled his palm, her enormous snout nudging his fingers until he responded by fussing her ears. ‘Good girl,’ the Dwarf muttered. ‘On we go.’

             It was a stiff climb up the cliff-face via a narrow path Gidwyn had found a few years before. The track, hewn one summer by Gidwyn and Galahad after a trio of greatgoats got stuck on the cliff above, had seen little in the way of care since. When Gally’s back ‘ere next year, we’ll ‘ave to go over this again, Gidwyn thought as he slowly made his way up between the jutting, sharp rocks and frost-scarred boulders, Synera one pace behind him all the way. Can’t ‘ave someone fallin’ an’ breakin’ their neck tryin’ to scale this rockface.

             Eventually, Gidwyn arrived at the top of the cliff. He paused for a moment to catch his breath as Synera padded in the snow around him. The top of the cliff before them was flat, with Hammersmote Pass scything through the rock to his left – a dark wound in the snow-covered rock; a lipless mouth frozen in a perpetual snarl. To his right rose one of the many mountains that made up the Hrudun range that stretched across the middle of Esdaria – tall, indomitable, and utterly impassable.

Gidwyn paused a moment to look away from the snow-covered, boulder-strewn plain that stretched away from him, and looked up at the enormous mountain in the shadow of which he stood. It was one that rose above all – a towering monstrosity of ice and rock, dwarfing the peaks that rose and fell like waves around it. ‘Kûrthalag,’ Gidwyn said – Colossus.

The snowy plain that ended with the crack that was Hammersmote Pass was little more than a fingernail on the enormous mountain. Although he lived in its shadow, and had done for decades, the sheer scale of the spire of rock still snatched his breath away. T’is a god of stone and ice, Gidwyn thought. The head and shoulders of a being large enough t’ make the whole of Esdaria its lap.

It was only when he looked around and readied himself to continue onwards that he realised Synera was growling. The noise was low and quiet, still caught in the back of her throat. As Gidwyn looked at his favourite wolf-dog, the bleat of the lost greatgoat came again – but this time it was different. Pained.

‘G’wan, Syn,’ Gidwyn said to the wolf-dog beside him. ‘Find it. Find it!’

With a single bark, Synera leapt forwards into the snow, her large snout raised into the air. She ran across the snow, loping and bounding through the deep, untouched carpet, sending great plumes of white skyward.

Gidwyn set off at a run behind Synera, kicking through the knee-deep snow with his heavy boots. ‘G’wan, girl!’ he called as he went. ‘Find ‘em! Find ‘em!’

Synera shot ahead, bounding through the snow. Gidwyn ran to keep up, tripping and stumbling on unseen rocks as he went, always aware of how close he and Synera were to the yawning chasm beside them.

Then, quite suddenly, another bleat came again – far closer this time, strained and strangled as if the creature were in great pain. Oh, Fire, don’t let it ‘ave a broken leg, Gidwyn thought. A lame greatgoat was a greatgoat he could not afford to look after – especially this close to winter. Don’t let it be one o’ the big ones, oh, Fire please…

But when Synera stopped dead in the snow in front of Gidwyn, the Dwarf knew something was afoot. A wild mountain-wolf?  he thought. A snow-lynx? Nae, none o; them have been seen in these parts fer ages – Karveth keeps ‘em away. Surely it’s not something worse? Surely not an ogre or… or a troll…? He felt a chill that went beyond the cold of the mountain go through him, and he began to wish for the axe he kept next to the door of his home. By the Fire, if it’s a troll or an ogre…

Gidwyn drew next to Synera who stood stock-still in the snow, staring at a lone boulder in the plain before them. Gidwyn could see tracks around the rock – hundreds of hoofprints where dozens of greatgoats had walked, churning up the snow, and large brown patches where their droppings had soiled the pristine white.

But Gidwyn could see that something had scattered the group. Their tracks were unclear and ran in all directions as if they had fled in panic.

Then Gidwyn saw flecks of red around the lone boulder.

Oh, Fire…

Stepping up beside Synera, Gidwyn and his huge wolf-dog slowly began to walk towards the boulder as quietly as they could. The Dwarf held his breath, trying to still his racing heart, but with every pace he took he found himself trembling more and more. The closer he got to the boulder, the more bloody flecks he could see in the snow – they were thick and heavy now, whatever was bleeding had been badly wounded.

