Winter's Gift - Part V

In part V of Gidwyn's tale, Gidwyn is forced to venture deep into the uncharted mountains in search of Kiryae. Following the Yaghu's tracks all the way, the plucky Dwarf braves the worst of the elements in his desperate quest to save his daughter.

Yet, little does he know, the worst is yet to come.

To the readers, I thank you. I hope you are enjoying Winter's Gift. Part six will be available for your viewing pleasure next week. Until then, take care!

By the time Gidwyn reached Axefall Canyon, the weather had turned. Black clouds had drawn in around him as he ran northwards, following the tracks of the Yaghu that had taken Kiryae. They had dogged him all the way, swooping in from the south like an ink-black cloak attached to Gidwyn’s shoulders – no matter how hard he tried, he could not escape them.
                Soon, with wind ripping at him from every side and the thick shroud of dark cloud wrapped around the Great Mountains, Gidwyn could barely see twenty paces ahead of himself. He clutched the Yaghu dagger he had taken in his fist as he staggered onwards. It was a savage blade: serrated iron, hooked at the tip, and the size of a short-sword in Gidwyn’s hand – and his only defence against any Yaghu lurking just beyond his vision.
                He was no warrior, not like Galahad. By the Fire, wha’ I’d give fer ‘im to be ‘ere right now, Gidwyn thought as he shivered in a particularly frozen gust of wind. But Gidwyn was completely alone on the mountainside, and there was no time to wait for help. With every passing moment, with every laughing howl of wind and flurry of sleet and snow, the tracks Gidwyn was following – his only hope of ever finding Kiryae – faded.
                The disappearing tracks, slowly filling with fresh snow and being blown level by the wind, led Gidwyn to the narrow rope bridge that spanned the gaping rift in the earth he knew as Axefall Canyon. The narrow construction of knots and timber slats rocked and shook and rocked in the savage gale as if it were a lock of hair. By the Fire, Gidwyn thought as he paused on the edge of the precipice, trying to ignore the yawning maw before him and focus on the bridge, ‘ow am I t’ cross tha’?!
                On any other day, Gidwyn would have stopped, turned around and given up the crossing as hopeless. He had heard stories of intrepid farmers chasing lost goats being lifted from cliffs and ledges by the wind and being cast down to their deaths. But Axefall Canyon was different – it was no cliff or plateau edge. It was a gaping chasm, a yawning pit, a descent into utter darkness. If I fell, I’d ‘ave so much time, Gidwyn thought as he lingered on the edge of the precipice, clutching the wooden post that anchored the narrow bridge to the mountainside, so much time t’ think about everythin’, about everythin’ I’ve done. About ‘ow much I failed. About Eoina. About Kiryae.
                But he knew he had no choice. If the Yaghu had made it to the other side, then he told himself he could as well. Taking a deep breath of freezing air that stung his throat and tucking the Yaghu dagger into his belt, Gidwyn walked forwards.
                He seized hold of the wind-whipped guide-ropes that ran across the gaping canyon – they were cold, frayed with age and strain, and writhed like trapped animals in his fists as the gale yanked them this way and that. Clutching at the ropes, Gidwyn gingerly lifted a foot forwards towards the rime-blistered wooden slats that made up the bridge's footway. The snow lashed at his face, the wind tore at his clothes and pulled the bridge this way and that beneath him.
                Now or never. 
                Gidwyn stepped onto the bridge. The frozen board beneath his feet slipped and slid as he tried to put his weight onto it. He staggered forwards, clinging to the ropes either side of him, dragging himself forwards as the bridge writhed and bucked in the wind.
                Below him, Axefall Canyon laughed: a pair of enormous stone lips parted in frozen mirth as Gidwyn struggled across the bridge one step at a time, clinging to the simple construction spanning the massive gap. The canyon’s great spires of tooth-like rock glinted with frost, sharp as nails, ready to impale Gidwyn should he fall.
                Oh, Fire, Gidwyn silently pleaded as, wide-eyed and white-knuckled, he clung on to the bridge for dear life. Oh, Fire, preserve me. Don’t let me fall, don’t let me-…
                Gidwyn had no idea if it was the wind or the ice beneath his feet that made him slip. The gale seemed to scream with joy as he clutched at the ropes both sides of him and shrieked in terror. He twisted as he stumbled, his foot catching between two of the wooden, rime-blasted boards at his feet. Pain shot through his ankle, up his shin and into his knee, but Gidwyn dare not let go.
                For a moment, all he could do was hold on as his leg throbbed with pain. He was a lone sailor upon a shattering sea, standing atop the deck of a miserable wood-and-rope ship, clutching the hempen wheel for dear life. Oh, by all the gods and wha’ ever there is waitin’ beyond… Gidwyn thought as he screwed his eyes shut. Please, I cannae fall, I cannae…
                Slowly, as the wind continued to whip around him, Gidwyn opened his eyes. The pain in his leg had lessened – though whether through rest or the numbing of the cold he could not tell. The bridge still stretched before him, bucking and rolling like a sea torn by waves, but he had to continue.
                ‘I cannae fall,’ he breathed, his voice lost in the wind. ‘I cannae fall, I willnae fall!’
                Slowly, he began to creep forwards, clutching the rope either side of him, feeling each board with his feet before stepping onto it. ‘I willnae fall…I willnae…’
                Gradually, Gidwyn made his way across the bridge. The wind threw him from side to side and the snow and sleet drove at him as ten-thousand ice-cold darts. But Gidwyn refused to let go – refused to give up.
                ‘I willnae fall,’ Gidwyn yelled into the wind as he struggled across the bridge, hand over hand, foot over foot. ‘I willnae fall! Kiryae! Kiryae!’
