It was a month before the first day of winter, and Reod Dai was tired of being cold. Even in thick boots his toes ached. Someone ought to tell the Crimson Peaks that winter was supposed to be only one of the four seasons.

A weak sun shone down through gaps in the thick clouds, adding no hint of warmth to the bitter morning breezes that danced snowflakes up and around the sides of thatched stone houses. Piles of ice and crusted snow framed the village walkways and glinted off the high pines.

Reod Dai twisted one end of his heavy wool cloak up and around his shoulders to gain an extra layer and brushed newly gathered snowflakes out of his beard with covered fingers.

At the center of the cobbled square he stopped, drawn by the promise of warmth to a handful of dwarves clustered at the edge of a blazing firepit. After four days travel over snow-thick roads, his appointment could wait a few more moments. Around the fire dwarves chatted in heavy mountain dialect about logging and grain stores and who might be Promised to who by next spring. No mention at all of the unusually cold autumn.

So Reod took what satisfaction he could from dwarven noses red with chill. Last year at another village they had laughed at his hand-coverings but this year everyone wore them, and children had cold-weather hoods and scarves. They might not mention the cold, stubborn mountain creatures that they were, but they felt it.

He exhaled, his breath smoke-thick in the morning air.

A dwarf edged away from him a little, to see him better, and the rest stared at him.

"What's that doing here?" One asked another, thinking he could not understand their dwarvish dialect.

"Ta, a human here, in winter? Must be lost."

"It must be so cold. Poor fragile humans."

To help them with their wondering, he dressed in coarse clothes and acted the part of a poor trader. Now he smiled at them a little, as if sharing the joke at his own expense. They fell silent, not quite sure if he might have understood.

The flickering warmth of the fire brushed across his face. He took one last breath of warm, smoky air, and continued on into the village.

For all the harshness of this land where winter lasted more than half the year, Reod would find more hospitality here in isolated villages of the Crimson Peaks than he would in warmer human settlements to the north. In truth, this mountainous land was a haven. He doubted that the dwarves knew how fortunate they were to live in a place so remote from the strife in the warmer lands.

Children and adults stared openly at him as he walked by. It was not merely his human features, or his height -- they stood only up to his chest -- or that he was human-thin, or that his night-black hair was so startling in this sea of straw-colored manes. They did see humans here in the peaks south of the Icatian borders. Rarely this time of year, but every spring humans came to trade.

No, they had all seen humans. It was not that. It was Reod's blue eyes, strange even among his own kind.

"Like robins' eggs," a boy whispered to his mother as they walked by, both turning to look at him.

Like robins' eggs. He could hood his hair, dye his skin, or change his accent, but his eyes would always be blue.

At the Brave Rabbit inn, Reod pushed open the door, pulled it shut behind. held dwarven man always kept a meat stew on the fire. Sometimes it was rabbit and sometimes it was better not to ask.

"It's a brave rabbit," the old dwarven man said in greeting, "who first goes into the pot. Do you want some?"

Reod eyed the bowl of meat chunks and vegetables suspiciously.

"Of course. Thanks."

At the far end of the room sat the woman he had come to meet. If his features were an unexpected spark of light in the dim of this village's overcast day, hers stood out like a moon on a cloudless night.

"Cold enough, Kistefar?" he asked in elvish, sitting down across from her with his bowl of stew.

She turned pale green eyes on him, green as the northernmost seas.

"Yes. Cold."

Havenwood was as far north as Icatia and farther. She would be used to warmer weather and would be as miserable in this cold as he. Worse, elven-thin as she was.

The old dwarven man brought him hot wine and Reod downed both that and the stew quickly. The cold made him hungry, always hungry.

Kistefar watched him with her impassive stare. When he finished the last bit and sat back she bent forward, pulling from under her clothes a chain that he knew always hung around her neck when she travelled on behalf of the elder druids. Bright green flashed at him briefly then vanished again into her shirt.

He shrugged a little, hiding a sharp stab of anxiety.

"Why should I doubt you?"

She had not brought out that token since they had first spoke years ago. He already knew that she represented the interests of the elder druids. There was no need to demonstrate it again.

"Your contract is terminated," she said.

"What?"

"I am instructed to tell you to stop whatever operations you are conducting on our behalf."

"The contract has another year, Kistefar. Funds thrice yearly. Now, that is."

"No funds, Reod."

"But we have an agreement, a contract--"

"No funds."

"Kistefar, listen: I cannot stop now. Without funding these operations will break like glass, leaving sharp fragments everywhere."

"I am not here to negotiate. I am only a messenger."

"I cannot accept this."

Her fingers touched her chest, where the stone hung hidden. A reminder. She spoke for the elders, but how much did they rely on her to act for them? Little, he suspected.

"I do not doubt you, Kistefar. Why do your elders do this?"

"I do not know."

"What did they say?"

"'Have the human Reod Dai stop all operations. Tell him the contract is no longer in force. As of this moment we cease to supply him with funds for any such actions.'"

