Salem squinted at the flags on the horizon, the half-buried checkpoints that marked their journey across the frozen plains. She had roamed for as long as she could remember - first following trails as a child, then once her parents passed, leading them as a guide. But of all the places she travelled, nothing emanated presence the way this mountain did.
The two of them - Salem, and her caravan copilot Iba - had not intended to run this route more than once or twice. But recently, droves of folk from all over the map began to congregate up north. All of them searching for an escort, and many offering some impressive coin.
Just a few more trips like this and Salem could retire somewhere on the opposite side of the world. Somewhere with grass and trees, ideally. Though uncharacteristically silent these past few weeks, Iba had mentioned that he looked forward to doing the same.
Well, at least there were no bandits out here. Just lots and lots of snow. It weighed on fields and fields of frozen earth. It piled up at the base of every jagged stone formation they passed. And most days, it battered against two small caravans squeaking their way from frozen flag to frozen flag, threatening to throw them off-course.
Today was less windy than usual, granting the pair some welcome reprieve. The setting sun would look wonderful if it didn’t cast such a blinding glare on the snow.
Iba was leaning over the side of the caravan, peering at the party behind them and tilting the creaking crate that served as their home. “Hear much about this latest group?”
Salem nodded. “Nomads, right?”
“Heard they’ve been roaming the wasteland for generations,” Iba said.
“That doesn’t sound so different from us,” Salem replied. She reached into her pack and offered her companion a bottle of golden broth. “Soup?”
Iba glanced again at the caravan in tow. The music from before had stopped. “I guess they’ve been looking for this one specific mountain all that time.”
Salem sighed and sipped her broth. “They want to study the Machines too? Feels like we meet a new artisan every second trip.”
Iba picked at one of his horns, a bad habit from warmer days in the salty marsh. “Far as I can tell, they’re coming for the mountain itself.”
“Huh. They’re just gonna climb to the top, sing their songs and come back down again?”
“Figured they were gonna dig, actually.”
“Bad idea,” Salem laughed. “They’ll get a nasty surprise if they do.”
Iba didn’t reply. They’ve spoken about this before.
“I’d give it a day before they get torn apart by those exiles,” Salem continued.
“I don’t know,” Iba said. “They seem nice enough to me. Seems like they all just want to get away from… wherever. Every one at the tavern sounds like they’re having a great time.”
“They act nice, sure.” Salem adjusted her posture. The caravan creaked and the ropes holding it together groaned. “But I wouldn’t trust anyone who follows rumors about a lawless mountain commune and decides that’s a good thing. Dancing around in the dark, making those masks for each other. They were exiled for a reason, you know?”
Iba gazed at the looming grey shape ahead of them. The wheels rattled beneath their seats.
As they drew closer to the mountain, a new tune sprung up behind them. The lyrics these Nomads sung were indecipherable from this far ahead, but the song was clearly a marching anthem of some kind.
“Well,” Iba said, “I’m curious to hear what these Nomads are about, anyway.”
They arrived at the base of the mountain, nightfall now, caravan torchlight flickering against frost and stone. Even as a human, Salem felt an undisputable presence in the air. In the ground, too. Makes sense why so many people would head out here.
Salem turned to the other caravan to help unload its passengers and their gear, but the group already stood astride, staring up to the misty summit. “I can’t believe it,” one of them said, “After years of searching, we’re finally here.”
“I’m glad we’re in this together,” another replied.
A few weeks ago, on one of their first escorts, Salem advised one group about the huge cave entrances spread around the base of the mountain. Back then, she had told that group about the Machines waiting within each, whirring endlessly, yet locked in some kind of hibernation. Talking like some kind of tour guide.
Today, Salem said, “Don’t be too hasty to dig.”
The group turned to Salem. Some of them had been humming a vague melody that warmed their hands, casting a soft yellow glow over the group. They stopped now and met her with expectant silence.
“It’s… dangerous in those caverns,” Salem finished, suddenly forgetting how she intended to phrase herself.
An older Nomad smiled. “Thank you, friend, though we need our rest first, anyhow.” This was clearly an important individual, speaking with such presence in a crowd. “We’ve waited generations,” they continued. “We can wait a few more days, or weeks, to plan our course of action.”
