anOldShu

Journey to the Lesser circle of Fire and the Vetr Mountains.

CC 37-01.02

We broke camp at first light, as our destination, the Ends, lay only a day’s travel ahead. It stood as the final node of any notable size within the northeastern reaches of the Argian Empire, perched precariously upon the South-Western slopes of the formidable Vetr Mountains. Veiled in an aura of deep, dark winter these mountains leave me with sharp foreboding. They are a breeding ground for myths, folklore, and tales of inhuman creatures.

All children of Argia grow up on stories of the Frost Giants and Mountain Goblins skulking the Vetr. Although it is well known in educated circles that goblins had long vanished from within the borders of Argia, their presence faded into the annals of history for over two centuries. Still, I must admit that these stories feel like something more than just ghost stories told to gullible children. No, now, out here, they seem to permeate the air cascading down the mountain’s contours, spreading like a shroud across the entirety of the empire.

As we drew closer to the Ends our caravan came across more and more of the Vetr folk. Their stout yet solemn figures seemingly emerged from the depths of the snow-covered wood that surrounded the pass. They wielded bows and axes but only stood still as statues as we passed. Their gray expressionless eyes watching in silence. The Vetr folk lived a hard life revolving around mixed farming, raising livestock, hunting, and when times were desperate raiding the southern provinces. The Vetr folk are technically within the dominion of Argia, but they could not be more strange. The Imperial administration mostly leaves them alone in the remote parts, so long as they behave. The raiding causes trouble, however, the Grand Marshal of the Ends is usually able to quash such aggression before it begins fully.

Despite my obvious depth of understanding, and against my better judgment, I must admit curiosity got the better of me. I felt compelled to ride close as one of the members of our caravan master’s retinue approached a Vetr man, who stood closer to the pass than most. He was a tall man with a thick beard that ran past his chest. He held a spear in one hand resting the blunt end on the ground so that the point stood just above his head and draped his other arm over the shoulders of a boy that stood next to him, presumably one of his sons.

“You there!” bellowed the rough-voiced Caravan man, from atop his horse. “What is the date?” he commanded, more of a stern demand than a mere inquiry.
The Vetr man paused, locking eyes with the rider. A mocking smile began to stretch over his face, “The date? Did you hear that, boy? These fancy Argians with their mighty steeps and shiny armor have forgotten the what time of year it is.” He began to bellow now, “Ay, why didn’t you ask the stars last night? Did you forget how?” His laughter echoed through the air, and the boy chuckled along, albeit with a hint of caution.
The Rider straightened, his hand instinctively reaching for the hilt of his sword and resting on the sheathed blade. As if in a moment of clarity, the caravan man suddenly became known to me—a lesser noble, compelled to engage in labor, albeit in a prominent position, while still clinging to a fragile semblance of dignity. In reality, that veneer of dignity often proved all too fragile and I feared that if the wounded noble struck down this man and his son we would suddenly be set upon by the Vetr folk who surely were more numerous hidden within the wood than what they reveal to us. Swiftly, I interjected.
“It is Y’an 3rd, in the 37th year of concordance,” I stated, my words unintentionally adopting the lecturing tone so readily familiar to scholars.
“Y’an? Y’an!” The deep laugh of Vetr’s man turned wheezy. “Did you hear that, boy? He says it’s Y’an! Yet today is the 4th of the 1st frost, 3,000. In the first one’s measurement, we keep the same here. …” The laughing suddenly stopped, his son was wide-eyed and looked nervous. “If you’re going to name something that need not be named—something we could well do without—then you might as well name it furs time.” He stared meanly at the rider and then at me before his stony appearance gave way to bellowing laughter. “because that’s when we get the furs!” tears started to streak his face.
“Or, or… Corn time! For the 5th!” the boy cried, a spark of enthusiasm in his voice. The Vetr man erupted into raucous laughter and clapped his son on the back so hard that he almost fell over.
“Ayy, corn time! The boy understands it well. At least it would serve a purpose. Y’an,” he scoffed. “Let those magiciers, spellhexers, light worshippers, and sorcerés have the names. They can prattle away in their towers like all the other useless high and mighty folk in the world.”
The Caravan man scowled and turned his face away in disgust. “You should not interfere, scholar,” he spoke sharply to me before trotting back to the head of the Caravan. I inclined my head slightly in embarrassed acknowledgment and followed.

Upon our return to the caravan, I observed the horseman relaying, the date to the caravan master. He offered a half-smile and then resumed his stride. The Caravan master, a large man riding atop a great wagon pulled by two great oxen waved me over. I quickly rode up next to him, feeling like I was a child in school getting ready for a scolding.
“My man tells me you spoke out of line and compromised our position.” The caravan master said evenly.
“I simply offered an answer to his inquiry.”
“We know the date,” he said flatly.
“Then why…”
“Why ask?” He completed the question for me. “Logistics is king. Like a good king, many advisors are needed for Logistics to run smoothly. Advisors such as Information, Communication, Diplomacy, and knowledge. If even one of these advisors is lacking and the king ill-advised makes a mistake, then the whole kingdom falls apart. We asked the Vetr man the date to one: Confirm our date keeping is correct. Two: establish a line of communication with the Vetr folk. Three: open negotiations so that the Vetr gets used to acting diplomatically with us instead of seeing us as prey. Four: to acquire knowledge of risk.”
“I see…” I said, “However, despite their reputation and their crude appearance the Vetr are sill Argian, as are we. I hardly…”
“When I was in the 3rd Northern Expeditionary force,” The caravan master interrupted, “I served as a quartermaster during the first Argi-Norradic War. I was good at my job. I always made sure that those I was responsible for had everything they needed to survive, but no matter what I did there was one crucial thing I just couldn’t seem to get. Do you know what that is?”
“Food, or weapons?” I answered.
“boots, I couldn’t get anyone any winter boots. I sent in all the correct requests, and on more than one occasion too. But the shipments kept disappearing. You see we went up there in the spring to help the royal family of Norad maintain control after a popular peasant rebelling was threatening to spiral out of control. It seemed only natural with the Norradic family being half Agrian after all. By summer we realized that Norad would never be ruled by a royal family ever again and evacuation of the royals became our new objective. By fall we abandoned the idea of evacuating anyone but ourselves, and by winter the Baleful sea had frozen over. We were stuck in Norad. Our options were to fortify our position and wait for next spring, when the ice would melt, or brave the frozen crossings.” He let out a deep sigh. “Crossing was death for certain. We held for as long as we could, scrounging for food, recovering arms, and building fortifications. But in the winter chill, its bite was the real danger. I realized this after the amputations began. I tell you all this because the only land supply route from Argia to our position in Norad was through the mountains that skirted the western side of the Baleful Sea. These mountains. Many people died due to those missing shipments of winter boots. Who do you think it was that took them?”
Realization set in and I scanned the woods, the gray eyes, the stout faces that surrounded me. My breath caught in my throat and I tried to swallow.
“We may be in the borders of Argia, but that does not make all those in it Argians, nor does that make them allies. I will never allow such suffering due to failed logistics to ever happen to anyone under my care again.”
We rode in silence next to each other for a while before my horse began to slow and a distance steadily, mercifully separated us.