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Chapter Nine
The flurry that dusted the convoy as they neared the first snow-capped mountain peak should have been foreboding, yet Saskia found it calming and tranquil. The snowflakes fluttered down through the frigid air, coming to a delicate rest on the mountain trail and on the adjoining evergreen bristles. Atop her palomino at the front of the company, the dragoness found herself shedding her cloak hood to feel the icy particles pattering on her face and hair. The coolness was refreshing to her flushed cheeks.
"Oi, how are you not freezin' like the rest of us, Saskia?" grunted Yarpen. She turned in her saddle to survey her fellowmen. Some of the Scoia'tael had removed the trademark scarves from around their waists and donned them on their heads and shoulders. The dwarves puffed steam breath into their gloved hands and rubbed them together briskly.
Tarn blew his nose subtly into a linen handkerchief, which he then tucked away into his pocket. "Why, your cheeks, Lady…they seem almost alight," he remarked nasally, his nose a sore red. "I hope and trust you haven't come down with fever?"
Saskia brushed her own cheek, faintly feeling its warmth through her glove. "No, no fever," she assured the Count. "I've always been warm-natured; it's nothing to worry yourself about." With that, she repositioned the hood on her head and returned her attention to the path before her. She silently warned herself to avoid any more questions about her resilience to the cold. If the real cause for it were discovered, she was unable to say what she dreaded more: banishment from the friends and comrades she had come to value in the Pontar Valley, or the ruination of the harmony she and her father worked tirelessly to build. Both were two sides of the same coin.
The way forward will reveal itself in time, she repeated in her mind. In time.
The footprints left by the fleeing citizens of Murivel had provided a constant guide so far. Even after the mud gave way to solid soil, the tracks in the snow marked the course of the previous travelers. Saskia wondered if her party would eventually meet the refugees—and if and when that meeting occurred, she wondered how they would be received. If there was one thing her time under Philippa's influence had taught her, it was to leave as little as possible to chance and to turn any situation into an advantage…though she refused to comply with her former advisor's amoral methods. As she rode along, she mentally prepared a response for every possible outcome. Whether Murivel's people saw them as allies united against the Empire, foes composed of nonhumans and other dregs of society, or a simple trader caravan, Saskia would leave nothing to chance.
However, it seemed Philippa Eilhart's level of cunning remained ever beyond the Virgin of Aedirn's grasp, for just as the sun was beginning to set, the team encountered something she had not predicted.
"Whoa!" She pulled the reigns to bring her mount to a halt, her followers stopping just short behind her. There was a fork in the path. The way left snaked between some evergreen trees and out of sight. The way right saw the trees thinning and becoming replaced by jagged rock faces.
The tracks of Murivel's people gave no indication as to which way to go, as there were impressions in the snow on both paths. The refugees had split up here.
Saskia glanced at her map, but it did no good. As Lark had stated before, this map's maker was clearly no elf and therefore unaware of this path's existence. The Murivel citizens themselves likely only learned of it after the destruction of the Scoia'tael unit that once inhabited these parts. "Lark?" she called back to the half-elf Squirrel towards the end of the procession. "This was part of your former commando's territory, was it not?"
"Yes, it was. I recognize this place well enough," Lark said.
"Where do these paths lead?"
Lark ushered her dapple gray horse towards the front to look at the crossroads more closely. "The route to the right leads into a cave, which cuts through the mountain and emerges on the other side. We tried using it as a weapon cache, but the nekker swarms became too aggressive and numerous, so we had to abandon it," she recalled.
Saskia's eyes veered towards the right-hand path in trepidation. The thought of a dark cave and feral nekkers at the end of that path brought to mind the grave images from her recurring nightmare. She shuddered slightly, then tried in vain to tell herself it was just the chilly wind.
"The route to the left leads to the top of this mountain," Lark continued. "At this time of the year the bears will be hibernating, so as long as we don't disturb them or their cubs, they shouldn't threaten us. The wolves may be a problem, though, if they're hungry enough. …And then there's the trolls."
"Trolls are preferable to nekkers," said Saskia. "Their speech may be crude, but they can be reasoned with."
