An Unlikely Bride 20

(I had wanted this to come out last month on the three month anniversary but that that didn't happen, so here you go. A bit rushed, some stuff happened, it's a rewrite, so if this part don't read easy let me know if it's all garbage.)

A whole throng of vagrants lingered before them, easy to pick out from the mass of short kobolds wandering about.

Of the kobolds the tallest stood beside him, eye-level with his sword, her arms folded tightly across her chest with a dismissive "hmph!" Thonvar didn't think they looked that bad, some probably in desperate need of a bath, but at least they weren't nude. A large number of them were locals, northerners, dingy strands of silver and gold locks held back by rags, leather straps, or tied back and out of the way with bits of twine. Tunics and cloaks concealed armors of all kinds, scraps of leather and mail with bits of hard plate scavenged from this or that... They looked like kobolds. They even had the same dead look in their eyes as a pack of scale-skinned adventurers caught in the cold, a flicker of hope that they might get a morsel of mercy.

Ivar's noble blood coursed through his veins, he hadn't ever been shy to pluck a half-frozen whelp from the snow. Though this time would be different, he was collecting their ilk and his sharp eye continued the appraisal.

Among them were foreigners of all kinds, from human southerners to exotic peoples that had all come from different walks of life. Pilgrims were often easy to spot and several stood there like a filthy rainbow, no doubt their journey ended in catastrophe one way or another. Many of their peers were likely wandering the dark woods as rotting corpses, the threat had seemed to replace bandits as the region's chief nuisance. Indeed a few of the group looked the part, shifty-eyed and wearing an aura of bad intentions.

Thonvar didn't have much use for misfits like that, but the task ahead weighed on him enough to swallow his honor and pride. Bandits could be reformed, perhaps, especially if a trusted subordinate made the facts of life clear in a direct way. At the very least they had a mutual interest in getting to safety, men practiced in armed brawls would be good to have if only until they fled. A large one nodded at him, a copper-skinned half-elf, and the fire-haired chieftain politely tipped his head. A few others averted their eyes, as if he were a guardsman looking for suspects.

Maybe he was as mad, like the jarl's elf said, but he couldn't just rely on pilgrims, kobolds, and failed adventurers to ward off whatever was up on that mountain. Once they were up there it would be a one-way trip, a steeled glare up at the peaks caught a glimpse of the angry storm brewing from the south.

"Here we are, see? Greenskins! They must be orcs for sure," Artur declared, motioning to the oddest-looking elf Thonvar had ever seen.

"Hsh. This red man best hold he tongue, no orraker are we," the lead one hissed, his lip curled back to reveal sharpened teeth.

No, this creature was definitely something different. Orcs were tall, broad-shouldered, muscular, and known to have tusks that set them so far apart from the other knife-ear races that they were something all their own. He hadn't ever seen one personally, but the son of Kargruuf could imagine the experience well enough from pictures. Their mountains were far to the southwest, south of the dwarven city-states, and on the map it looked to be a small spur between the sea and the "spine" of the continent. He had forgotten the name of it.

This creature was no different in height than his elven cousins, but his frame was thin and supported wiry muscle worked crisp and fine by harsh activity. Indeed his skin was somewhat green, but the palms were a grayish hue that looked not too different than a dark elf. Unlike the dark elves his eyes were not red, nor were they gold, they looked reptilian and nearly black with an almond shape to them. That paint seemed to have colored most of him with the exception of red marks, some as foreign runes and some as shapes, the war paint was nothing like the Reachman had seen before.

Elves often wore their hair back, the aliens before him were no different in that regard with their slick manes braided tight and kept with beads. This seemed to go quite nicely with their sharp features, if humans had been carved by a skilled mason these folk seemed to have been cut in a rush. Their features were symmetrical, but they had a distinctly predatory style to their natural appearance and it only got worse with their wide, toothy grins.

All four of them were adorned in tight leather that seemed confused if it should be armor or just a method to carry their trinkets. They looked dangerous.

"This one is leader then," the not-elf croaked.

His voice reminded Thonvar of a strained rope being pulled over something, like if gravel had learned to speak, it started harsh and raspy and gave way to a sinister resonance.

Meanwhile the chieftain's voice was booming and had a glorious timbre, he used it when he said, "I do lead these wagons, yes."

"You go up the mountain? Far from sea?"

"Yes."

That wicked smile came back, they all wore one, and the not-elf remarked, "Is cold... So cold. This good. We go soon?"