Salem watched a few younger members purse their lips in response to the comment, visible even in the flickering dim of torchlight. Perhaps this elder was not as important as she assumed.
“It looks to be a frosty night,” Iba said, walking up beside Salem. “Maybe we should all head to the Tavern before the wind picks up again.”
Salem suppressed a sigh. The two of them had survived much worse in their caravan. Iba used to be all business until they started running this mountain route. It couldn’t be helped, though - everyone was already moving through the ancient stone opening to the only real shelter at the base of this mountain.
Once the guests were arranged, Kit greeted the pair of caravan escorts with drinks in hand. "Wow, looks like a windy night. Your caravan gonna be alright out there?”
Iba grinned. “Eh, seems like your tavern is the place to be. If the caravan breaks, I’ll just take up residence here. Scrub mugs for a living.”
“It’s gone through worse and survived”, Salem said. “Iba, you’re not quitting that easily.”
Kit and Iba laughed.
“…Looking forward to the next story night,” Iba said, after a sip.
“That’s every night,” Kit replied.
“And I love it.” Iba gazed out to the small crowd, all huddled around their flames and murmuring with quiet anticipation. “Who knew so many people would want to come here. From so many places, too.”
Kit placed their hand against the cracked stone wall. “We all feel the pull, though, don’t we?”
Iba followed, pressing his hand on the counter with closed eyes, no doubt feeling for the subtle thrum perpetually welling up from the ground.
“It’s good business for sure,” Salem said, cutting through the silence, “But at least for me, I don’t feel a big enough pull to run away from my life for the sake of some funny dreams.”
Iba placed his mug on the counter as gently as he could and looked Salem in the eyes.
Salem met his gaze.
“Be right back,” Kit said, bowing out to check up on the newest arrivals.
Salem looked away from Iba to stare at her mug. “What?”
She felt Iba take a deep breath. But he didn’t say anything, and Salem had to take her own breath in response. He has to know how she hates it when he stares like that.
“…I know you want to go,” Salem said. This ox of a man was not the subtle type - he practically radiated energy. Whether or not he tried to hide his feelings, it was not particularly hard to follow his threads.
“I just like the stories,” Iba replied, picking at one of his horns.
“Mm.” Salem blinked and took a drink. “Well, looks like they’re about to start with the stories right now.” She watched his eyes involuntarily light up. “Let’s just find a good seat,” she sighed.
Iba started to stand, then paused and raised an eyebrow at Salem. “Hey. Salem. You know I wouldn’t just leave you, right?”
Salem looked back. “Thanks.”
“Not without warning. I know how much you care for the caravan.”
“…Thanks.”
Salem could feel Kit staring from across the room. She stood and looked for a seat near the outer edge of the Pit, and Iba followed.
The Pit was a collapsed part of the building, a series of lucky drops that made for a decent set of benches. In the middle burned a fire, its smoke routed through a dug-out tunnel in the rubble. This was a prime spot for storytelling and song.
There were plenty of familiar faces, but mostly new folk - it seemed like most people who entered the mountain stayed there. Or died, maybe? Salem never asked, and nobody seemed interested in sharing that element of their expeditions.
Storytelling was never quite a formal event. Not anything listed or planned, anyway. But almost every night since Kit set up here some few weeks ago, at least one person would emerge from nowhere with a new tale - so compelling that you couldn’t help but listen.
It always started with a casual remark, an offhand comment, but one that turned heads at all the surrounding tables. One by one, all the regulars would grin and start beckoning the sorry sap to take a seat in the Pit. And start from the beginning, they’d say.
Salem had to admit that the Pit had some kind of crackling excitement about it. And she wasn’t alone, apparently. Even those exiles, looking like monsters with their animal masks, lingered around the pit and listened in with the rest of the tavern. Did they really leave their tunnels just for this?
Salem’s thoughts were interrupted with a pang of recognition almost as soon as the story began. The speaker’s appearance would have fooled her - they looked like a total stranger, now - but that voice was unmistakable. Salem glanced at Iba, and her heart sank when she saw his eyes. Iba knew exactly who this was.
To be continued
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