"Lark speaks of mountain trolls," voiced Iorveth. Saskia turned, just now noticing that he had ridden up beside her from the back of the caravan. "The trolls that we know best are those who yielded to human dominance, filling the roles of bridge-keepers and toll collectors, earning coin and squandering it on drink," he explained. "But much like elves, trolls who refused the dh'oine's yoke were forced to earn their keep in the wilds. Mountain trolls in particular are difficult to approach."
"And if we simply explain ourselves—assure them that we don't seek their subordination?" Saskia asked.
Iorveth shook his head. "Isolated from other sentient races, their knowledge of Common Speech is poor even by troll reckoning. With this language barrier in place, they are more prone to misjudge the intents of an intruder, and more likely to react with hostility."
Saskia pursed her lips and looked back to the party. "I suppose it would be foolish to ask if anyone here speaks the troll tongue," she posed.
No one did.
"I always thought trolls just grunted and belched a lot," Lionel said.
Saskia returned her gaze to the split in the tracks they had been following. "Looks like the host from Murivel split up here. Why is this?"
"It makes not a damn lick of sense," Yarpen grumbled. "They bugger off out of a town in flame, run for the hills, then go their own swiving ways? You'd think they see the good sense of strength in numbers. Particularly in hostile environs, like a range of blistering cold mountains."
"Good sense don't always enter the equation when you got humans in a state of crisis with nonhumans, trying to make a go of it," Zoltan remarked. "…Present company excluded," he quickly added, casting an eye to the convoy.
"And here we are again," Tarn complained. "As always, the humans must be painted as the irrational ones, placing pride over survival. It seems abundantly clear—"
The others would have to remain unenlightened as to what seemed abundantly clear, since Tarn's sentence ended in an abrupt sneeze and another honk of his nose into his handkerchief.
"Zoltan is partly correct. The host did part ways over some dispute," Iorveth assessed. He dismounted and walked towards the middle of the crossroads, scrutinizing the tracks in the snow.
Saskia watched him, curious to hear what some imprints in the earth told The Woodland Fox whilst they remained mute to her.
"There are two opposing sets of tracks here," he went on, indicating the prints. "They slide forward and back, suggesting a struggle. There's no telling if the dispute first broke out here, or simply boiled over after a day's worth of seething. Nor is there any telling the subject of the quarrel."
"These people were homeless and on the run," said Saskia. "Anything could have riled them: which way to go, who was at fault for the town's destruction, or even who would lead them."
"That riddle's solution may have to remain beyond our reach," Iorveth replied. "After the quarrel, the migrants divided almost down the middle. Half took the trail to the left, the other half went right."
"The poor bastards who ran into the mountain trolls aren't doing us any favors," Yarpen said. "Now the big bruisers will surely be on their guard for more intruders, wielding boulders with bits of fresh Redanian skull stuck to them."
"The ones who went looking for shelter in the nekker cave aren't much better off," Lark added. Again Saskia willed away the grisly visions from her dream.
"The cave is out of the question," Tarn declared. "Even if we had ramps to get our quarry across the chasms and jutted rocks-"
"Magic has its ways," Faye cut in.
"…I'm sure," Tarn responded. "But even if we passed through the cave on a bridge of rainbows and amethyst dust, my father's horses would still be easy prey for a swarm of ravenous necrophages."
"Not gonna disagree with you on that one, Count," Zoltan conceded. "But a team trudging up a steep mountain incline is like a caged animal next to the likes of an enraged troll with boulders to spare."
"There are sure to be vantage points for the trolls to hurl boulders from as we climb further up," Iorveth cautioned.
Tarn gave his nose another wipe. "I concede neither option is ideal," he said. "However, it is ultimately the route Lady Saskia favors that we shall pursue, is it not?"
Once more, all eyes were on Saskia, waiting for her decision. This was not like the monumental choice to go to war with Kaedwen. It was a simple question of left or right—each bringing them a step closer to their destination, each with its own dangers. But also unlike the decision to go to war, she lacked a unified support from her followers to assure her that her choice was right. She must trust her own instincts…and there was no mistaking which way they steered.
