Kovak hefted himself and his companion up onto the granite ledge with a single, powerful lunge, keeping close to the rocky, ascending slope to his left as he continued along the trail. Seated in his wooden litter, custom-fitted onto the wolf’s back, Pidwermin averted his eyes from the sheer drop a few feet to the pair’s right.

  “Careful.” He pleaded. “I hate this part of the pass.”

  “I like it.” The wolf retorted, taking in the grand view that unfolded all around them.

  More than half the mountain stretched out and up steadily to their left. The valley yawned far below and to the right, filled with pine and hemlock trees and the occasional cluster of maple or oak, fully clothed in orange, gold, and red fall coloring.

  The Jagged Jaw mountain range, with its crooked ridgelines and narrow peaks, some conical and others dagger-like spires, ran as far as either could see ahead. The unmarked trail they traversed wound slowly and treacherously downward towards the valley.

  The path disappeared entirely from the ledge in places along the way; some of those eroded stretches measuring twenty or so feet. Gaps in the walkway also formed where the stone face of the mountain had cracked, leaving open air between sections of the ledge. The route ahead offered numerous opportunities to meet with disaster before it disappeared behind a rock outcropping about a mile from their present position.

  The Gnaw loomed far above, near the top of the adjacent mountain. It’s twisted, sharp silhouette resembled a crooked beak over a lower jawbone full of jagged fangs. The peak rising over it had the look of a pointed, cone shaped skull.

  “That’s because you’re a hero. You find dangerous situations attractive because you don’t know any better.” Pidwermin explained in a dry tone.

  Kovak’s solitary laugh echoed deeply across the panorama, first along the mountain slopes ahead and eventually across the valley below. “Hero indeed.”

  “Yes and I ask you to please contain those impulses for the time being.” The frog anxiously clutched the wolf’s hood as the latter sidestepped onto the slope to his left and swiftly traversed the bare stone alongside the eroded remnants of the trail.

  “They call it ‘falling climber’s pass’ for a reason you know!” Pidwermin closed his eyes until he felt the wolf shift back onto the fairly even ground of the trail on the other side of the gap.

  “I’m sure that’s true.” Kovak said. “It has little to do with me; I am a proficient mountaineer constable.”

  “I know you are.” the frog spoke the truth. “The mountain is always bigger, however, and may find a way to win.”

  “Very wise my friend.” the wolf observed. “The Faolchu have a saying with very similar sentiments; one must learn and understand well the mountain’s advantage prior to trying to climb or cross it.”

  The frog said nothing, letting the words of wisdom they had each shared hang for a moment in hopes the wolf would be more cautious thereafter. Sensing his friend’s anxiety Kovak spoke up.

  “You trust my swordcraft do you not?”

  “Absolutely.” the frog did not hesitate. “You’re one of the most skilled I’ve seen with the blade, and I have seen many in my long lifetime.”

  “Thank you, and good.” the wolf replied. “I tell you now I am a better mountaineer than swordsman, for I was climbing and scaling and running game trails much worse than this for many years before I came of age to hold the blade.”

  “Good to know.” the frog lied. His fear of heights was instinctive and little could be done to quell it.

  “This place reminds me of the Zohar pass back home.” The wolf sounded distant as he spoke. “The Faolchu won their independence there from a race of creatures known as Leopus Ingens, a cruel and tyrannical race that rules much of the realm I call home.”

  “Yes.” Pidwermin loved talking history, politics, and anthropology. “You’ve mentioned them before, a feline species like the lions of the great south.”

  “Leopus males are very similar in appearance to the male lions I have seen in the duke’s court. The mane, large eyes, and deep roar are uncanny resemblances. The main difference is of course the Leopus Ingens’ bipedal nature; they walk upright like the Faolchu.”

  “They sound terrifying.” the frog shook his head. “Your ancestor led the army that won the battle of the Zohar pass, did he not?”

