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It was a little intimidating on the approach to the Grey Mountains. The chain began as broad and curving slopes, but they grew into giant teeth as the ground continued to slope up and away. The tallest of the peaks were ten thousand feet tall, the ones that slipped above the clouds could have been twice that for all she knew. These ranges made a formidable, yet natural barrier for the Empire, not even a vermintide would find it simple to pass through them. She would have ridiculed this whole idea, if only it hadn’t come from her own lips.
Beholding the obstacle was one thing, but the chill that came with it was another. Grass and ferns dissolved into a desolate tundra, an expanse of grey and white covering all things in a sandy layer of slush and flakes. The rocks began to cry as ice melted under the sun, and one of the Skaven twisted his ankle from a nasty slip and had to be carried by a human who volunteered to bear his weight.
It was the chill that really got to Skyseeker. The wind was no stronger than a whisper, yet it carried a current of plummeting temperature that combed its icy fingers through her fur. She had no fear of the cold thanks to her Skaven anatomy, but the same could not be said of the humans, who were already starting to shiver beneath their cowls and cloaks.
Their journey continued up its wending course, higher and higher and twisting through impassable rock faces, and between narrow cracks where they had to face sideways to squeeze through, the ice and rock forming concaving roofs over their head. It would almost feel like they were entering the mountain itself, before the roof would give and they would emerge back into daylight.
Wilfred was spry for his aged appearance, never losing pace as he led the path forward. It was hard to call it a path, it seemed they were going in a different direction every few moments, yet she couldn’t shake the feeling the wizard was following some guide only he could see.
When they came to another steep rock face they would have no choice but to climb through handholds, she heard Otto sigh in complaint. “Can we not stop for a moment?” he called out, his voice carrying on the slow, but ceaseless breeze. “My feet are killing me.”
“The cold will kill you faster if you let it,” Wilfred replied. “We must press on, swiftly, while the sun shines high.”
“You know your way around rocks, Fred-Wil,” Skyseeker noted, following the old man as he began to clasp his calloused fingers into the handholds. “Like you been here before.”
“Not I,” he replied. “But our forebearers have. There were trails across the Grey’s once, when the snow and ice was not so prevalent. The passage of time has eroded many of these paths, but nothing short of an avalanche will wash away a history of countless steps, one can still find them with a keen eye.”
She thought she could see something in the rocks beneath her fingers. A smoothed stone here, a niche that was the perfect size for a climbing foot there. Even the lip at the top of the short climb looked weathered, as though it had yielded to a hundred pairs of hands before her.
Skyseeker helped the others up after her, turning her head to look down the way they’d come. The patch of forest they’d camped out that morning was already so small she could cover it with her paw, and she felt a touch of vertigo as she realised how high up they were. The slopes looked so perilous and sharp from this angel, and a pang of fear knotted her chest. Not because she feared to fall – she was the most dextrous rat alive – but if one of these other fools made a mistake and knock her off in the process, it was a long way down…
Eventually their path became more distinct, until a trail began to carve itself into the mountain, curving up the steep face and falling out of site beyond a rise. The Grey Mountain were incomprehensible barriers to all sides, blocking the sun for hours at a time as it sunk behind their sheer breadths.
The snow was no longer constricted to the ground, white flakes starting to dance on the wind, the particles so numerous she could see the currents of wind. Everything was grey and white now, as though colour had seemed to vanish from the world.
It was many long hours until the darkness came, much earlier in the day thanks to the shelter of the great mountains. Her aching legs finally found relief when Wilfred paused at the next rise. “It will be too dark to see by soon,” he said. “We must camp until the day break.”
The spot he’d chosen was a relatively flat stretch, with a rockface on their right to help shield the wind, and a sheer drop to the left. Firewood was bundled in the trail between, and it took many attempts to catch a spark, but there was soon a fire to warm their paws.
Their little group gathered round the embers, but there were few words to say, so only the wind and the spitting flames filled the silence, and that only seemed to add to the isolation. She had not seen civilisation in many days, weeks if one did not count Ironsnout’s warcamp, and that wouldn’t change anytime soon up in these desolate steppes.
She turned to move closer to the drop that lingered dangerously close to the trail, hunkering at the edge of the cliff. She was momentarily taken back by the view, she had not realised they’d climbed so high, and the view was so crisp and clear. The land of Brettonia stretched down and away to the west, like a canvas of colourful forest, so small and distant than when she raised her arm, her paw covered most of it. The land basked in the oranges that the setting sun cast, and at the limits of her vision she could see the white and blue band of the coast and ocean. She wondered where the wolfship wreck was.
