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Gaimosian had a better sense of things than he did.
    “Those snow storms kept us pent up in the mountains for too long, not to mention getting lost in the damned foothills. We’ve lost a lot of time. The quickest way is down the short road to the Kergland Spine and then the Fern River. Rekka says we can move faster by boat and I agree. The current will be with us on the voyage down. Getting back will be more difficult.”
    Bahr considered the route. “The Kergland Spine takes us into Dwarf territory.”
    “It’s the fastest route.”
    They both knew the reputations surrounding Dwarves. Bitter and reclusive, the mountain dwellers were feared almost as much as they were respected for their craftsmanship. Bahr and the others would do well to avoid any run-ins.
    “We’re most likely not going to make it in time, if the wizard’s calculations are correct,” Bahr said.
    “A handful of months are far too short to make it all the way down to the southern jungles and back again. There is no time. We’ll be fortunate if we make it half that far.”
    A cold wind shuffled through the rocky corridor, blasting them with unabated fury. Bahr, no stranger to fierce weather, ducked down into his bearskin cloak in a futile attempt to keep the wind out. His curses were lost on the low growl of the wind.
    “You’re getting old,” Boen laughed. His deep voice boomed with each syllable. “There was a time when the mighty Sea Wolf would have spit in the face of such a breeze.”
    “There was a time when he also had a boat, but look where he is now,” Bahr countered. “I think I’m going to go have a talk with Anienam. See if I can get him to reread that part in the book that basically tells us if we’re screwed or not.”
    The Gaimosian nodded. “I will keep point. The way out of the foothills is clear now. We shouldn’t have any trouble.”
    Bahr failed to remind Boen he’d said the same thing a week ago.
FOUR
    Doldrums
    Every rock looked the same. Every grass-covered mound, lichen-covered rock, and moss-striped tree looked the same. The ground offered nothing new. The same sky continued to look down mockingly. The northern reaches of the Murdes Mountains might be filled with many foul and dangerous things, but the southern end drove men to despair. Not a single aspect of the mountains had changed since leaving Venheim. Nothing except it got much colder without the heat of the massive forges.
    Dorl Theed took a long pull from his canteen, swirled it around in his mouth and then spit. The makeshift goggles cut out of pine bark helped reduced the glare from the snow to the point he found it almost manageable. Weeks of wandering aimlessly down from the peaks threatened to break his spirit though, a thing he never thought possible. Not even Harnin’s torturers managed to do much more than break a few bones.
    He began to regret the decision to sign on with Bahr. Nothing good had come from it. The old man wasn’t the adventurer he once was. Nor did he seem to care too much about the fate of Delranan. Any other man would have snapped already. Home, boat, any chance at a normal life all wiped out on a madman’s whim. Dorl found himself growing angry over the indignity of it, and nothing had happened to him!
    “Your mind is clouded,” Rekka Jel said softly from his side.
    He smiled. He couldn’t help it. She was the one thing going right for him since leaving Delranan all those weeks ago though he still wasn’t sure what she saw in him. Rekka came from an entirely different culture far to the south, a tribe locked deep in the jungle and given the purpose of defending something more ancient than the gods themselves. She’d come so far on sheer faith, bearing a warning for Bahr. The selflessness of it impressed him greatly. Though he couldn’t help but wonder why she’d chosen him.
    He answered, “Because I can’t seem to make it up. None of this is right, Rekka.”
    She appeared confused. “What is wrong? We have the