Sentry

    The wind howls along the frosted mountaintops. Locals believe those who died trying to cross the mountain pass remain there, wailing as a reminder to those foolish enough to repeat their mistakes. The sacred valley within could thank those storytellers for its centuries of tranquility amid the stormy crags. Though the tales of the previous generations linger in the hearts of the young, children do not often listen to their elders. What was once fact melts into superstition and myth, and when the truth is obscured, there are those who wish to seek it out themselves.
    It is the same within the mountain as it is in the homelands of those who come to trespass. They are no different than the arrogant cubs seeking to travel beyond the mountain’s cradle and die in the heat of the lands beyond. They seek to travel beyond what they know in search of things they do not. Their quest for knowledge, and their curiosity, shall be their downfall for sure.
    The mountain knows all, and what its inhabitants don’t already know, it shares. The camp numbers six humans. Their beasts of burden equal them in number. The scent of roasted meat wafts up, filling the pristine land with its stink.
    The sentry growls. Flame did not belong on the mountain. Unfortunately, if these humans wished to camp at the foot of the mountain tonight and bring that flame up to this sacred place, it meant the sentry will become a hunter by next evening.

    As Trolf drops a new log upon the flame, the fire dances to life, clawing at the air in its destructive dance. The stout man pulls the strings on his hood, tightening the covering over his otherwise bald head. He shivers, rubbing his arms for warmth as he turns his gaze upwards to the mountaintop. “I don’ like them screams,” he said. “Me ma’ always said trust the voice o’ the mountains, and these are none-too-friendly.” He turned to their leader, the noble Donabo, sitting upon a stone and sipping from a bowl of porridge he held in one hand. “We’ve made good time, we did. There’s no need to risk the journey, I feel.”
    Donabo drops the bowl beside him and  spins on the rock for a look up to the peak. He stares, perhaps contemplating the guide’s words or the cries of the peaks themselves. With a sniff, he shrugs and scoops his bowl back up in a fluid motion. “Do you think that the son of a renowned explorer will listen to superstition? Do you even hear them yourself? These mountains do not howl. That is merely the wind. That will do nothing to you, but perhaps chafe that dome of yours. Not only that, but if it those back home think it is dangerous, that is all the more reason to attempt the climb and prove them wrong.”
    “What are ye talkin’ about, boy? Ye sound like you want to climb it just because ye can. Ye took on this mission as obligation.”
    “One man’s obligation is another man’s oppurtunity, dear Trolf.”
    Trolf scoffs, “Oppurtunity? Out with it then. What could be so important to get us killed up there, eh?”
    “I’ll tell you all,” Donabo said, dropping his bowl. He hops up onto his seat and spreads his arms wide. “One day, each and every one of us are going to be dead. We will only be remembered due to the impact we have left upon our world. Our goal is a simple one. If we deliver our cargo to a suitable land anywhere beyond the current reach of the mirrors, then we will be paid and we will be able to go home, have a few drinks and live comfortably.”
    A murmur of agreement and excitement rise up among the others. Trolf and one of the others sitting back on a cart, a hood covering her face, say nothing, yet they look up in some manner of curiosity, waiting for the rest of the pitch.
    “Or…” Donabo adds.
    This stops the chatter immediately as all eyes land on him.
    His smile widens, and Donabo stands taller than before as he continues his speech. “…we could take a chance, climb the mountain, and become legends among our people. We can pass through the mountain and make it to the mysterious land beyond, and we will be remembered as the ones who did what our ancestors could not, and even would not, attempt.”
    The hooded member of their party, Adeline the tracker, laughs as she leans forward on the seat of the cart, her left elbow resting on her left knee. The fire flickers, showing off her white sneer.
Donabo scowls. “You think me a fool, do you, witch?”
    “I know you are a fool,” Adeline responds. “To think that you’re actually my elder. It’s pathetic. Anyone with half a brain could tell you that even approaching this mountain is a ticket to death. Your ambitions are that of a child, not a leader.”
    “And yet, here you are. I suppose you’re so eager to die, yourself?”
    She doesn’t answer him, but instead turns to face the mountain herself, the shadows of the night obscuring her features once more.
    Trolf blows hot air into his hands and shakes his head, adding, “Tis bad luck to mess with the magic ones…”
    Donabo grunts and scoops his spilled bowl up. With one last scan over his party, he announces. “Get some sleep. Tomorrow, we’re making history, whether she likes it or not. Not that she has a choice.”
    “Just remember,” Adeline said, her gloved hand sliding over the box of cargo behind her. She gives it a quick pat for emphasis. “We’re doing a job for the Church, and they don’t like to have their cargo wasted.”
    "Go to bed,” Donabo repeats. He sits down off to the side, by Trolf, and unrolls his sleeping bag.
    Trolf shakes his head as he stares into the fire. “Where in the world did you find a girl like her?” he asked.
    Donabo grumbles, half asleep already. “Condition of the contract. Client says she goes, or the expedition isn’t funded.”
    "Ah,” Trolf said, “So, a girl like that all the way out here, eh? You need to think of the consequences of such an arrangement. Could very well be that she’s here because the Church don’ want her around. If that’s the case, what does that mean for the rest of us?”
    “It means we get a spell caster from the capital city who is paid for by the Church. Do not be paranoid. This isn’t some death walk. We’re setting up transit to new lands. The Church wants to increase its reach, not waste their money. Tomorrow, we’re going to climb that mountain, and we’re going to stake a claim of the new lands.
    “I hope you’re right,” Trolf says with a sigh.
    The mountains, as if in response, give one more mournful howl.

