Encroaching Frost
Morning had arrived over the sleepy Crags of Lorne. Somewhere at the foot of the mountains, where the earth birthed the crags, a small stockade had been built into a small valley that formed off the mountainside. Only a month had passed since the start of the construction and the Frostbornians already had a firm defensible position using what resources they had.
“We’ve made it this far,” observed the hooded stranger, “but what now? Do we forge on from here?”
“No,” replied Farcus, as they stood at the end of a small wooden bridge, “at least not yet. Our forces here are too small at the moment.” He turned to watch the happenings going on around the stockade. A small group of swordsmen patrolled the grounds while bowmen watched over from above. “We bring in more men and more workers from Naklin, fortify our position here, then we move on.”
“Sounds like quite a trek.”
Farcus grimaced, “aye, but since receiving my letter, my father sent a band of warriors to hold the fort... Although,” he continued, “they should have been here days ago.”
The stranger frowned, “could be dire wolves.”
“Or worse…” Grumbled Farcus.
“Perhaps I can help.”
“How?”
“Well,” the stranger gestured toward the both of them, “We know the mountainside path better than anyone else, and dire wolves don’t faze us as much anymore.”
“And?” Farcus pried, getting impatient.
“We should venture up the mountain path and escort them down. Help them help us, y’know.”
“Our place is here. We cannot abandon our post for reinforcements that may have already been lost.”
“Then I’ll go,” the hooded man returned. Instead of answering, Farcus seemed to glower at the man for a time, who in turn added, "what? You can trust me--"
"--Trust you?" Farcus repeated sharply with a voice as cold and edgy as a glacier, “I hardly know you, stranger." The hooded man looked taken aback but hardly shrunk backward as the much more ferocious Farcus inched closer. "Hell, first you were the caravan’s chef, and now… this? How do you expect me to trust you when I don’t even know your bloody name?”
]“Well," the hooded stranger simply said, starting off down the beaten path while Farcus quizzically looked on. "Then here’s a start."
"Where are you going?" Shouted Farcus, and in a single fluid movement, the hooded man turned around in mid-stride and waved lazily.
"Just call me Ken!"
Without waiting for any objections, Ken turned on his heel and sprinted up toward the mountains. A bemused Farcus watched until the hooded man disappeared up the path and he shook his head. "Crazy bastard,” he grumbled before returning to help a group of loggers hard at work.
~ ~ ~
Somewhere above, unknowingly to the Frostbornians, an armored figure stood and watched the happenings of the encampment.
“So,” cooed a sinister voice, “this is the source of those watchfires our scouts reported seeing.”
“Aye captain,” confirmed an officer, “and they don’t look like typical norsemen ‘niether. They look… organized.”
“Bah. Do you think I care what they are?” hissed the captain. “They must be ‘organized’ for a reason. Perhaps they’re hiding some fine riches in that silly wall of matchsticks. Go, gather the raiders. We’ll make those little barbarians regret making camp in this neck of the woods…”
To be continued...
