The Return

          Lane Evenfall cracked an eye up at the yellow haze growing on the horizon, and the Tavraujo Mountain Range did the same.  The temperature always dipped just before sunrise, a welcomed pain for the promise of daylight.  Everything that drew breath was greeting the sun in its own way.  Some stared with dumb, thoughtless eyes and lumbered out onto the surface of a flat rock.  Others skittered further into the shadows to avoid losing the daily chase.  And yet others whispered prayers of intercession to their various gods and ancestors.  Regardless of station, they all collectively pondered the victories, the failures, and the uncertainty of the coming day.
     
          Evenfall unwrapped from his wool blanket and shook off a light dusting of snow.  Dumb Luck caught his vision and shook his head slightly, signaling that it was not yet time for him to take watch.  He shrugged back at the man.  Sleep chill lanced through him and he knew some time would pass before he could shiver up a functional level of warmth.  Fur-lined heads turned to watch his slow hands gather up rifle and pack.  Warm blood flowed from his heart to his extremities.  He beat his leather-clad hands together.  The retreat of deep bodily cold was one of his favorite parts to any day.  It melted the dead from his limbs. 
He gripped the charging handle of his rifle and rocked it back.  Satisfied that the action had not frozen, he eased it back into place and tapped the bolt-assister to clamp it tight.  He checked his weapons often.  The combination of metal, moisture, and cold locked up many weapons, rendering them useless in a time of imminent need.  A lot of men discovered that the hard way when the weapon oil ran dry last winter.  He shouldered through the nylon straps on his pack and set the rifle against his chest.  Satisfied that he was not going to freeze this day, Lane dropped the hood on his parka and buckled on his goggles.

Dumb Luck, Lane’s second, approached him. 

“Sun’s not up proper, yet, Ravenhead.  Your watch isn’t for a while.” He said.

“I know,” Lane said, “But we’re less than half a day out.  I don’t think anyone would mind getting in to Lahsas a little early.”

“No argument..” Dumb Luck turned to the perimeter and passed the word to get ready to move.   

          Dumb Luck was a Tiralag.  His real name was actually something more akin to ‘Dam Loc’, but when Lane explained the meaning of the phrase to Luck’s fellow tribesmen, the name stuck.  It was humorous in its own perverse way.  Of all the Tiralag, Dumb Luck had to be the most meticulous bastard born in the mountain range since the first of his ancestors arrived.  By nature, the Tiralag were not a worrisome people.  Quite the opposite.  But, their come-what-may attitude had gotten them through the last thousand years, and they saw no reason to change it.  Often the only Tiralag reflection on bad weather was an amiable curse.  Out in the Ranges, the Tiralag felt they had less to fear than most.  Dumb Luck knew otherwise.  No success he encountered came gift-wrapped by chance.  He loved planning down to the last detail, and Lane had verbally sparred with him many times over the horrifyingly mundane.  No one could fault Luck’s record, though.
 
          The twelve men packed and settled into their familiar positions.  Each man had a place based on his abilities and the weapons he carried.  They shuffled in the cold behind puffs of breath, testing the texture of snow and rock.  Lane signaled and they began their day’s trials.

          Evenfall kept a wary eye on his Tiralag as they neared Lhasas.  They were his watchful eyes and ears in the mountains, and his fists too.  Closer to the Border Town meant closer to danger.  Any competent expedition leader knew to keep the big picture in mind.  He controlled the weapons of his expedition to best employ them.  If things got ugly, everyone knew there was at least one cool head in the mix.   
          Closer to the town, grins mixed with lighter footfalls.  Everyone felt the closeness of a warm fire and shelter from the wind.  Raiders anticipated such a reaction and relied on carelessness.  Surviving expeditions anticipated the anticipation.  So the game went from time immemorial. 
         
          Temple Rock!  Lhasas huddled in the jutting spire’s shadow.  Every mountaineer in the Tavraujo breathed easier at its sight.  The sharp peak defined Lhasas more than the wood, rope, and fur of the town itself.  The dozen let loose a joyful cry, shaking their weapons at the summit.