                It felt as if a lifetime had passed. Gidwyn dragged himself across the bridge as the indefatigable wind blasted leaden clouds and blinding snow around him. Eventually, just as his knees were rubbed raw from crawling and his knuckles and arms ached from clinging on to the rope bridge, through the whirling, blackened mist around him he saw the far side of Axefall Canyon.
                Spurred on, Gidwyn dragged himself forwards, slipping and sliding on the frozen wood beneath him. Axefall Canyon seemed to scream the wind up at him in a last desperate attempt to dislodge and swallow him: the wind, like ten-thousand invisible hands, struck and grabbed at him, pulled at his clothes, his hood, his beard, but Gidwyn would not let go, would not give up. Not now, not this close…
                 And when he stepped from the rope bridge and into the snow on the northern side of Axefall Canyon, Gidwyn could have wept for joy. He fell forwards, collapsing into the waist-deep snow and feeling for the solid rock beneath with his hands. Even as he knelt there, his fingers and knees pressed into the stone, he felt as if his whole body were swaying, as if he were still being bucked and thrown from side-to-side on the terrible bridge.
                After a moment, he dragged himself to his feet and looked around. The tracks of the Yaghu that had taken Kiryae were fading fast, almost lost under new-fallen snow and shrouded by blizzard. Still, though, they headed north. ‘Ow much further can they possibly go? Gidwyn asked himself as he set off again, lifting an arm above his head to shield his eyes from the driving snow. There’s nothin’ this way – absolutely nothin’.
                But still the tracks went north, and so Gidwyn continued to follow them. The further north he went and the higher up he climbed, the more and more reluctant the wind and black cloud seemed to be to follow him. Soon, when Axefall Canyon was a good few miles behind him, the screaming wind had diminished to a whisper and the dark cloud through which he had struggled was little more than a faint fog hanging in the air. Above him, the sky began to darken as the day slowly drew towards its end, but what little light from the setting sun crested the mountains drew their shadows long made the snow around Gidwyn shine like millions of minute pearls.
                Despite the darkening day, the tracks were clearer beyond the falling snow and the wind. Behind and below Gidwyn, back the way he had come, the long rock- and snow-covered slope was partially obscured by a low layer of cloud, though he could just faintly make out the long crevasse he had carved through the snow, up across and along the crags and bluffs that had led him up the face of the mountain he was now on.
                Gidwyn had barely paused to think – he had been so driven on charging forwards through the snow, fog and wind that he had barely taken stock of where he was. Kûrthalag loomed before him, massive even at this altitude, stretching a shadow dozens of miles long across the mountainside, but he was on a lower peak. Morthassu, Gidwyn thought. Skyline, on Kûrthalag’s east. Twinned with Gyrahaal – Horizon, rising on Kûrthalag’s west.
                As Gidwyn turned his eyes westwards and saw the sun sinking beneath the mountains, he realised just how far he had travelled in his blind, panic-stricken run. By the Fire, he thought as the last sliver of the fiery globe in the west sunk below the mountains, I’ve gotta find shelter – I’ll freeze t’ death if I’m out ‘ere at night!
                Gidwyn looked around. There were dozens of cracks and crevasses littering the mountainside, but he could not bring himself to stop. Kiryae an’ the Yaghu that ‘ave taken ‘er can’t be far, he thought as he looked at the tracks stretching away across the snow, still north-bound. If I stop now an’ there’s new snow in the night, I’ll never find ‘er. Oh, wha’ am I to do?
                As he stood in the snow, desperately trying to decide how to proceed, Gidwyn could already feel the cold of the night sinking into him, pricking his flesh through his heavy clothes like frozen daggers. I cannae stay out ‘ere, he thought, but then, neither can the Yaghu. I ‘ave to follow ‘em. At some point, they’ll ‘ave to stop an’ find shelter ‘emselves. An’ tha’s when I’ll get ‘em. Tha’s when I’ll find Kiryae. 
                Touching the hilt of the Yaghu dagger tucked into his belt, Gidwyn set off again, pushing onwards through the thick snow. The last light of the day turned the sky above his head a bloody red, then faded to a bruised purple, and before long became a tapestry of glittering stars.
                The snow around Gidwyn shone in the light from the moon and stars, lighting his way across the mountains. Despite the fatigue in his limbs and the hunger gnawing at his belly he soldiered on, crossing crags and bluffs, skirting crevasses and canyons, clambering sharp walls of rock and icebound glaciers. And still the tracks continued – two pairs of Yaghu prints, either side of a set of stumbling, staggering prints. The Yaghu had led him on a chase through the mountains, veering east and west in the hope of throwing off any pursuers, but Gidwyn was not so easily perturbed.
                It was nearing midnight and the cold had become truly bitter by the time Gidwyn saw a shape appear against the snow ahead of him. Still following the tracks of the Yaghu who had taken Kiryae, it took him a moment to realise just where he was – but when he did, a chill beyond the cold of the midnight mountains set itself into his bones. Blasted with snow and riddled with rime, a stack of stones wrapped with a length of dark cloth stood silent and stoic ahead of him – a silent guard to a dark and terrible world beyond: a land of labyrinthine frozen crags, of howling creatures known only to myth, and of certain death.
                The Last Cairn.
                And the Yaghu’s tracks were making straight for it.
                ‘Fire, don’t let it be so,’ Gidwyn whispered to himself, his breath clouding in the freezing air before him. ‘Fire, please don’t let it be so.’
                But still Gidwyn marched on, following the Yaghu’s tracks. Each step brought him closer and closer to the Cairn – the point of no return. They cannae ‘ave passed it. Nothin’ good lives beyond the Last Cairn – surely the Yaghu know tha’, surely they wouldnae go this far…