And then he saw it.

Lying on its side just in front of the boulder was a dead greatgoat. Partly hidden by the thick snow, the creature was lying in a slowly-thickening pool of its own blood, turning the snow around it red.

From where he stood a few feet away, Gidwyn could see no beast had killed the greatgoat: its hide and tendons were covered in long, cruel cuts, and its throat had been slashed wide open. The way a butcher might with a knife – but the wounds in its hide…who would do such an unkind thing to such a defenceless creature?

And then, before Gidwyn could even cry out, something stepped from behind the boulder.

It was Man-sized, perhaps a little shorter. Its face was completely covered by a heavy hood, and it carried itself with a bent back. Gidwyn barely saw the bow in the creature’s hand, nor the thick, snow-white leathers it was clad in before Synera attacked. He heard the twang of a bowstring, the whizz of an arrow, and Synera’s furious roar.

Blood sprayed through the air as an arrow tipped with ragged feathers tore into Synera’s flank, but the wolf-dog was unperturbed. Rearing onto her hind legs, Synera was taller and broader than the figure was. The creature’s nerve broke and they turned and tried to run, calling out as it did.

Enormous teeth flashing in her maw, the figure let out a guttural screech as Synera sank her dagger-like fangs into the fleeing figure’s side. Gidwyn saw thick, dark, blue blood well from the wound and splatter in the snow as Synera wrenched and worried the creature from side to side. Gidwyn watched on in horror and revulsion as Synera tore at the creature, who fell into the snow screaming in a thin, hissing voice.

The crack of a second arrow shattering on the boulder from which the first figure had leapt yanked Gidwyn back to reality. He ducked and covered his head instinctively, lifting his gaze. There, not sixteen paces to his right, stood another of the white leather- and fur-clad figures, completely covered from head-to-foot, a bow in its gloved hand.

And it was going for another arrow.

As the thin, pallid fingers of the mysterious figure’s ungloved right-hand went to the quiver of crude, ragged-feathered arrows on their back, Gidwyn charged.

The figure got closer and closer with every step Gidwyn took. He watched as the leather-clad creature took another arrow from their quiver and nocked it to a crude, dark-wood bow. Gidwyn was almost there, but the snow was thick and pushed against his legs as he ran, freezing and stiffening Gidwyn’s knees. Fire, grant me strength! Fire, grant me strength!

Gidwyn forced his way through the snow, his arms swinging frantically, great clouds of white exploding before him as he frantically kicked as he ran. Six paces, five, he counted as he closed on the mysterious figure.

They nocked the arrow.

Four, three. I’m not goin’ to make it!

A gnarled bow was raised before Gidwyn; a savage, barbed arrow of dark iron aimed squarely at his face.

Two, one…

Gidwyn hurled himself forwards.

He heard the bowstring twang. Time seemed to slow and the Dwarf saw the iron-tipped arrow hang in the air between himself and the second attacker: every detail of it, from the jagged barbs on its tip to the matted flight-feathers, spun as it tore towards him.

And then everything happened at once.

Gidwyn felt the arrow scrape past his cheek, opening a long cut beneath his eye and splitting through the lobe of his left ear. He let out a cry of pain and felt blood stream over his face, but he was already flying through the air himself. Before the last of his shout of pain had left his lips, he collided with his attacker, the whole weight of his body crashing into the figure’s chest.

The two of them sprawled in the snow, but before Gidwyn could recover, the figure was on top of him, its hands around his neck. He felt two long-nailed thumbs pressing through his beard and into his windpipe and tried to gasp, but was already losing breath.

Raising one of his large fists, Gidwyn aimed a flailing punch at the figure’s hooded head. The blow landed hard and square, a satisfying crunch split through the freezing air of the snow-covered plain.

The attacker reeled backwards from Gidwyn’s blow, its hood slipping from its head. Two gleaming eyes as black as cut jet glared out at Gidwyn from either side of a pair of long, slit-like nostrils. A lipless mouth of sharp teeth snarled out from a bone-white face, and two short, point-tipped ears stuck out from either side of the figure’s head.