Years of listening to people talk had trained Thonvar to hear the veiled desperation in the question. "We go soon" was not asked frivolously, but he didn't have the restlessness of the others. A conflict arose in the red-haired warrior, he was curious and yet the cool nature made the stranger seem a good bit more dangerous. Dangerous people were not the kind of company one wanted to keep, especially if they were so unfamiliar both in appearance and in nature.

Yet his curious side won. "I have never seen your kind before, where are you from? If you are not an orc then what are you? An elf?"

Somebody scoffed loudly at the notion.

Never losing his smile the foreigner shrugged and replied, "Say we are kin of elf, kin of sea. Yes? Before this elf or that elf, we all one, but some go far, some go not so far. This is where we are coming from, home is the longest long away. So we sail, but in Aedolia boss man finds us. Says he is going away, farthest of far away, to Anor. North. Yes?"

"I am not sure what sailors can do up on the mountains," Thonvar warned.

Still wearing his smile the foreigner continued, "Boss man pick for sailing, yes, we born to this, but boss man needs... Protection. You understand, yes?"

"Yes."

"Good! This good!" the foreigner chuckled. "Easy job. Boss man fat merchant, maybe the boss man has problem with head, afraid of own shadows. We say is good job, he pay us good for nothing so we do the best of nothing. Go here, go there, follow boss man. Easy. Now we go far from sea, you take us?"

There it was again, like being charmed by a smooth-talking elf, but Thonvar heard the whining need of a desperate soul. Something happened to "boss man" for sure, the story just didn't end there. He wanted more, the demon-killer wasn't satisfied.

He stepped forward, face to face with the painted smile.

"Talk more."

That smile wavered.

Finally it slipped into an uncomfortable grin, the black eyes looked away for relief from the withering hardness of the fire-hair's icy glare.

"Sometime a shadow hides thing, you know this. We hear story of brave red man and little wife, I say red man good friend to have now. He know things, smart things, see into a shadow with hard heart."

"This merchant who paid you, does he still live?"

The foreigner hesitated, but with uncomfortable eyes he shook his head.

Suddenly they were close, inches apart, on the not-elf's breath he could smell and taste a meal of salted fish and the war paint reeked of animal grease. Measured breaths had given way to the worried huffs of a creature unsure if he would find mercy in a stranger that day, the smiles of the others wavered too. They looked concerned. Afraid.

They had seen something.

Even through the exotic blackness he saw a familiar look, a tired, confused, and terrified glaze of someone that was faced with supernatural things being as real as anything could possibly be. A violent realness, the invisible scars it left on the soul could shatter the unprepared. Others had it, Thonvar looked at the southerners after that first assault in the forest and they had wandered about in a dazed stupor; a bewildered state that gave way to an unfortunate new understanding of the universe.

This wasn't paranoia though, a need to get away, the look the foreigner had was mirrored on the poor souls who followed him. Haunted. Traumatized by the dead risen, shambling with crooked maws, dripping with maggots, eyes gelatin husks encapsulating the evil glow of their possession staring with a malice toward the living.

"You're not telling me everything," Thonvar muttered. "How many bandits do I have here? Do I need more?"

"We are _not_ bandits," the foreigner hissed.

"Then why should I take you with? You say you are a kin of elf, this I know with my own eyes, but you have said you are kin of the sea. So you run from something, what I do not know, but you seek to go as far from any ocean I know of. Does this seem trustworthy to you? How do I know you haven't suffered the Trickster's touch? What could you possibly offer me, knowing the mountains are so dangerous?"

Perhaps the not-elf didn't know much of the northern beliefs, but the meaning was not lost on him at all. Obviously he wasn't crazy, he knew it, Thonvar knew it, and they knew each other's awareness too. Their trauma was identical, but Thonvar's heart was steeled against the gnawing anxiety that wore at the others and wore at the foreigner.

Yet the foreigner persisted in being elusive.

"We have nothing for the red man," he mumbled, looking back at his group of weary refugees.

One of the females clutched her belly before banishing the hand as casually as she could. They were already preparing themselves for rejection, probably used to the phenomena.

Still, the foreigner found his words again. "We have saying where we come from, 'desperate spirits find their own leash.' Red man knows what this means?"

Slaves.

Thonvar didn't need or want anything like that.

Razalryn hovered nearby, he wondered what she thought of all of it. Despite her feline features she was still an elf, which looked almost identical to a human, which meant the expression she wore would've been just as unreadable as ever. Nobody else seemed of much help either. So what was he to do?