Soon, it was right beside him – a terrible guard to a world Gidwyn never dared visit. The last stop before Orthân Vaarl.

                And the Yaghu tracks passed it, disappearing into the thick snow that coated the terrible maze of mountains, crags, gullies and caves beyond.
                Gidwyn stopped beside the cairn. Tucked into the cracks in the rock were small frozen offerings: coins from the Underkingdom, the Vidorian Empire, even a handful from the Free Kingdoms where adventurous souls had eased their superstitious spirits by tucking small discs of copper and silver between the rocks.
                Tha’ willnae save ‘em from wha’ lies beyond, Gidwyn thought. Tha’ willnae save no-one from Orthân Vaarl.
                All the tales he had heard of Orthân Vaarl came back to him: of intrepid climbers being cast down from the highest peaks to be dashed on the rocks below for their fell deeds in life; of creatures borne of ice and frost, of rock and rime with a hatred of all warm-blooded life; of ancient wyverns and terrible frozen dragons that wrapped themselves around the peaks, preying on whoever was foolish enough to climb so high.
                As Gidwyn stood beside the last Cairn, staring at the jagged, fang-like rocks and groaning crags beyond, he believed every single one of the old tales.
                But he could still see the Yaghu’s tracks heading further and further north, deeper and deeper into the mountains. He followed them with his eyes across the snow before him and up into the spiralling crags beyond. Oh, Kiryae, he thought, wha’ am I to do?
                But Gidwyn already knew the answer. Taking a deep breath, he took a step forwards and, for the first time in his life, passed the Last Cairn.
                ‘Daddy’s comin’, sweetheart,’ he whispered to himself as he set off once more, a tiny figure striding towards the black mountains before him.

