Midnight On Frostveil Mountain

by Ross Dupree

Darius is on his way and we must have these people buried by sunset so he can consecrate their memories."

  Jens returned to his dreadful work. Hansen came over to Amund. "We should leave soon, Sheriff, if we want to cover some miles before the sun sets." Amund looked at the sun, it was a bit past noon. Today had already been a long day, but they had several hours before the sun went down.

  Amund scanned the scene at the farm. Bolrick was watering the horses in the nearby stream the farm was named for. Dran was examining footprints in and out of the barns. Fidrick and Palry were helping the farmers bury their dead.

  "Let's stay and help these people get their friends properly buried, Hansen. We will have time enough for justice. The bandits are on foot and if we can track them we'll be able to catch up to them tomorrow. For now, let us do what we can for the dead."

  Amund took a shovel from the barn and started digging next to where the others had already begun. He dug the shorter graves, four of them in total, for the smaller children. The graves took less of a physical toll than the others, but he understood the spiritual weight they carried and he wanted to spare the rest of them the burden. It was part of his duty as a Sheriff.

  Brother Darius arrived just as they were finishing the last of the digging. Bodies were lowered into each of the graves, wrapped in linens embroidered with symbols of Cirion, which the priest had brought with him. Amund did not know if those being buried shared the same faith, but he felt it was something, and their gods would be understanding of the gesture. He'd never put any faith into gods of any sort, but he understood the needs of those who did.

  The priest gave a brief prayer asking Cirion that the souls of the departed to be conducted safely back into the cycle of the world. And then, as part of that cycle, they covered the bodies with the soil they had just removed from the earth. Brother Darius helped Amund cover the smallest children, and Amund was glad to share the burden in all its forms.

  Dran's face was wet with tears by the time they had finished covering the graves, and Amund understood well what the normally quiet man felt. This loss was pointless, and all the more tragic for that. Tumblebrook would stand as a terrible reminder for years to come.

  The priest knew Amund and his men were seeking justice, or at least vengeance, and he gave them Cirion's blessing to complete this particular circle. The men thanked the priest, said their farewells and rode off following the trail of the bandits. Amund felt it was right to help with the burials, but they had taken the better part of two hours and there were now only a few hours of sunlight left.

  They re-entered the forest following the tracks of the killers who had ended the lives of everyone at Tumblebrook. They stayed on a well-worn path next to the stream as it wound its way up through the hills. Amund knew from the maps he had studied in Barrindal that the stream would lead to the base of Frostveil Mountain, the tallest of the peaks among the foothills. From there the bandits likely turned up the mountainside and would probably have a small fortification overlooking the forest. A cave with a blockaded entrance. Maybe some logs arranged on the side of a ledge. If Amund and his men caught up to them in such a place, the bandits might be hard to dislodge. They would have to be careful as the approached the mountain. Amund was definitely at a disadvantage in this territory.

  In fact, Amund was growing more cautious even now. He noted that Dran was watching ahead more carefully as well. The trees here were different from those around Barrindal. Poplars and mountain oaks. For the most part they had shed their leaves, other than a few dense evergreens. The ground was damp and covered with slowly decomposing leaves, and so it muffled the sound of their horses's hooves. With the bare branches they could see some distance into the forest, which made ambush along the trail seemed unlikely. Fighting from a prepared rocky roost was smarter. But that was the thing with bandits, you could never be sure.

  As they came to the foot of Frostveil the light began to turn golden-orange and Amund asked Dran to look for a suitable campspot. They came to a small flat area where a brook joined the stream they were following and formed a small pool. They could camp on the point between them and have water on two sides as they slept. The water wasn't a perfect defensive barrier, but it did make an unnoticed approach more difficult from those directions. The ground was too muddy for their bedrolls, but there were large flat rocks next to the water, so they prepared to sleep there.

  Dran came to Amund as the rest prepared the camp. His expression was calm, but Amund could see sadness and anger still around his eyes. The burials at Tumblebrook had brought home the reason they were out here.