Ways of his homeland then. They did not keep them, but...

"Keep your leashes, I have no use for desperate slaves. So be it then, kneel down and--"

They dropped to their knees with nearly synchronous movement, it was so impressive he was a bit startled.

"Thank you! This will not bring regret, I swear this to you. Whatever you ask, we do, whoever you want kill, we kill, however you want--"

Thonvar held up a hand. "Enough! Go help with the wagons."

"Yes, boss."

"Same for the rest of you, do as you're told. Get ready to walk, the wagons will be carrying all the food and supplies. Artur, find your horses more food for the winter and be ready to carry some of the weight yourselves. We rest for the night, then we leave at first dawn before that storm can catch us."

-------------------------------------------------

They did as they were told and by nightfall everyone had settled in to casual conversation or early resting, an evening meal was shared with some of the traveling merchants while Anza beckoned to her husband to join her. Except he couldn't sleep and he couldn't make love, his mind was racing with all the things he had to do, but it was the dangers both out there and possibly within his own camp that really kept him awake. Zan and the sebekans had moved closer still, his driver had to make space for the newcomers under his special awning. Runa was there too, quiet as a mouse, he noticed she had acquired a crude knife and kept it like a sword.

Another awning went up, this time on the other side, a crude tent was made by the not-elves from the sea out of old rugs and loose fabric. When Thonvar finally went to sleep he wondered how cold the mountains would be and he dreamed of the next day, traveling from the city to his new home in a flash only possible through fantasy.

Life was not so easy in the real world, he was shook awake by the rocking wagon. Their nemesis on the wind had come, hard and furious wind with an eerie and unnatural warmth threatened those in the open. Despite her amorous advances he had kept his clothes, along with a dagger under the pillow, and when the cover of the wagon snapped up from the storm's licks they were ready to start an early day.

No breakfast, the half-naked cook was struggling with a rope in her fists just to keep the canvas from taking flight. Two humans, some newcomers, had rushed over to help even before Thonvar's shouting could begin.

Over the course of the previous day they had paid for and received new animals, a few new wagons, and thankfully they had been loaded as evening fell. A cabbage broke free and began bouncing along, by the time he caught it the green orb had gained plenty of flash-frozen ice. This would kill. They needed to go somewhere dry, the kobolds would not last long being exposed to such bitter conditions.

"My lord!"

He braved the wind and turned around, the microscopic daggers of ice tore at his skin and eyes... from the west. Northwest to be precise.

A hooded figure loomed closer. "This storm is not natural, my lord!"

An elf.

"What?" Thonvar yelled back.

He pointed into the wind, the hood flaring up as he turned. "There! Do you see it? Surely it is a battle!"

"I don't care what it is!"

The elf was nearly blown over when his cloak ballooned out before he could catch it, Thonvar caught him and they used each other for support. Their conversation couldn't be held out in the open and they stumbled together, the cabbage tucked under the reachman's arm, toward the nearest wagon. A gust of wind shoved them hard and they hit the accumulated powder together, but the human was up on a knee and practically dragged the elf along.

When they got to the other side he stuffed the cabbage in. "I don't care what's out there, I care about--"

"We must set out immediately or get indoors!" the elf exclaimed, looking up toward the east. "You cannot see it, but I assure you, above this flurry is clear air. This spell, I can taste the spice of magic on these winds and I tell you now we can make it."

Thonvar glared at the knife-ear.

"By the gods I swear it to you, flail me alive if I'm wrong, but I'm not!"

"How would you take these wagons and everyone with them out those gates and up that mountain, elf?" Thonvar growled.

"Lash them together, we have the rope, the spellsword sent me to find you. This is his idea."

"Ruran?"

With growing frustration the elf cried, "Yes! We cannot remain here, this storm breathes of conjured magic and thus elementals will surely manifest if we remain. Anyone caught in the open will be beset upon by them. My lord, please, I beg of you--"

He was already looking for rope. "Shut your face and help, when this wagon is tied to the next warn the kobolds and the others."

They had practically been shouting the entire time despite being out of the wind's path, when he stepped around it felt like he had walked right into a waterfall. That spice the elf mentioned was finally obvious to him as well, where water's flavor should have been was a complex sensation that went beyond mere taste. Experiencing it made the hairs on his neck raise up, the experience was unnatural and perverse. Yet it was a comfort in it's own way, as he fought to the next wagon he concentrated on the cold relief of logic. This wasn't his world being upended again, this was some damned mages. Probably some elves too, throwing magic around with little regard for anyone else.