"Count Marco speaks the truth," she proclaimed. "A cave beset by rotf—ah, nekkers is no practical route for a caravan, nor a team of horses.
"Thank you, Lady. I was sure you'd see it my way," the Count beamed, followed immediately by a sniffle.
"But Zoltan and Iorveth are correct as well—we cannot parade merrily into the trolls' den. We must approach carefully," she continued. "We shall stick to the left path, but stay on your guard, and above all…be mindful of falling rocks."
Iorveth reclaimed his mount. "We trust your judgment, whatever it may be," he told Saskia over his shoulder. She detected something unsettling in his voice, but didn't question him. Nor did she dwell on it when she saw him exchange a few hushed, passing words with Zoltan on the way to the back of the procession.
They pushed on towards the path snaking through the evergreen trees. While she was no tracker like the Scoia'tael commander, Saskia herself could see the straight lines left by their predecessors' wagon wheels, offering her some reassurance that she had chosen the better route for their own cargo.
The cold wind's bite intensified as they made their way higher, its howl the only sound to be heard. Through the trees Saskia could see glimpses of the deep incline down the mountainside, followed by a vast expanse of the Redanian landscape below. The land was bathed in the shadows of dusk, and though from their elevation they could still see the sun, from the ground below it would be long hidden beneath the horizon by now.
"Good girl…we'll have you in a blanket and in front of a fire soon enough," she heard Lark cooing to her mare, followed by a pat of the dapple gray's flank. The half-elf's voice was tremulous, and her teeth chattered. Saskia listened closely and discovered that nearly all of the company was shivering, and heaving in deep breaths of the thin mountain air.
They were freezing, while she barely felt the sting of the dropping temperature at all.
She turned back to them. "The night is only going to get colder," she warned them. "But it may give us an advantage, too; if we find the mountain trolls asleep, we may pass them by without any confrontation. Dismount and walk in huddles if you must, or blow your breath into your hands for warmth. But remain quiet, lest we risk waking them."
The dwarves and Scoia'tael both cast their gazes upon Tarn, who for once didn't speak. For a few more minutes the only sound was hooves crunching in the snow, steam-laden breaths into cupped hands, and the howling wind.
Then another howling sound accompanied the wind. It seemed fairly distant, but grew louder and louder as they crept along.
"Is that a sound trolls make?" asked Lionel.
"Aye," affirmed Yarpen. "One that's either having a bloody nightmare, or else in the throes of a vigorous mating session."
"Or in pain," said Faye.
Before Saskia could instruct them again to stay quiet, a loud squawk overhead made it impossible to do so. She looked up to find three harpies winging their way down from the treetops and cliff faces, talons poised at the travelers.
Her first impulse told her to Polymorph and devour the winged nuisances who had ruined their element of surprise, but as always she restrained herself. Maybe the trolls had not yet heard. She spun around and gestured at the elves to shoot the creatures. Despite numb, frigid fingers their bows aimed true. They managed to pierce several wings and all three of the harpies tumbled out of flight. Still on horseback, Saskia drew her sword and swung low to slash through the repugnant face of one of the monsters before it could emit any more of its loud screeches.
Her horse reared and she held tight to the reigns as a second harpy was engulfed in flame. The final harpy shuffled back on its birdlike feet, but soon fell prey to an arrow directly in its neck. Saskia turned back, unsurprised to find a trail of smoke clinging to the air from Faye's direction and a bow still poised by Iorveth.
A nod of approval to the two served in place of a "Good shot," and she turned her attention back up the trail. The animalistic howls had ceased, replaced by ominous silence. She mulled for a moment for what to do next.
The decision was made for her when a rumble overhead seized the crew's attention. A lone boulder—smaller than a wagon but larger than one of its wheels—clamored down the mountainside. It ricocheted off the trees in its path, bringing a small scattering of rock rubble in its wake. Despite the boulder's helter-skelter route, the convoy provided many stationary targets it could collide with…and the one it seemed to be heading for was the mule's supply cart.
"Watch out!" Saskia ordered, but to no avail. The supply cart was caged by the cargo wagon carrying the ore to the front, the horseback sorceress and the Scoia'tael cavalry to the back. Despite the cart's driver frantically slapping the reigns, he could go nowhere.