  "We have to build a campfire. It's going to be too cold tonight on these damp rocks. And it will keep away the wild dogs and boars."

  "And it will be a bright beacon to our quarry, Dran. They are close by; we may find ourselves becoming the prey if we set out a lighthouse to bring them to us."

  "Amund, they already know we're here. These are their woods, they will have been stalking us all along."

  Amund knew it was true. The bandits knew these woods. And the campsite itself was an obvious choice of location. They probably knew their pursuers would camp here or at a handful of other spots. Such things were not difficult to predict for the experienced woodsman, and this gang would have that sort among them.

  "Yes. Let's set the fire then. We'll take the watches between us. You will have first watch, I will take the second half until morning. The two of us are best suited for it."

  Amund knew the second watch was often the more difficult, and covered the hours before dawn when attack was most likely.

  Bolrick turned out to be an excellent camp cook, making them a hardy venison stew better than most of them ate at home. The big man had apparently packed some onions and some sort of pepper and even a giant wheel of spiced cheese into his bags, and the meal filled them all with warmth and energy. The fire warmed them too as they ate, and along with the food lifted their moods slightly. The brothers fell into laughing between themselves, and Palry soon joined in. Dran told a long, overly-elaborate story about a rutting porcupine that made them all want to laugh louder, but Dran's deadpan expression held them to exchanging glances among themselves. Finally, Dran cracked the smallest of smiles at what had to be the punchline and Bolrick punched his arm so hard he fell off the rock he was using as a seat. Amund was glad he had agreed to the fire, they would need the edge the feeling of well-being would bring them.

  As they ate, though, and as darkness settled in, a fog rolled over the hills. It was not very dense, but it did make their campsite feel strangely detached from the earth. The fire glowed through the mist, but between the fog and the dark they could not see deeply into the forest. They felt as if they were on a small island with nothing around them.

  Amund bedded down, thinking at least the fog made a nighttime attack more difficult. With the stars and moon blacked out by the mist, moving through the dark forest would be a challenge for even the most experienced woodsman. He slept in his chain tunic and with his boots on just in case, and his sword lay beside him on the rock. He wanted to be able to fight instantly if the need arose.

  He drifted into sleep, thinking of burying the victims at Tumblebrook. He dreamt that night of a peaceful pastoral life for them all. Sowing seeds under the springtime sun. Harvesting crops as autumn came to a close, then dancing all night on the last moon before winter.

  He awoke to a sudden scream. He heard the sound of metal on metal and immediately realized the camp was under attack. Amund grabbed his sword and sprung to his feet. The fog had largely lifted, but the only source of light was the campfire, which had grown much smaller. Had Dran not been tending it?

  A grunt came from his right and he saw a large shape swing a warhammer. That had to be Hansen, and the hammer came down on the head of an attacker with sickening crunch. The bandit fell to the ground, but another ran at Hansen, holding a short sword ahead of him. Hansen came around again with the hammer, and slammed it into the man's side, breaking hi
s ribcage with a loud painful crack, and sending him flying into the small pool next to the rocks. The man's sword clattered on the rock, and Hansen kicked it into the pool.

  Hansen's back was now turned and Amund saw yet another bandit run towards the man. They must have realized the blacksmith was literally the biggest threat in the camp. Amund took two running steps toward the bandit and ran him through with his sword. He felt the blade grate against the man's bones, and he jerked his sword free as the man fell to the earth. The bandits wore no armor and went down fast with any direct hit from the heavier weapons Amund's men were carrying.

  Amund heard another scream and spun to see a bandit with a small axe literally chopping at Fidrick's back. Fidrick fell to his knees under the blows. He wasn't in his armor! He'd taken it off to sleep. Amund and Hansen ran to his aid, but Palry was there first, stabbing the bandit in a flurry of quick, hard thrusts of his two daggers. Palry was so fast that the man had been punctured half a dozen times before he even realized he was being attacked. He turned to face Palry but fell to the ground in shock from the blows. Palry kicked the man's axe away and left him to die, spinning to search for more foes.

  Amund had not expected such