Kilto Pass
His knuckles were bleeding again, cracking from the blistering cold and his aging skin. The blood seeped through the stitch work of his gloves as he sharpened his engraved blade. The whetstone whispered in its metallic language which honed the edge to its sharpened form. The Sword was almost as old as he was, no doubt it was as battered and worn down from a life dictated by violence. All in service to a cause that had abandoned him when he needed them the most.
“Why do you keep swinging that old rusty ingot around, Kieber?” One of the younger hunters spoke to him, as if the whistling winds of the mountain pass were not enough of a nuisance to his ears. The youth, who had been called Vilk, was a gangly figure with his cloak brought tight to his shivering body. “Not like you are hurting for coin these days, that poor excuse of a sword is past its prime. Would hate to be fighting alongside a man who uses rubbish for a weapon just for it to break off and hit me instead.”
“Wouldn’t that be a blessing. Some gods damn peace and quiet would be nice for a change.” Another hunter, Ghorem, was more worn by the hardship and heart numbing profession they all share.
Vilk wrinkled his crooked nose, pulling his bear cloak tighter to himself as he shuffled closer to the meager campfire.
“All you old men do is brood over days gone by, why not live in the now and indulge yourself to something enjoyable for once. A new sword, new cloak, some spice, even a good whoring couldn’t hurt you for a change.”
Ghorem scoffed at the young man as he added another log to the fire, causing embers to erupt in the cold night air. “New blades aren’t made for our line of work, Vilk. Against another sword wielded by the average man, no problems there. But against a Moore Reaper or a Spinehowler? That tin toy you call a sword would bend over like your courtesans do. Or do you do the bending over for pleasure?”
Kieber’s attention shifted away from the squabbling hunters, looking out from the cave entrance to the wilds outside. Snow burdened trees dotted the mountainside of the Kilto Pass amongst the many boulders and tenebrous crags that stretched down the valley. The moonlight refracted off the densely packed snow to almost shine dimly against the enveloping darkness. He could make out small creatures bounding across the ivory landscape. Either searching for shelter or hunting for their next quarry. Not so different from the hunters now occupying this cave, out in the wilds in search of their quarry. Though Kieber would not be surprised if their target was skulking in the shadows, watching them. Waiting.
Their contract came from the slowly growing port town known as Frost Bilge, reluctantly named after the town’s refuse being discarded to the sea only for it to come back as a frozen moat of filth and detritus across the docks. As the town began expanding from the cold wharf of the coast into the mountains of Kilto Pass, excavators and builders started going missing. What started off as a few disappearances has turned into a staggering loss of life to the point where no one will work the excavations for fear of being taken off by whatever stalked Kilto Pass. The Foreman of the excavation put the word out for anyone who could find the cause and put an end to it. Not mentioning anything for an attempt at rescue, which in Kieber’s mind meant either The Foreman did not expect any survivors to return or cared more about the continuation of the excavation than the safety of those who worked in it. Money speaks loudly and is heard more often than the cries of the suffering.
“I’m just saying for a place named after ice blocks of shit, their women sure do know how have a good time.” Vilk’s commentary brought Kieber’s attention back to his band of hunters. Vilk, a real pest of a half elf most of the time but knows his way around a bow. Ghorem, a human war veteran turned hunter like Kieber when the realm went to hell in a bloody handbasket, who went to work like a butcher whenever he drew his hand axes. And then there was Kieber, “The Old Hexblade ″ some called him when they thought he wasn’t paying attention. A moniker earned in part to his iconic battered weapon as much as it was the title of the nigh forgotten order of spell-swords he served decades ago. Warriors who mastered the arcane as much as the arts of combat.
Ghorem pulled a charred stick away from the campfire with several morsels of meat singed at the tip. “Well, when you go to nag about the cold like you have been, think about your woman’s warmth and give us some peace and quiet.” He began stripping the meat from the burned branch, separating them into three bowls and passed them around to his companions. “What do you think we’re up against, Kieber?”
The old hunter rested his longsword against the cave wall as he reached for the soup, his movements labored from another cold day of travel. His voice came out in a resonant clarity that betrayed his grizzled broken exterior. “We have been in these mountains for three days, found several camps gone cold with possessions left where they lay. No bodies, no blood trails, no remains. If there was a corpse with its remains feasted on, that would have indicated a simple beast eating out of necessity. But there has been no bodies, just the empty camps.”
“Maybe they’re just deserters? Came to Kranzergahd for a new life, hopped on the first boat over here and did not care where they went. When they got the job to go on an expedition, they decided to leave it behind to pave their own way.” Vilk theorized between ravenous bites of his meal.
“Then why leave the camps with all their supplies as they were? Doesn’t make sense to just leave that behind, especially when it’s damn near impossible to traverse Kilto Pass without the proper equipment.” Ghorem countered, glancing out to the wilds beyond the cave, snow drifting into the valley below. “They must’ve been taken by something while they slept.”
“Or lead off by someone. We didn’t find any drag marks in the snow to indicate they were taken to any of the cave openings we’ve investigated.” Kieber retorted, then took a swig of his waterskin. The water stung with a frigid bite as it slid down his throat, sending him into a brief coughing fit. “Vilk, do you remember the camp we found this morning, there were still footprints in the snow, correct?”
“There were, but they didn’t leave the camp. Just walked around it like a patrol, went to a tree to take a piss, then was gone.” Vilk answered, shoveling the bowl’s contents into his mouth unceremoniously. The wind howled outside with the frigid night, sending snow cascading down the mouth of the cave. “Honestly surprised anyone can piss without it turning to ice once it meets contact with how fuckin’ cold it is here. Next time, we do a contract in Gildaya. I’d take sand and heat stroke compared to this shit.”
Ghorem rolled his eyes as Vilk continued complaining “So what then? They just up and vanished into snowflakes when morning came? I doubt that’s an excuse that the foreman would be willing to accept.” He reached up and removed his snow soaked headwrap and laid the cloth near the fire, his scarred bald head also taking in the warmth of the flame. “How about we go back to Frost Bilge and check with the locals again, maybe there was something we missed. If anything, we can use it to resupply and get better furs for the cold.”
“Oh typical, when I get cold and voice my thoughts, I’m nagging. When you get cold, it’s a tactical response to the conditions or some shit. Your double standard is hogshit, Ghorem, Hogshit!”
Kieber did not speak, his eyes fixed on the few trees that stood in the valley. Their branches swayed back and forth, not a constant movement like wind through a valley normally would be. It was swaying rhythmically, each movement more violent than the last. The snow started to match the rhythm, sending torrents of white waves across the valley.
“Quiet,Vilk.” He hushed, slowly reaching for his hexblade.
Vilk’s eyes widened in exacerbation, “Oh you gotta be shitting me, you’re siding with him? Again?! He just pitched going all the way back to that shit hole when he was cold, and you’re fine with it?”
“Vilk, you need to …” Kieber tried to say as he stood up, gripping his sword in a stance toward the caves opening as a stronger gust approached.
“I don’t have to do a damn thing, old man! I’m not scared of you!” shouted Vilk as he stood up to match Kieber with a dagger in hand. It was then that the true terror manifested itself.
Continued in Chapter Two.