The boulder came to a sudden halt a mere fathom from the cart, as though frozen in time. The bits of rubble pecked harmlessly at the wheels of the cart and hooves of the mule, while the largest rock remained still and sparked with orange tendrils of power.
Faye again, Saskia realized, glimpsing the spellcaster as she concentrated to keep the boulder suspended in place. Unsure of how long this spell would hold, Saskia waved her arm urgently to usher her men after her. "Onward! Quickly!"
The procession—save for Faye—hurried on. Once they were out of the boulder's path, the sorceress relinquished her spell. Without the momentum it had gained tumbling down the hill, the stone simply came to a rest on the trail, which Faye had to ride cautiously around to rejoin the others.
"Bloody hell, that was close!" exclaimed Yarpen.
Saskia watched behind her. Going back would be much more difficult now. True, the boulder was a manageable size, and it could be cleared away along with the rubble so the wagon and cart could pass. But each second they spent doing so would leave them open to whatever opposed their presence up above.
She set her sights ahead. "Keep moving forward!" she instructed. "Now! Before the way ahead becomes blocked, too!"
Their hoofbeats quickened on the trail. Another rumble loomed overhead. Saskia just barely seized back on her reigns in time to avoid being bowled over by another stone, so close in front of her that she could see its moss. This stone was slightly bigger than the last, and rolled right on across the trail and down the mountain on the opposite side. Without a moment's breath, she dug her heels into her horse's sides and lashed the reigns to break into a gallop once more.
There was another shrill, unwelcome cawing sound as the party disturbed another flock of harpies. Two of the avian pests clawed at the edges of Saskia's cloak and at her horse's mane. She cursed and again swung her sword to swat them away. They tumbled to the ground, but were far from dead. There was no time to finish them off with the ever-present threat of a rockslide, so she simply rode ahead, sword still drawn, leaving it to the dwarves directly behind her to trample the creatures.
"Did it not occur to you to mention the bird women on this trail, elf?!" Tarn called over the commotion.
"There were none here before!" Lark shot back. "They always stayed near human settlements, and now that Murivel is burned the nearest mountain village is at least a week away!"
Five more harpies flew down to barricade the way ahead. Saskia drew her breath to give an order, but it seemed Iorveth already had the same order in mind.
"Don't delay to kill!" his commanding voice issued from the back. "Shoot them fast and keep moving!"
The whiz of arrows darted over Saskia's head and fell on the harpies like rain. They collapsed onto the trail.
"Rock! Rock!" bellowed Lionel. Saskia whirled around to see another boulder threatening to collide with the convoy. This time, there was a mighty rushing sound as a telekinetic force shot from Faye's hands. As though from a sling, the boulder sprang off its course at a sharp angle, rolling furiously in front of Saskia and crushing some of the grounded harpies before teetering off the trail.
"Sorry…" Faye uttered from behind.
"No harm done!" Saskia assured her, then slapped the flat edge of her sword against her horse's flank to urge it on.
The top of the mountain inched nearer and nearer. The arrows of the Scoia'tael and the hooves of Saskia's and the dwarves' mounts deterred the harpies. Saskia remained ever aware of the fray behind her, of various shouts to warn of falling rocks and of Faye's spells to deflect the rocks as they fell. She was unable to make herself look back, her attention focused steadfastly on the way ahead. Soon, she could see an end to the incline. For a brief moment she caught sight of a large brutish head looking down on them, then retreating from sight.
The very mountain seemed to shake with the turbulent sound that followed. Saskia looked up the remaining expanse of mountainside. Her eyes widened when she saw not one, but a multitude more stones cascading down. Some were even big enough to fell the trees in their way. The snow atop the branches stirred as the trees fell, adding a small blizzard to the chaos. In a few moments, the team would be swallowed whole.
She longed to shed her human guise and protect the party with her true, great girth while they made their escape. The massive rocks were like marbles before a dragon's thick scaly hide. But if she did, it would no longer be the rockslide that frightened them the most, and they would still be lost. As always, she strove to lead them in the best way possible as the human peasant girl ascended to queen they had come to rely on.