*

The jagged wasteland beyond the Last Cairn known as Orthân Vaarl had another name in the Common tongue: the Black Crags. So called for the onyx-black, fang-like rocks that rose from the snow like gigantic skeletal fingers, the Black Crags were a maze of gullies, caves, chasms and clefts that snaked between wind-scourged spires of rime-scarred rock. A permanent blanket of snow hid the deep, wound-like crevasses that criss-crossed the crags’ stone flesh, themselves snarling mouths waiting to swallow up whoever crossed them.
                In the east the sun was rising, and Gidwyn was exhausted. He had not eaten for hours, and he had not allowed himself the chance to stop and rest, for the Yaghu’s tracks continued onwards before him.
                Gidwyn had walked through the night, staggering through the frozen wasteland. His feet and lower legs were numb from the snow, and the rest of his body was freezing with cold. He had pulled his heavy hooded cloak around himself, but the cold’s daggers had struck true time and again, and now as the sun reddened the eastern horizon, rising towards Orthân Vaarl’s blackest rock-spires, he felt his body beginning to give up on him.
                His legs stiffened as he walked and his whole body shook with cold. He could barely feel the ground beneath his feet for his toes were so numb, and the whole world before him was a dizzying blur of white snow and black rock. But he dare not stop – could not stop – for the Yaghu’s tracks still led onwards, deeper and deeper into Orthân Vaarl.
                The Yaghu, it seemed, had walked through the night just as Gidwyn had. Gidwyn was sure they had slowed, though, for their tracks were getting fresher and fresher with every passing hour. They ‘ave to stop soon, Gidwyn told himself as he staggered onwards. They cannae keep goin’…they cannae…
                For he knew he could not.
                The tireless pace the Yaghu had set was killing him, and he knew it. He was so cold, so hungry, and so tired – yet he could not pause, for he knew that if he did he would never see his sweet Kiryae again. He longed for home, to be by the fire-pit in the middle of his stone-built house, Eoina and Kiryae by his side, the three wolf-dogs at his feet. But now there are two, Gidwyn had to remind himself. They took poor Coren…
                The memory of Coren lying dead in the snow, his pelt riddled with arrows and steaming blood pooling around him drove Gidwyn onwards. Taking a deep breath, he drove himself forwards, onwards through Orthân Vaarl.
                Enormous walls of black stone hundreds of feet high rose around Gidwyn on either side; terrible, face-like clefts in the rock leered out at him, frozen in mocking laughter as the lonely Dwarf struggled onwards through the narrow gullies below, doggedly following the tracks before him. Gargoyle-like overhangs of rock weighed down by thick snow jutted above him, threatening to break and come crashing down onto him as he passed beneath them - like a gigantic palm crushing an ant.
                But the Yaghu tracks were fresher than ever before. Less than an hour old, Gidwyn told himself and he knelt to inspect a fresh track. I’m catchin’ up. 
                He set off again with renewed vigour, jogging through the snow in spite of the fatigue dragging at his limbs. The blanket of white that covered the Great Mountains was not as thick in Orthân Vaarl, for the high walls of rock and the shadows of the mountains looming on all sides helped shelter the gullies from the worst of the snow.
                Then, quite suddenly, there they were.
                Gidwyn rounded a corner in the gulley and saw, perhaps two-hundred paces ahead, three figures. They were climbing a steep, snow-covered slope together that led up out of the gulley and onto a narrow shelf of rock winding its way around the neck of a mountain above them. Two were dressed in white furs and leathers and were tall, similar in height to Men, but stooped and long-limbed. Between them they dragged another figure wrapped up in a dark cloak and brown leathers. They were perilously still, being dragged by their wrists, and putting up no fight.
                Kiryae.
                Gidwyn forgot about his freezing limbs and the hunger in his belly. He forgot how tired he was, and how much his body ached. He focused instead on the rage boiling inside him, making his blood run hot, shaking the snow from his beard and guiding his hand to the hooked Yaghu dagger at his belt.
                ‘Kiryae!’ he yelled at the top of his lungs, setting off at a sprint towards where the three figures were. ‘Kiryae!’
                The figure between the two Yaghu flinched and began to struggle. ‘Father?’ a voice came. ‘Father! Father!’
                ‘Kiryae!’
                The first arrow whistled past Gidwyn’s head and cracked against one of the jet-black rock walls that loomed up beside him.
                Oh no ye don’t, ye murderin’ bastards!
                The three figures were half-way up the snow-strewn slope. One of the Yaghu now held Kiryae in both its hands whilst the other was aiming its bow at Gidwyn and readying a second shot.
                Gidwyn ducked to the right and continued rushing forwards, the dagger he had taken now clenched in his fist. The second arrow whistled past him, thudding into the snow behind him. He was closing the gap, charging towards the slope. Hundred paces. I can do this. 
                ‘Father!’ Kiryae’s voice came again. ‘Father, look out!’
                Gidwyn kept running forwards as another arrow whistled past him. ‘C’mon, ye bastard!’ he roared, his voice bouncing off the sheer, black cliffs on both sides of him. ‘Ye’ll ‘ave t’ do better than tha’!’

