“Nice weather,” Hal remarked a few hours into their journey. “So far.”
Iago glanced at the sky.
“Let’s pray it stays that way.”
“It’s a good omen,” Hal continued with an assured nod. “First one we’ve had in a while.”
Hal was especially superstitious, and took any sign of good or bad fortune very seriously, no matter how often the others ribbed him for it. But the weather had proved to be remarkably pleasant. The cloudy sky blocked the normally oppressive sun, and cool winds blew in from the south, just enough to keep the air from getting stagnant, but too weak to kick up the dirt. Heavy rain rarely came this far north into the mountains, or even the steppes, but Jonir and Margis both mentioned earlier that they felt drops of water, which meant a powerful storm might be hitting the south end of the mountain range, near the old Kingdom of Tehvol. But it was calm here. Calm, quiet and peaceful.
Once midday faded into afternoon the party finally made it to the banks of the Mirken River, just north of the Falls of Fenuhl, the great waterfall on the north side of the mountain Gahardarac, that most considered the starting point of the river. The Falls began within the mountain, in a cavern also called Gahardarac, though no one knew if the cavern had been named for the mountain or the other way around. The cavern was a large, still mostly unexplored, gathering spot for the rainwater that always fell on the top of the southern Lore Mountains, and rumors persisted that a large lake could be found deep inside, and that the Happarans, who lived in the nearby mountains, used it for their water and mills, rather than coming down to the river.
They stopped briefly at the riverbank, taking a quick rest to load up their water bags and admire the huge waterfall in the distance. They were in the valley between Gahardarac to their south, and the mountain known as Lharsil to their north. The river ran right up to Lharsil, then cut west around the base of the mountain and continued north on through the foothills, out into the Halaraan Steppes. The plan of travel, as announced by Iago, was to move northeast, away from the river and any travelers who may be near it, hit the base of Lharsil the next day, then move back west towards the river. The river actually cut through a portion of the mountain, creating a deep canyon with several-hundred-foot high cliffs. This canyon, known as the Cliffs of Lharsil, was generally avoided because parts of the pathway along the Cliffs were dangerously narrow. Most travelers went farther west, or they stayed low, moving through the base of the canyon, even though the footing there was suspect. Even so, traveling through the canyon floor was much safer than moving up top, where a strong wind or a clumsy slip could send you falling to your death.
No one took the news that they’d be taking the high road through Lharsil very well, but they understood the necessity. They had to avoid anyone who might be near the river. Few travelers ventured this deep into the mountains, and anyone who did was most likely a tracker or a bounty hunter, searching for runaway slaves or criminals, or even the Wind Riders themselves. They could not afford to be seen until they were well into the foothills, which would take about four or five more days. They could have gone east around Lharsil, but they didn't have the time or the supplies to travel that far out of the way. They needed speed, and they needed stealth. No one in the group had been told this would be an easy mission.
After resting, they moved north to a shallow, narrow section of the river, which they crossed using a natural ‘bridge’ of large, flattened rocks laid into the river floor. The water flowed easily around each rock, and still allowed a person to step from rock to rock and make it across relatively dry. Iago suspected the Happarans were responsible for that bridge. They were well known for their stone craft and he had seen many other ‘natural’ formations that seemed unusually practical in these mountains.
They spent the rest of the day moving through the shallow valleys away from the river and down to the southern end of the mountain. A stretch of green surrounded each side of the river for a few hundred yards in both directions, full of grass, shrubbery and trees. Past that, though, the soil became dry and brittle, and the ground turned back into shades of brown and orange. The trip wasn’t too arduous but they spent a lot of their time working their way up and down the small, rugged, sun-scorched foothills that littered this part of the Lore Mountains. The landers handled it well enough but Galen and Margis were usually the two furthest behind. They weren’t ready for the rigorous path Iago chose, and it showed. Iago decided they should stop soon. He didn’t need two irritable, sore-footed Pilots on his heels for the next few weeks.
They set up camp a little before nightfall and gathered around a fire, made with the help of Galen’s limited fire magic skills, cooking and eating a couple rabbits that Saalis and Hal had nabbed while still near the river. Galen took only a few bites before pulling out a small box. He opened it and set the contents out in front of him, two small bottles of dark ink, some bandages and cloths, and a couple small blades. He pulled up his left shirt sleeve and began heating the blades in the fire.
“What’s all that, Pilot?” asked Hal.
“My dyes and blades. I use them to do Recordings.”
“You mean the tattoos?”
Galen nodded. “This is how we keep our history alive. We make these markings on our bodies to remember important events. Except the one here,” Galen pointed to the elaborate marking that surrounded his left eye, “that one identifies our clan.”
“Corovin, right?” said Jonir.
Galen smiled. “You’ve been paying attention.”
Saalis perked up. “What do the other ones mean?”
Galen set the blades down. “Not all of them would mean much to anyone else.” He lifted up his shirt to show a large array of symbols drawn over his pale, skinny chest. “These represent the family members lost before Gelanir and I were found. Each one was a cousin, or uncle and aunt, or parent, or brother.” Galen pointed to the different types of symbols as he talked. Everyone could see that there were a lot of them on his chest, almost two dozen from a quick count. It was a disturbing reminder of what Galen had lost in his short life. Galen put his shirt down and opened one of the dye bottles, then grabbed a blade.
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“Is that your language? Those symbols there?” said Jonir.
“It’s the old Assarin language, from more generations ago than I can count. But we learn it while we’re young so we can use it to do our Recordings. That way we keep our history, and the language alive. We don’t tell stories like Anzarins do, we keep our past alive like this.” Galen motioned with the dye bottle.
“What are you recording now?” asked Jonir.
