/lit/ - Literature

Here' the intro to a short story I've been working on

The cold winds of the Duskmarch whipped at the tattered scarf around Iorvath's frost-kissed face as he trudged through the knee-deep snow. The Tallsparrow mountains cut through the fertile lands known as the Duskmarch like a jagged scar, and at this time of year, the hellish mountain pass was the only way across.
Iorvath was a veteran fighter who had deserted the Royal Daelish Army after the horrific defeat at Maiden's Landing. A few weeks of wandering and a shrinking coin purse had brought him into the employment of the sour-faced silks merchant, Vernor Vontiss, who paid well enough to make the suicidal winter crossing over Tallsparrow Peak sound like a good idea.
"Lights ahead!" came a cry from the vanguard.
Iorvath squinted through the winter air. Not far ahead, orbs of softly glowing light danced and floated in the darkening snow-blown twilight.
The small caravan stopped. Vontiss peaked a heavily bundled face out of his cart, steam flaring from his large nostrils.
"Bahamut's blessed backside! Why have we stopped? Am I paying you miserable oafs to stand here dawdling in this freezing weather?"
The leader of the vanguard, a young half-elf named Ryle Blackbow, came bounding back to answer the merchant, his handsome oaken longbow clasped in a gloved hand.
"We've spotted lights ahead, my lord. It could be another caravan making their way through the pass," he explained, clutching his woolen hat to his head as a gust of wind barreled through the narrow, icy walls of the pass.
Vontiss clapped his mittened hands together. "If it's a caravan, we were here first. We have the right of way. Tell them to move aside and let us pass, blast it!"
Iorvath stood beside the wagon, listening as best he could in the howling wind. He could still see the faint lights up ahead. The way they moved, they could have been from the swaying lanterns of a passing caravan, but something about all of this just didn't feel quite right.