Chapter 77: Ambush

Hous had passed as the caravan wound its way along the narrow mountain trails deep within the Blackwood Mountain Range.

By midnight, the weather had turned sharply colder.

The pleasant mountain air had grown nippy and soon turned into a biting cold that crept inside the warm wool and leather garments. Already, white mist trailed from the mouths of the caravan guards as they coughed, their fingers stiffening inside their gloves.

Then, with no warning, the sky began to fill up with great mountains of white mist.

Thick swirls of the puffy vapor poured down from the cliff tops and spilled over the caravan road in waves, creeping up the mountain slopes and filling the ravines.

Within the space of minutes, the road was reduced to a narrow ribbon of visibility.

Barely visible through the fog, the light from the hanging lanterns cast only a dim, wavering glow that painted only circles of illumination in the swirling white mist.

The road itself was dangerous enough at the best of times.

A sheer wall of rock rose up on the caravan’s left, and to the right, the road fell away precipitously as it snaked along the mountain ridge.

One slip, one miscalculated turn, and an entire carriage could plummet down the mountain side in a heap of splintered wood and broken bones.

It was the unnatural stillness that disturbed the guards more than the weather.

Something was wrong.

The forest on either side of the road had gone deathly silent.

Normally, the mountain forest echoed with the calls of animals.

There should have been a distant howl from the pack wolves, the shushing sound of mice running up and down the trail, but not even the great horned owls answered the night with their unearthly cries.

The woods were unnaturally hushed, as if every living thing had sensed something that the men of the caravan had not and had vanished into the shadows of the night.

The men of the caravan felt it, too.

Their fingers tightened slowly around the handles of their weapons as they shot each other anxious looks.

No one wanted to speak above a hushed whisper.

The caravan rumbled on, wheels groaning over the rough road surface.

Four carriages and a handful of armed guards were all that stood between the mysterious life forms lurking in the fog and the mountain road.

For the first time since leaving the city, the caravan was alone, lost somewhere deep in the heart of the mountain range.

Only the caravan’s horses and the distant mountain wolves provided any sound to break the tense silence.

The rhythmic clattering of horse hooves and the creaking wood of the wagons were the only sounds to be heard as the caravan pressed on through the fog filled night.

At the front of the caravan, several men tightened their grip on the short swords and crossbows at their hips.

They had been down this trail more times than any of them cared to remember.

They knew the twists and turns of the road, the sheer cliffs on either side, and the narrow mountain passes that forced the horses to a slow, cautious walk.

Something about this night just didn’t feel right.

Inside the rear carriage, Shadow One sat still, his eyes closed in meditation.

Already, his spirit stretched out beyond the confines of the dark cabin and sought the strange life forms that lurked just beyond the edge of his vision.

There were at least six of them, dressed in strange furs and leather and moving with a purpose that spoke of death and destruction.

They moved in careful, deliberate movements, their voices hushed as they used the dense fog for cover.

Every man was trained to follow the caravan, never getting too close and making as much use of the narrow mountain trails, the rocky outcrops, and the dense underbrush.

They were mercenaries, that much Shadow One could tell, but who they worked for was unknown.

Shadow One sensed them, every man of them, and silently counted their number before opening his eyes.

They were close enough, but that would not matter for another moment.

The caravan’s lead horses gave a loud, startled whinny.

The two great beasts reared in place, their iron shoes pounding against the rock road as they struggled against the reins.

Their frightened cries split the silence of the night.

The driver nearly fell from his seat and gave a shouted cry of his own. "Whoa! Whoa! Easy, girl! Easy!"

But the horses refused to stop.

Their frantic floundering sent the first carriage to a sudden, unexpected halt.

The horses pulled back, forcing the second carriage to a sudden stop as well.

A muffled crash sounded as the third and fourth carriages came to a stop as well.

The jostling of the stopped caravans sent several soldiers sprawling as the frightened horses snorted steam and fought against the restraints.

Then, as if sensing the sudden commotion, the thick fog seemed to settle in around the caravan.

It thickened, growing denser with every passing second as if to block out all sound and silence the world around it.

At the front of the caravan, Garris immediately took stock of the situation.

An ambush, that was what this was.

Already, Garris ordered, "Weapons out! Form a ring around the caravans!"

The ten men of the trade caravan reacted at once, drawing their swords and crossbows as they fanned out around the four caravans.

In seconds, the guards took up a loose ring around the caravans, blocking the path of the unseen attackers and buying time for the caravan to decide its next move.

But that would not be necessary, for in the distance, another sound broke through the thick fog.

Horse hooves.

Strong, surefooted horses pounded up the mountain road, but the sound of the galloping horses grew louder with every passing second.

From the corner of the caravan, Garris spotted the figures of several mounted riders as they came riding down from the mountain trails, the wind whipping at the corners of their cloaks.

They came riding fast, faster than common horses should have been able to climb, but these riders seemed to know the mountain trails and the narrow paths that only mountain goats could navigate and survived several narrow ridges.

The riders came out of the fog with surprising speed, and in seconds, the lead rider took up a position in the narrow road in front of the caravan.

At the same time, a second rider took up a position behind the caravan, blocking the narrow trail that led back down the mountain.

In less than five seconds, the four riders surrounded the caravan on either side, their dark leathers blending in with the night.

Even better, each man carried a polished steel saber at his hip, catching the light of the twin moons as they crept past the mountain ridges.

But there was one thing that marked these men as different from every bandit the caravan had ever encountered.

Around each man’s waist was tied a strip of blood red cloth.

The Black-Ridge Raiders, infamous mercenaries of the mountain ranges, had come to prey upon the caravan.