"Go! Go! Go!" she hollered.
The monumental crashing of landscape drowned out the screams and the frenzy of hoofbeats. Saskia could hear her own heartbeat pounding in her chest, along with her stallion's deep snorts as it ran for its and its rider's life.
Just get to the top. Think of nothing but getting to the top, Saskia instructed herself, holding tightly to the wildly galloping animal. "Don't look back! Forge ahead!" she shouted, if only to encourage them. She was unsure if they even heard.
Somewhere in the back, another horse gave a panicked bellow, accompanied by a human cry.
"NO!"
It was a female voice, but Saskia dared not turn to see if it was Faye or Lark…or if either was still among them.
The top. The top. The top!
The cold wind stung her eyes so sharply that she squinted. Each breath became more and more strained from the altitude. Only now did she notice how dark it had become, for she could scarcely see but a few paces in front of her.
Finally, the tempest settled. The crashing of rocks, trees and snow subsided. The incline had leveled. They reached the top of the first peak in the Kestrel Mountain range.
Saskia looked back and was overcome with relief. The supply cart and wagon were miraculously intact. A quick, mental headcount revealed no one missing, though the faces she met were at best haggard, at worst bewildered from their brush with death. And she saw now the cause for the female scream.
Lark lay on her belly, strewn across the back of Iorveth's horse. Her dapple gray mare was nowhere to be found.
"The ice…" she stammered. "She slipped…I-I couldn't…"
"Keep your wits, Lark, or I may regret this," Iorveth said simply.
"…Yes. …Squass'me," she apologized, sliding down onto her feet and looking back to the wreckage morosely.
The battered crew looked deeply in need of regrouping and, perhaps, some of Saskia's charismatic brand of encouraging words. But now was no time for either. With the peril of the rockslide now behind them, they stood in the shadow of another.
The brutish head Saskia had spied on the way up was now lumbering towards them, silhouetted in the light of a campfire. It differed little from the trolls of lower elevation, apart from the thick growth of ashen hair that seemed to begin as a beard and then expand along the beast's massive arms.
Several swords sang their opening chorus behind Saskia as they were unsheathed, but she held up a hand to postpone their attack. A quick glance around the troll's home revealed the wrecked remains of a carriage, a spit over the fire, and a variety of meat she chose not to dwell on. There were numerous piles of rocks positioned around the perimeter like watchtowers, and there was a towering, ramshackle wall of rocks serving as a lean-to in the center.
Under the lean-to was a smaller troll, laying on the side in what appeared to be an uneasy sleep. Ever so often the sleeping troll would stir, whimpering. Saskia predicted this was the one they had heard howling, and that Faye's guess of it being in pain was correct.
"If you can understand me," she stated loudly and plainly to the larger troll approaching them, "then tell me why you sought-tried to crush us."
The behemoth made no reaction, apart from eyeing the blades still drawn.
"Give the word, Saskia, and any part of this boor that can bleed will bleed dry," Iorveth prodded from the rear of the cavalcade. His contempt was palpable, and Saskia could tell he desired the troll's death. But she would not allow bloodshed until no other option existed.
"Sheathe your weapons," she commanded. "Show him that we don't wish to fight." On cue, every sword returned to its sheath. She continued to face the troll earnestly. "We want no fight with you," she said slowly. "We want no fight. We only want to go."
Again, no reply.
There was a noisy honk into a handkerchief. "Please, Lady, allow me," offered Tarn. "In your good sense, you did enlist me as your ambassador for these very dilemmas."
"Your silver tongue does us no good here," Saskia told the Count. "He won't understand."
"Ah, but there are ways of communication that transcend language," he persisted. "If I can be counted upon to bargain with a nation, surely I can be counted upon to bargain with a troll."
"…Very well," she deferred. At best, the eager emissary would manage a resolution, and at worst he would provoke the troll to attack, granting Iorveth the slaughter he coveted after all.
Tarn stepped forward, his head level with the troll's imposing chest. He looked up to meet the creature's eyes. "Greet…ings," he enunciated loudly and slowly, accompanied by an exaggeratedly broad wave of his hand. "We." A gesture towards the group. "Seek." A placement of his hand like a visor over his brow. "No." A shake of his head and a sweeping apart of his hands. "Fight." A pounding of his fist into an open palm.
