From an arctic tern’s lofty perspective the dire wolves racing along Sulgoran’s Axe were grains of sand in an upturned hourglass. The pattern in which they fell made little difference.
With the west ice wall of the pass towering overhead and driven snowflakes stinging his eyes, Phyr clung to the saddle’s low pommel like a tree in a landslide. The baritone throb of fatigue ran a chromatic scale the length of his arm. His stump, with the reigns still strangling it, played an erratic pain, sharp and twanging. His back ached and his eyes watered but still he forced himself to watch over the wolf’s steaming muzzle, searching the horizon and glacial walls for an escape route.
They cannot be far behind, I heard the baying when they sounded the alarm. He lost focus at the last moment before escape and as a result he was pursued. But his mount had the benefit of a short rest in the barn, and a much lighter rider than it was used to. The beast almost seemed to enjoy itself as it powered up inclines and churned down slopes. Phyr found his attention pulled to the arctic animal’s clawed feet, fascinated at how they found traction on the hardest ice and in the deepest snow drifts. There is something to be said for a beast’s natural ability to survive.
There!
Through wave after wave of icy flakes Phyr’s old eyes spotted the signature of a village on the horizon. And on his left, boring a hole in the Axe’s smooth east wall, a river ran too fast to freeze. White porous ice lined its banks and massive drifts of snow eddied just beyond reach of the water, gathered against sheer cliffs. The opportunity Phyr needed presented itself, and he reacted as fast as his old bones allowed.
Gripping the saddle with his knees the drow unsheathed the heavy bayonet he’d found. Dull as it was, a single slash from the long blade opened a shallow gash on the dire wolf’s flank. Trained for combat, the beast barely reacted.
I’m sorry my love, I thought we’d be together forever...
Phyr jerked on the reigns mightily, forcing the stolen steed to turn and prowl along the rebellious river’s bank. Wrapping the reigns around the pommel and freeing his half-arm, the drow inhaled deeply and leaned backwards until he fell out of the saddle.
Seconds later he sat up, buried to the chest in snow and gasping, winded from the impact. His hip felt badly bruised but otherwise the drift had caught him softly, and more importantly the dire wolf had kept on running. Besides plowing a clear path through the thick powder it also left a telltale crimson spatter every couple steps.
No hunter can resist a trail with fresh blood on it. At least he hoped the Salvarians could not. The image of wounded prey might just be enough to stop them from considering it a false trail. Walking sideways so his footprints would seem at home amongst the trampling of the small army which had used the pass hours earlier, Phyr limped back to the west wall. There the whining wind had blasted the ice almost clean of powder. With a concerted sigh Phyr threw himself forwards into a sitting position and slid, gaining speed on the gradual grade towards Keepswatch.
His heart dropped into an acidic stomach when he failed to stand at first. His hip locked up tighter than the Keep had ever been, refusing to co-operate with overtaxed leg muscles. By the time he had wedged a hand into a crevice in the glacial wall and levered himself upright, he could hear his pursuers riding along the Axe in his wake. In minutes they would see him.
Removing the hardwood stick from the folds of his cloak where it remained miraculously unbroken, the old elf leaned heavily on it and moved. It felt more like propelling himself with willpower than walking, but he made it to the first line of buildings.
It seemed the night’s chaos had taxed the villagers of their normal bustling energy. No one but his complaining body challenged Phyr’s slow invasion of Keepswatch. In that small community where the only perceived threat came from the far North, few of the dwellings even had locks on their doors. The old drow’s system for staying hidden was simple; he limped to the first house without smoke billowing from the chimney, ducked inside, and slammed the door behind him.
The interior of the one-room domicile still hugged its heat, welcoming the invader as he deposited his walking stick beside the doorway. The hearth yawned darkly but a small brazier in the middle of the room held leftover coals from the last fire. They glowed invitingly and emitted a fresh scent Phyr could not place. The resident had sprinkled some sort of incense into the metal pot to make their home more pleasant. The smell coupled with the hard pallet bed in the back corner threatened to seduce his tired bones, but he forced himself to traipse to the opposite front corner instead, leaving a snowy trail on thickly layered animal hides which composed the shack's floor.
An uneven oaken table stood wedged against thick sod-and-clay walls, bearing a plate full of stale biscuits and a sturdy iron hip flask. Like a child discovering a long lost toy Phyr snatched the flask and thumbed off the cap. The slosh of liquid as he brought it to his lips and sipped carried all the comfort of a mother's lullaby. The nameless spirit tasted little better than prison grog brewed in the forges of Devil's Keep, but it's alcoholic content kicked Phyr's liver liked a spooked mare. The resulting ache in his guts felt right, and the warm rush of thinned blood through his brain may as well have transported him home.
Stowing the foul moonshine in the folds of his cloak, Phyr selected a biscuit and brought it to his mouth. The first bite crumbled the rest of the hardtack - it turned to powder and cascaded to the floor like snowfall. Phyr grunted in frustration, steeled himself against the sawdust flavor and chose a second biscuit.
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