Blackfire Pass was a mass of gentle undulations framed by the majestic mountains that rose high into the clear spring skies. White snowcaps still clung to the mountains, so high and so cold that they only disappeared briefly around midsummer, if at all. The road was literally beaten into the rock, worn smooth by generations of marching feet and clattering wagons. Little grew besides occasional patches of grass and the odd scrubby bush that clung tenatiously to the rocky ground. Here and there streams had been cut into the rock by water running down from the mountains, though they were never deep enough to require bridging. To Emmaline the pass was a place out of legend, she just wished that most of those legends didn't end with 'and so they fought heroically to the last man'.

Heisenbach grunted irritably at the draught horses, shaking his reigns to encourage them to pick up the pace. As a piece of horsemanship this singularly failed, the two shaggy coated browns continuing to tramp on at the same dogged pace they had maintained all day. Johanas Heisenbach had been a handsome man once, but a combination of years of rough living had worn his face down like a bluff beaten by the wind. He was heavy set though muscular, the result of the feast or famine lifestyle of a seasoned caravanner. His lank brown hair was greying at the temples and his jaw was slightly misshapen, the result of either a greenskin mace to the face or an irritated frau with a rolling pin depending on how drunk he was. He had been overjoyed when Emmaline asked to accompany his caravan back in Averland, somewhat less so when she mentioned she was traveling with Amal. In the three weeks they had been on the road she had managed to make herself useful, concocting balms and salves for saddlesores, restorative tinctures for the horses, and even improving some of the gunpowder that formed part of their cargo. Imperial arms, powder and textiles formed the bulk of the cargo carried in their four wagons, though there was an amount of wine, some books, and other small items for sale also.

"Killing orcs is part of our religion," Emmaline responded, speaking Arabyian as Amal had. Heisenbach's head snapped up as there was no word she knew for Orc in that tongue and she had spoken that word in Reikspiel. She made a calming guesture and waved a hand at the skeletons in explanations. The merchant nodded and relaxed.

"Better not to speak of them, name the Daemon and all that," he grumbled. Emmaline pulled her traveling cloak around her shoulders and scanned the hills. There was a sear majesty to it all that combined to make her feel very small and insignificant.

"If they were coming through in strength we would know it," Heisenbach expanded, doubtlessly picking up on Emmaline's sudden discomfort. He drew a pipe from a pouch and began to pack tabac into the bowl.

"There are always raiders though, and not just green skins either," he muttered. A chill wind gusted from the mouth of the pass and the skeletons hung in the trees began to clatter like grotesque windchimes. Privately Emmaline thought it would be a desperate band indeed that attacked two ogres and a trio of the most savage looking dwarves she had yet to see. Far from her shifty dwarven fence back in Altdorf, these three were slabs of corded muscle, their shaven heads surmounted by vast shocks of orange hair held in place by animal fat. Emmaline thought she could probably whip up something that did the job better and smelt a deal less foul, but the Dwarven antipathy too well known for her to risk offending them. Torvin, the most senior of the slayers Emmaline had gleaned, hawked a wad of phlem in the directions of the green skins, growling to himself in his own language and patting the hilt of a massive warhammer with a fist that could have encircled Emmaline's head. The Ogres, Gnawer and Ripper, as they were referred to for lack of any better names, ignored the sight completely, continuing to gnaw on the haunches of a dead donkey they had found a few miles back and quickly dismembered. 

"This is the heart of the pass," Heisenbach explained as the caravan turned southward, axles grinding and wheels clattering. The trail split not far beyond the statue, one road, less used, continuing to the east while they took the more traveled route south. A particularly savage jolt slapped through the cart, jarring Emmaline's teeth and bruising even her well padded rump.

"Are we going to break for a midday meal?" Emmaline asked, thinking more of her battered bottom than her growling stomach. Heisenbach was attempting to get his pipe lit without much success, sparking at a flint with a steel that had almost been worn away to nothing. Emmaline concentrated for a moment and the tabac lit of its own accord.

"My thanks," the caravan master muttered, taking several long puffs and then blowing out the fragrant smoke. If he was bothered by wizards and magic he hid it well, though Emmaline in her travelling cloak and threadbare Reikland costume looked more like a milkmaid than a mage.

"And no, not yet. There is a wayfort not far ahead, we will stop early and spend the night, better to lose a little time and sleep in a defensible spot than on the open road this far east."

By the time the reached the wayfort the sun was begining to sink, even though it wouldn't fully set for several more hours. It was one of the places that dwarven traders used to exchange goods with their human partners. The term 'fort' might have been a bit of a misnomer. It was merely a small hilltop that had been topped with a wall of unmortared stone that rarely exceeded waist height. The sides of the hill were studded with rotting timber stakes that seemed unlikely to deter any very serious assault. As the wagons clattered through the gate Emmaline realised that there was a well and that several lean toos had been built against the far wall, which was somewhat taller than the ones she had seen on the way in. A half dozen dwarves, were already inside. Some appeared to be hunters and were busily dressing a side of what must have been mountain goat, while a trio appeared to be merchants, sitting around a wagon that looked to contain pelts and iron mongery. All had weapons to hand and looked tough enough to mount at least some defense if raiders showed up. Emmaline stood up and climbed down out of the wagon, rubbing at her bottom as she did so. If she ever made a trip like this she was going to invest in a cushion.

"Lets see what we can find to eat," she told Amal as the guards began to set their own camp and Heisenbach strode over to the dwarven trader to being whatever business he might be able to conduct.