The troll promptly replicated the last gesture…with the slight variation of Tarn's face instead of a palm. The noble rolled onto his back, sputtering, clutching at his nose as it leaked red.
Lark snorted in the back and muttered something in Elder Speech. Saskia understood only the bare minimum of the language, as it wasn't among the lessons her father bestowed before leaving her younger self to her own devices. Still, she gathered the half-elf had said something like "Just what we all hoped for."
The troll must have understood her too, for he responded over Tarn's groans with a choppy sentence of guttural words, all in Elder Speech as well.
Saskia was stunned—first to hear the thing speak at all, and second to hear a language usually spoken with a poetic and elitist air by elves now rasped from the throat of a brute. Suddenly, it made sense. Iorveth had said mountain trolls were less versed in Common Speech even than their bridge-dwelling cousins, but it appeared that after decades of estrangement in the mountains, fragments of the old language still remained on their tongues. "What did he say?" she asked Lark.
"Word for word, it would translate to 'Aim good not. Human big mouth hole missed,'" Lark replied.
"You bight 'ave tried dat before, don' you dink?!" howled Tarn, clutching his nose and writhing onto his side to glare at Lark.
"Why? Saskia enlisted you for these very dilemmas," she echoed.
"Enough," Saskia instructed them. "Lark, ask the troll why he attacked us with the boulders."
The Squirrel came forward—deliberately stepping over Tarn on the way—and relayed the question to the troll. There was a garble of archaic words in response. Finally, Lark turned back.
"He said humans hurt his mother. He was trying to stop us from attacking her again."
Saskia glanced at the smaller troll lying on its side further away. "Then tell him the times are changing," she prompted. "Humans are no longer masters of the realm. We come from a land where everyone is equal and no matter what other humans may have done, we intend no harm."
Again Lark translated. The troll issued its coarse variant of Elder Speech once more. He pointed at Faye with a menacing look at one point in mid-sentence.
"He said it was someone like her," she went on with a wave towards Faye, "but with 'skin on head top.'"
"The very same sorceress from the forest trail ambush," Iorveth remarked. "Lily, the last bandit called her. She had hair cut to the scalp, according to his description."
"She used 'big boom light' (that is, magic) to make a tree fall on his mother," Lark explained. "While he and his brothers were trying to free her, more humans came with their 'sharp sticks' (I suppose, swords). He and his brothers fought them all off. Some of the humans ran, some are…well, you can see for yourself." She eyed the spit on the fire. "Afterwards, the trolls picked the big tree up together and hurled it down the mountainside to free their mother. The brothers are out looking for firewood and food (well, more food) and he stayed behind to care for his wounded mother. And protect her from more intruders."
"See to it that he understands we have no connection to the sorceress who did this," Saskia instructed. "Say that we wish to leave him and his brothers to tend their mothers' wounds undisturbed. If we're allowed to continue in peace, we will be indebted."
Lark fulfilled her role as a conduit between culture and crudeness once more.
"…Maybe I shouldn't have used the word 'indebted,'" she confessed afterward. "He said, 'Debt no good. Maybe no you more see.' Then he asked that we give him medicine to help treat his mother, and food so they can feed her through winter. The…uh…meat here will fill her and the sons' bellies for awhile, but winter's only just begun and rations are thinning. Give him those two things, and then we can be on our way."
"Medicine, we can surely offer." Saskia turned. "Faye, you still have your herb-treated bandages, do you not?"
"From the final breath of the phantom beast, I may craft more," Faye mumbled, head to the ground. Slowly she looked up. "I have its tongue and saliva in my pouch." With this cryptic announcement, she set about making necessary bandages, using large and thick cloth for the old she-troll's hide.
"But as for food, Lark, explain to him that we too are limited and we cannot…" Saskia trailed off. "On second thought, Lark, tell him he'll find his share if he and his brothers dig through the rockslide. There will be fallen harpies to add to their diet…and there will be a…"
"…Yes, I know what else they'll find," Lark finished tersely, looking back sadly at the step path they'd taken. As she translated this offer for the troll, Saskia understood what human tendencies of hers Iorveth had found distasteful. She kept her eyes closed, her voice soft and unwavering save for a falter here and there.
