“We’re moving out!”

Warsgra beckoned his strange mixture of fellow travelers with a wave of his arm and kicked the flanks of his massive mountain goat to get him moving. He set his sights on the journey ahead. They were only a matter of a few hours from the entrance to the Southern Pass, and right now Warsgra just wanted to get this whole thing over with.

Just having the other two races around irritated him. The Elvish leader, Vehel, refused to eat his boar, which was insulting enough.

The Moerian, Orergon, was slightly less annoying, but his inability to tolerate the cold riled Warsgra. Orergon and his companions always seemed to get the best spot beside the fire, which made him clench his teeth and ball his fists in annoyance. Then the dark-skinned man went through a ridiculous routine of kneeling and praying to the mountain Gods, as though that would make the blindest bit of difference. The Gods did whatever the hell the Gods wanted, and getting on your knees wasn’t going to change anything.

His clansman, Jultu, clapped him on the back. “Only another seven more nights or so, and we’ll all go our separate ways.” He’d clearly sensed his leader’s irritation.

Warsgra grunted. “Only if things run smoothly, which you can never bet on. And even then, seven nights is seven nights too long.”

They were a strange crew, that was for sure, with the Elvish on their deer, and the Moerians on horseback. The Norcs preferred to ride huge mountain goats, big enough to take their weight, surefooted enough to find their own way along the mountain passes, and tough enough to be used in battle. Perhaps the other races found their choice of ride strange, but a goat as large as his was far hardier than a horse, which, other than its hooves, had no form of defense. His goat, with its massive curled horns, could crush a man’s ribs if it butted him, and Warsgra would always choose an animal with that kind of power behind it than a horse.

He had a saddle made up only of animal skin, and rope tied around the goat’s horns gave him some control, though he trusted the animal’s choice in route more than his own. It seemed to have a natural instinct for which rocks would move beneath foot when stepped on, and knew to avoid them.

Warsgra led the way, with Jultu at his side, riding an animal not quite as big as his own, but close. Behind them came a number of carts laden high with the coal his clan had mined from the sides of the mountains. Each cart was driven by another member of his clan, each with several large bison pulling it.

The Elvish came next, riding their deer, with the leader, Vehel, on his stag. The Moerians brought up the rear, their horses’ hooves skidding occasionally against the rock and creeping ice.

Warsgra was comfortable heading deeper into the mountains. Despite the dangers, this place was home to him and his kind. Besides, there were dangers everywhere across these lands. Just because some were more inaccessible than others, didn’t mean they should be feared any more. This wasn’t the first time he’d completed this journey, and he was sure it wouldn’t be the last.

“How many humans do you think will survive this time?” Jultu asked him, a note of humor in his tone. “Half of what set out, or less?”

“I’ve no idea, but every time we meet with them, I understand a wee bit more about why they settle the way they do. They’re not travelers, that’s for sure.”

“They used to be, back before the war. They were all over these lands. It’s only since the Treaty that they’ve remained in the one place.”

Warsgra snorted. “Then the Treaty didn’t do them any favors. I’d prefer to remain fewer in number and stronger in body than let anyone and everyone procreate and settle down, expecting to be fed and taken care of. At least with our kind, we know the weak aren’t going to survive long, and so they won’t go on to make weak babes of their own.”

Jultu nodded in agreement. “Their strength is in numbers. A single human could be crushed in an instant, but it’s the way they keep coming and coming that has worn other folk down. It’s like a termite—barely noticeable alone, but a whole army could raze a place to the ground.”

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“Not if we squash them one by one.”

Jultu chuckled.

Behind them, the carts rocked and rolled. The Southern Pass was the lowest point of the Great Dividing Range, and for the most part was relatively flat—well, as flat as a mountain range got. On either side, the steep, jagged cliffs of the mountains rose high, blocking out the sunlight. The summit of the mountaintops meant they gathered clouds around their peaks, which also did nothing to help the amount of light down here. They could handle a few clouds. These kinds brought nothing more than the occasional snowstorm. It was when the Long White Cloud came in that they had to watch themselves. Those things could swallow people like a wave, leaving only death and destruction in their wake. It had been several years since he’d last seen it sweep across the Great Dividing Range, however. There were plenty of things in this life that brute force worked against, but the tales of the things people saw when caught inside the cloud weren’t one of them.

