by Ross Dupree
Midnight On Frostveil Mountain
Copyright 2013 Ross Dupree
Amund's feet sank deep into the ground as he moved slowly through the mud, and with each step the muck threatened to pull his boots off with a deep slurping sound. He was making his way to the next log to dig it free so the boy Palry and his mule could tow it clear of the mudslide. The logs were strewn across the hillside, lying half-buried wherever the slide had tossed them. Some were a hundred yards or more further down the slope. This was going to be a long day.
The logs had been part of the wooden palisade that surrounded the town of Barrindal. The slide had taken down a long section of the wall, snapping the tall sharpened pine logs and dragging them toward the river. It also destroyed a small shack just outside the town's perimeter. Yesterday Amund had helped dig out the corpse of Sinsen, a misfit old man who had never been quite at home inside the fence, surrounded by other people. He then gave the man a proper burial under the pines just outside town. Drowned in mud was an ignominious end even for a semi-hermit.
As the mule towed another log out of the muck, he looked away to the north. The land sloped downward in that direction for several miles, through low, forested hills and then out to open plains where the farmers lived and worked. There had been a thick column of smoke in that direction this morning. He thought it must have come from one of the farms that bordered the forest, but he did not know if it indicated ill. Sometimes the farmers would clear some of the forested land, use the trunks for lumber, and burn the rest. Though those fires usually started at the end of a work day, and would lead to long nights of workers drinking cider and telling tales around a mound of burning debris.
This fire hadn't been burning last night when the sun set, though, so Amund had sent Fidrick out this morning to find out what happened. Amund had a bad feeling about the smoke, but he had learned long ago that he had a bad feeling about everything. So he waited for Fidrick's return before he started truly worrying. Fidrick was the town blacksmith's eldest son at 24. His father, Hansen, was Amund's oldest friend in Barrindal, his unofficial deputy in fact. Hansen and his sons frequently helped Amund with the small tasks of keeping Barrindal safe.
He'd been gone since shortly after sunrise, about three hours ago. So Amund didn't expect him back for another hour, given the round trip ride.
Still, Amund would be happy when Fidrick returned and told him nothing was wrong. Fidrick was a good man, but prone to letting his emotions get the best of him. Amund wished for the hundredth time that the garrison had left him at least a few professional soldiers to work with. They had been called away a fortnight ago, every last man of them, no explanation offered.
Amund wiped his brow, his deeply tanned skin already slick with sweat and mud. Pulling the logs from the muck was only the first step in restoring the palisade. They also had to move the mud away with shovels and plows, then rebuild the wall itself. It was dirty, exhausting work, but as Barrindal's sheriff it was Amund's duty to see to the defenses of the town. Barrindal sat in the foothills of the Deepdrift Mountains, and with dense forests all around the town, Amund knew that predators of all sorts would take advantage of any lingering weaknesses in the defenses.
The bulk of the town lay on the other side of the river, secure behind an old stone wall. For decades this side of the river had been guarded by a small keep on the end of the bridge, but once the mines opened upriver about 10 years ago the town grew beyond the original fortifications and many had settled on this side of the river. The palisade had been erected to give the new residents at least a little protection.
Under ordinary circumstances Amund would have drafted the town's garrison to repair the palisades. But with those men gone, the repairs were not only harder to organize, but the town was also left weakly defended. Amund could keep the peace among the townsfolk. They knew him and respected him and trusted him to administer justice fairly. But the town was more vulnerable now, and that worried Amund. He'd have to work harder to keep Barrindal looking strong. Which was why he was out here half up to his knees in mud repairing the wall.
Amund worried about everything even in the best of times. He didn't mind, he just kept working and his efforts to make things safer kept his concerns at bay. Some men his age started to slow down, but Amund couldn't do that. His worries compelled to push hard as he ever had. He'd have a fully gray head of hair in another few years.
