Morning mist hung low over the mountain path. The highway stretching south from the western foot of the Karnadoom Range was nothing more than a narrow road with a simple surface of stacked stones. Few people traveled it, and the ruts of cargo carts were etched into the dry earth, though the last one to pass had likely done so days ago. Coniferous trees lined the roadside, and mist seeped from their branches like breath. Through the white haze, an old man walked. Aldric Ironheart held a blacksmith's iron staff in his left hand. It was an iron rod, worked to a comfortable length, originally a tool for moving materials in a forge. Using it as a cane, he carried his aged bones slowly southward, but with an unwavering rhythm. There was no wavering in his gait. Slow, but never stopping. That way of walking came from the memory of a body tempered by thousands of miles of marching. Salt-and-pepper short hair clung to his temples, dampened by the mist. Deep purple-tinged gray eyes gazed stea