As far as the other races went, Vehel could just about stomach the Moerians. The Norcs, however, were a different matter.

As they approached their home of the Southern Trough, Vehel tried not to show his dismay at the way the Norcs lived. This was their main place of residence, but he would be excused from thinking it was a camp that had been erected during a long journey. Any kind of luxury—other than women, meat, and wine—was considered a weakness for the Norcs. The Moerians lived basically, too, but they didn’t display the uncouthness of the Norcs.

The Elvish, however, like their home comforts. Blankets of silks and furs, comfortable clothing, homes filled with beautiful things. Where they resided in the Inverlands, the climate was substantially cooler than the Vast Plains of the Moerians, and so they needed these items to stay warm. Of course, it was cold at the foothills of the mountain range as well, but the Norcs were certainly big enough to withstand the cold climes. They looked as though their mothers had been mated to a bull, and the Norcs were the result of that coupling. Big, hairy, with no manners Vehel could appreciate.

Still, he had to be nice for the moment. Their pescatarian diet was getting harder and harder to maintain, and they needed this exchange with the humans. He’d been alive for almost one hundred and fifty years, and, in that time, he’d witnessed the changes to the climate of their kingdom. On the Eastern coast where the humans reigned, they still had the sun and rain, but the weather on the Western coast was becoming more extreme. Both their lands down south, and the Moerian’s hotter climes in the north, were getting less and less rainfall every year that passed, making it even harder to grow crops in both the hotter and colder lands. On the coast, they foraged shellfish, but those, too, were growing fewer in number. They also sent their kind out on ships to catch fish, but they were losing more and more people and boats to the sea monsters that lurked in the depths. They claimed more victims until people were too frightened to fish. It was far from being an ideal way to live, but at least this exchange with the humans twice a year bought them a little more time. Vehel didn’t want to think of a time when he may need to move his people to different lands. Doing so would undoubtedly mean clashing with a different race, and they’d lived in peace for so long now, he didn’t want to give anyone a reason to start a new war.

Vehel dug his heels into the side of his stag, and they picked up pace as they approached the Norcs’ home.

They’d been noticed, people gathering from their homes to watch. The women were almost as big as the men, with thick thighs even larger than Vehel’s, and shoulders to match. With the brute strength of this clan, Vehel didn’t understand why they were content to live and roam in the foothills of the mountains, rather than try to cross and take far more habitable spots on the Eastern coast. Perhaps they simply weren’t clever enough to consider such a thing, or maybe they were afraid of the humans with their weapons and buildings and walls. The Norcs probably wondered the same sort of thing about the Elvish, with their propensity toward magic, but the Elvish part of the Treaty meant them signing a promise not to do magic, and over the years folks had not only forgotten how, but such a thing was now frowned upon.

If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

He couldn’t imagine the Moerians living in a different environment than where they currently resided. They rode for days across the Vast Plains, hunting and surveying their lands. To take them out of there and force them to live elsewhere would be like taking the fish from the sea and expecting them to thrive in a pool.

As they got closer, the scent of meat roasting on a spit filtered through to his nose. The others could smell it, too, and his stomach growled. Even though he did not eat meat, he could appreciate the reason others did. No, they would make do with the dried fish and bread they’d brought for the journey.

Movement came from the Norcs, people muttering and breaking away to create a clear path. A huge man with long, wavy brown hair and shoulders twice the width of Vehel’s broke through the crowd. A similar sized man followed him close behind.

Vehel forced a smile to tweak his cheeks, and he jumped from the back of his stag and handed the rope harness to one of his men.

Beside him, Orergon did the same, climbing from his horse’s back to stand beside the animal.

“You’re late,” Warsgra growled as he came to a halt before the other two men.

“Apologies,” Orergon said, lifting his hand, palm facing Warsgra in a greeting. “We had some unexpected delays.”

Warsgra lifted his bushy eyebrows at Vehel. “You, too?”

“Yes. The lands are getting wild. The Gods don’t like us passing through them so easily.”

“Let’s hope the Gods are more favorable on this leg of the journey,” Warsgra said. “I know the mountain Gods always favor my kind, so perhaps they will look kindly on you if you’re traveling with us.”

Orergon’s smile appeared frozen on his face. “We have our own Gods who I’m sure will watch over us. We have a gift for them, too.”

Warsgra snorted. “Sure.”

Vehel bit down on his anger. There was no need for Warsgra to be so dismissive of other cultures. It wasn’t as though his own was the leader in anything, even if he liked to think it was.

Warsgra turned and strode away, heading deeper into the compound, and assuming the others would follow. “We will eat and allow you an hour to rest, and then start the journey through the Southern Pass. The weather looks fair, and it should only take us a couple of days to reach the point where we are due to meet the human convoy.” He glanced back over his shoulder at them, sweeping aside his thick hair. “Assuming they’re not running as late as both of you, of course.”

Vehel scowled at his back, and then exchanged a glance with Orergon. Though they were opposite in looks, Vehel thought they both were most likely wearing identical expressions of frustration right now. He wasn’t sure how he’d get through the next few days without wanting to send a lightning ball into the middle of the Norc’s chest.

A large fire pit was burning in the middle of what appeared to be the compound’s main square. Above the pit, a massive headless boar had been spiked and was now turning on a spit. The fat from the beast dripped into the flames, causing it to sizzle and smoke. Vehel wasn’t interested in the meat, but he appreciated the warmth. The temperature would continue to drop, the deeper they headed into the mountains, and while he was used to a cooler climate, that of the great mountains could prove to be deadly on occasion. The weather could turn in a moment, and what was previously a fine day could easily turn bad.

But it wasn’t always the turn in the weather that caused the deaths, but what was held within the weather that should be feared. Creatures existed in the Great Dividing Range that couldn’t be killed by normal methods, and even brute strength and bravado like Warsgra was displaying wouldn’t be enough to defeat them.

The Norc might believe the mountain Gods looked kindly upon his race, but sometimes the dangers came from the underworld, and those dangers had little to do with the Gods.