She swept her gaze northward, using her goggles’ zoom function to scan the terrain. Wilfred had told her of how Roderick and the others had journeyed north while the wizard went south to search for her, their destination some city called Lyonesse. It was supposed to be far larger than Portomoggoire, but either he was exaggerating or she was just too far away, for she did not see any landmarks. Perhaps it was a little too optimistic, to hope she’d catch even a little evidence of her human companion.
After a while she turned away from the view, the warmth of the fire drawing her into the camp. She made her way over to Wilfred, taking a seat in the snow beside him. He seemed to be in the middle of a nap, but he opened a green eye to look at her after a moment.
“How fare you, Miss Seeker?” the wizard asked, Skyseeker bundling her cloak tighter about her shoulders.
“If it gets any colder, I will thrust myself over yonder cliff,” she complained.
“I did warn you the climate would be harsh,” Wilfred replied. “And it will only get worse before it gets better, I fear. But you are a furry creature, you are better off than the rest of us.”
“Maybe so. But that does not mean Skaven can’t complain. Skaven not know the surface can get so chilly.”
“That’s right, you have spent most of your life below ground. This must be your first time seeing snow, yes?”
“Incorrect! When me and Rick-rod were on the way to Port-cragstire, Skaven saw snow up on the mountain chain. Never got close enough to touch it though,” she added, pressing the pad of her paw into the powder, leaving her black coat all dusty with flakes. “What is this dark magic?”
“It’s not magic,” Wilfred said. “When water up in the sky freezes, it becomes a hard frost, which the winds then blow down to the ground. The higher you are above the sea level, the thinner the air gets, and thus the temperature plummets quicker. That’s why the Grey Mountains are in a perpetual state of ice cover.”
Skyseeker pretended not to have understood even half of that. She’d have asked him to repeat himself, but that would have made her look stupid, and that was the last thing she wanted. She turned her head to the clouds, which were so close now she could make out all their little details. Another hour’s climb would see them coming into contact with them, and she wondered what would happen were she to touch a cloud. She couldn’t help but release a weary chuckle.
“What is it?” Wilfred asked. “Why do you laugh?”
“This is all so… so… grandiose!” Skyseeker stammered. “I am a breeder, my place is supposed to be in breeding pit. B-But here I am, not just on the surface-world, but above it. The depths of Skavenblight run deep into the ground, but even if you flipped it upside down, they wouldn’t stretch as high as this mountain, and I’m standing on it.”
“It must be overwhelming,” Wilfred replied, a touch of sympathy in his voice.
“What?” She gave him a bewildered look. “No-No, this is perfect amount of whelm. In fact, give Skaven more whelming, I’ve never felt so alive! We so close to the sky now, I can almost taste it.”
“That’s perhaps the thinning air you’re feeling,” Wilfred chuckled. “But I am glad you are being so positive. Perhaps that’s partly why you wanted to cross the Grey’s, hmm? To fulfill your namesake, to come closer to the skies?”
“Oh! Uh… uh, yes-yes! Of course!” she lied. “I understand the poeticism implicitly.”
Wilfred grinned at her, and she knew from his expression that perhaps her skills of persuasion could use an improvement. One of the men passed out bowls of soup, and the hot, watery broth helped to keep the warmth within while her outsides went numb. After a few quiet sips, she spoke up again.
“Fred-wil, been meaning to apologising to you,” she began, Wilfred giving her a curious tilt of his head. “Back on dogship, wizard saw something he wasn’t meant to see. Or, maybe you did. Skaven is not judgmental.”
“What are you talking about?” he asked.
Skyseeker paused with her mouth open. She wanted to word it politely, but humans seemed to avoid talking about breeding in polite company, like it was some sort of taboo. There was also the matter of discretion. Roderick had warned her that not everyone would appreciate their estranged relationship, and there were many men and Skaven within earshot right now.
She employed all her social skills, but phrasing it in a way eluded her, btu she had a better idea. She took her thumb and finger and made a circle, then with her other paw, she pushed her digit through the loop, miming an in-and-out motion. The universal sign for intercourse.
Wilfred understood instantly, losing his composure for a moment as he came to the realisation. “Ah, that,” he said, clearing his throat. “Well, to be young, and in love, that is nothing to apologise for. Although, you could have found yourselves a quiet place further away from the pantry…”