He could see Kiryae and her captors above him now, just a short dash away. I can make it, I can do it! ‘I’m comin’, Kiryae, I’m comin’!’

                ‘Father! No!’
                Gidwyn heard the sudden panic in Kiryae’s voice as he ran forwards, now a matter of paces from the bottom of the slope. ‘I’m comin’, Kiryae, I’m-…’
                The ground disappeared from beneath Gidwyn’s feet. He fell forwards, the dagger flying from his hand. Snow fell around him and he grabbed for something – anything – to hold on to.
                A crevasse, only a few feet wide and previously hidden by a blanket of snow, opened up around him. He heard Kiryae scream and the Yaghu burst into thin laughter.
                Through more luck than anything else, Gidwyn managed to grab on to the lip of the crevasse with one hand. His fingers wrapped around a thick lump of rock and as he swung for a moment, his eyes were drawn downwards.
                The crevasse into which he had stumbled, even though it were no wider than a man was tall, extended down hundreds upon hundreds of feet. Dizzying, whirling blackness awaited below, a thick, inky fog between the two jet-black stone lips to which he desperately clung. Gidwyn felt his stomach drop and his throat go dry as he looked into the shadows spinning beneath him.
                Gidwyn swung his other hand up to try and grab on to the ledge above his head, but instead his fingers closed around something else. He lifted his eyes and looked up to see one of the two Yaghu looming over him – his fingers closed around the hideous creature’s ankle. It seemed large by Yaghu standards: a male, Gidwyn guessed, with broad shoulders and sinewy limbs beneath the white furs and leathers it wore. Its pale face was criss-crossed with scars, and there were a number of crude iron loops in its lips and along its brow.
                It grinned down at Gidwyn, displaying two rows of sharp, fang-like teeth. Its black eyes bored into Gidwyn's face. ‘You’re far from home, little Dwarf,’ the Yaghu said in the Common tongue. ‘I’m impressed. My name is Saark. I want you to know that, as I shall be the one who kills you.’
                Gidwyn tried to heave on the creature’s ankle and toss it into the crevasse behind him, but it was no good. The Yaghu’s feet were planted firmly, and it was far stronger than he was.
                The creature let out a thin, hissing laugh. ‘Pathetic,’ it said through its sharp teeth. ‘Utterly pathetic. And to think you’ve kept a creature suh as this,’ it gestured back towards Kiryae, ‘squandered for so long. You are a fool as well, it seems.’
                ‘That’s my daughter,’ Gidwyn snarled in response. ‘Ye’ll let ‘er go!’
                The Yaghu leaned forwards until its face was only a hand’s length from Gidwyn’s. ‘You truly have no idea, do you?’ Saark said, his voice thin and cruel. ‘And you shall die not knowing.’
                ‘My daughter,’ Gidwyn snarled, trying to drag himself up from where he hung. ‘Ye’ll no take ‘er, ye’ll no ‘urt ‘er!’
                Saark scoffed. ‘I’ll do all of those things,’ he said. ‘And you shan’t stop me.’
                Gidwyn made one last attempt to heave himself out of the crevasse, but as he did Saark’s heavy, booted foot came crashing down onto his face. He let out a muffled cry and he heard Kiryae scream in the distance. Still, he hung on, clinging to the Yaghu’s ankle and the knobble of dark rock on the edge of the crevasse.
                But Saark’s foot came once more, then again and again until Gidwyn could feel blood pouring from his nose and his head was spinning. Then, with one final strike from the large Yaghu, Gidwyn could hold on no longer. His hands slipped from the two holds he had and he fell back into nothingness.
                Kiryae’s scream followed him down, as did dozens of droplets of blood from his nose. He plummeted downwards, the thin sliver of light from the world above fading fast as he fell further and further. The blackness that had swirled in the deep crevasse beneath him rushed up to greet him, and soon Gidwyn was completely lost to the dark.

Winter's Gift - Part IV

In Part IV of Winter's Gift, the true extent of the Yaghu's attack becomes clear. Blood and broken hearts litter the red-stained snow that carpets the Great Mountains.