In his mind Reod saw the paths of alliance he had so laboriously built over the last years, like carefully tended vines. Without his constant attention, some vines would wither and die. Others would grow out of anyone's control.

He leaned forward, met her eyes, and lowered his voice. "Do you know what I have risked these past years for your elders? Do you know how many times I have crossed into orc and goblin territory, gone into their caves to treat with them, not knowing if I would again see the light of day? I have crossed dangerous borders. I have made promises. Do you have any notion what will happen when those promises are broken?"

"That is not my concern."

When Reod had met with Tirraturranum weeks ago it had been all he could do to convince the goblin king to wait to test the new weapons. With succession to the goblin throne both quick and violent, the king was eager to act with his new power while he still could.

And that made the orcs nervous. Usually enemies, the leaders of both races were willing -- at least for the moment -- to let Reod lead them into an alliance, an idea they had never considered before.

The balance was delicate. The elder druids could not have picked a worse time.

"Three months," he said. "Give me that. One more installment.

I will do what I can to minimize the damage, to finish things off."

"No." She began to rise. To leave.

He struggled to swallow his frustration, to show her only calm and reason. With palms up, he put his hands out on the table. It was a gesture that crossed cultures, that meant peace, but might also mean a favor asked. The strangeness of it caught her eyes and she hesitated. He dropped into his story-telling voice, a voice with which he had held the attention of hundreds, even thousands. She sat down again.

"Imagine that you have taken a small bear into your house. Not merely into your house, Kistefar, but imagine that you have let it sleep at the foot of your bed. Every day you feed it, every day it grows a little. Now it has grown large, very large. And then, one day, for some reason you simply stop giving it any food." He held her gaze in his own a long moment. "At least let me put a chain around the beast's neck."

"It is not my decision to make."

"You have their ear, Kistefar. You must."

"I serve my elders. I have faith in their wisdom."

"Their wisdom will draw great quantities of blood."

"As your people have not?"

"We have. Certainly. But there will be far more."

"Indeed, Reod Dai? I ask you: is there a people who have spilled more blood than yours? Your kind is so generous with your words and actions, but the rest of us only wish to live in our own ways with our own words. It is said that a human only knows how to keep silent and when to stop moving when it is dead."

"I have heard it, and many other sayings not so generous. But we are not talking about humans. We are talking about orcs and goblins, who are even harder to reason with, and have become a force capable of great damage, a force that needs careful tending. My reports should have made that clear. Did your elders receive them?"

"They did."

"These creatures will soon be more than an irritation. Do the elders intend me to leave them so strong? Surely not, Kistefar. They must let me make sure that the creatures cannot do great harm."

"Again, no."

He shut his eyes. The strength of the goblin mobs and orc bands was little now to what it could be in a month or more if the alliance held without his involvement.

"It will take me weeks to get to Havenwood. Must I go there to talk to them myself? Even in that short time goblins and orcs will act unchecked. But the elders must be made to see their decision for the folly it is."

"You will not be welcome in Havenwood."

Reod felt the chill outside creep into his stomach.

"I see."

"You are to stop all acts based on this contract. There will be no more funds--"

"You repeat yourself," he said sharply, his patience fraying.

"My elders also wish me to emphasize that--" her tone quieted.

"That it would unwise for you to discuss the terms of the contract with anyone else."

"I see."

She stood quickly, her posture tense. "I am only a messenger, Reod."

He stood with her. "Those who die at goblin and orc hands will not much care who you are."

"I am not responsible for what goblins and orcs do."

"Your leaders have built a monster that they will not control. Who should take the blame?"

"Some would say that it is you who have built the monster."

"At whose direction? Tell your elders that they are making a wretched mistake."

"I will relay your words."

"Tell them I am not pleased."

"I do not believe they thought you would be otherwise."

"Make sure they know that I will not soon forget this."

"No one will forget, Reod Dai. Remember that when you consider what words you might say and to whom."

Reod struggled to keep his face clear as he gave her a small, restrained bow, which she returned.

"Safe travel to you, Kistefar."

"And to you, Reod Dai."

She hefted her pack and left the inn.

"The honor of elves," Reod said softly to himself, to see how the words tasted. Bitter.

Did the elders really think they could break the contract and rely on threat to buy his silence? In all his years of fulfilling contracts he had never been treated so poorly, not even by goblins and orcs, who at least understood the risk of not keeping their promises. Reod could not afford to let this breach go by unquestioned and without consequence.

His original plan took him from this village back to the orc generals and goblin king, to then proceed with the careful business of arranging their first mutual target. But without the coin and weapons today's meeting was supposed to have given him, they would not be impressed. He could not go there with empty hands. His plans would have to change.

A month hence, near winter's firstday, deep in the Crimson Peaks, there would be waiting for him the most powerful weapons in his arsenal. The weapons would be available only there, and only then. Now without his funds, he could not afford to purchase them.

But he would have to find a way.

South it was then, and directly, with a few favors called in along the way. South, to where it was even colder.

With that sour thought, he gestured to the old man to bring him more hot wine and food.

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