A calling of his name made him look up, it was Khezde clutching a rope. Perhaps she heard whatever scheme Ruran came up with? He didn't care, he took the rope and looped it through a knothole before tying it firm. Thunder roared in the distance and made him shudder with sudden fright, his feet carried him past the shaman's cart and right to the water wagon where Kix and Declan struggled. He didn't care about preserving the length so much, the water-logged and frozen end was left free to dangle while he tied it off.

Corrick came up as he finished and shouted, "Got it there?"

"Are the rest tied?" Thonvar bellowed. Corrick nodded and rapped his fist against the wagon's side. "Then have everyone take hold, don't let the ropes drag!"

Tied wagons on the open road was a bad idea, but they had to do something in the poor visibility. This felt quite foolish, but he was sure they wouldn't have room for so many travelers and the animals would surely die out in the elements. Staying felt like an impossible position as he pulled himself from wagon to wagon, no sooner had he finished that thought than a chicken bounced off the wagon immediately in front of him. With a quick snap he grabbed the flailing corpse before it could be blown away and crammed it in the wagon, presumably where a kobold was ready to catch it.

Fortunately the wind seemed to ease a bit, allowing him to see all the way to the front. They had organized the wagons in a rough horseshoe-shaped configuration, probably copying the other merchants, but the kinks and misalignments had been worked out despite the harrowing conditions. Drond was there at his wagon, bundled up tight and ready to go, Anza had her back to him while she loaded up the young. This was good, the concern for the children hadn't come up and he wanted to kick himself for it. At least he had her, his wife, his companion, his little stone-slinging lover who mastered her natural magic better than he could with... Whatever he had.

For a brief moment he wondered if he could yell the wind into submission.

"Drond ready to go, my sir!" his driver yelled.

Thonvar looked back.

Everyone who was riding was tucked away, everyone who was walking seemed absolutely miserable, but their caravan was certainly ready to move.

So they set out.

He passed by the wagon and a tiny feminine hand, all he could spare was a kiss to her exposed knuckles. She was too little to be outside, too scaly, he had to glance back and make sure his trusted sebekan huntress was still there. Indeed she was, towering above the humans and halflings, wrapped in rags and furs with a makeshift cloak to keep the moisture out. A few other scaly things had decided to tag along, some of them dangerously exposed to the elements, but they seemed as ready as Agziqoh to tackle the journey up.

When the gate guard sounded his horn and the heavy oaken doors swung open, Thonvar gulped down a welt of fear. A swirling breeze in front of him turned into a violent push to keep him inside, but he tugged on the reins and lead the first wagon through. Reachmen faced the elements with a hard heart, no son of the Reach would admit defeat to storms of wind, snow, rain, or ice.

That didn't mean they were immune to the cold.

His hands were on fire, while the breeze was unnaturally warm the temperature of everything else was unnaturally cold. Already he felt the alarming sensation of his thighs going numb, the layer of fat between his skin and muscle would insulate him for a time but it was the first sign of many that his time in the tempest was finite. Forward. Onward and onward, it was the only way. Survival depended on his stubbornness, the hard edge of a man's will, his will, and it would not crack to mere discomfort. There was a path up, the first step, he had been sure where it was...

A brief lull let him see it ahead, the outline of the cairn that marked up, and it let him hear the incredible roar not so far away. When the wind came again he smelled it and heard the drums, the rotting stench of old death and the moist copper of new slaughter. Beneath him crunched the odd crystals of snow and hail, his feet slipped and the animals started to disagree, but he tugged harder and marched onward.

They cooperated a bit more when the first turn was made, the rattle of ice against the wagon and their rumps was enough to incite them into a quicker pace. Meanwhile he fetched a bundle of bright red rags from the wagon, one getting tied into the cairn. Since the wagons were close by he reasoned the movement wouldn't spook any of the animals, but if any got lost...

His sharp glare cut through the storm, he could barely make out something.

"Drond! Keep moving!" he yelled. The kobold-shaped pile of clothing nodded. "I'll come back soon!"

He went to the third wagon in the train, where the urns were kept, fishing out a pair of crude lanterns.

They had fresh candles inside, but he couldn't get them lit in the damp wind no matter how hard he tried. Time was running out and his hands were cold, he struggled with strike after strike, sparks showered, a tiny wisp of smoke teased him to continue, but his frustration began to grow. One of the kobolds tried to help and took the other, but the wind blasted inside while Thonvar worked and demolished any efforts.

