Cendre's indecision did not last long.
From his vantage point along the drop, he noticed a narrow path cutting through the slope below. It zigzagged carefully along the face of the terrain, hidden in places by protruding rocks and ridges that obscured it from view unless one was already searching for it.
It was not a natural formation.
Someone had made that path.
He lowered himself carefully and began descending.
The footing was treacherous in places, but manageable. The trail had been worn into the ground through repeated use. Beneath the thin crust of snow, the soil was packed hard. In several spots he noticed traces of habitation, small remnants that confirmed the route had been traveled many times before.
Animal bones lay scattered along the edges of the path, stripped clean and gnawed by hounds or wolves. Old fire pits appeared occasionally, circles of stones blackened by soot, their ashes long cold but still visible beneath drifting snow.
Whoever used this route had been doing so for years.
Cendre continued downward until the path widened and flattened.
At the base of the descent he found something unexpected.
A small spring bubbled quietly between several stones, steam rising faintly into the cold air. The water was warm, perhaps even hot, and the surrounding snow had melted into damp earth and sparse grass.
Near the spring stood a familiar sight.
A wooden pipe.
The contraption resembled the one he had discovered earlier beyond the Quiet Pass. It was simple in construction but clearly purposeful, fitted with carved cuts and markings that seemed to measure something or guide the flow of water.
The resemblance was unmistakable.
Whoever had built the first device had likely built this one as well.
Cendre crouched beside the spring, testing the water with his hand. Heat spread immediately across his skin.
He had not bathed in days.
The journey across the frozen terrain had left him stiff, his muscles constantly tense from the cold and the strain of climbing across difficult ground. The warmth was tempting.
After a moment of consideration, he decided there was little harm in it.
The fire pit beside the spring had already been used before. He added a few pieces of dry kindling and coaxed a small flame to life before setting his gear beside it. His cloak, armor, and weapons rested within reach while he lowered himself carefully into the steaming water.
The heat enveloped him immediately.
It seeped into joints that had grown tight from days of travel, loosening the tension in his shoulders and spine. The warmth felt almost unnatural after the relentless cold of the mountains.
For the first time since leaving Icy's End, his body relaxed.
He remained there for nearly an hour, letting the heat soak into him until his skin flushed red and the stiffness faded from his limbs.
Eventually he climbed out, dried himself as best he could, and dressed again.
The fire continued burning beside the spring as he rested nearby. Six hours passed in relative quiet before he finally gathered his gear and resumed his journey northward.
The terrain began to change gradually.
Snow thinned in several places, revealing patches of hardy grass pushing through the frozen soil. By the time he crested the next series of hills, he found himself standing on open ground where the grass grew thick enough to bend beneath the wind.
From that hilltop he saw the sea.
Massive icebergs drifted slowly across the distant waters, pale blue against the gray horizon. Between the hills and the ocean stood a barrier of mountains, jagged and imposing.
A river flowed through the land below.
It split into three branching channels that wound their way toward the mountain barrier before disappearing somewhere beyond it. The water ran dark and steady despite the cold.
As he approached the riverbank, signs of activity became obvious.
A small dock stood along the edge of one channel, constructed from stone and packed earth. Wooden rails bordered the platform, worn smooth from use. A heavy iron rod protruded from one side, likely used to secure boats against the current.
The smell reached him before he even stepped onto the dock.
Fish.
The scent was unmistakable.
Nearby he found a shallow pit filled with discarded fish guts, partially frozen but still pungent. Several stumps had been arranged around the area as makeshift seats where fishermen likely sat while cleaning their catch.
This was no abandoned outpost.
People worked here regularly.
Cendre examined the area briefly but found no obvious trail leading toward the mountain barrier where the river split. The land in that direction grew rougher and more uneven.
So instead he turned west.
That was the direction the oxen caravan had been traveling earlier.
As he walked, he began noticing something else about the landscape.
Plants. Strange varieties grew among the grass and stones, many of them bearing characteristics that made him wary. Several had thick stems that leaked pale sap when broken. Others carried bright red or white berries that stood out sharply against the muted vegetation.
