The scrawny tinker clutched his warm cloak tighter against the icy rain, cursing the need that drove him out such a bitter night. He urged his beast to greater speed, but the long-suffering creature merely shook its head and lowed once as it plodded steadily up the steep hill. Knowing he had left behind the only warm bed and welcoming arms for two day’s journey in any direction did not improve Jaran’s already short temper.

Frigid wind pierced the heavy felting of his jerkin, chilling bone and unbending resolve in equal proportion. The freezing of his flesh, however, was of little consequence compared to the talons of fear and impotent rage that shredded his gut and clawed at his heart.

Why had they waited so long? Why summon him now – after all these years? What earthly use could he be to them now? “Years gone,” he thought, “Years gone, I could have done something – I was well-connected, I had the ear of the Clans. But now…”

His thoughts were yanked rudely back to his suddenly precarious situation by a shuddering jar. Nearly tumbled from his perch atop the bundles and bales that made up his load, Jaran yanked back his hood and wiped the sleeting rain from his eyes in a vain attempt to pierce through the inky dark. Peer as he might, he could see nothing that should have caused his sudden stop. Clambering over the side of his wagon, he groped his way to the head of his beast, clutching tight to its reins.

Seconds later, he was dangling at the full length of his arms. Legs kicking, scrambling for a toehold, he managed to claw his way back to safety. Staring wild-eyed into the abyss that had once been Wareford Trail, he clung, legs trembling, to the steaming side of his beast.

“The earth doesn’t just swallow up part of itself, Jaran. It was a land-fall - a very large land-fall.” His bleary-eyed friend clapped him on the shoulder and rose to his feet, stretching mightily. “Now come to bed, my old lad. It will be morn all too soon, and we have many a day’s travel ahead.”

Jaran shook his head, doggedly searching his mind for one final protest to quell his friends’ opposition. Realizing that none of their company remained at the table, he drained the last of his flagon, pushing back his stool to weave his unsteady way up the stairs in their wake.

“You’d think they’d leave us a torch to light our way,” he grumbled, pausing for breath at the first landing. “At the rates we’re paying, they should carry it before us. Mind you, though, the state of these beams, they’re probably wary of fire.” He peered about with wine-bleared eyes, nodding sagely at this well-reasoned conclusion.

“If you don’t shift yourself, we won’t soon need a torch.” was Tamryn’s waspish rejoinder.

“Get your skinny shanks to bed, Jaran.” a decidedly feminine voice chimed in. “You’re worse than an old wharf-nanny, fussing and puling as if you’d lost your whole load of laundry in that pot-hole you’re whining about.”

“It was not laundry, Arabetta.” Jaran corrected her with the grave dignity only the truly wine-soaked can muster. “It was sundries, and I did not lose my load in a pot-hole. Half the mountain had…”

“Yes, Friend Spindleshaft, ‘half the mountain had simply vanished’.” The giant Northman’s voice was deeper than the mountain tarns of his homeland. It seemed to resonate up from somewhere near his toes.

“Ghamat, for the love of us all, don’t bait him any further.” Tamryn’s weary face reappeared from the stygian shadows of the upper hallway. “We’ve belabored this for half the night and we're still no nearer any understanding. We leave at first light. The Kindred are summering near Ennellford and we must meet them before they move on.” He raised one hand to forestall further dissent. “Any slug-a-bed has my leave to journey on his own.”

True to his word, Tamryn led his comrades out the gates of the inn before the first glimmerings of dawn. By the time the sun had burned off the last of the late morning fog, they had begun the steep descent into Mad Ross Run.

“Corman’s Crossbow, I’m glad to be out of that dank,” Ghamat exclaimed, wiping one massive paw over his clammy face. Tiny droplets glistened in his grizzled beard, turning it to a wild mat of frizzy ringlets.

Casting a lingering glance behind them, Jaran shivered. “I’ve not seen the mists this low or this late,” he grumbled.

Arabetta smile barely lifted the corners of her mouth as she shifted on her mount’s back to see his face more clearly. “We’ll soon be at the Run - best to concentrate on what lies ahead. The river’s high this time of year - you’ll need all your wits about you.”

Some short time later, they entered the top of Mad Ross Run.

The origins of the Run’s name were lost aeons past, though many claimed to tell the true story. Whether for a distraught father pursuing his eloping daughter to her doom or for the last haunts of a gold-mad mercenary, all agreed that the narrow trail winding down through switchback after treacherous switchback was aptly named. Carved from the landscape through centuries of wear, the dark, crumbling walls of the narrow gorge shook and trembled with the incessant thunder of the torrent below. Swollen with unseasonable mountain rains, the grey, silt-laden waters roared through the canyon in full spate. Like a ravening beast, the river flung itself against giant boulders that littered its length like the discarded toys of some long-vanished race of titans. Sweeping tangles of debris before its spume-laced waves, it devoured chunks of earth from one bank only to spit them back upon the opposite, or suck them down into swirling, greenish-black eddies. Jagged talons of rock, slippery with spray, thrust up mid river, poised to crush the unwary.

