That night their camp was a sombre place as they talked through the day. Nobody had been particularly fond of the witch hunter, yet he had been with their party since Altdorf and his loss left them diminished. For Johannes, this was the first death he had seen, while Sir Robert and Donal had been hardened by battle against the orcs and skaven. Yet Sir Robert has hit almost as hard as Johannes, he had lead the group and felt responsible for Waltdorf's death even though he had chosen to seperate himself.

They pressed on again the next day, noting that it was not until shortly after noon that they now reached de Swandle's camp from last night - they had lost all the time that had previously been gained and then some. They rode on, more in grim determination than hope, but no more troubles assailed them that afternoon.

The next few days passed in a similar fashion. They were closing on de Swandle, but they were also climbing and the air was growing colder. The nature of the forest was also changing: the gnarled oak-like trees were giving way to evergreens, although the path remained as dark and shaded as ever. It seemed also, much to their relief, that as they left the lowland behind they also left the beastmen, for their hunting cries in the night grew fewer and more distant as they climbed.

As the ground steepened, the trees began to shorten, until soon they could once more see the sky. Yet it looked grey and unwelcoming, and brought a cold rain that ran down their necks and chilled their hands and faces. Despite the thickness of their oil-treated cloaks, they were soon wet throughout, and thorougly cold and miserable.

They were well into the foothills of the World's Edge Moutains now and the roots of the mountains pushed through to the surface around them, large outcrops of rock upon which no tree grew. The path woud through these rocks, and kept climbing. Still they saw the abandoned fires of de Swandle's party every day, but they were no longer gaining.

Soon the forest was behind them and only solitary pines were too be seen. The grey rocks glistened in the rain and sleet that seemed never to cease and a chill wind whipped around their cloaks. They were walking through a particularly deep valley, their horses splashing up a stream that flowed down the path, when they heard a gutteral wailing ahead.

Spurring their horses on, they soon came to where a dwarf sat, holding the body of a second in his arms. A third dwarf lay motionless on the ground, along with 3 humans. As he saw them, the dwarf layed the body down and staggered to his feet, pulling his axe from his belt.

Sir Robert jumped down from his horse, his hands open in front of him, saying "We're not enemies. We are hunting seven men on horses. Did they fight you?"

The dwarf growled, still holding his axe ready to fight. "How do I know I can trust you? Why should I not strike you down now?"

"I have dismounted my horse, I could have attacked you with my lance if I had so desired. I lay down my sword and my shield. You may strike at me if you so wish, but I do not believe it is the dwarvish way to strike thus." So saying, Sir Robert let his sword-belt drop to the floor and took his shield from around his neck, laying it beside his sword.