  “My paternal ancestor Korrus led a battalion at the tip of the advance, along with his mate, a cleric named Myladna. Their feats on that day are still recounted by the storytellers of my home.” the wolf took a long pause before continuing.

  “Korrus wielded the legendary sword known as Iron Fang, given to his ancestor as a reward by the immortal blacksmith Gobhanna – a deity of the humans of my home world.” Kovak sidestepped a large root encroaching on the path from the slope.

  “Reward for what?” asked the frog, always keen on the details of any story.

  “Aiding a human village in a fight against the Sargatchi, creatures akin to the bugbear in these lands.” replied the wolf. “For his valor the god of smiths and metallurgy gave him the unbreakable sword that could cut through even Rahmhrok’s scales.”

  “Rahmhrok?” the frog inquired.

  “An immense reptile, sixty feet long and often forty feet wide, that could swallow a horse whole and crush a flank of solders underfoot with a single charge.”

  Kovak sighed before continuing. “I would have inherited that sword, alas it was lost generations ago in an avalanche.”

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  “So sorry to hear it.” the frog said politely, for he had heard much of this tale before from his friend.

  Kovak hopped to his left onto the bank of the trail, taking hold of a sapling conifer to heave himself up and forward. The small tree leaned under his weight but held, carrying both he and his passenger ten feet or so before reaching the end of its flex. The wolf released the trunk just as the tree began to rebound, dropping back onto the path as the sapling sprang back into the upright position.

  “The Zohar pass is a bit wider.” Kovak clarified as he hopped back onto the bank to grab another sapling conifer. “The mountains of my homeland are significantly taller than any I have seen here.” He rode a second tree for another ten feet before dropping back to the trail.

  “I shall have to take you to Ziliador, where I grew up, for lack of a better term. Epic mountains.” Pidwermin offered cheerfully.

  “Although.” he reconsidered. “Probably easier to visit the heartlands of Myrrha, where one may also find some of the higher peaks in the northern kingdoms. Not quite as grand as the highest Ziliador offers, but impressive to say the least.”

  “Why do you wish to avoid seeing you home again?” the wolf wondered.

  “What do you mean?” the frog spoke more quickly than usual. “I’d love to see home again, it’s just so far away…”

  The wolf dropped low, not quite to all fours, and slid forward to clear a branch that hung across the path. The frog ducked and covered his head in exaggerated concern, looking back at the branch after they had safely cleared it.

  “Excuses.” the wolf would not relent. “I can tell when you’re making excuses because you’d rather avoid something.”

  “What do you mean you can tell?” Pidwermin huffed. “When do I make excuses to avoid anything?”

  “Not that often.” Kovak admitted.

  “I thought as much.” the frog crossed his arms in front of him.

  “But it does happen.” said the wolf.

  The frog huffed again.

  “Mainly when you want to avoid or delay telling Mlasha something that you know won’t sit well with her.” Kovak elaborated.

  “Fair enough. I choose not to anger a gigantic warrior with a short temper. I’d argue that is reasonable and entirely another matter from not wanting to do this or that mundane thing.” the frog ended his response emphatically hoping to seal the matter.

  “If you say so.” the wolf went along.

  “Has it occurred to you that I might just want to visit Myrrha when next we take leave?” the frog challenged. “Lovely place. It’s been far too long since I’ve set foot on that isle. I do believe I’d call that place home were it not for His Grace, Duke Mershod,”.

  “Champion Over the Orc Hordes to the Far North and Bane of the Vanquished Goblins Along the North Shore.” Kovak finished the duke’s title for the frog before snatching another sapling and riding it forward.

  Pidwermin laughed. “You always do that. I take it you find humor in our Duke’s claims?”

  “Not at all.” The wolf landed back onto the trail for a third time. “I merely like the way those honors sound. Whereas other nobility brag about the land they own, our duke has earned honors from his battle prowess.”

  “I see. I hope it doesn’t spoil the whole affair when I tell you his father, Duke Wellington Mershod actually won those titles. Duke Jakumb Mershod simply inherited them.” Pidwermin explained.

