His pn had worked so far. Find some safe spot for the day and rest there, move through at nights without any sort of light source. The path was carved into the mountain, so as long as they let their eyes adjust and traveled carefully, they could keep going without too much trouble. Finding safe resting spots was getting harder and harder though.

  At first it was bushes and under rge trees when they were still at the foot of the mountain path. Then it was a lucky cave here and there, which the harpies definitely wouldn’t be entering- enclosed dark spaces really set them off for whatever reason, to a point where diving into a cave was a good way of getting them to back off from a chase.

  … But they were starting to run out of good hiding spots as they entered the mountain trail proper. There were less caves than he’d hoped for, and they’d had to spend one day without any sleep before they found a good resting pce- and he’s sure the damn harpies saw them scurrying about when they’d been forced to move through at daytime. The nighttime movement was at a snail’s pace too, so they weren’t making much progress.

  It’d all even out once they got through, sure, it’d still be faster than circling the Keybone and especially circling the whole range, but this was still becoming less than ideal. All his fault too. Shouldn’t have relied on old memories and vague portents. Back when he traveled through here some twenty years ago he did so as part of a squad of soldiers. They still moved at night, but they had trackers, hunters, engineers, they could make their own shelters.

  For today, they’d found one of those shelters. Homer recognizes it by the carving made onto the wall; a simple, rough replica of the insignia that their unit used to carry, although time has made it a little less recognizable. Took some squinting. Maybe it’s just his vision going to shit.

  “We might have to change our approach going forward from here, ss. We’re no disciplined military unit that can march in fast lockstep.” And they don’t have members with night vision nor do they have maps to warn of treacherous, sudden drops or such. “We’ve made good headway, but we might want to travel starting from the te afternoon now. Make headway while there’s still some light, slow down once night sets and find a sleeping pce before morning comes. Faster. Only a little less safe.”

  And he had another reason; Maia was clearly not keeping up with the sudden change of pace. Should’ve guessed that. Hermit that she was, she probably woke up at around seven every morning and went to sleep at seven every evening. How could he force her to adjust her whole sleep schedule so drastically? She was about to fall asleep right now!

  “Mmh… I can keep going, Homer… It’s fiiiinee….”She’s about to fall asleep while leaning on her staff right now!! He has to grab her by the shoulder and correct her posture every few minutes! Once she almost walked off the mountainside, and he just barely caught on!“mmmmnnzzzz……..”

  He had to pick her up and carry her on his back for the rest of the day’s stretch. They had to adjust and fast; while he could carry her for the whole trip if needed, that’d obviously make them sitting ducks for whenever the harpies attacked. He’d been treating their nightly movements as a miracle panacea cure-all for the harpy problem, but that wasn’t exactly true either. They didn’t fly around much at night and the pair was very stealthy, but…

  He’d seen a few circling above them now and then. Barely. Like they wanted to be seen. Maia hadn’t paid any attention, but he knew they *knew* they were here. Like they were taunting them. That was unlikely to be the case, though: Harpies weren’t taunters. It wasn’t a part of the culture. Community, honor and isotion, territoriality- those were things he knew of harpies, but taunting wasn’t it. So what was the big idea? Were they scouts, trying to gather how many travelers there actually were?

  Or were they just observing for the sake of it.Which made him even more nervous. They had no way of scouting back, after all- even if they had more guys with them, who the hell’s going to grow wings and follow the harpies?

  Enough thinking about it. Doubting their every move would slow them down, and while they had time to waste for now, if they crawled a few inches a day they’d still end up being te. The range was not some fast travel magic, merely a way to shave off a notable amount of time from the process if utilized well.

  So, come the next day, they started traveling during the afternoon hours, increasing their daylight hours while increasing the time they spent sleeping at night. They still traveled during the darker hours, but this would hopefully let them move greater distances- enough that they could always secure a safe pce to sleep in. Easier to spot little caves and crevices or comfortable looking bushes this way. And Maia was clearly doing better too.

  One time she almost walked off the mountainside and course-corrected herself without his help even! That made him feel a little proud.

  And that even gave them a little boon: Maia’s course correction came to a pause, and then she suddenly tugged at his arm and pointed down wordlessly. The sun was still out; if they’d gotten through this section in the dark they likely wouldn’t have found it. Down below- not very far, enough that they could scale down and the climb back up without too much effort- was a small pteau with an old, abandoned cabin. Or at least they assumed it was abandoned by how the roof was torn apart and rotting a little.

  But it was better than what they’d had before. Caves get cold this time of year. So, he slung Maia over onto his back and started scaling down, feeling her grip tighten every time his foothold quaked a little. It was a five minute climb down to the cabin, probably ten minutes if she did it herself. Saves some time, and he wasn’t quite sure he could trust her mountain climbing skills. Once they made it down to the little pteau, all became clearer.

  A caved-in tunnel on the cliffside here- ahah. This was probably some wintering shack for travelers before the harpies made travel too unsafe. Or some smuggler’s hut who’d reached an accord with them. Whatever the case, the main means of getting here had been lost to time- looking down from the pteau revealed that the climb up here was far, far more treacherous than the short climb down from the mountain path above.