"Gods damn this thing!" he bellowed, wanting to crush the damned glass in his hands.

Hearing him yell so loudly made the kobolds inside scramble around, it would've been comical if it didn't add to his irritation. After the surge of movement the kobold inside had no less than five pieces of flint, a nail, some twigs, and a piece of paper to work with.

They needed a way to mark the trail, one slipped wheel and...

Movement off to his side made him jump a little, but the source held up his hands to signal peaceful intent.

"May I try?"

Thonvar eyed the rather snakelike creature peeking from beneath the leather hood, but finally he relented and slid the lantern over. His left hand was unseathed from the thick mitten and made ready, then a flicker of red magic surged forth in a tiny bolt of excited flame. A wide smile accompanied the now lit lantern as it was passed back to the human followed by a polite nod.

The reachman closed the lid. "What's your name?"

"I am Kabu," he replied, stuffing his hand back in the mitten. "You are Thonvar."

A quick nod confirmed the obvious, but he was not done with the mysterious Kabu. "Pass the word along to watch for the lanterns, tell anyone walking beside the last wagon to pick them up as they go by. When you come back, bring more up to me."

Thonvar didn't wait, he took his lantern and stormed ahead to guide them. They had been fortunate before, walls and trees shielded them, but as Drond moved through the open clearing the snow's depth drastically increased. On foot he was faster than the bogged-down wagon, the kobold did his job as best he could while the brave warrior carried a guiding light in the unknown.

Storms out on the open steppes could become deadly in an instant; a wall of white blowing in robbed a man, even the most vigilant, of any idea what was ahead. Popular legend said they were the first to make the stone cairn, topping it with bright flags, the horseborn could mark their lands and warn travelers this way. During summer months the roads were cleared of rocks and debris, piling them near the sides, so even if you couldn't see the pillars of stone you could feel with your feet. This road? This was pure chaos, the old pavers had been knocked free and other rocks had been scattered across them. Each step of his boot was like trying to see on a moonless night, every ounce of effort was spent on trying to mentally leap into the unseen.

Behind him he heard mules and horses cry out in miserable frustration, they were getting restless and wanted to run. If that happened it would be catastrophe, if the ropes held it might cause a tangled mess or, worse, somebody tumbling to their death. Over to his right and into the unseen mass of white and gray was the edge of something, he vaguely remembered it existing, every step forward and up meant the danger of that ambiguous area increased.

His foot stumbled into a crevice.

Even though it hurt his shin a lot, probably enough to make a nasty bruise, he was able to pull himself out and shuffled over some distance. A boulder was in his way, he felt it would make a fine marker and set to work making a tiny pile on top of it.

Along the way he came he saw a string of lights going up, each beacon marked a cart or wagon, a cluster of them bobbing along closer and closer.

He looked back up toward the unseen mountain.

They had a very, very long way to go.

-------------------------------------------------

"Allow me, my lord," the elf sighed, practically throwing himself knees-first into the snow. "You've done enough."

He had forgotten about the rest of the world, the shivering had overcome him and endowed him with an impossibly sharp focus on the flint. Elves hadn't existed before that moment, they were like all else and lost to a distant memory of a time when he wasn't flirting with a dangerously frigid condition so when the kindling was ignited he stared in awe. Slowly his awareness around him expanded, flooded over the snow, touching the wagons and the animals and his people. Somebody covered him with a big wool cloak while the elf from before worked with the fresh pinewood.

A man sat down.

Briefly glancing up, the elf regarded the man and muttered, "Thank you, the spell might wear off before it's dry but by then we should have more."

"Aye, the trick's getting it to burn first. All the fire castin' I know right there, makin' it so somethin' burns easier."

The elf smiled and shrugged, his focus was on his work. "There's an elderly lamp-keeper in Viluun, in the old part of the city, every evening he tends to his work as you've done to this kindling. His apprentices studied at the great colleges to the north, of course as pyromancers, but he learned the transmutive craft from his mentor."

"Aye, and that's all you get," Ruran muttered, holding up his bandaged fingers. "These hands are spent."