  “A pity. I still like the way they sound.” Kovak shrugged.

  With the deft footwork of a lifelong mountaineer he dropped from a point on the ledge very near to the climax of a curve where the slope rounded towards a chasm. His judgment perfect, he sailed smoothly across a swathe of open air to catch the ledge-trail again much further down its declining trajectory.

  The frog screamed from the moment the wolf’s feet left the higher point of the ledge until the instant they touched down once more on the lower section. “Are we in such a hurry you must take these asinine risks?” he demanded.

  “You’re perfectly safe. I promise. I’ve covered every inch of this trail a score of times over.”

  The wolf indeed made easy work of the difficult terrain. Neither his armor & weaponry, nor the great pack with all the gear nor even the purple frog, at two feet tall and forty or so pounds, in his finely carved and painted litter, slowed the warrior in the slightest.

  Kovak moved relentlessly and would not take a real break until they had reached the bottom of the mountain. By early afternoon he had reached the approximate midway point of the descent; a small ledge adjacent to the trail provided an impeccable view of the North Shore from just over eight-thousand feet above the plains below.

  From this amazing vantage point the wolf and the frog could see the entirety of the Jagged Jaw range on either side of them. They could also see all of the region known as the North Shore, technically the Marquessate of A’Tuath, which meant ‘fairy realm’.

  Kovak could see Daegna Teann, the keep of Marquess Sharveel to the west with his naked eye, and the trading post of Argentum just east of the fortress. He surveyed the long stretch of the Flatbottoms, the grassland plains between the mountains and the sea; noting the ancient ruins to the east and in the mountain’s shadow.

  “The Waywards.” the frog pointed to a tiny patch of trees far to the south. Lines of white smoke from chimneys and firepits rose like strands of a spider web above the forest.

  With the frog’s scope Kovak could see the individual villages within that forest, and even identify the fishing village of Pisca S’gach southeast along the coast beyond the Waywards. He handed the scope back to Pidwermin, saying:

  “That is an incredible little tool. I could see everything as if I were but a few miles out.”

  “Leave it to the gnomes.” the frog replied.

  The two rangers took in the scene for another moment, then the wolf turned to resume his descent. He had made no more than three paces when the frog called out suddenly.

  “Oh my!”

  Not expecting any such outburst the wolf tensed up and quickly scanned his surroundings. “What is it?” He asked with his hand on the hilt of his sword.

  “Oh dear; so sorry to have alarmed you there.” Pidwermin sounded embarrassed. He started to laugh.

  “You intend to let me in on the joke at some point?” the wolf inquired.

  “Forgive me my friend.” the frog laughed a bit more. “I didn’t do it on purpose but it was quite funny the way you whipped your head this way and that, nearly drawing your sword.”

  Kovak didn’t say anything. He allowed the frog to get the chuckles out of his system.

  “There.” the frog pointed to a small cluster of leafy mounds about twenty feet up a sheer rock wall; each mound supporting a straight yellow stalk that rose about eighteen inches from the base of the plant.

  “Ah.” said Kovak. “I see. No wonder you called out as if a goblin were climbing my back to give you a kiss.”

  The frog laughed a little more at this comment. He couldn’t shake the visual of his friend shifting into battle mode a moment before.

  “I said I’m sorry.” the frog reiterated.

  “So you did.” Kovak acknowledged. “I believe you. I’m just curious what about this cluster of plants caused you to cry out like a young girl.”

  “Bah!” the frog feigned annoyance in an effort to avoid laughing again. “It’s called Hekelius Spire, named after the goddess of magic. As you might therefore imagine, it is a most potent herb for many magical uses.”

  “Is that so?” Kovak replied. “Shall I get you down from that litter so you can quickly scale the wall and collect some Hekelius Spire? Mind you we are on a schedule so I ask that you be fairly quick about it.”

  The two rangers laughed again as Kovak assessed the situation, considering his options for a quick and safe retrieval of the plants.