The back of her neck itched. Belkynn Kallon was too involved in climbing to scan for danger. Ten more yards. She steadied her breath, forced herself to steady perseverance. Though it took only a minute, her climb to that next narrow shelf seemed eternal. Each movement cost her heroic effort. Her muscles burned with the strain of a full day’s scaling.

Once she gained the shelf, she lay face-down on it and gazed longingly at her gear. It would take more effort than she could summon at the moment to pull the gear up on that braided silk rope. Now she rested, focused on her breathing as she gasped in the crisp cold air of Tor Sylvathia.

As she regained her breath, part of her mind marveled over her journey. She had left Kaelaryll three weeks ago. She had thought it early to travel the Western Worldteeth, but the priestess assured her of good weather. She had traveled as swiftly as possible, and yet she was amazed at the fact that she had covered nearly two hundred leagues through the rugged mountains. Now it was just a matter of finding Damar and Hermit Point before her enemies . . .

Something moved below. Near the foot of the cliff. She forced her eyes to focus. The cliff seemed even taller from this vantage, though she was certain it was less than three hundred yards. Raised among similar mountains, she had keen eyesight. And yet she could not find the source of the motion below. Nothing seemed out of place. Stones and scree with early spring flowers and tenacious grasses dotted the flat approach to the cliff. Moss and lichen dotted the cliff face itself from foot to top.

Then she saw it. A hint of motion. Like a heat shimmer or mist in a soft breeze. Her heart lurched. She forgot her fatigue. She pushed herself to her feet and gazed at the last thirty yards of cliff between her shelf and the plateau above. Grinding her teeth, she looped the silk rope into an iron ring on her leather harness and resumed her climb. Fighting her own urge toward haste, Belkynn Kallon paced herself such that her breathing remained steady.

She was half way when the wind brought its scent.

“Damn trolls!” She muttered the invective as though remarking on a scraped knuckle.

Having climbed thus far with her fingertips, she resigned herself to necessity and pulled her climbing picks, carefully one at a time, and exercised all her self-discipline.

“Please, goddess-mother,” she prayed to a circling eagle. “Please lead me to water.”

The sound of claws on stone reached her now. Goddess, but trolls could climb!

Heart in her throat, Belkynn crawled over the edge of the plateau and rolled into its grass. It dulled her panic, but that was the extent of comfort she could find in it. She rose quaking to her knees and looked around.

“Thank you, goddess,” she whispered vehemently.

She rose to her feet and ran, half staggering, to where the shadow of another cliff sheltered snow from the early spring sun.

The snow did not give at first, and so she was three steps into it before her legs gave way. She rolled into the fall and came to rest on her back. The snow drift was deep enough to bury her. Only for a moment did she consider the possibility that a troll might lose her that way.

“Right,” she murmured around a mouthful of melting snow. “The same day She-Who-Dreams fails to awaken for the Moon of Dragons.”

She rose to her feet and gazed at the line that defined the cliff top. Nothing moved. She squinted, watching the grass now for signs of passage. Still. Nothing moved, save the slight breeze.

“Come out, come out,” she said into the wind. “I know you’re there.”

After a moment of deep breaths to fire her blood, she moved from the chill of the shadows into the sunlight. Much better to die in the sunlight amid these white spring lilies than in the chill of a snow bank.

Back in the sunlight, she sniffed the breeze. Only flowers and the tang of Tzhanka grass. Gripping her climbing picks, her gwegtvark, she made her way to the edge and searched with all her senses. It is unheard of for a troll to break off once it scents prey.

Finally, trusting her nose to warn her, Belkynn made her way to the silk rope and pulled up her gear. It was still ten yards from her when she smelled it—the troll had marked her canvas and skulkrist-hide bag. Cautiously, she pulled it up the rest of the way, gagging on the stench of the troll’s urine.

“Freak fumbleglut,” she spat.

For a moment she considered going on without the gear. Then she realized again how weary she was. Gazing around, she found a depressed area forty yards from the edge. It offered refuge from the wind at least. There was nothing here to burn.

Resigned, she sat heavily in the depression’s center and began to brush her gear bag down with the strange white lilies. Rather curious that all the lilies here were white; all the other fields of lilies she had seen in the Western Worldteeth were an explosion of jubilant spring color. Still, they smelled wonderfully sweet and flowery. They did not completely mask the scent of troll urine, though.

After clearing the area within reach from her sitting position of lilies, she conceded the inadequacy of this tactic and opened the bag. Taking several articles out, she sniffed them cautiously before placing them within reach. Her bedroll was tolerable only because it was protected in the skulkrist-hide; thank the goddess those lizards were good for waterproof gear. Her copper and tin camp utensils and pot would have to be washed in the snow before cleansing them in fire. But that wouldn’t happen tonight.

Near the bottom of the bag, she found the small earthenware urn she was searching for. She opened it and used three fingers to scoop out a generous portion of bear grease, which she then stroked carefully over the gear bag. Once she had rubbed the grease into the skulkrist hide, she grabbed handfuls of grass to wipe away the residue. Then she rubbed the bag down with flowers again.

Once the smell of troll urine was sufficiently masked, Belkynn crushed some of the flowers into a portion of the grease, adding a mix of herbs and flowers from a smaller bag. She worked the grease to her satisfaction, and then applied some to her hands and feet, having removed her thick hide sandals. It soothed the skin immediately. Having attended to her anguished hands and feet, she added a pungent pulp to the mixture and rubbed it into her muscles.

The sun was setting by the time she finished. Nearly refreshed, she made her way back to the snow and washed her pot and utensils. Between the snow and the rough mountain grass, she was fairly confident they were clean enough for use. She collected what snow she could carry and returned to her minimal camp, alert for any sign of the troll’s return. Strangely, her Ryllidan Ranger instincts insisted that she was in no danger here from the troll.