Fortunately for the spellsword the elf hadn't needed any assistance, the fire survived past infancy and offered delicious warmth. That suffering he endured did not end at first, it morphed into something new, as the heat became intense he had to protect the bare skin of his hands and arms from searing pinpricks. Of course his conscious mind knew the fire wasn't that hot, he was actually just _that cold,_ but the knowledge didn't provide any relief. Minutes wore on and he drifted away, his gaze to the western sky where the sun had set below the forests and rocky hills, a wispy gradient of orange and red was busy fading away as the darkness came.

When he looked up he saw the first stars twinkle bright, a faint band of lighter color crossed over from southeast to northwest, as the night wore on it would twinkle with countless tiny dots. That was one of his favorite parts of the night, trying to count them, he never got very far and always fell asleep before he could run out of numbers. Myth tried to explain what they were, but different peoples had different ideas.

He always wondered which one was true.

"Thonvar."

Suddenly his attention was captured, he blinked and looked around. "What?"

Razalryn sat there with her hand exposed, ready, Khezde at her side with a bowl of something. Then his stealthy wife was behind him and there on the opposite shoulder, she took a wooden spoonful and fed him the beef-flavored elixir of life to distract him. Then his body was subject to the most incredible blast of raw heat that ever was, it was like somebody had dunked him in fire.

Both kobolds soothed him away from springing up, which was his first reaction, and he endured the pillar of golden light radiating from the part-svalmer mage until it was no more.

Magic shouldn't have still been capable of surprising him, but he looked over his hands with shocked curiosity. Truly his whole body felt restored, but his instinct was to look at his hands that seemed to be quite normal and not reddened from heat. Or cracked. Or bleeding. Ruran's hands were set to receive the same care, the bandages had been removed to reveal strips of flesh dangling from his twisted fingers.

When she let the magic fly those gory ribbons either returned to their rightful place or fell away as dried, blackened curls while fresh skin replaced them. Making a pair of fists, Ruran confirmed the healing had been correct.

"Thanks."

She nodded to the spellsword, but her focus was back on Thonvar. "My lord, we've lost one of the animals. Lady Anza ordered it butchered, but it is my understanding that the path up ahead is long and difficult. We may have to leave a wagon behind, perhaps turn back--"

"No," he croaked.

She frowned slightly. "Moving slowly puts us at risk, I'm quite sure these mountains are no different than any other in the North. What would you have us do then? Some of the kobolds are worried about trolls, known to attack in pairs or more, and no doubt that battle has sown seeds for lesser elemental forms to manifest. Were they to take hold in something firm..."

Ruran grinned. "Aye, a snow man's easier to kill than an ice man."

"Could that really happen?" he asked, not so sure of the phenomena. "I've never heard of this before."

"Sometimes it does," the spellsword answered, "but I wonder 'bout our friends from the dark world. Fightin' rotten bears is one thing, but a troll risen from the dead is somethin' entirely different."

Mountain trolls were surely larger than the ones in the forest, indeed they were recognized to be of the many "forest peoples" that hid in the rugged woodlands of Rangvaal and the fjords to the north. A normal troll stood, as far as Thonvar could recall, two thirds of a normal man's height above his head and perhaps half again as tall as a rather large man. Muscles... Supposedly an angry one could rip a bull's head off in a fury, they were not something lesser men trifled with for fun. Plenty of brave men died trying to slay one, perhaps forgetting that a male past his rutting age often courted one or more females who were just as vicious as their mates. Sometimes they made crude clubs and covered themselves in hides, but they were savage beasts and what wits they traded off came back in incredible physical ability.

Some were even rumored to cast magic, but that was stupid nonsense uttered by clueless peasants and farmers.

"Thonvar, lad, I can feel it in my bones," continued Ruran, leaning closer. "That evil magic out there, if I were bettin' on it I'd say a pack of mages, guild mages, got caught up and it weren't arrows gettin' fired at 'em. That black stuff they summon up, it ain't natural, not natural to our world, if it gets in some body out there in tha' snow..."

"Then we keep watch," the chief ordered. "At least we're out of the mage's storm, this air feels like it should."

"Aye, it's fuckin' cold."

He smiled at the southerner, but after the spell did its work he felt no more cold and the temperature was pleasant enough for the fire to make up the difference. Trolls had a notorious fear, and weakness, toward fire and he imagined the dead ones were just as vulnerable to being burned alive. Fire was good to have. If anyone got lost they could see the fire and the smoke during the night, and during the day they could follow the tracks, but this would be true for everything else on the mountain.

Dead bandits concerned him more than trolls, he had seen the dead hadn't forgotten how to use swords, bows, and spears. Were it not for the incident, provoked by the rage and pain he could not control, they might have all perished. Only a fool would rely on a fit of hot-headed fury to carry them through the hard times, but he felt it may come down to that.