His family torn asunder, Gidwyn sets off on a desperate quest to try and save what is left of his loved ones.

I've had some issues formative the paragraph indentations in this part - Blogger hates it when I copy anything straight from Word into its composition pane. The indentations will look a little wonky - for this, I apologise.

Part V will be released soon!

Gidwyn ran down the narrow and treacherous path that led down from Hammersmote Pass. He slipped and tripped as he went, twisting his ankle and straining one of his knees, but he could not care. I have to get back, he thought, ignoring the soreness and pain in his legs. I have to get back to the girls.

       Synera ran at his side, apparently unaffected by the arrow-wound in her flank – much to Gidwyn’s relief. She was a fierce sight: fangs barred, long teeth sticky with dark-blue Yaghu blood. Steam rose from the wound at her flank and her blood-slathered snout as she ran at Gidwyn's side, unfalteringly loyal to her master.

            Who was unspeakably terrified.

           Gidwyn's heart hammered in his chest as he ran. He felt no exertion, no sting of the cold in his limbs and none of the scratches to his hands and fingers from where he had slipped and grabbed on to whatever jagged piece of rock was beside him. He felt only fear - a terrible, cold terror that would not abate, that only worsened with every passing step. 

            They've got them. They've got them, the Dwarf thought as the air ripped from his lungs. What if they've hurt them? What if they've not managed to escape? What if they've...

            ...What if they've killed them?

          Soon, Gidwyn and his beloved wolf-dog were on the long plain that led to where his family farm lay. He could see Eoina, Kiryae, Karveth and Coren’s prints clearly in the snow – fresh and deep in the thick snow. He followed them at a run, constantly looking down at the tracks at his feet. They were movin’ slowly, they didnae rush, nothin’ were chasin’ ‘em – good, they must be safe, they must be-…

            Then Gidwyn saw one of the dark, barbed arrows in the snow.

           ‘By the Fire, no…’ he breathed, stopping to look down at the arrow. He desperately willed it to be an illusion, to be nothing more than a trick of the light – a chance shadow cast by a drift of snow, but it was not. It was real: cold, hard and deadly.

           ‘Eoina!’ Gidwyn yelled, setting off at a mad sprint through the snow. ‘Eoina! Kiryae! Kiryae!’

           The house was not far now, just beyond his herd of greatgoats – which he could see was parted as if they had fled in two directions. He could make out the chimney, the rounded walls, the thin trickle of smoke from the permanently-lit fire-pit. They must have made it, Gidwyn told himself as he ran, Synera by his side. They must have. Please, Fire, please…

             Gidwyn was running so fast he almost fell over Coren’s corpse.

           ‘No!’ he cried, pausing for a second beside the wolf-dog, unsure of what to do. Coren’s light-brown coat was peppered with arrows and vicious slash-wounds, and his tongue lolled from his mouth into the bloody snow around where he lay. ‘No, Coren! No!’ He wanted to collapse at the side of his beloved pet and weep, but he could not wait. He had to find Eoina and Kiryae. He had to know they were safe.

            ‘I’m sorry, my sweet boy,’ Gidwyn whispered, fighting back tears and scratching Coren’s chin just how he liked it one last time. ‘I’ll be back fer ye, I promise.’

            He set off at a run again, and as he did he saw movement in the distance.

            Between where the greatgoat herd had split, two creatures were fighting. Running at a flat-out sprint that set his lungs and his legs aflame with fatigue, Gidwyn neared the skirmish to see the white snow had been turned blue and red with blood.

           There, in the middle of the snow-covered plateau, Karveth fought with one last Yaghu attacker. This one, Gidwyn noticed, wore pieces of plundered Dwarf-made armour around his chest, shoulders and thighs, and carried a long spear in his hands. Around him, the snow had been dyed blue with the blood of his kinsmen, who lay torn and broken in a gory arc around where the final Yaghu faced Karveth.

             The largest of the wolf-dogs, with his thick, shaggy mane, loomed over the last Yaghu fighter. His hide was peppered with arrows and a broken spear was jammed into one of his shoulders, but Karveth stood strong and furious, his coat saturated with Yaghu blood. As the final Yaghu lowered his spear and slowly began to pace around the wolf-dog, Gidwyn realised that Karveth was standing over something – a small, bundled shape, curled into a tiny ball, almost hidden by the bloody snow that had been kicked everywhere during the skirmish.

            Eoina. Kiryae.