Unable to make themselves heard above the din, the companions rode without speaking, concentrating all their energies on surviving the treacherous descent. Here and there, broken boulders spilled across the trail. The remnants of recent slides, they forced the travelers to dismount and lead their animals through loose gravel and scree that slipped and rolled underfoot.

Halfway from the bottom of the Run, after a brief halt to rest their heavily laden pack-beast, they were making their way around a large outcropping of boulders that overhung a particularly fierce stretch of rapids. The narrow section of trail, no more than a footpath really, seemed almost to be suspended over the roiling waters that seethed and tumbled far below. The cut-bank beneath was eroded and cracking. Even as they watched, chunks of rock and dirt crumbled away to vanish into the depths.

As they were rounding the trail’s outermost point, a portion of the track gave way beneath Jaran’s mount. Screaming in fear, the terrified animal lashed out, catching the pack-beast behind it squarely in the chest.

With no room to turn back, Tamryn and Arabetta could only struggle with their own startled mounts, watching helplessly as Jaran's animal plunged out of control.

Jaran hauled on the reins, cursing in a steady stream as he fought to master his mount’s frenzy. Kicking and bucking, the panicked animal managed to foul itself in the pack-beast’s harness, then leapt straight out over the gorge, carrying Jaran and the pack-beast with it in one tangled mass. They seemed to hang there for a breath before starting to topple, slowly at first, then gathering speed as they plummeted towards the rocks below.

Quicker than thought, Ghamat, who had been bringing up the rear on foot, threw himself forward, grabbing the headstall of Jaran’s mount just as they plunged from sight. Freeing his short sword from its sheath across his back, he hacked at the tangled traces.

Tamryn flung himself from his mount. Throwing the reins to Arabetta, he scrambled back up the trail leaving her to settle the frightened animals.

Jaran managed to win free of the tangle, and was swinging at the ends of the reins, still cursing ferociously. Somehow, he clawed his way up the slippery rock to stand trembling on the trail.

“Pull!” yelled Ghamat over his shoulder.

Shaking, Jaran peered down at his hands as if seeing them from afar, his bloodless fingers still clenching tight the reins. A second shout galvanized him to action. Wrapping the reins around his waist for an anchor, he threw the last of his strength into one final effort. Tamryn grabbed Jaran from behind, adding his strength to the fray. Their combined weight as an anchor gave Ghamat only the slightest edge, but that was all he needed. Straining every muscle to its utmost in one mighty heave, he managed to haul the winded creature back from the brink.

Moments later, with Ghamat half-carrying the little tinker, they were limping down the trail, leading Jaran’s trembling mount to where Arabetta waited. The track widened slightly there, and the late afternoon sun poured through a cleft in the overhanging walls of the gorge.

Gazing into the bellowing river below, the four companions watched somberly as the still-laden pack-beast, neck broken in its savage, twisting fall from the cliffs, vanished beneath pounding waves, carrying with it their tents, extra warm clothing, and all the food.

“I couldn’t hold them both,” Ghamat shouted above the roaring of the rapids, his eyes pleading for understanding.

“At least we’re spared any more of your cooking,” Arabetta said wryly to the downcast Northman. “Though I’m not sure you saved the right beasts,” she continued, with a sidelong glance at Jaran. Pulling a long cloak from her bedroll, she wrapped it about him, the fleeting warmth in her eyes drawing the sting from her words. Helping him up into her saddle, she said, “We’ll lead your mount for a while.” With that, she started once more down the trail.

“My ale.” Tamryn’s voice cracked as he spoke again. “My brown Wenford ale. It was the last of the season…and it’s…gone. All gone.” He stared after the vanished pack-beast in stunned dismay.

Ghamat reached carefully into one of the saddlebags he had retrieved along with Jaran and his animal. “Not quite all gone,” he shouted above the river’s din. “I believe we saved three.”’ With a flourish, he produced a trio of squat stone bottles, their seals intact.

”Ah, well, that’s all right, then,” sighed Tamryn, his spirits somewhat restored. “I’ve slept rough before.”

Once beyond the outfall of the Run, the terrain leveled out into steep foothills. Farther west, the Ross raged and bellowed its way down an ever-widening canyon to run, wide and silent, to the great ocean that stretched beyond the setting sun. Turning their faces resolutely south, the little band pushed on. The edge of the forest through which they now rode marked the start of three mountain passes they would traverse to reach the rolling farmlands of the south. Jaran’s mount seemed to have recovered from its ordeal, but still skittish, it refused to be ridden. Tamryn and Arabetta took turn about riding and walking, to share the burden between the other two animals.

A cold drizzle caught them towards evening, just as Tamryn halted their day’s travel. He managed to coax a fire into being, and was scavenging in the underbrush for more dry wood. Ghamat elected to stay with the horses, settling them at the edge of the clearing where the trees would afford them some shelter.

Jaran sat by the fire, feeding small sticks and twigs into the flames, hunched and miserable in his sodden cloak. He looked up as Arabetta hunkered down beside him, holding out a bottle of Tamryn’s prized ale.