An uncharacteristic shudder worked its way down Warsgra’s spine, and he hoped Jultu hadn’t noticed. Showing he was spooked was never going to be a good thing.

The thunder of hooves approached, and he turned to see Orergon, together with one of his men, galloping up behind them. The dark-skinned man pulled his horse to a walk when he reached them.

“Problem?” Warsgra said.

Orergon shook his head, his twin braids shivering with the motion. “No, I just thought I would see what you think of the traveling conditions this time around.”

“They’re fine. Same as every half-year.” A smirk touched his lips. “Why? Too cold for you already? It’s only going to get colder.”

The Moerian wore plenty of animal skins, with furs around his shoulders and topping his boots. It was a complete contrast to Warsgra’s own outfit of loincloth, boots, and shoulder protectors. The other man didn’t have the sort of muscle he did. He guessed it meant Orergon’s bones grew cold more easily.

“I’m fine,” the other man replied. “I figured if we have several days together, we might as well learn how to become traveling companions.”

By some miracle of the Gods, Warsgra managed to hold back his retort. He’d rather be traveling this road alone than with this whole sorry menagerie of animals, and he wasn’t even talking about the ones with four legs.

The Elvish appeared so weak, with their small bodies and pale skin. Yes, he knew they lived far longer than the Norcs, and the one riding somewhere behind him now was probably four times his age, but being old wasn’t something that impressed Warsgra. He wasn’t even sure how the Elvish had managed to secure their place in the Treaty. They must have used magic, because he didn’t think it had been done through battle alone.

A number of hours after first entering the Southern Pass, they stopped for a break. There was no snow on the ground at this time of year, at least not at this altitude, so there were enough grass and shrubs for the goats, deer, and horses to graze on. The travelers divided themselves into small groups and got fires going, settling down to eat whatever rations they’d brought with them. Warsgra still had a decent chunk of the boar left over, which he shared with Jultu and his other men, all of them tearing into the meat with their teeth. He glanced over to see the Elvish chewing at their dried fish pieces and crunching into items of fruit and was unable to hold back a smirk. No wonder they didn’t grow very large. It was hardly enough to sustain a child.

Vehel reached into the satchel at his hip and pulled out a smaller bag with a string top closing the opening. As he was sitting there, Warsgra watched him tip the contents out into his slender, pale hand.

Warsgra swallowed the last of his meat and pushed himself to standing. Trying to appear nonchalant, he wandered over to where the Elvish prince was sitting.

“What do the humans find so fascinating about those things?” he asked.

Vehel looked up at him, his silver white hair falling over one shoulder of his armor. “They’re rare, and hard to find. Apparently, that makes something precious in their minds.” He tipped his palm from side to side, allowing the small, clear rocks to roll together.

“I don’t get it,” Warsgra admitted.

Vehel raised fine white eyebrows. “No, neither do I, but we each have things we find precious, too—certain herbs, the metal we make our armor from, the twine of the Urbubor tree that is almost invisible underwater which makes it perfect for fishing.”

“All practical things,” Warsgra pointed out. “What possible use could they get from a few small rocks?”

“Perhaps it will remain a mystery.” He jerked his chin toward the continuing passageway through the rock. “How much farther have we got to go before nightfall?”

He glanced over his shoulder in the direction the Elvish prince was indicating. “A few more hours.”

“And the temperature will drop then?”

Warsgra frowned. “It’s not the cold you should be afraid of.”

Vehel held his eye with his ice-blue gaze. “I’m not afraid of anything.”

A slow smile crept across Warsgra’s lips. “Good to hear.”

Perhaps he could grow to like this one after all.