Bard always preferred things at the bottom of a mountain to the top of one. The horses liked it more for a start, what with their ancient legs not forced to negotiate rubble-strewn inclines. The wind boasted fewer teeth here, too, and the Mountainmen were scarce as the wolves, just the way Bard liked it.

They were now three whole days from Three-Peak Pass, the landscape far whiter because of it. Not because of snow - that wouldn't be expected to fall properly for another three months or so, when the thick of winter came - the rock just seemed to be lighter. Bard couldn't explain it, but then he was no literary man. Of all of them, Taaj was the most likely to know things he had no right to know, virtue of benefitting from an upbringing in Sand Country. Even he didn't know much about Scavania, though, so Bard left the subject be. He found it pretty enough in its own, isolated way. Smooth rises here and there, shelves of hard land that tolerated barely any green and formed corridors for the western wind to wreak havoc in.

It was in one such corridor they found themselves riding gently along. They were bordered on both sides by sheeted pale rock, a path the colour of chalk cleaving onward as it twisted and turned. For Bard and the others this was the usual road, one they had traipsed ten times or more and yet liked no better than when they had walked it the first time.

Their procession followed the usual order. Bodkin came first on his short, sturdy grey. He had the best eyes, did Bodkin. Bard rode in his immediate wake atop his ageing palfrey, Oath. Then came Taaj and Tall Toyne in tandem, a comical pairing given the huge differences in their physical stature. Finally, right at the back, on the big black that carried the bodies, went Weasel.

Bard glanced back at the two corpses folded over the flanks of Weasel's horse. It got him thinking about their purpose. It got him thinking about the list that ruled all.

'That last one, what was it he did again?' Bard had a strong feeling he could recall anyway, but he always found himself asking. Perhaps it was to better settle the conscience that plagued him daily.

'He was a raper,' Taaj told him bluntly. 'And the other one burned children. Or was it that one that burned children and the other one that was the raper? Makes no difference, all the same when they're dead.'

'They don't smell the same,' Weasel said from the back. It was easy to forget he was virtually still a child. His voice gave him away every time though. That and the fact he complained about things like the smell of dead men.

Time was when Bard would have taken umbrage to such unpleasantries as well. Were it not for the Burned Priests and their list, he would be living in Green Country, where he belonged, not hunting rapers and torturers across Oblivia. In a different life ... Taaj would still be in the Spice Ports, Bodkin would be in Ark, Tall Toyne living on some spit of land in the Island Kingdoms and Weasel ... Weasel would probably be dead anyway. Instead, we are here. Instead, we are ...

'That's because one's three-days-old and the other is nine,' Taaj quipped, back at Weasel.

'Ten,' Tall Toyne corrected him.

'Is it strange that I can taste the smell of rot?' Weasel swatted at the cloud of flies that escorted his horse. He looked tiny on the big black.

'It's strange that you don't shut up, even after I told you Tall Toyne don't like yapping,' Taaj said.

Bard could hear Weasel grumbling under his breath, but the boy didn't say anything out loud. He knew better than to test Taaj so close to Fara Mordova. The world grew bleak this far west, the spirits of any and all who ventured there shaded to darkness, men became irritable and short-tempered. For someone like Taaj that meant they moved to the wrong side of dangerous.

The party rounded a corner and the walls bordering the road fell away. The wind was harsher here, no buffer daring to stand against it. Bard reined in, pulled his cloak tight around his neck and waited for the others to come to a halt. They grouped on the edge of a lip overlooking a barren plain, the rock field giving way to a forest of brittle black trees after one-hundred yards or so. One sole path cut a gap between the trees, winding on into obscurity between the mountains that decorated the horizon. The only mark of significance on the landscape was the log-built tavern coughing up smoke through a chimney, a glimmer of colour set against the monochrome portrait. Endholm. The last stop before Fara Mordova.

'They always look so ...'

'Dead? It figures.' Taaj finished Tall Toyne's lament, as he so often did. 'That's brimwood trees for you. And a whole forest of them. It's a wonder we don't go mad in there.'