A motion at the tree line fifty yards away caught his eye. A thin dog with mottled fur sniffed at the ground. The dog looked up at him and raised its tail. Amund saw three other dogs behind it, in the shadows just inside the trees. They all looked at him. Weighing their chances. He stood tall, stared back at them. He absorbed the sounds of the town behind him, the smell of wet pine filling the air. He wondered how many more of the pack were there that he couldn't see. He remained calm; they would know enough to back down. And they did, turning into the damp forest. But the lead dog looked back several times as he moved away. It didn't seem concerned, more like it was measuring its time.
Amund frowned. He'd have to drive the pack off. The townsfolk would eventually demand it even if it hadn't been good preventive Sheriff's work. He didn't mind that so much as the feeling that everything was starting to fall apart at the same time.
A horseman appeared out of the forest on the road to the south. Riding fast. It was Fidrick and he was in a hurry. Amund motioned to Palry to keep moving the logs and went back into town as quickly as the mud would let him.
He found Fidrick just outside the stone wall of the bridge keep. Both the man and his horse were sweaty and tired from riding hard. Mud splattered them both, thrown up by the horse's racing hooves. The look on the man's face, though, was far worse.
"They're dead, Amund. All of them."
Fidrick was plainly upset, but Amund forced himself to become calm. He had learned to do this at an early age and it had served him well. In situations like this one it was a crucial ability.
Who? Who did they kill?"
"Everyone. Everyone at Tumblebrook."
Tumblebrook was a small farming commune just outside the forest. Three families, about twenty souls all told, children included. The Carstens. The Kimbrosts. The Salrens. All good people.
"All of them? Was anyone missing?"
Amund's first priority would be a search for any escaped survivors. Help those that can be helped.
"No. No one. All dead. Most killed in their beds while they slept."
Amund inhaled sharply at this. He felt his temper rising at such cold-blooded murder. He fought to keep his emotions even, but it was difficult under the circumstances.
"How do you know no one escaped?"
"Old man Salren. He was in one of the barns, nearly dead. He had...he had a dozen wounds. Or more. And he'd been beaten. They knew those families hid their money, Amund, they made him tell them where."
"Who was it? Where did they go?"
If there were no survivors, then justice became the main mission.
"They came from the forest and went back the same way. I traced their trail into the woods. They were on foot and made no attempt to hide their tracks. About five or six of them. Salren said they bragged to him that there would be more killing. More blood, they said. They called themselves Sons Of The New Moon."
Amund didn't like that. Any group that gave itself a name was after more than just money. They wanted infamy too. Amund knew bandits all too well and knew this sort of gang would strike again, and their crimes would get worse until they were stopped. He'd have to go after them now, round them up early on, like that pack of wild dogs. He didn't have the men for it, but it had to be done.
"Amund. They left Salren to die slowly on purpose. An
d they told him one more thing. They told him, `Tell the Sheriff we'll be expecting him.'"
Amund turned and strode onto the bridge towards town. He called over his shoulder, "Get your father and your brother. Get Dran. We're going after them. Right now."
Half an hour later they all stood outside his small office in the center of town, dressed in their light armor and armed with their own weapons, horses loaded with provisions.
Fidrick was there, as was his brother Bolrick and his father Hansen. Hansen was Amund's oldest friend, both of them had moved to Barrindal decades ago from small farming villages out on the plains. Hansen's neatly trimmed beard was fully gray and his head fully bald- he was roughly Amund's age at 41. But he was the town smith and still had a barrel chest and big muscular arms. With a warhammer at his side, he wasn't someone to be taken lightly. Bolrick was even bigger and carried a massive sword strapped across his back. All three men in the family were well-practiced with their weapons, though the last time they'd had call to use them in anger against another man had been the raids of four summers ago.
Dran was there as well, armorless. A wiry man, he had a quiet stillness about him. He was the best hunter in town, and he could track an elk for miles across the mountains. He was