“Are you sure Tam won’t mind sharing his best Wenford with a troublesome old tinker?” he asked, gruffly as he accepted the proffered drink.

Arabetta raised one eyebrow.

“You are no more troublesome as an old tinker than you were as a much younger one,” she said, astringently.

Jaran snorted. He took a long pull of the ale, and then wiped his mouth, sighing with satisfaction. “I’d almost forgotten how good this is.”

“You were not always a tinker,” she reminded him gently.

He stared at the bottle in his hand, as if divining his next words. “Pell is no more,” he said, finally. “Jaran of Pell is no more.”

“Are you the last of your people, then?” Tamryn’s armload of wood clattered to the ground as he joined them at the fire, catching the last of their conversation. He stretched his length on the ground, propping himself up on one elbow, and touched his bottle to Jaran’s. “A toast to you, Tinker!” Raising his ale, he cheerfully declaimed, “To Jaran of Pell, last of his tribe, keeper of their story.”

“Ho, a story. I love a good story.” Ghamat, who had abandoned their now peacefully grazing mounts for the promise of warmth and good company. “Corman’s Beard, I am damp,” he declared. Shaking himself vigorously, he splattered the three before planting himself directly between Jaran and the fire.

Arabetta stood abruptly. Crossing to build up the fire, she booted him squarely on the rump. “Shift yourself, you great lump. You’re blocking all the heat and you smell like a wet dog. At least move downwind of us.”

Grumbling good-humoredly, Ghamat moved to the far side of the fire. “What catastrophe befell Pell that you are its last son?” he asked, then guffawed heartily at his word-smithing. “Ho, ‘befell Pell’.”

“No ‘catastrophe befell Pell’,” Jaran replied, somewhat testily. “At least, it was no single thing.” He paused to collect his thoughts. “In the end, I suppose, it was caused by love – the love of a man for a woman; the love of a man for his people… and jealousy, and pride, and all the other faults and flaws you would find in any family.”

He took another long draught from the bottle, settling himself more comfortably. “Pell was once a great land. We were the proud guardians of the laws handed down by The Ancestors. We rode with The Kindred. Our pride, though, was our undoing, and the great houses came to be jealous of each other’s power and privilege.

Factions divided the ruling households with so much feuding and vengeance, that no one could begin to sort out guilt and blame. Houses intermarried; clan deposed clan one after another, so muddying the succession that all but the lowliest beggar could make some kind of claim to direct descent.

Civil war was imminent when, finally, a leader emerged that everyone was glad to endorse. Davin had the look of greatness about him. He was honest, intelligent, a fine warrior…and hardheaded. For almost ten years, an uneasy peace flourished in Pell.”

Jaran paused for a moment, staring into the fire.

“Was she very beautiful?” asked Ghamat.

“Who?” Jaran responded, taken aback.

“The woman for whom he threw it over,” the giant said. “Did he give up his throne?”

“Ah, now that would have been the sensible thing. Did I mention Davin was hardheaded?” Jaran took another pull of his ale. “No, he chose to plunge the whole country into the longest and bloodiest civil war of its turbulent history to keep from giving back his brother’s wife. By the end of it all, she had born two children to his brother, three to Davin, and, it was rumored, at least one to his uncle, the old king. Yes, she was beautiful, conniving, and treacherous. She could look at a man and he would forget honor, decency, everything but his need to be with her. She was like a fire in the blood, a sickness that only her nearness could assuage.”

Jaran shook his head at the memory. He paused again, this time a bit longer before continuing, looking across the crackling flames to his companions. Tamryn’s face reflected nothing but polite interest. Arabetta was honing her already razor-sharp her arrows, face shadowed by her long, dark hair.

“Yes,” Jaran admitted, smiling ruefully. “I was one of the many she held in her thrall.”

“Once Davin was deposed,” he continued, “she struck a bargain with a minor house to save herself and her children. They were to be spirited away to safety along with the contents of the old king’s vaults. It was her bad luck that the mercenaries they hired made plans of their own. They turned her and the children over to Davin’s brother who had them all summarily beheaded, thereby sealing a blood feud with the three remaining major houses.”

Jaran drained the last of his ale. Squinting hopefully into the bottle, he tipped it up to catch the last droplets. “Once the great houses finished killing each other off, there was very little left. Some of the lesser nobility were able to find refuge among the highborn of neighboring kingdoms. The few minor houses and villages left standing were soon overrun with raiders. With no protection, the last of our people had to flee to other lands. The handful of those left in this world who carry the blood of Pell will never walk our land again.”

Jaran gazed into the flickering flames. Rousing himself, he said, “Enough maundering. I’m tried.” He turned on his side, wrapping himself in his now-dry cloak.

“I think you left out the best parts,” Ghamat observed. “…the parts about you and the beautiful woman.”

Jaran ignored his overture, eyes shut, feigning sleep.

“I expect he did,” Tamryn replied, settling down for what was left of the night.

Ghamat raised a bushy brow at Arabetta, but she, too, chose to pay him no heed rolling up in her cloak beside Jaran. The giant Northerner shrugged philosophically. “Ah, well,” he rumbled. “I liked your story, anyway.”

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