A CHILL WIND BIT AT PEROHIM'S NOSE, HIS HANDS, HIS NECK. It made him smile. Golden wheat fields spread around the base of Sebros Mountain, tickling his legs as they swayed in the breeze. With his cleaver strapped to his belt and a pack on his back, Perohim set up the slope toward the peak of a mountain that no man had ever returned from.
He knew cold well. In his shop, he stored meats in below-zero temperatures and often had to work in that environment to keep them fresh. He knew creatures well, the soft spots where sinew met muscle, the perfect ways to dissect anything that stood in his path.
It was while butchering a boar that he had decided on this. He had seen dragons—everyone had—but no one knew them as well as he did. Had he faced one before? No. But he had carved ones head from its corpse after being asked to do so for a knight.
This was possible for him. He would not fail—could not fail. There was no mountain, no monster, dragon, or beast of the land that could stand in his way. Knights had refused to conquer Sebros Mountain after several of their kind failed to slay the beast on top.
But Perohim would be different. He didn’t have family in the village, but he knew them. Butchered meat for them. He could slay a beast for them.
The air grew colder a hundred feet up, but Perohim was prepared for this. He was swathed in warm clothes several layers deep, and he knew how to fight in them. This could not best him.
Perohim crested a large boulder already covered in snow and stopped by it. He wasn’t even winded by this point. The winding road stretched out before him, crisscrossing up the mountain. It had not been well-made. Whoever had carved the path was hasty, or they weren’t allowed to finish at all. Perohim would have to cut through the second half. That did not bother him.
However many hurdles I have to face, and then it will be over. I will return with the head of the beast, be heralded as a hero, and return to my butchering. At peace.
Perohim knew he would. He carried on, pumping his legs and easily crossing fallen trees, deep pits, and icy stretches.
Then he came across the first body. A man lay strewn on the road, neck snapped, head lolling at a wrong angle. His armor was gnarled, his helmet crushed, already in the clutches of deep ice. It was a shame, to be sure, and Perohim bade him a restful eternity, but he would not be like the rest.
Around the next bend, he was assaulted by a ranka, a six-legged winged demon with a penchant for blood. He chopped into the thing’s shoulder with his cleaver and sent its corpse tumbling down the mountainside.
Other bodies lay in its wake, failed adventurers whose corpses had wilted from poison and age. He closed their eyes and carried on.
A path of ice stretched perilously ahead of him, but he steadied himself and shimmied across. When his foot slipped, he jammed his cleaver into the ground, calmed his breathing, and reached the end of the path.
The mountain road was nearing its end. Ice drove daggers into his sides and cut through the clothes on his back. I must be quick. I cannot survive on the mountaintop for long. He covered his nose and mouth with a cloth and trudged on.
A shadow crossed his path, and far above spread the wings of a dragon. It roared, sending a hail of snow and boulders down upon the mountain. Perohim looked up at it and gripped the hilt of his sword. Soon.
He crossed under the boughs of a fallen tree. Then he heard a voice cry out. A man, still alive, collapsed. Perohim came to his side and crouched beneath the snow-laden branches to look upon the figure.
He was a scrawny thing, and on his side were the telltale wounds of dragon’s fangs. The man had been thrown from the peak at first contact.
“What’s your name, boy?” said Perohim, brushing snow from the man’s face and eyes. His skin was pallid, almost blue. His ears were already turned black.
“Ah—I’m…Colin. Are you…an angel?”
Perohim shook his head. The dragon high above roared again. Colin coughed. “I…I’m so cold.”
“You will die up here,” he said quietly.
Colin gripped Perohim’s arm. There was no strength in it. “I can’t. Please, oh, God, please don’t let me die up here. I was so foolish.”
The wind howled, and Perohim cast his eyes to the heavens again. The dragon was up there, looming. Peace, finality, and greatness awaited at the top of this mountain.
He sat beside Colin and held his hand. “Tell me of yourself, Colin.”
Colin shivered, cheeks missing all color. “I…I’m from a town down south. Uh…”
“Why are you up here, Colin?”
“I wanted to kill the dragon. It…it killed my sister, raided our farm.”
“I’m sorry.”
Colin laughed bitterly. “It doesn’t matter, does it? Killing it? I can’t bring her back.”
Perohim shook his head. “No.” The ice was getting in Perohim’s bones now. He didn’t know if he could stand. “Keep talking. What about your other family?”
“They told me I’m an idiot for coming up here. I…oh…” Colin curled in on himself. “I…I’m so cold.”
“I know.” Perohim put a hand over Colin’s eyes. “Sleep now. It’s alright.” It was difficult to move his arm, but the boy accepted it and closed his eyes. “Sleep…for an eternity.”
The boy perished. Perohim looked up, but he could not stand. His cleaver had frozen into the earth, and his legs were stuck despite the warm clothing. He could have killed the dragon, protected his people, lived in relative peace.
Instead…instead, he had ushered on one afraid soul from this life to whatever lay ahead of him. Somehow, that was better.
Perohim laid next to Colin and died.
That was Insurmountable, another short story from my writing group! Upon editing it, I realized the message had similar tones to Witness for the Dead, but I think the themes I hit with that one were somber in a different way. A bit more hopeful, too.
But I enjoyed this one. It's short and doesn't need to be (can't be, even!) longer. Thanks for reading!
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