          ‘Ye bastard!’ Gidwyn yelled, rushing headlong towards the final standing Yaghu. ‘Ye murderin’ bastard!’

            The Yaghu spun to face Gidwyn, and as he did, Karveth struck. Like a bolt of midnight-black, fang-tipped lightning, Karveth tore into the final standing Yaghu. There was no time for the creature to scream as the wolf-dog’s bloody fangs ripped first through his throat, then through his neck, tearing his head clean from his shoulders.

            Synera and Karveth both fell on the corpse of the Yaghu in fury, unperturbed by their wounds. Gidwyn looked away as a cloud of blue blood erupted into the air, followed by greyish entrails and pallid lumps of flesh. He looked away, choking back a disgusted sob, and ran towards the bundle he had seen in the bloody snow.

          Trying not to look at the mangled Yaghu corpses littering the snow, Gidwyn ran to the small, cloak-covered lump Karveth had been guarding and fell beside it. ‘Please!’ he cried. ‘Please, please be alive! By the Fire, please!’

           The bundle lifted its head. A round, tear-streaked face framed by matted ginger hair looked out of a fur-lined hood. ‘Oh, Gidwyn!’ Eoina sobbed. ‘Gidwyn!’ she threw her arms around him and sobbed. ‘Gidwyn!’

            Prizing Eoina’s arms from around his neck, Gidwyn pulled his wife to her feet. ‘Eoina, look at me. Don’t look past me, I dinnae want ye t’ see…’ He took her cheeks in his hands and turned her around to face away from the bloody carnage littering the snow.

            Eoina, more tears pouring from her eyes and freezing on her cheeks, clutched Gidwyn’s hands in her own. ‘My Gidwyn,’ she whispered through her sobs. ‘My sweet Giddy…’

            ‘Eoina,’ Gidwyn said, his voice shaking. ‘Eoina, where’s Kiryae?’

          Eoina swallowed. ‘She’s with Coren,’ she managed to say through choked sobs. ‘Coren was protecting her.’

           Gidwyn felt as if someone had just reached into his stomach and squeezed it. ‘Wh-…what?’ He managed to say. ‘C-…Coren?’

            Eoina nodded. ‘We were runnin’, then…then those things attacked. They got ‘tween us, split us apart, there musta been ten o’ ‘em.  Kiryae was running back to you to get Synera an’-…’

            ‘Eoina, Coren’s dead!’ Gidwyn howled. ‘Coren’s dead!’

            What little colour left in Eoina’s cheeks abandoned her face. ‘Wh-…what?’

           ‘He’s…’ Gidwyn gestured to the faint, dark shape lying in the snow several dozen paces away. ‘He’s…’

           Eoina let out a choked cry and began to run through the bloody snow. Gidwyn tried to grab hold of her and stop her, but she was fast – far quicker than he was. Dragging his weary limbs, Gidwyn chased after his wife across the bloody snow, Karveth and Synera limping behind them.

             When Eoina arrived at Coren’s side, she screamed in horror, her eyes affixed on the dozens of arrows peppering his body. Gidwyn ran to her side and gathered her up in his arms, turning her away from the gory sight – the snow around the dead wolf-dog was now saturated with his blood.

          ‘Ye said…’ Gidwyn began, choking on his own barely-held sobs. ‘Ye said Kiryae was wit’ ‘im.’

             Eoina managed to nod.

          Gidwyn let go of his wife and looked at the bloody snow beneath them. There was a single Yaghu corpse nearby – one of the hideous, pale-faced creatures had bled out in the snow, its stomach torn wide by a savage claw-strike; its entrails led to Coren’s bloodied pads. The snow around where Coren lay was drenched in blood and so disturbed that Gidwyn could not tell a wolf-dog pad from a Yaghu footprint.

             Wait.

           Two sets of regular Man-like prints led away from the ground where Coren had fallen. They were equidistant but struggling – for they were dragging something between them. Whatever was being dragged had kicked and fought, cleaving great crevasses into the snow as they were dragged away. North, Gidwyn thought as he followed the tracks with his eyes. Towards Axefall Canyon.

             ‘No…’ Gidwyn whispered as realisation set in. ‘No…’

            ‘Giddy, what is it?’ Eoina said, grabbing hold of his hand and turning him to face her. ‘Where is she? She’s hiding somewhere, no? She’s cowerin’ in the snow, away from those horrible beasts’ black eyes, no?’

            Gidwyn could only shake his head. His tears were coming too fast.

            ‘…Giddy?’ Eoina said in a voice that was almost lost to the rising wind.