“The attack. We lost a lot of friends there and I hope to keep their memories alive this way.”
The others nodded while Iago grabbed a piece of meat to distract himself from the sickness rising in his stomach.
“So what is Tyr like?” Margis, who was by far the least talkative person of the group, asked. He’d spent the evening sitting next to the fire with a bundle of papers, glancing through them distractedly.
“It’s no place for any sane person to be,” Hal said, chewing on a piece of rabbit meat. “I was never a free man there, but all I saw was evil men doing evil things.”
“That sounds about right,” Jonir added.
Saalis chuckled. “Parts of it aren’t so bad. I was there a few months once, I forget where though, ‘cause it’s so big.”
Iago put down his food and grabbed some water. “Tyr has five districts. A couple of them aren’t real safe places if you don’t know people. Of course, one of those is where we’ll be going. Avis.”
Jonir nodded in agreement. “The Avis district is the worst, but outside that there are some genuine people there. If you know where to look.”
“Where are you from, Margis? Otaro?” asked Iago, picking up his food again.
“Aye, Captain. My whole life.”
“I lived in Otaro for a long while, too,” Saalis said. “I was a guard, and then I was a slave. But you were probably still running down the streets as a kid when I was there.”
Margis smiled. “Probably.”
“You’re from Elbasa, right, Cap’n?” said Hal.
Iago nodded, working on a piece of meat.
“You was a guard there, weren’t ya?”
Jonir chimed in. “He was a cleric’s guardsman.”
Iago nodded again, still chewing.
“Irah’s blood, that’s a good job, Cap’n! Those are the ones that make the good money and stay in the big houses with the clerics. Why’d you leave that one?”
Iago shrugged. “It wasn’t the right place for me.”
“You got any family there? In Elbasa?” asked Saalis.
Iago hesitated briefly. “No.” He chewed on the meat for a moment before answering more fully. “I was an orphan by the time I was eight, but I was on my own even before then.”
Galen continued his markings. “Most of us have lost a lot of family. I think if we hadn’t we wouldn’t be here, with the Wind Riders.”
Hal, Jonir and Margis nodded. Iago put down his food. The stomach pains were hurting bad, now.
*
The second day of traveling was similarly uneventful. They spent most of it moving from the northern base of Gahardarac to the southern base of Lharsil, walking along rocky paths and pulling pebbles out of their boots every few hours, muttering loudly about how the pebbles made it into the boots in the first place. They made a quick stop at midday to rest and eat lightly but were on their feet again before swallowing their last bites.
The only excitement of the day came around mid-afternoon, when they spotted a lone traveler heading south. From a distance he seemed to be Anzarin, and he carried a small pack, with a dog and a leashed goat following behind. His path took him some ways west of the group but Jonir wondered aloud if they should give him an even wider berth.
“I don’t think he’s a tracker, or any such sort. I think he’s running from them,” said Iago.
“Why’s that?”
“I would guess the goat, the dog and whatever’s in his pack are everything he owns, or everything he could walk away with. He’s probably in trouble with guards, or he owes too much money so he’s running to avoid slavery. He probably thinks he’s safer on the south side of the Lore hiding from those Horsemen, than the north.”
“That’s foolish,” Galen said.
Iago shrugged. “I’ve lived in those cities. I would rather chance the unknown than stay and be a slave myself.”
“Aye,” Saalis said. “I’ll take my chances with those White Horsemen than go back to slavery any day.”
“Either way, he’s probably more worried about us being trackers.” Iago watched the man as he got closer and took his path wide west of the group. Hal waved his arm in greeting as the stranger passed by, but he did not return it. The dog stopped to watch them warily a few times, and threw in several barks for good measure, but stayed close to his master.
After the man receded into the distance behind them, a realization struck Iago and he stopped.
“Your cloak,” he said, looking at Galen
“My cloak?” Galen seemed puzzled.
“That’s what all the Pilots wear. You can’t wear it anymore. Anyone looking for Wind Riders out here would recognize it.”
Galen froze, then shook his head guiltily. He pulled off his cloak. “I’ll need to wear something. The nights are cold out here.”
Iago let his mind work, cursing himself for not thinking of this earlier. “You can wear it at nights, that won’t be a problem. Once we get through the foothills though, you need to put it in your pack and keep it there until we get back to camp.”
Galen nodded. “You’re right. I’m sorry for not realizing that before we left.”
“No, it’s my fault. But be glad we thought of it now, before we got any closer. Remember, no one should be wearing anything that would give away what we are, just to be safe.”
The rest of the day passed quietly, with no sign of travelers. The sun’s heat bore down on them in the afternoon but Iago told them they were ahead of the pace he expected, so they stopped to rest as needed. Iago loved this part of the journey. He enjoyed wandering the paths and trails of the Lore Mountains. He hated the cities, especially Tyr. Too many people packed together, each with their stories of desperation. The misery on the faces of the poor, or the refugees, most of them just trying to survive. Children with no food to eat. Beggars sleeping on the roads at night. The clerics hoarding their money and power, believing kindness to be a sign of weakness. It was more than he could take sometimes.
But the mountains were different. Here, there were no guards to imprison the innocent. No clerics flaying the skin of their servants. Just silence. Silence and space. He always enjoyed the Lore Mountains. He considered them much more beautiful than the Rhokan, which were closer to Elbasa in the east. He wanted to scale one of these mountains someday, so he could look down on the world from a vantage point where no one could look back. He enjoyed solitude and he could think of nothing better than to be so far out of reach of the trials of life and men that he could just watch the clouds pass by at arm’s length. He wondered what that would be like, if it would be as joyous as he imagined it. He looked up at the top of Gahardarac as they moved farther and farther away from its majestic peak.
One day he would find out.