    Smoke wafts from the mountainside as the Sun rises from the far end of the mountain. Shielded from its unrelenting heat, the Sentry growls at the scent of cooked meat from below. They broke their fast from the evening, and would no doubt make their move. If they did not turn now, the sentry had to follow the traditions. The hunt will begin.

    Donabo rides atop his mountain-trained steed ahead of the cart. Sitting straight and his shoulders back, he stared ahead, urging his mount on a steady pace. With the rays of the Sun shooting up over the horizon, he snickers and then raises his voice, beginning a grand speech he had worked on since Trolf fell asleep last night. “Let the rays of the Sun and the cloudless sky be the tidings of fortune for us. We will find an undiscovered land, and we will stake the claim in the name of Goddess and Country.”
    Years of study under private tutors and excellent teachers built his rhetorical skill beyond that of any man or woman he had worked with. This expedition will be roused beyond a shadow of a doubt by the words from his lips. He takes a deep breath.
    “Fellow-,” he begins, only for the second syllable to scream out in a roar of pain. A cold shocking sensation shoots up and down his arm, and before he can do anything about it, he falls right on his back against the snowy ground.
    The party immediately stops in their tracks. The wind fills their silence, laughing at them for their foolishness. The chill follows, bringing with it a blanket of whitening snow.
    Trolf kicks his steed into motion, turning around and shouting through the howl of the wind. “I told ya. I told all ya. This mountain’s curse will kill us all. Every man for himself.”
    Donabo blinks through flakes of snow, keenly aware of the cries of terror and the quickly fading sound of his party’s retreat. He clutches his shoulder and hisses. A long icicle sticks out, having buried itself into him. The wound is cold, yet blood runs from it as the weapon melts from the heat of his body. “Come back,” he cries out “Please, don’t leave me here.”
    As Trolf rides back down the mountain, a major gust punches his side. He fights for balance, but finds a patch of ice on the road. Hoof hits the slick surface, and his animal trips, sending rider flying off into a snowbank. Two other riders share his fate.
    He sits up and slaps the snow from his beard, but all around him there is nothing but a sea of white. His companions lie motionless in the snow, and the road itself is gone.

    The storm rages on the lower reaches of the mountain. Above the angered clouds, the sentry gazes down at the swirling tornado of snow below. She left the trespassers maimed and bruised, but alive. The mountain’s wind billows her white hooded hunter’s cloak as one good eye searches for any remaining fools who would seek to bypass the natural magic.
    Her ears perk up at the crunching of snow. She spins around, her ivory-colored bow readied, yet she nocks no arrow. Icy crystals converge in the center of the bow, forming a pointed icicle shaft that is ready to strike.
    Adeline stands on another cliff-side outcropping, her own hood flapping in the high wind, revealing silver curls that rest upon her shoulders. Dark energy swirls around her outstretched hand as she holds onto the mountain wall for support with the other. “I never though I would actually live to see one of your kind,” she said. “Who would think that the Unicaitins, cats of the mountain, are real?”
    The sentry narrows her eyes. One of them locks onto Adeline’s concealed face, while the other stares uselessly off toward Donabo. The way this traveler spoke makes her icy fur bristle. She speaks in a thick, growling accent. “You could have killed me without my notice. why did you want to be found?”
    Adeline licks over her lips and responds, “I’m surprised you didn’t see me earlier. I had a hard time finding you. You’re good, and its not just talent that does it, its magic. I am Adeline, and I want to see that magic in action.”
    “You want to know the secrets of Katya’s magic? Not even the most promising of cubs are fit to learn, yet you wish to have me teach it to trespasser?”
    “I don’t need any sort of formal training. I can see what you do and get the gist of it, well enough. Guess that’s why my people don’t want me around. They like their secrets to stay secret. Oh, by the way, the leader of my expedition is still trying to get up your mountain.”
    The storm dissipates, but despite his injury, Donabo crawls up the path.
    Katya snarls and readies her weapon, only for a blast of dark flame to strike beneath her feet. The stone breaks from the mountainside and sends the cat tumbling down.
    Jagged rocks cut at her fur, flesh, and cloak as the sentry stumbles down, rolling toward a deep drop. She holds her hand in front of her, a stake of ice appearing in her grasp. She jabs it into the snowy earth just in time. With her lower body dangling off of the cliff, she scrambles to get a good footing, but the energy that burst the ground beneath her leaves her paws numb and struggling to grab hold. Her good eye stares hate at the woman.
    Adeline draws more arcane sigils in the air, preparing another spell. “If this doesn’t get her to show me more, nothing will,” she convinces herself. “Let’s see what you can do-?”
    Adeline lurches back, a cold sensation running up from her chest and spreading all throughout her body. She tries to shout in surprise, but finds the words frozen in her throat.
    Below, Katya has made it to solid ground and lowers her bow.
    Adeline smiles, knowing full well she got to see some strange magics, even on this doomed trip. She collapses in a heap.
    Donabo coughs, laying on his stomach as he crawls upwards. There’s no way he will ever give up. No way he can let superstition and nature get in the way of glory. But he’s so cold, so very cold, and so very weak.
    Katya glances at her immediate surroundings and hops down from ledge to ledge, descending to a safer location. She buries her feet in the snow, the burn of the magical fire still lingering. She sighs and looks up now, seeing the Sun laughing at her from the East.
    The cart lays overturned in a valley below, with its crate splintered, half-buried, but a glimmer peaks out as the mirror within reflects the mountaintop.