“Are they still coming?” Harguile asked quietly, mindful of how far the cold high mountain air could carry them given half an opportunity.

  “Yea-“ Amon offered, his words slightly muted by the grey undyed wool scarf that covered most of his face and head. But while his mouth moved, the rest of him did not. He leaned against a stone outcropping, a good 10 feet above the rest of his decade, with his head and chest extending up above the ridgeline. Exposed to a cutting bit of wind, even in what passed for summer at these altitudes. “-for the third time.” He tacked on, annoyance thick in the quiet word.

  And they were. A line of twenty men in leathers and furs, bows strapped to their backs and spears in hand. As much walking sticks as weapons as they climbed up the rock-encrusted steep mountain slopes.

  Slowly.

  And, Amon reflected, as nerve-racking as waiting was, it was also awe-inspiring. The mountains extended in nearly every direction, though directly ahead they fell steeply, and steadily to the snaking turns of the river far below. Passing clouds hazily blocked portions of his view as even individual trees were to far away to pick out. Leaving merely the shape of forests and folds of land that spoke of valleys.

  And despite that, a few men on the peaks looking down, with eyes slightly unfocused like the older scouts had taught them, could spot the intruders from miles away.

  It wasn’t the colors. Nor the shapes either.

  It was motion.

  It stood out like a sore thumb. And there was a lot of it to see.

  Not all of it human, of course. But beasts and monsters needed watching too. Not that he was as worried about that today.

  He stared for a few minuets longer. Ignoring the slight noise made by men shifting slightly in the cool mountain air. At least they were mostly out of the wind. With light cloaks and the core buffs, it wasn’t uncomfortable. And with the summer sun beating down on them, it could even feel a bit warm.

  Right until a cloud passed over or you walked through a bit of shade. Or you were propped up in the damn winds…

  He refused to shiver. Refused to move despite the creeping chill. Motion worked in both directions after all.

  And really, even with the wind, it was tolerable. Even without dedicated cool-weather gear.

  And the view and silence more than made up for it. Now if Harguile would just shut the hell up.

  Case and point…

  “Think this lot will turn back when wes brace ‘um?”

  “Last two did.” He offered, trying to keep the frustration out of his tone. Harguile twitched, his neck shrinking into his shoulders. Apparently, he didn’t try hard enough.

  He held in a sigh, feeling slightly guilty. He let it go anyway. Considering once again bringing a heavier cloak. Or a set of gloves.

  Not that he would. The intruders had both. Heavy wrappings about the head made them deaf and half blind, while gloved hands were clumsy and insecure on the hafts of weapons.

  Good.

  He carefully, a quarter inch at a time, began to crouch. Moving no faster, nor slower, for several minutes till he was completely behind the ridge. Then a bit more.

  He stretched and let out a breath in relief. Working warmth back into half-asleep limbs. “Gear up. They’re headed for the Whistling Break.” He took his own advice. Placing his Umbral Carapace helm onto his head, accepting the familiar restriction to his sight caused by the T-shaped vision and breathing slit.

  He absently patted the Lorica Segmentata plates wrapping his chest, shrugging his shoulders just so to settle them and double-checking a few straps in the process. By far the best armor he’d ever owned. And he hadn’t skimped in that category before!

  “You sure they aren’t just hunters?” Harguile nattered on as the rest of the decade did the same, tightening armor straps and getting a last sip of water before strapping on their helms and bucklers.

  He snorted. “Don’t matter if they are. Still can’t let them up here. But no, I doubt it. Lot of game down below. And beasts and monsters if you want a bit of excitement. No reason to climb this high.” Not unless you were trying to find a back way into Promise that is. It was perhaps 10 miles to their north-east from here. As a crow flies at least. But with how you’d have to climb up and down, it felt like double or triple that.

  A few moments later they were off. Jogging lightly, despite the familiar weight of weapons, armor and packs. They moved down faint game paths, bounding up and over rocks as often as around them. Spears out and ready, and used not infrequently as they surprised, and were surprised by, a small pack of snow kobolds as they moved up and over a particularly large stone outcropping.

  Surprise didn’t stop either side from immediately falling to. Spears crossed ways with clubs and claws, and by virtue of reach, strength skill and the never to be ignored better armor, came out victorious.

  They didn’t stop. Pity that. Kobold feathers made for excellent fletching. Still, needs must. A few small scrapes or cuts were washed with spirits and wrapped as they continued onward.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  It wasn’t long before they heard the shriek of the wind getting considerably louder. The namesake of the gap ahead. A narrow cut into the ridge line, about 10 feet wide at the middle, expanding outward to over 50 feet on either side as it cut its way through the ridgeline. The ground leading up to it wasn’t what you could call smooth or level, being a rough funnel of exceedingly broken terrain. But it was traversable. Unlike the mountainsides on the other side of the gap. Those might be climbed, with care and little in the way of armor or pack.

  They stopped just shy of the gap, taking a few moments to walk the ground again, bows raised, testing sight lines and the surrounding footing, then disappearing into the field of boulders to either side and slightly above the gap itself.

  Except for him. Command had its privileges, but also its responsibilities. He moved to the closest bit of cover just shy of the gap itself. Dropping his cased bow and quiver then unlacing his undyed grey cloak. Leaving it merely draped over him while he prepared his spear.

  Then he waited.

  And waited.

  And waited.

  At last, the faint whisper of wood on stone. Then, a minute later, the softer whisper of leather against the same carried through the gap. Accented by the whistling wind rather than hidden by it in a curious quirk of nature.