The troll made a reply.
"He agrees," Lark said. "We can go."
"I want it known that I find it completely reprehensible, the thought of these brutes eating one of the Marco family horses," Tarn grumbled, after having crawled safely out of fist's reach of the troll and back onto the wagon.
As they began their crossing to the other side of the mountain, Faye laid the charmed bandages at the side of the sleeping old she-troll, then tiptoed back to her horse without making a sound.
A forceful hand fell on Saskia's shoulder as she passed the troll. She looked up to discover an animal's jawbone in his grip, a length of string tied to either end, which he nudged at her with a coarse series of grunted words. "What is this?" she asked, the question for the troll but her eyes upon Lark.
"A piece of a mountain goat's skull," the Squirrel explained. "He's giving us a sign for his brothers. He'll tell them we're not foes, and if we meet them, showing this will prove it."
Saskia took it with a courteous nod to the troll. As they approached the decline opposite the way they'd come up, she handed it to Lark. "…I believe you should be its bearer," she said. "Without your intervention, this would have ended in a much less favorable way…as would any later encounters with the troll's brothers."
Lark took it humbly. "The elves have a saying," she replied. "Ayd f'haeil moen Hirjeth taenverde."
"And that means?"
"Conquer with courage rather than strength."
(***)
Not far down the other side of the mountain, fortune seemed to favor them even further, because less than an hour after leaving the troll's lair behind they arrived at a great uprooted tree….possibly the one that was hurled from the mountaintop by the trapped she-troll's dutiful sons. Its roots conveniently laid vertical to the ground, creating a makeshift lean-to just off the path. This was the surest shelter they would find from the wind and snow, so without hesitation the shivering party constructed a hasty camp to spend the remainder of the night.
As she watched them settle in, Saskia felt an ember of pride for her team. There were times they seemed unlikely choices for this mission, but tonight they had surpassed her expectations. Though she would never know for sure if the troll's summit had really been a better choice of route than the cave, she was doubly assured her men would follow her, whichever way they went, and valiantly face the obstacles laid before them.
"Oi, got a moment Saskia?" Zoltan asked.
"Several, it would appear," she replied. "What is it?"
"It may be nothing, but I figured I should make ye aware nonetheless." The dwarf sat beside her, rummaged in his pocket and produced a small, yet complex metal trinket. "This here is a component to some gnomish machine. "Ol' Iorveth and I found it at the mountain's base."
She took it and examined it between her thumb and forefinger.
"Now I'm not for sure what it goes to," Zoltan continued. "But I'm pretty sure it belonged to one of the Murivel refugees. A gnome, at that, and possibly one of the engineering types. Doesn't seem too likely the poor fellow's amongst the living anymore."
She nodded. "If the trolls didn't bring his demise, then the nekkers in the cave may very well have."
"Aye, Iorveth made mention of that to me at the crossroads," said Zoltan. "Like I said, it may be beyond us now. But I meant to bring it to your attention before the day's turn of events, so there seemed no harm it doing it regardless."
"What do you wish to do with it?" asked Saskia, handing the trinket back.
"Lark mentioned a mountain village somewhere in this pile of rocks," Zoltan replied. "I figure if the Murivel refugees had any destination in mind, that'd be the place. That's not to suggest we should go out of our way, of course. But if a twist of fate ends up putting us near that village, well…I'd aim to see if the gnome had a partner, a relative or someone there. Who knows, they might have a use for the bit of scrap, or at least want to hang onto it for sentimental reasons. Seems like the right thing to do."
Again, she nodded. "We cannot afford to alter our course in search of the village. But should we find ourselves near to it, then by all means, give the trinket to anyone there who may express a desire for it. It's got nothing to do with us, and perhaps it may be useful to—or treasured by—a survivor of the late gnomish refugee."
"Right, then," Zoltan agreed, getting back up to join the rest of the team.
That had seemed to Saskia the easiest decision of the day.