Instinctively he pulled her close and she found refuge underneath his arms.

"How are the children doing?" he asked her. "I saw you accepting them into our wagon."

She nodded and smiled. "They good, husband. Anza keep little kobold safe, snow too much for walking."

Thonvar looked at the others for a moment before declaring, "Make sure they eat a good helping tonight, anyone who seems weak or slow needs to be looked after. Even northerners, the cold can rob a man of his senses and make him foolish."

"Yes, my lord," the cat-elf replied, "but it is not just the cold we must worry about. As we climb the air becomes as thin as it is cold, dwarven study on this phenomena has yielded firm rules regarding wilderness survival. None of us are safe from the effects, anyone attempting to stop and rest in the snow must be carefully examined."

He nodded, it was true on the snowy expanse of the Reach as well. Frozen corpses of travelers were an unfortunate fact of life in the spring, many curled up and died in a serene posture wishing only to rest for a few moments. Even northerners who would know well enough that they would never wake again gave in to the winter seduction, there were unsettling legends of wind spirits among the horseborn who sang travelers to sleep. Something about it was just perverse too, it was known that the wind could and did kill, but spirits on the wind were universally understood to be beneficial for a son of the Reach. These exceptions were disregarded when referencing the wind-bound maidens of legend, they were something else.

No doubt his new home would have these dangers too, different ones of course, but he wouldn't let them hinder his plans at all.

"Husband?"

Something was said and he had missed it. "I was thinking of something."

"Wha'd y'wanne do for camp?" Lowen asked, tilting up his helmet with a thumb. "Stay 'ere or...?"

With a sigh Thonvar looked around, only somewhat happy with their choice. "It's dark, if we get an early start tomorrow we will be there most of the way. Of course this is if nothing happens."

Ruran frowned. "Aye, if. I was lookin' on our way up, the path goes right under a snowpack and the cat thinks we might get buried. Then it goes behind a crest, out of sight, I reckon the cave's on the other side."

"My lord, I was merely--" She stopped speaking when she met the northerner's gaze.

"After this I will sleep, I am tired still from this morning and from today," he said with a firm voice, making eye contact with each one and including the elf. "Make camp and keep the fires going, but keep watch. I do not trust these mountains, I trust some of the new hands even less."

His word was final, they nodded respectfully and left him in Anza's capable hands.

She looked up at him with those ruby eyes he loved so much, in an instant she had him under her spell.

There wasn't much for her to say and he knew it, so she showed him her love by feeding him even though he was quite able to do it himself. Protests were ignored and hands were slapped away until they took refuge down below, a happy puff of steam filled the air between them when he felt up her thighs. Thonvar smiled. They hadn't had much opportunity for intimacy and she clearly wanted it, but of course circumstances stood firmly between them. Having her curves pawed at was all that she could enjoy, his reward was an affectionate kiss between spoonfuls.

"You are good to me, Anza."

A giggle escaped her as she hid her face. "Yes, husband. Anza is best for Thonvar."

Not good enough.

He pulled her closer and found a vulnerable neck to kiss and, in spite of the clothes between them, he felt her shudder with delight. When her knees became weak he held her up, just long enough for her to wise up and shove him back.

"Be good, husband," she warned, but a smile betrayed her desire for more. "Anza give when home."

A nice game, he liked pretending she was playing hard to get. "What will you give? What gifts does my wife have waiting for me?"

"Anza maybe know what husband like best," she admitted, flicking out her long tongue. "Maybe Anza like same as husband."

"You like doing that?"

A sultry grin crossed her lips as she nodded and, for dramatic effect, she made a show of cleaning off the spoon with a messy slurp. He knew the answer already, of course, he had come to understand she enjoyed power and that was a technique guaranteed to enslave him.

She knew it too.

"I can do things to you too," he offered, but she shook her head. "Why not? Do you not enjoy it?"

Suddenly her expression softened and she gazed into his eyes. "Anza like this, husband not worry. Husband make Anza very happy, give much pleasure, husband teach word to Anza by show Anza."

"I remember."

Another smile, this time his heart fluttered with it and she soothed him with a stroke of her claws through his crimson hair. For a moment she just watched him, still wearing her adoring smile, from his side it seemed like she was marveling at something wondrous.

"Anza like husband happy, best gift for best husband."

