The Spine was ancient, perhaps being the very foundation of the world from which all the rest grew. Cuthwyrd didn't know. He wasn't sure that anyone knew. As long as the history went back, the Spine had been there long before the tale started and continued far beyond its end. They were one of the constants in the world. And even as old as his people, the Fyiama, were, they were but a dot on the great size of stories that happened within the folds and dells of the mountain. A forgotten one, at that. No record save their own remembered the kingdom that once lived in the high mountain dells and built its keeps alongside the many ice-cold lakes that dotted the stone.
There were older things that dwelt in the mountains. Not just the Dwarves and Orcs, either. Nor even the hated goblins of the deep caverns. Older and stranger things. Some were evil and lurked, waiting a chance to prey on the few stray passerby or sheep. Some even dared to leave their lairs and creep down to prey on the lowlanders. it was these that the Fyiama considered their great duty to protect the world against.
Rumor had spoken of something lurking in the lake that glinted in the small vale below him. Odd ripples, strange moving shapes, and missing sheep had all been reported through word of mouth and Cuthwyrd had come to investigate, or to hunt, depending on what he found. So far, he had seen nothing, but dusk was stretching across the sky, shadowing the small lake, and a chill began to settle across the vale.
He didn't know if the lake had a name to the lowlanders, or even if they knew it existed. He supposed they did since there was a faint track passing along the edge of the vale with horse and mule droppings scattered along its path. Caravans, he guessed, or couriers. Perhaps both, although not rare. Belgrath to the south or Crobhear lake to the north were the easier routes of passage over the spine, but perhaps there were those who wanted to avoid the settlements or push clear through to the other side rapidly, without deviating. He wasn't sure.
But a distant sound rose up to his ears and he tilted his head beneath the hood of his cloak. Horses breathing. The jingle of tack. Creak of wagons. He couldn't tell who they were, but a few wagons rolled into the dale, settling to a halt not far from the edge of the lake. He could make out movement amongst the small cluster as they set up camp.
He couldn't recognize them, but their arrival was ill-timed. Perhaps there was something lurking the lake that would attack them. He couldn't fend if off them all. Nor did he wish for the lowlands to realize the nature of his people and their precarious existence. But word of monsters would draw more and more lowlanders to them, seeking adventure or fortunes, and the quiet of the high vales would be lost. Either way, it was not a good situation.
But he could not permit those who had done him no harm to perish in the bounds of his responsibility. He gathered the cloak closer around his body, tightened the belt on his kilt, and began picking his way down the hillside. The mottled cloak and kilt kept him mostly invisible to those down below, especially as the night darkened.
A high, keening shriek tore through the night. Cuthwyrd dropped to his knees and nocked an arrow on the string. He knew what the wind among the peaks could sound like, but it was not this. Just as soon as it began, it was over, but Cuthwyrd held his place, watching the hillsides and lake below him. The water was oddly still, as it if was holding his breath, but he could make no sense of what might be under its glassy surface.
There were older things that dwelt in the mountains. Not just the Dwarves and Orcs, either. Nor even the hated goblins of the deep caverns. Older and stranger things. Some were evil and lurked, waiting a chance to prey on the few stray passerby or sheep. Some even dared to leave their lairs and creep down to prey on the lowlanders. it was these that the Fyiama considered their great duty to protect the world against.
Rumor had spoken of something lurking in the lake that glinted in the small vale below him. Odd ripples, strange moving shapes, and missing sheep had all been reported through word of mouth and Cuthwyrd had come to investigate, or to hunt, depending on what he found. So far, he had seen nothing, but dusk was stretching across the sky, shadowing the small lake, and a chill began to settle across the vale.
He didn't know if the lake had a name to the lowlanders, or even if they knew it existed. He supposed they did since there was a faint track passing along the edge of the vale with horse and mule droppings scattered along its path. Caravans, he guessed, or couriers. Perhaps both, although not rare. Belgrath to the south or Crobhear lake to the north were the easier routes of passage over the spine, but perhaps there were those who wanted to avoid the settlements or push clear through to the other side rapidly, without deviating. He wasn't sure.
But a distant sound rose up to his ears and he tilted his head beneath the hood of his cloak. Horses breathing. The jingle of tack. Creak of wagons. He couldn't tell who they were, but a few wagons rolled into the dale, settling to a halt not far from the edge of the lake. He could make out movement amongst the small cluster as they set up camp.
He couldn't recognize them, but their arrival was ill-timed. Perhaps there was something lurking the lake that would attack them. He couldn't fend if off them all. Nor did he wish for the lowlands to realize the nature of his people and their precarious existence. But word of monsters would draw more and more lowlanders to them, seeking adventure or fortunes, and the quiet of the high vales would be lost. Either way, it was not a good situation.
But he could not permit those who had done him no harm to perish in the bounds of his responsibility. He gathered the cloak closer around his body, tightened the belt on his kilt, and began picking his way down the hillside. The mottled cloak and kilt kept him mostly invisible to those down below, especially as the night darkened.
A high, keening shriek tore through the night. Cuthwyrd dropped to his knees and nocked an arrow on the string. He knew what the wind among the peaks could sound like, but it was not this. Just as soon as it began, it was over, but Cuthwyrd held his place, watching the hillsides and lake below him. The water was oddly still, as it if was holding his breath, but he could make no sense of what might be under its glassy surface.