  The noise grew steadily louder as they approached and when he judged them close enough, about half through the gap if his ears were correct and nicely in the prepared killing filed he stepped out and up.

  The grey cloak fell free and he was suddenly there. A fully armed and armored warrior staring them in the face from not 10 feet away.

  Men jumped, curses rang out and bows began to rise.

  THUMP.

  The sound was synchronized. A dozen gauntlets slamming into stone and echoing through the whistling wind. They froze, bows half raised.

  As intended.

  “You have traveled rather far afield. Too far.” He offered calmly. His eyes taking in the 12 men in front of him, and the gaggle of others still bottled up in the gap behind them. Taking in the strap-laden leather armor, fur-lined capes and gloves. Even with them, they were ruddy-faced and their few bits of exposed flesh was windburned and chapped.

  He hid a smile. That was going to cost them. And soon. It was hard to hold weapons, or to use them effectively through an eighth of an inch of padded leather. And a warm fur lined had was a far cry from a proper helm.

  Despite that, they did have a fair amount of weaponry on them. Spears, bows and belt daggers being the most common. But those belt daggers rose to nearly short swords in a few cases, not just large hunting knives.

  “It’s open land!” the lead man of the column blustered, fear and rage twisting his features into something abominable. Amon hid a sigh, lightly clenching his spear hand. He knew this man. Or rather his kind. The blusterer. The proud. Too much ego to back down. Even when he should.

  His left hand shifted slightly in a sign, but he didn’t kick things off. Not yet.

  He’d give the man one more chance, not for their sakes, but for his own. All combat brought risk. “Too far. My lord claims these lands, and while he does not limit hunting of the foot of the mountain, the ridges, and the land close to them is closed to you. Turn back. I won’t ask it again.”

  “We have the right-“

  Chance given then. His left hand clenched, and the 10 men of his decade stood and bows drawn as they cleared their cover and loosed in a single morale-destroying volley.

  Hunters dove for what little cover they could find, but by design, it wasn’t much. The terrain was rough, but offered almost nothing for arrows arcing down from the mountainsides above.

  Most of them dove. But the angry braggart didn’t. He darted forward and Amon dropped his spear point before snapping it out in a quick stop thrust that was barely deflected by the man's quick drawn short sword as he tried to get inside the spear's reach.

  Tried.

  With both hands gripping the spear, he spun it as lively as the quarter staff it resembled. Blocking the sword on the shaft between his hands even as the blade arced up to the man’s unprotected neck. While spears excelled at stabbing, that didn’t mean they couldn’t slice.

  A quick jerk sprayed the rough ground with the fool’s life blood even as his left arm, and buckler strapped to it, snapped up to shield his face from the return arrows that were already starting to fly.

  Arrows were flying freely in both directions now, but with disproportionate effects.

  Exposed, unprepared fur-clad Rangers, tier 1s to a man, against tier 2 plate armored Pahadi firing down from cover.

  Many a Ranger already sported arrows buried head deep in arms, legs or even torsos while the return fire, though considerably more accurate than their own, he was ashamed to admit, pinged uselessly off boulders, bucklers and rarely, plates of carapace.

  Armor was expensive. It was heavy. It took maintenance and often restricted movement. But there was a damn good reason men wore it anyway.

  It worked.

  Mostly. Not every piece of flesh was covered and the gods did love their jokes.

  A fact he kept firmly in mind as he stepped back and ducked behind his own boulder.

  A last glance showed the field firmly in their favor. Hunters dragged their wounded brethren back through the gap while a few vainly returned covering fire, trying to keep heads down.

  Amon quickly dropped his spear and pulled his compound horn bow free of its case, an arrow quickly following. He stepped free and paused. The field was already empty. And while he considered moving forward for a final shot, the funnel-like gap was more like an hourglass. They’d be on the wrong side of the same trap if he did.

  Besides.

  “Sound off!”

  “Good!” “Good.” “Got my leg.” He glanced up and grimaced. An arrow hit Harguile’s pturgis and slid sideways. Damn lucky not to kiss the artery at that angle. Still, a fairly minor wound for a man with his body stat. He’d be fully mobile in a day.

  “Wrap it quick. Can you walk?”

  “I can limp quickly!” Amon nodded. It was a valid distinction.

  “Then wrap up. Everyone else! Police the field.”

  He followed his own advice, searching the body lying in front of him. One of 3 such. All opponents. Though he doubted it would stay that low. They had a long way to travel with a large number of wounds. Between the blood spoor on the wind and beasts and monsters, they’d be lucky to get back with half.

  All because one dumb bastard couldn’t read the field.

  He pondered over that thought as he pocketed a handful of coppers, a few silvers and the fairly decent short sword before glancing around. The rest of the decade was finishing up as well. Looting the few bodies and picking up unbroken arrows.

  Good enough. The beasts and monsters would take care of the rest. They moved off. Two men supporting Harguile between them. That and a half dozen minor battles saw them to a waystation.

  If a small cave hidden left behind by some ancient landslide and accessed from a near invisible crack behind a massive boulder was worthy of such a weighty designation.

  But worthy or not, it was what they had. And between the heavy wooden door, a recent addition of course, the large amphora of preserved food, crates of medical supplies, and a minor seep of water from the back it had everything they needed.

  And most importantly, it was more or less safe.

  And as he finished cleaning and polishing his armor and weapons, his eyes growing heavy after a long, busy day, with the promise of the same or worse tomorrow, he admitted to himself, that that very safety was indeed the best part.

  It meant only one man on each of the three watches. And the other seven which included him, could get a full night’s sleep.

  Bliss.

  ___