He studied them cautiously.
Poisonous plants often shared certain warning signs. Milky or colored sap. Bitter scents. Strong odors. Bright berries meant to attract animals but were deadly to consume. Leaves grouped in threes with glossy surfaces. Some bore thorns or fine hairs along their stems.
He did not recognize most of these species.
And he had no intention of experimenting.
Better to assume they were dangerous and leave them alone.
The journey across the grassy tundra felt endless.
Wind rolled across the hills in steady waves, bending the grass like water. For a long time he saw nothing but the distant mountains and the endless plain.
Then something appeared that made him stop.
Ahead, carved directly into the mountainside, stood a settlement.
At first he thought it was a small town.
But the longer he studied it through his telescope, the less certain he became. The structures climbed the rocky slope in layered tiers, houses built from stone and angled sharply to deflect the wind.
Rope bridges stretched between sections of the settlement, connecting structures that clung to the cliffs.
In front of it all stood enormous stone walls.
Watchtowers rose above the fortifications, their silhouettes sharp against the pale sky.
This was no mere town.
It was a fortress.
Cendre's instincts reacted immediately.
He ran toward the tallest patch of grass nearby and crouched low within it, attempting to conceal himself.
But the tundra offered little cover.
A lone figure standing, or even crouching, in the middle of an open grassland was difficult to hide. His dark armored cloak made the problem worse.
He had not bothered to cover it with snow or dirt.
It did not take long.
Movement erupted from the direction of the settlement.
Six riders emerged across the plain, mounted on enormous horses larger and heavier than the one he had left behind near the Quiet Pass. Their animals moved quickly across the grass, hooves pounding steadily as they approached.
Cendre exhaled slowly.
So much for remaining unnoticed.
He unhooked his helmet from where it hung at his waist and pulled it over his head, securing it firmly. Then he drew his sawsword, the blade with one edge sharpened smooth while the opposite side bore brutal serrations meant to tear through armor and flesh alike.
The riders closed in rapidly.
They spread out as they approached, forming a loose circle around him.
Each carried a spear.
The weapons were already angled forward, ready to be thrown if he made a wrong move.
Cendre stood still in the center of their tightening formation, sword held low but ready, watching as they circled him carefully like hunters deciding how best to deal with a dangerous animal.
Their spears were mostly made of black stone.
The shafts were thick and dark, carved carefully, while the heads were shaped from that same unnatural black material Captain Vandal had described. It caught the light in dull reflections rather than gleaming like steel.
Only the one leading them carried a spear of metal.
His weapon was forged from proper steel, its edge polished and straight. The man himself was more heavily equipped than the rest. Armor composed of overlapping plates of black stone covered his chest and shoulders, layered in lamella that shifted as he moved in the saddle.
The others were dressed more simply.
They wore thick furs wrapped tightly around their frames, with boiled leather cuirasses beneath. Practical armor meant for cold and travel rather than for ceremony. What they lacked were the things the survivors had described before.
There were no horns.
No antlers.
And their limbs were perfectly ordinary.
Cendre noted that detail carefully while keeping his stance steady.
The lead rider slowly raised the tip of his spear.
The movement was deliberate, the weapon angled just enough that Cendre's attention would remain fixed on it. At the same time the other riders shifted subtly, their horses circling wider. If they struck, it would be fast, like snakes darting from every direction at once.
Cendre tightened his grip on the sawsword but did not move.
The man spoke then.
The language was foreign. Harsh sounds mixed with clipped syllables that Cendre could not recognize. He said something else after a moment, his tone measured rather than threatening.
Cendre remained silent.
He kept the armored cloak drawn forward, letting the layered plates shield most of his body while he watched them carefully.
The rider tilted his head slightly.
Through the narrow opening of his nasal helm, his eyes studied Cendre for several seconds. Then he spoke again, more words in that unfamiliar tongue.
When no response came, the man slowly lifted one hand.
His palm opened outward.
The thumb touched the little finger while the others remained extended.
A gesture.
A sign of peace.
