His twin black braids flew out behind him as his horse’s hooves thundered across the ground. They were late, the sun having risen two hours earlier, and he knew he wouldn’t hear the last of it from that oaf of a creature, Warsgra.

The mountain peaks of the Great Dividing Range towered over them. At his side, two of his fellow Moerians rode. Unlike the Norcs, who needed to travel with huge bison pulling even bigger carts of coal, the mineral they traded with the humans only took up the space in the leather pouches on the horses’ backs.

Despite the body heat he’d generated from the hours of riding, Orergon could already feel the difference in temperature here compared to his own homeland. Though the Southern Pass would be clear, the tops of the mountains were tipped with snow and ice.

The changing of the seasons happened twice each year—winter giving way to summer, and summer giving way to winter. Only then were the weather conditions suitable for traveling through the mountains. It was deemed too dangerous to try to get through the Southern Pass at any other times of the year, and the Northern Pass through the Great Dividing Range was deemed dangerous at all times of year.

As the pounding beat of their horses’ hooves brought them ever closer, Orergon was able to make out the thin lines of smoke rising into the air from where the Norcs lived. Soon their stone homes would come into view. Why any creature would choose to live in the shadow of these mountains was beyond Orergon’s comprehension. Yes, farther north had its dangers and challenges, but at least it wasn’t covered in snow and ice for months of the year. Not only that, everyone knew the mountains held dangers of their own. If the mountain Gods looked down on them, they could wipe out entire populations with a single curse.

Even the air here was different, making it harder for him to catch in his lungs. This wasn’t his first time to this region, and he doubted it would be his last, but he was already looking forward to getting this over with. If it wasn’t for his tribe’s need for grain, which grew less and less with each passing summer on the plains, he wouldn’t be here at all. But what were a few worthless pieces of metal in return for feeding the women and children of his tribe? If the humans thought it was worth their while, then he could afford to take a few weeks out of his life to keep the peace between each of their kinds.

“Orergon!” One of his riders pulled their steed to flank his. “Over there.”

His rider lifted his hand to point south, and Orergon followed his line of sight. A small group of figures moved in the distance, and in the bright morning sunlight he caught glimpses of silver white hair. The Elvish.

“At least we’re not the only ones to be late,” he said, sitting higher on his horse’s back. Unlike how humans rode, Orergon didn’t use a saddle. He didn’t understand how anyone would want to use one. There was no better way to get a feel for a horse and improve balance than riding how nature had intended. He and all his people had been riding this way for as long as he could remember, and he thought it bizarre and laughable that a human would want to put a big lump of leather on top of what was a perfectly comfortable horse back.

Like them, the Elvish only needed to bring a small company with them. They didn’t ride horses, but instead rode the backs of large, majestic deer. The leader of their group sat higher on a regal stag. Orergon loved his horses, and had no wish to trade, but he had to admit that they made a sight with their massive antlers. The Elvish were smaller in stature than the Moerians, so though the deer backs weren’t as broad as the Moerian’s horses, they were easily strong enough to ride. The Elvish home of Inverlands gave way to more snow and ice, with rocky ridges and crags, and perhaps the deer’s more delicate footing was better suited to that environment.

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Orergon counted their number. It looked as though their leader had brought four of his kind with him, twice as many as he’d brought, but far less than the humans. Each half-year, it surprised him how many of their own kind the humans sent on this journey, partly to exchange what to him appeared to be worthless metal. It wasn’t as though the Moerians didn’t wear decoration, but they took feathers from the hawk to give their feet flight, and hide from the buffalo to protect their skin from the sun. He couldn’t see what good the small pieces of metal would do them. The kinds of people the humans sent over baffled him as well. When the Moerians had to take on long journeys, they sent their strongest men and women, but the humans sent a strange combination of men and women, old and young. He knew from ancient tales that the humans had fighting men called knights, and yet they didn’t send their knights on these exchanges. Instead, they sent numerous of their weakest kind, and each exchange Orergon watched their weakest fall to exhaustion and hunger. Not that it made any difference to him. He’d work to protect the lives of his own kind. The others could do whatever they liked.

The small band of Elvish had diverted course slightly and were now heading in their direction. Orergon guessed they had decided they’d be better to approach the Norcs together. The head of the clan, Warsgra, could be a violent, oafish creature, and was sure to be in a bad mood due to their unintentional tardiness. Perhaps, like the humans, the leader of the Elvish had decided there was safety in numbers. Not that Orergon was afraid.

The two groups grew closer until they were near enough to greet one another.

The leader of the Elvish was tall for his kind, but still not as tall as Orergon, though neither was anywhere near Warsgra’s towering six feet eight frame. He wore his white blond hair to his shoulders, the strands appearing as light and delicate as spider’s webs. Through the strands peeped the pointed tips of his ears. His eyes were a light blue, appearing almost silvery when the sunlight caught them. He wore a kind of armory fashioned out of a metal that looked as lightweight at his hair.

The leader of the Elvish pulled his stag to a halt, and then, light-footed, jumped to the ground.

Orergon also dismounted, and he lifted his hand, exposing his palm, as a sign of greeting. “Prince Vehel Dawngleam. Good to finally make your acquaintance. Your brothers have always spoken highly of you.”

Vehel ducked his head. “I’m honored to meet you, too, Orergon. I, too, have heard much about you. I thought we’d be better approaching the Norcs as a united front. Warsgra’s reputation precedes him.”

Orergon laughed. “Yes, he’s not the most lighthearted of men.”

The Elvish prince shrugged. “Though his own kind appear to think highly of him.”

“They’re all frightened he’ll use that damned axe of his on their necks, that’s why.” He remembered the two men flanking him. They’d not dismounted from their horses, and Orergon knew it was because they were protecting his back. They had no reason to believe the Elvish would want to cause them any harm, but it was their role to protect their leader, no matter the circumstances.

“These are my tribesmen, Aswor,” he nodded to the man on his left, “and Kolti.”

Both men were similar to him in appearance. They had his deep skin tone, dark eyes, and black hair. Their hair wasn’t as long as Orergon’s, however. As leader of their tribe, he was the only one allowed to wear his hair past his shoulders. Should he ever lose his position of power, his hair would be hacked off at his nape to show everyone that he was no longer their leader.

Vehel nodded in his direction, and then introduced his own men. “And these are my brethren—Ehlark, Folwin, Athtar, and Ivran.”

Each of the men also appeared similar in appearance to the leader of the Elvish, but, like his own men, none of them had dismounted.

If his knowledge of Elvish history was correct, Vehel was the youngest of three brothers, and was the son of the Elvish king and queen of their region. No one other than the Elvish recognized them as royalty, but he was royal among his people. That made Vehel an important person, though Orergon detected something in the other Elvish men’s eyes. What was that? Boredom? As though they couldn’t quite be bothered to be here. It seemed strange to him. Vehel was an important man, and yet something about the ones he traveled with made him think otherwise.

“Shall we proceed?” he said.

Vehel ducked his head. “Very well.”

Orergon remounted his horse—a chestnut stallion called Corazon—and pulled Corazon around to face the mountains and the home of the Norcs ahead.