A tenday’s travel across the frozen snows of the tundra saw the caravan coming in sight of the foothills of the Worldspine Mountains which were looming tall in the distance. By my reckoning, we had covered just over one hundred and twenty miles across the open tundra, but were only now coming to the foothills of the mountains since we were not able to travel in a straight line. Not the best time for a ten-day journey, even with a cart, but respectable, for traveling across the tundra on a dirt trail. There was a reason why few visitors came to the northern tundras, after all.

Actually, there were several reasons, with the isolation being only the most prominent. The Worldspine Mountains, a range boasting the tallest mountains in the known world, were known for being inhospitable at the best of times. Few humans or elves could handle the challenges of living in those mountains, and those who did were often hermits or sages who were frighteningly powerful in their own right. The Dwarves had some better luck, according to the stories, but long ago a great war had happened, and the dwarves of the Worldspine Mountains were forced out of several of their ancient kingdoms by various enemies.

The weather and imposing nature of the Worldspine Mountains was only part of the problem they offered people who wished to pass to and from the northern tundra. The mountains were full of all manner of monsters and other creatures that were all too pleased to feast upon unwary travelers. Orcs, goblins, wolves, and even Giants were just a few of the problems that faced travelers upon the mountain passes.

The passes themselves were narrow, only wide enough for a single wagon to pass at a time at points, and they all had their treacherous spots. The high passes wound about the mountainsides, forcing travelers to deal with bitter cold and high winds, with treacherous footing at times as one could be caught between a sheer wall and a cliff dropping down, out of sight, with nothing but rock to greet you at the bottom. The low passes, through the valleys between the mountains, were better suited for caravans to pass through, but could be closed by rockslides and avalanches in the early spring and late fall, and were all but impassable in the wintertime. And even then, it was too risky to try and send wagons through the pass.

Fortunately, it had been a few weeks since the snows melted, and the caravan had made good time on its journey north, as expected when the veteran caravan master was leading the way. So far, the trip to the south was looking like it would be much the same. Oh, sure, there were some minor issues now and then, as the creatures of the tundra attempted to waylay our caravan, but so far nothing had truly tested the guards. Our group was large enough that most of the creatures knew to avoid us.

The merchants and guards had high opinions of the caravan master, I found. I also found, however, that those opinions were not always shared when it came to the man’s son. It seemed that Tyrell had not won himself any fans with his attitude, but most simply put up with it. It was easy to see why, after all. Someone being a relentless womanizer and arrogant about his abilities was annoying, but he was the caravan master’s son, and getting in on the first caravan after the winter snows melted, and again the last before winter came again at the end of the season, was important if a merchant wished to maximize their profits. No one wanted to risk alienating the caravan master by calling out his son.

Which made everything that happened in Sleetmouth with me and Tyrell something of a lightning rod in the caravan. I was suddenly quite popular with certain people who were glad to see someone finally ‘put the brat in his place’, even though I hadn’t actually done anything, other than noticing he had a spell aura around him. But people are always going to believe what they want, and, for now, they were happy to believe that Tyrell’s going after me was what led to his downfall, which meant I was the figurehead for their amusement.

The fact that he was banned from returning to Sleetmouth again was the real kicker. It was no secret amongst the merchants that Charles was training his son to be the new caravan master when he finally retired, but those plans were now in ruins with him being barred from Sleetmouth. This meant that those who were resigned to staying in Tyrell’s shadow suddenly had hopes of replacing him, and their ambitions flared. The wealth that came with being a caravan master was not the same as being a merchant, but it was not small, by any means. That kind of wealth brought power and influence, which attracted men and women of ambition.

All of that, combined with my exotic nature, the story of the Battle of the Dale, and my being a Twice-Born meant that I was in an interesting position. Some people were happy to have me around, since it clearly made Tyrell angry, while others kept their distance, not wishing to ruin their chances at becoming the caravan master’s new apprentice. After all, leading a caravan through the wilds was about more than just reading a map. You couldn’t just drive down the highway like you could in my old world. Someone with Master Charles’s tutelage would find themselves with no shortage of steady work when the old man retired.

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That also explained part of the reason that no one, not even his father, felt all that sad about Tyrell’s fate. After all, he had training and skills that would allow him to make a living, and perhaps carve out his own name, rather than relying on his father’s name. Not all of the lessons he’d been taught or the contacts his father had made were limited to the lands north of the Worldspine Mountains, after all. If he set his mind to it, he’d end up well enough off. But he would have to work for it, instead of simply inheriting. That didn’t strike me as a bad thing, all told.