'We wouldn't know if we were, that's what madness is. Come on,' said Bard, forcing Oath onwards with his heels, 'let's see if Letta can fill our stomachs.'

Endholm was, if nothing else, warm inside. Letta, the owner, kept a fire burning on brimwood logs in the large hearth at all times, the scent of it rich and thick in the air. There were but two long-tables in the place, each stretching the tavern's entire length, one of them supporting a band of four Mountainmen. Bard knew there were rooms upstairs, though he'd never made use of them. He and the others routinely paused at Endholm before moving on to Fara Mordova. Letta always had ale, and if they'd timed it right she would have a pot of stew cooking. From the smell of the place, they'd timed it perfectly.

Bard shed his cloak and hung it on a hook on the wall. Below it he placed his axe. Taaj and Tall Toyne followed him in, the latter having to duck significantly to get under the lintel. Bodkin unslung his quiver and set it by the door with Bard's axe. Weasel could be heard outside, cursing as he tried to tie the horses up with fingers disobedient from the cold.

'Friends,' Bard called to the four men, 'well met. Where can we find Letta?' It never did to assume Mountainmen were friendly. They were cantankerous to outsiders in the main and Bard knew better than to risk unsettling them with ill-manners.

The eldest of them, a red-head with an enormous beard, draped in white bear pelts, regarded Bard but said nothing. He took in Tall Toyne as well, for it was virtually impossible to ignore him. Bard decided to let him come around at his own pace.

He took a seat on the other table and the others hunkered down around him. Letta, Bard figured, would be out the back getting more brimwood, or otherwise upstairs attending some matter of business.

'What is it with Mountainmen and giving the cold eye?' Taaj asked, loud enough to make Bard wince.

'Four more,' Bard heard himself saying, dream-like as the words escaped his lips.

Taaj stared at him, confused. Toyne did too, though Toyne always looked like that; like he wasn't sure exactly what was going on. Bodkin kept his flinty eyes on the Mountainmen, one hand on a chin thick with the shadowy beard he liked to wear.

'Four more, then you'll never have to see a Mountainman again for as long as you live,' Bard told Taaj. 'Same for you, Toyne. Four more names and we're done.' Four more names and I can tell the Burned Priests to eat their list. Brother Sorrow can watch from the Tower of Weeps as me and Oath trot away for the last time. Bodkin will have to stay for a few more, so will Weasel, but me, Taaj and Toyne will be done. What will we do then?

Bard's trail of thought was interrupted by the door opening again to admit Weasel. His pointy face was flushed red with the cold, features sharp enough to cut. He sat down next to Bodkin and blew into cupped hands.

'Boy, another ale while Letta is gone! If you're old enough to pour it.' The Mountainman with the ginger beard slammed an empty pewter tankard on the table and his three companions chipped in with various forms of laughter. His voice was heavily accented, words driven and gritty.

Weasel didn't reply. Bard had taught him for the better part of a year and the boy had heeded his lessons. If they're not on the list, they're not worth the trouble. Killing wasn't in Bard's nature, not before the Burned Priests. It wasn't in Weasel's either, it seemed. Unfortunately, the same did not ring true with Taaj and Tall Toyne. Taaj had a way about him that often made Bard wonder if he didn't find purpose in seeking quarrel. Toyne, meanwhile, Taaj liked to describe as "made for crushing skulls".

'If more Mountainmen got off their arses and did things, instead of taking interest in young boys, I expect Halvard would be the seat of the Empire,' Taaj said, emerald eyes fixed on Weasel as though he might be considering fetching an ale.

The Mountainmen got to their feet in unison, oaken thighs slamming against the edge of the table. Taaj offered them a courteous smile and one hand disappeared from view. Bard rued the fact he'd left his axe by the door, the dirk on his hip a shallow comfort.

The bearded man approached their party, closing enough distance to make a point but stopping before he came within a sword's length. His face carried wear from the ages, thick creases and leathery skin. Bard pegged him as being a few inches taller than he. 'You're pretty, Zaffaarian. You don't wear a pretty hat like the rest of them though?'