‘She’s gone!’ Gidwyn cried falling to his knees in the bloody snow. ‘Eoina, she’s gone!’

Gidwyn could not bear to look into Eoina’s eyes – the choked sob in her throat was too much for him to bear. He fell face-first into the snow and howled. ‘My Kiryae,’ he sobbed. ‘My sweet Kiryae…gone…’

          He felt Eoina collapse beside him, her arms draped over him – not for warmth and reassurance, but to try and support her collapsing frame.

         ‘I cannae…’ Gidwyn wheezed through his sobs, pushing himself up to his knees, taking Eoina’s hands in his own. ‘I cannae let ‘em take ‘er – not the Yaghu. I cannae let this happen, I have tae find her…’

          Eoina lifted her tear-streaked face to look into Gidwyn’s. ‘No, Giddy!’ she pleaded, clutching at his hands. ‘Ye’re no warrior, ye cannae go after ‘em! They’ll kill ye!’

          ‘I’ll-...I’ll take Karveth an’-…an’ Synera,’ Gidwyn said, trying to stagger to his feet. ‘Eoina, we ‘ave tae ‘elp ‘er! She’s our daughter!’

        ‘Giddy, no!’ Eoina cried, clutching to Gidwyn’s arms as he tried to pull away. ‘The dogs are hurt! Karveth can barely stand!’

        ‘Eoina, our sweet Kiryae, our little gift from the snow…’ Gidwyn said, tears pouring from his eyes and freezing in his beard. ‘We cannae let ‘em take ‘er!’

         ‘I cannae lose ye as well! Giddy!’

         ‘An’ I cannae lose ‘er,’ Gidwyn said, heaving his hands away from Eoina. ‘My love, I cannae let this ‘appen, I’d nae forgive myself!’

          The two Dwarves stood in the blue blood-stained snow only a couple of paces apart. Their tears were freezing on their cold-reddened cheeks; blood from the wound to Gidwyn’s face had mixed into the ice frozen into his beard. Synera and Karveth panted close by, their hot breath and steaming wounds forming misty clouds in the blood-reeking air as they licked at one-another’s wounds.

             ‘Giddy…’ Eoina breathed. ‘Giddy please…’

             ‘Eoina, I cannae leave ‘er,’ the Dwarf-man said. ‘I cannae let ‘er be taken by ‘em. An’ I need ye t’ stay ‘ere an’ make sure Karveth and Synera are healed properly. We cannae lose them as well.’

             ‘But wha’ if they kill ye?!’ Eoina screamed. ‘Wha’ if they take ye from me as well, Giddy? Wha’ is I never see ye again?’

             Gidwyn, tears still freezing on his face, stepped towards his dear wife and cupped her face in his hands. ‘Then know I died doin’ wha’ I thought were right. Know I fell chasin’ down monsters, fightin’ fer wha’ little good is left in this world.’

             Eoina took hold of Gidwyn’s wrists in her hand and screwed up her face. She understands, Gidwyn thought. She understands I cannae let this ‘appen.

‘I love ye, Gidwyn,’ Eoina said in a breath.

           ‘I love ye, Eoina,’ Gidwyn said, his voice cracking. ‘Til the Fire takes us all back t’ where we came from an’ beyond then into the dark.’

             Gidwyn gathered Eoina up in his arms and held her to him as if it were to be the last time he ever felt her. He pressed her into his body in the hope some of her stuck, so they could never truly be parted, and she clung to him as if she were ice upon a wind-scourged mountain rock. But they both knew it was folly.

As soon as Gidwyn loosened his grip and stepped back, he knew there was nothing he could do to take his beloved with him. Not that I even want to, he thought as he looked into her tear-streaked face. I cannae drag her into this. I have to do this. I have to bring Kiryae back.

             Gidwyn took a step back from Eoina as Synera and Karveth padded to her side, both covered in wounds but unbowed. He looked at the three of them; there was so much he wanted to say. But now is no’ the time for words, he reminded himself as he gazed into the face of his beloved wife. Now is a time for action.

             ‘I’ll see ye again,’ Gidwyn said as he turned and began to follow Kiryae’s tracks northwards at a jog. ‘Even if I ‘ave to move mountains, or part the seas. If I ‘ave to make the moon shine in the day an’ the sun rise at dusk, I swear I’ll see ye again.’

             Eoina said something as he began to run, but Gidwyn did not hear it. No more words, he told himself, for he knew they would break his heart.

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.’