Because of the number of wagons in the train, it was decided that we’d take one of the low passes through the mountains. It was still early in the season, but getting through the high passes would be difficult with some of the wagons. So, we were risking the low path. Sure, I could simply fly over the whole thing, but not knowing where to go severely limited my options. Plus, I really didn’t want to try camping on my own in the mountains. That was a quick way to end up as something’s dinner.

Two days after sighting the mountains, we were at the start of the mountain pass. All this time, Tyrell had resolutely ignored me, seeming to prefer to think I didn’t exist. His ego had taken a blow from the events in Sleetmouth, and his father had told him quite firmly what would happen if he was seen harassing a traveler paying for their spot in the caravan.

Now, however, he began looking at me, or rather my wings, with a calculating eye. He began speaking in the camp at meal times about how it would be quite useful if someone could fly, and act as a scout to tell them about the path ahead. All the while, his eyes would focus on my wings, giving people no possible doubt to whom he was referring.

I might not have helped things any when I informed him directly that I had no training as a scout, and he’d be better off sending a bard to sneak forward and see if he could seduce the orcs to convince them to let us pass. That got a round of laughter from the camp, but scowls from Tyrell. Only his father’s barked command made him sit and stop talking, but he still glared at me with unmasked hostility.

That wasn’t my problem, however. After all, I was not lying when I said I was not really a good scout. I wouldn’t spot enemies trying to hide unless I was supremely lucky, or close enough that they could shoot me out of the sky. And I didn’t know what the precursor signs of an avalanche were, so even in that, it would be useless to try and scout ahead. I didn’t even know where the pass turned or not. If there were branches or anything like that, I could fly completely off on the wrong track. And getting lost in the mountains was not my idea of fun.

Fortunately, my words made enough of an impression with the caravan leader and the others that Tyrell didn’t feel he could speak up again for a few days. Crossing the mountains was a three-day endeavor, and, as experienced hands pointed out, there were more monsters in the mountains than just orcs and giants. Some of them would be attracted to flyers, which could draw them down on the caravan. Borrowing more trouble was not on anyone’s list of things to do, not while we were still in the mountains.

Unfortunately, this further display of how my presence had weakened his position in the caravan’s power structure further enraged the bard. People weren’t acceding to his whims any more, and just going along with whatever new thing he wanted at the time. One of the women in the camp told him off, in no uncertain terms, in front of the entire caravan when he tried to flirt with her around the campfire, the first evening after they entered the mountains, shutting him down before he could even get going. It wasn’t just in the Nine Towns that the use of magic to help persuade prospective bedfellows was frowned upon, especially when one was on the receiving end, as the woman loudly proclaimed that she had been the last time he had chatted her up. Tyrell’s reputation was in tatters, and he blamed me for it.

I was not blind to the way he was acting. I couldn’t stay awake all the time, and I had no way of knowing when he might try to take advantage of my being asleep for some kind of revenge. He hadn’t tried anything yet, because he knew that, if anything mysterious happened to me, he would be the one that was immediately blamed. However, I didn’t like the look on his face when he watched me. I was starting to suspect that he wouldn’t much care whether he would get blamed or not, so long as he was able to get his revenge.

So, I confided in a couple of the camp women about my thoughts, and they were all too happy to help. They’d all noticed the way Tyrell looked at me, and they knew the story by now. We made a show of a “girls’ night” where we all retired to the same large tent to relax. The men no doubt thought we were gossiping about something or other, and maybe some of that happened, but primarily we kept watches, with one person awake in the tent at all times, just in case Tyrell decided to advance his stupidity from mere arrogance with magical persuasiveness to something more criminal.

In the end, perhaps we needn’t have bothered. Nothing happened that first night in the mountains. Tyrell evidently decided that my being with a whole group of people in the middle of the camp was too dangerous, even for his new mindset. Not that I minded the lack of ‘action’, to be honest. I didn’t doubt that, if it came to it, I could kill the man, but the fallout from that would be troublesome. The last time I killed someone out of anger, I’d had to go to extremes in order to work myself clear of the aftermath. I couldn’t just summon the spirit of Indsamling if I crushed Tyrell’s head, and expect things to work out.

Regardless, my actions were mostly moot, since the next day, everything came crashing down around us.