Thonvar laughed and tried to pretend his face wasn't burning and a kiss certainly didn't make it easier. "My wife flatters me, but she does not know I want the same for her. She is the greatest thing in my life."

"This why best husband," the kobold giggled. "Anza know, Anza like. Now eat."

"Yes, wife," he managed to say before an incoming spoonful muffled him.

Another one was delayed as she searched the bowl for an acceptable morsel. "Poor beef cow. Anza hope not lose more cow! Not know how the wagon go up to krimzanuii, long way for kobold. How say... Heavy, big heavy for kobold."

He nodded in agreement, glad they were on the same page. "Which animals do you think are too weak?"

She looked over her shoulder, a frustrated blast of warmth punctuated her hard thought.

"Big wagon for water, little wagon for..." the kobold mimed the urns without looking back, "these weak, Anza worry."

Their water wagon was precious to him, even though they were in the snow and had opportunity to get more at any moment it was still an incredibly useful thing to have. Future journeys would benefit greatly from it and no doubt it would help them speed up construction, for that reason alone he did not want to lose anything. Showing his wife the plans would be pointless if he couldn't make them, every lost thing on the road there would mean smaller ambitions. He didn't like that.

"Before we sleep we should have Khezde pay them a visit, she may have some magic that she can work."

She nodded quickly. "Anza go tell Khezde before come to husband, Anza not stop worry."

"Only with time will we know then, thank you for doing this first. If we must leave a wagon we will choose wisely, carry some of the weight ourselves."

An unhappy sigh escaped her and she took refuge in feeding him. "Husband know best, Anza teach husband kobold way."

He swallowed. "You mean not to waste anything?"

"Yes, husband. Nothing is the waste for kobold, leave wagon is bad, leave things is..." she trailed off and shook her head. "Husband promise come back for wagon?"

"We need all of them for building and more, pray to the gods bandits have done the work for us and brought them up the mountain."

Perhaps she had forgotten about their plans because she seemed to have been caught off-guard by it, but in a flash she melted into a bubbly state of happiness. Unfortunately they were in public and it would've been improper for her to climb up and properly reward him, but he saw the enthusiasm flash in those beautiful eyes. What he did get was a ravenous kiss, tongue and all, she didn't hold anything back and made sure the dip into her inner passion would keep him craving for more. Of course it worked, he was a red-blooded son of the Reach after all, but patience was a virtue and he tempered his own desire.

When she backed off she looked a bit feral, he almost laughed from seeing her so frustrated and needy over a rather unexciting topic.

To him, at least. He had forgotten the kobold race was certain they were destined for greatness, but always they had been denied this right. For somebody like her, a chieftain's daughter, having a prize husband like him actually want to build something great with her was... Enticing. Erotic. Building plans would be equally educational and pornographic. Northerners had envied the perfumed southern bards for their ability to charm legs to spread wide, indeed it was almost magical how often red-haired maidens were put on their back so easily. If only they, the northern men, knew how to capture that power...

Thonvar had figured out the secrets, his wife craved his masculine affection as deep as it would go. Overwhelmed she fell into his arms and kissed his neck, caressed him under his cloak, she made a nest out of his loving embrace and he felt her resentment for the unfairness of it all. Poor Anza!

"We will build a good town, won't we?" he asked, knowing it was on her mind.

"Yes, husband."

He smiled down at her. "Only the best for my queen."

She huffed in frustration, but finally she did smile back. "Anza is queen?"

"If I am a king, what would that make you?"

Again she melted, the kobold managed to bite her lip as she snuggled into him with a contented purr.

"Queen Anza."

So it was settled then. Unable and unwilling to do anything else, the king and queen sat quietly in their new kingdom without bothering to do a thing. There was work to be done, of course, but they had subjects for that and instead they watched the stars sparkling high above. Seconds faded into minutes, then those minutes into the long ambiguity of awhile as the fire lost brilliance and then ceased to burn with open flame. Heat remained and Thonvar reclined a bit, his wife cuddled close to him with her head on his shoulder while he covered her up. All was fine for a long time and then they shared a long kiss before flashes of rainbow interrupted them, dancing waves of color flowed across the sky as they had always done on magical nights of great importance.

This would be their first night, together as husband and wife, on their mountain home.

"I love you, Anza," the king murmured, watching the north sky's magic. "You are the best thing that happened to me."

A set of claws reached up and caressed his smooth jaw, the disturbance soothed by a warm kiss.

"Anza love Thonvar too."