Oh, by the Fire, Gidwyn thought as he watched a long tendril of blue blood snaked from the figure’s nostril where he had hit him. Not a troll, not an ogre. Something worse. Something much worse.

There was no more time to lie in the snow and stare. Using all his strength, Gidwyn hurled the ghastly creature off himself and leapt to his feet. The thin-faced creature with its pitch-black eyes was up moments later, and from its belt it drew a long, hooked dagger. A cruel smile played on its thin lips and as it raised the dagger above its head, it opened its mouth to snarl at Gidwyn.

But the snarl was drowned out by a roar.

Like a fanged streak of silver moonlight, Synera came racing across the snow and leapt into the air. She hung above the attacker for a moment, jaws wide, then snapped shut her fangs around the arm in which it held its dagger.

The creature howled and tried to pull its arm away. Gidwyn watched as the dagger fell from its fingers and blue blood gushed from the creature’s arm wounds. Synera snarled through her blue-bloodied teeth and wrenched on the creature’s arm, pulling it off balance. Screaming in agony, the attacker tried to pull away, but Synera’s jaws were locked tight.

With a final heave from the enormous wolf-dog and a wet ripping sound, Synera tore off the creature’s arm.

Gidwyn had seen a lot in the snow: pregnant greatgoats haemorrhaging their insides over his hands as he tried to save the kid; mangled, frozen bodied at the bottom of cliffs; emaciated corpses, decades old, trapped in glaciers – milky eyes of the long-dead boring into him. But there was something about the sight before him that made his stomach weak – the writhing creature, howling and shrieking in a hissing voice, clutching at the ragged wound at its shoulder as its blood turned the snow blue; the way Synera stood with its arm clamped between her jaws, her bright eyes fixed on the writhing figure as it slowly bled out in the snow; the reek of evacuated bowels.

Eventually, the creature stopped writhing and fell still, its jet-black eyes glazing over, its corpse still gushing blue blood into the snow. Gidwyn bent and picked up the terrible hooked dagger from where it had been dropped in the snow and tucked it into his belt. ‘We might need this, Syn,’ he muttered to the wolf-dog, though his voice shook like a snowflake in a screaming gale. ‘Yaghu always travel in groups.’

Gidwyn had never seen a Yaghu up close before. Old enemies of the Dwarves, the ghastly, bone-pale creatures had once upon a time lived in the Cold North – the frozen wastes that lay beyond the Great Mountains. But thousands of years ago, Humankind had appeared upon the tundra – a larger, stronger, more warlike race, and they had driven the Yaghu into hiding in the mountains before migrating south, through the Throat of the North and into the lands that would become first be ruled by the Tyralii, then be known as the Free Kingdoms of Men, and was now in-part called the Vidorian Empire.

Since then, the Yaghu prowled in the shadows of the most hostile crevasses on the mountains’ faces, or hidden in the deepest, darkest caverns that even the Halflings dared not to venture into. Occasionally they would raid settlements or villages, maybe the odd caravan. Gidwyn had heard terrible tales of the cruelty of the Yaghu – of captives flayed and left to die amidst the ruins of their carts, of Dwarves and Gnomes stripped naked and left to freeze in the snow. Most of the time, though, the warriors of the Underkingdom stopped them. Galahad had told Gidwyn the tale of how he had lost his arm to a Yaghu raiding party during the rebellions years ago dozens of times.

As Gidwyn breathed heavily, looking down at the mangled corpse in front of him, he remembered the first attacker. ‘Synera!’ he cried and turned to his beloved wolf-dog. There, protruding from her flank, was one of the long, dark, barbed arrows the Yaghu had attacked with. Blood welled from around the wound, but there was nothing Gidwyn could do – not out here.

‘We have t’ get ye home, girl,’ he said, placing his hand on her head.

Synera seemed to understand, fixing Gidwyn with her bright, golden eyes and dropping the Yaghu arm that had remained clenched between her teeth. It landed in the snow with a wet, dull thump.

‘We have t’ get ye back to Eoina,’ Gidwyn said, fussing her ears, ‘she’ll know wha’ to do wit’ ye.’

Gidwyn’s heart almost stopped.

‘By the Fire,’ he whispered, ‘Eoina. Kiryae.’