Cendre glanced briefly around the circle of riders before mirroring the motion. He raised his own hand and made the same gesture, though he did not lower his guard.
Not even for a moment.
The lead rider watched him carefully before barking a short command over his shoulder.
One of the riders on his left immediately turned his horse and rode back the way they had come, spurring the animal toward the distant settlement.
The rest remained where they were.
It became a standoff.
They sat upon their horses with spears ready, forming a patient ring around him while Cendre stood alone in the grass with his sword prepared. If the leader made one wrong motion, he was already calculating how quickly he could lunge forward and drive the serrated edge of the sawsword into the man before the others reacted.
Neither side moved.
Minutes passed.
Eventually the rider who had left returned.
He was no longer alone.
A woman rode beside him, her horse moving swiftly across the grass. She wore a thick fur coat that covered most of her frame, and upon her face rested a pair of spectacles held in place by leather straps tied around the back of her head.
The straps were decorated with small embroidered flowers.
Like the others, she rode a powerful horse bred for harsh climates, though hers carried itself with more speed and grace than the rougher animals of the riders.
They stopped a short distance away.
The woman studied him briefly before speaking.
"Greetings," she said in the Commonal tongue.
Her voice carried easily across the wind.
"We did not think the walled city would find us this early. I take it you seek justice for the men we battled?"
The bluntness of it caught Cendre's attention immediately.
There was no denial in her words.
No attempt to pretend ignorance.
If anything, they had expected someone to come looking.
"I am," he replied simply.
She nodded slightly.
"So they truly were leaders?"
"They were," he answered. "The head of the walled city you mentioned."
She cupped her chin thoughtfully.
"As we suspected."
Her gaze drifted briefly toward the distant mountains before returning to him.
"You crossed Pala's Crossing?"
Cendre frowned faintly.
"Do you mean the wasteland before here?"
"Yes."
"I have," he said. "Though I came down through a zigzag path in the rocks. A slope leading from the ridge. What do you call it?"
"Tuman's Slope," she replied without hesitation.
Her brow furrowed slightly.
"So you did not come through the grassy path?"
Another path?
Cendre kept his expression neutral.
"No," he said. "I did not."
He shifted his stance slightly, lowering the tip of his sword though not returning it to its sheath.
"I came here to investigate what happened to the leader of a hunting party that crossed what you call Pala's Crossing. We believe there was a battle."
He studied her carefully.
"The daughter and the sibling of those leading that party seek an explanation."
The riders remained silent.
No one moved.
But the fact that they were speaking at all suggested something important.
If these people had wished him dead, they would have thrown their spears already.
The woman seemed to reach the same conclusion.
"There may have been a misunderstanding," she said slowly.
"A terrible one."
She straightened slightly in the saddle.
"Come with us to Carcove."
The name rolled easily from her tongue.
"I swear we mean you no harm. Only hospitality and words."
Cendre did not respond immediately.
Instead he watched her for several seconds.
Then he spoke.
"Swear it by your god."
Her eyebrow lifted slightly.
"Swear it."
Without hesitation she reached to her wrist and snapped a small piece from the bracelet she wore there. Removing her glove, she drew a line across her palm, just enough to break the skin.
A thin line of blood appeared.
"I swear this upon Uruk," she said calmly.
The wind stirred the grass between them.
Cendre lowered his sword.
With a single smooth motion he swung the blade down and slid it back into its sheath. Then he bent slightly, scooping a small handful of dirt from the ground before letting it fall against his armored boot.
"My god greets yours," he said.
"I swear my sword will not leave its sheath unless offense is given."
The woman nodded once, satisfied.
She turned and barked a quick order to one of the riders. The man dismounted immediately and stepped aside, handing over the reins of his horse.
The animal snorted softly in the cold air.
Cendre approached cautiously, taking the reins when they were offered.
In one smooth motion he mounted the saddle.
The riders shifted their formation once more, this time turning their horses toward the distant settlement carved into the mountains.
Cendre adjusted his armored cloak against the wind and followed them across the tundra toward the place they called Carcove.