Bard guessed he was talking about the tightly-wound turbans the Zaffaarians were known for wearing. Taaj wasn't from Zaffaar though, Taaj was from the Spice Ports. His black hair fell in shining bundles across his shoulders and down his back, a soft-featured face belying the threat he posed.

'What's your name, Mountainman?' Taaj asked.

'They call me Grunt. Grunt the Beard.'

'Well, Grunt the Beard, you'll find I'm different from most Zaffaarians, I think.'

'Tell me, have you ever heard the saying "Zaffaar boasts no warriors, only wise men?" If you are wise, you'll leave the way you came and go back where it's warm.'

'Tell me,' Taaj muttered, moving his emerald eyes from Weasel to Grunt, 'have you ever had a dagger through your hand? Sit back down, talk no more and it might be that I'm not the only wise man here.'

Grunt barked out a laugh, half-turned to his friends and tucked his thumbs into the leather belt holding his furs in place. 'But I am so big, and you are so small? Maybe you're not so wise after all?'

It was Toyne's turn to rise to his feet. When he did his bald head wasn't too far off the ceiling. Bard reckoned Tall Toyne to be near seven-foot. He was wide at the shoulders too and carried a look that nature had granted him, one that warned other creatures against trying to win fame by bringing him down. He fixed Grunt with said look, eyes pointing down where he overtopped the Mountainman by half a foot.

'Well ain't you the biggest, darkest man I've seen this year,' Grunt said.

Tall Toyne didn't say anything, maybe because Grunt had spoken the truth. Bard had never seen a man as tall as Toyne, nor as dark. Taaj used to joke that he and Bard would lose Toyne if the Islander closed his eyes at night. He stopped doing it when Toyne broke a Greenman's back for risking the same jape. 

Bard stood up and leaned across the table. 'There's no need for this, not all the way out here.'

He saw a flicker of movement as Grunt moved his hand to a hatchet in his belt. Toyne's trident was still strapped on his back. Bard knew he was wicked fast with the thing, even if Grunt had the advantage. Either Toyne's faster and Grunt dies, or Grunt's faster and Toyne takes an axe. If it's the first we'll have to kill the other three, if it's the second the next thing Grunt will see is the end of Taaj's knife, then we'll have to kill the other three anyway.

'What in the name of the Elders is going on?' The voice came from the door. A lady, certainly, but with a bite that meant it could be only one person. 'Grunt, you sit back down if you know what's good for you.'

Bard turned his head and welcomed the sight of Letta. He'd known her for four years, if stopping by someone's tavern before you went to the edge of the world could be classed as knowing someone. She was an imposing figure, almost as tall as Bard himself and probably as broad. Platted blonde hair rested on one shoulder, her face pushing Bard to believe she'd seen forty winters or so.

Grunt did as he was told, he and Tall Toyne eyeing each other as he retreated.

'It's been a while, Bard,' Letta called as she removed a pelt from about her shoulders, juggling brimwood logs in her arms.

'Too long, Letta,' Bard replied. Tall Toyne sat back down. 'We'd kill for some ale and a warm meal, if you have it?'

'I'm sure you would,' her eyes followed Grunt as he found his seat again. 'Might be I have some. To what do I owe the pleasure of you and your Gallowmen?'

'We continue north. We're bound for-'

'Fara Mordova,' Letta finished, a sour look upon her face. 'There is only one place north of here.'

Grunt spat on the floor loudly. 'That place is cursed,' he said, more at Letta than Bard.

'Aye, it is,' Letta agreed, 'are you for the priests again?'

'We are,' Bard replied, a shiver creeping beneath his skin at their mention.

'The Burned Priests?' Grunt spat again and he and his friends looked upwards in search of the Elders.

'Of course,' Letta confirmed solemnly, 'they didn't tell you? Bard and his friends are Deathsworn.'

Taaj was small, Toyne was dark as the night, Letta was hardened. These were all things Bard knew. What he didn't know, at least up to that point, was how quickly four Mountainmen could leave the warmth of a tavern.

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