  Heading inside showed that while the roof was unrepairable- not that they had the time to start renovating anyway, but you know- there were sections of the cabin that still had coverage. Only one room and the door had rotted off the hinges, but it was way better than what they’d had previously. The nights were getting a little colder the higher up along the mountain they went, so this’d be the warmest respite they’ll have.

  “Hhhrk-!”

  Just to make sure they wouldn’t be intruded upon by bandits (he feared harpies less in this one case, since he doubted they’d fly into an abandoned house) he drags some wooden debris from around the cabin to pile up along the entrance to the room, making it that much harder to enter- or exit, he realizes, but….

  Bah. He shouldn't worry so much. If any bandits entered, they’d have to cmber and clear the way, and that’d wake him up in time to defend himself and Maia. Once they were settled he crumpled down into a pile at the other end of the room and began to dig through his copious amounts of leather pouches and small bags slung across him.

  Maia had called him an old mule when she saw his frankly ridiculous setup when they left for the Range, and he’d ughed and owned up to it. But between the two of them, it was obvious he ought to carry all the food and other supplies while she kept light. Otherwise they’d have to stop for more breaks.

  “How’s it looking? We don’t have to forage yet, do we?”

  As expected of a hermit with a limited supply of food and water, Maia was quite frugal and careful with their supplies. Made a good pairing with him and his old ration dividing mentality from the military days.

  “We won’t have to forage for the whole trip as long as you hold yourself back with the small pies I bought with *my* money.”

  Maia puffed her cheeks and crawled over anyway, quietly shuffling through all they’d bought. Homer did so too. Dried fish, dried meat, waterskins, a bunch of carrots (most of them already eaten), fist sized pies, chewing leaves Homer enjoyed putting under his lip during particurly rough mountain treks, other sorts of herbs meant to give some fvor to the dried meats, a bottle of alcohol for Homer that they got from Hawk’s Rest, and…

  … One rock hard loaf of bread.

  They really needed to eat it, but both Homer and Maia always picked something else, so the loaf kept getting harder and harder- already a little old when they’d gotten it- and now it was like a blunt weapon… They both agreed to not eat it today either.

  Eating and making merry was one of those few times they could really rex on this leg of the trip, especially with their newly found abode. Maia attentively listens to his stories both from the wars he’s been in and times outside of them,

  “They really have ships leaving the port of Kronus to sail into a new world?”

  “Tell me more about the Iskariot dynasty!”

  “There’s people out there who live on mountains accessible only by riding on flying horses?”

  Her curiosity was insatiable, and he was like a well in the desert for her in this moment. It made him wonder; what would this girl be like had she been born in different circumstances, in a different pce? If her parents weren’t hermits, but merely citizens of the godsblooded capital? Would she be someone greater than a hermit worshipper of a death god?

  Then again, thinking like that isn’t fair for her. It’s not like her birth made her the way she is. Full of belief and love… She’d likely be the same wherever she was born, just with some different details.

  Their merriment can’t st forever. Eventually they’ve eaten their portions for the day and he’s told a tall tale for her, and settling for sleep comes next. There’s no good bedding here, but all the copious bags and pouches he carries can be divvied up as makeshift pillows, and his cape can be spared for her as a bnket, and-

  … The house creaks.It creaks again.It creaks-

  Homer rises to his feet, already drawing his sword. Not an earthquake, no, the house creaks again and-

  gravity sends them both rolling right into the wall, Homer’s heavy frame making the old pnks scream in ages old oaken pain. Like the whole gravity of the cabin suddenly shifted, he tries to push himself up only to feel the wall give away under him, forcing him to roll aside, pushing Maia against the other wall-

  And Homer peers over his shoulder and realizes something. His hand broke through the pnks of the wall (now the floor?) and he felt nothing, as expected, but- That shouldn’t make sense, if the gravity shifted and the wall was now the floor, he should’ve been feeling the ground. And they’re not falling, the pteau didn’t colpse, they’d be dead already if so…

  Then the screeching begins.The loud cackling of birds, like a flock of seagulls times ten, all around them, echoing from each crack of the old house. Harpies.

  Above, to the sides, and below-below, in the air, circling and chittering and scratching at the walls of the uplifted structure, hundreds of ropes tied to the cabin. Homer felt like an idiot. It *was* too good to be true, but instead of bandits he should’ve expected- the scouts, they weren’t scouts at all! They were a clever ploy, plodding the traveling pair in certain directions and towards certain behavior, so they’d rex and rest in here-!

  They were trapped.Maia especially, between his frame and the wall, quietly wailing. Homer was gd, though. If the walls broke now, he could hold them steady to avoid falling. He could protect her even in his failure, even in his darkest moment.

  The kidnapped cabin, carried into the air by tens or even hundreds of harpies, slowly disappears towards the horizon and the peak of the Keybone, and to their vilge.