The smell of hellfire filled the room as the demon king’s enormous face split, revealing a colossal maw filled with mismatched teeth all the way down. While his master’s appearance didn’t phase Nuros, the hellish light emanating Varamemnon’s eyes did, pressing down on him like a heavy weight.

  He wished more than anything that he’d just killed that accursed imp when he’d had her in his hands beneath that worthless mortal city.

  “K’thanizar mocks me with your failure and the weakness of your minions,” rumbled the demon king. “Your mortal armies cower in defeat. Your servants die, and mortals and spawnlings follow them in my realm to destroy them. They invade my halls unnoticed and slaughter your servants, leaving their thralls to go forth unclaimed.”

  Nuros shivered under the palpable displeasure of his king. He needed to change the focus of this conversation and he needed to do it quickly. He drew himself up in three dimensions, hoping to draw attention to his growing power and away from his embarrassing setbacks.

  “And yet, despite her sneering mockery, I have ascended,” he said carefully. “The all seeing one is blinded, seeing weakness where there is strength. No mortal army will stand before me now.”

  Varamemnon’s teeth snapped together and the scent of hellfire intensified. “What do mortals concern me? The appearance of weakness is weakness. It is my peers who need to be reminded of their place.”

  Nuros bowed low, thinking quickly. He could salvage this, given the opportunity. It was risky. Audacious. Destructive. And it could work. Best of all, it relied on no one but himself.

  “Not so, great one. The mortals have proven to be resourceful, it is true. They use the dragon’s poisoned flames against us. They destroyed my mortal vessel and now one of my chosen servants, worthless though she was. And yet, all is as it should be. Grundrik goes to sue for aid with the imperial council. Your cult grows both above and below. Tell those great ones who would question your might that they should watch to see what happens to those who dare to turn their hand against you.”

  He could fix this. He would bind that irritating imp into his service and destroy the kingdom that had dared to attempt to foil his ascension – to humiliate him. Yes, Grundrik was cautious for now, probably sensing after recent events that he might not have quite the control over his summoned servitor that he had always imagined. But soon, he would succumb to the temptation that consumed all those who sought and wielded power. His empire was weakened, and the surface dwellers encroached on his domain. His Duergar rivals below would be no less aggressive, and soon, the king would once again seek to exercise true power to sweep away those who dared challenge him.

  By the time Nuros was done, Varamemnon would bow to him.

  ***

  Bernt focused on his stoneshaping spell, raising a rough stone plinth at the top of the ridge before crowning it with a small perpetual flame. It would burn there for as long as he needed it, marking the way just as the tiny flame in the distance behind him did, all the way back to where he’d been forced to bury most of his supplies. He'd have to come back down this way to grab his things later.

  It hadn’t been his body heat that drove him to do it. No – he’d managed to get control of that well enough to keep from damaging his things any further. It was his feet. As the hills gave way to proper mountains, the softer dirt gave way more and more to naked rock, boulders and scree. No matter how carefully he stepped, a scrape here and a pointy bit of gravel there soon had his feet bruised so badly that he couldn’t take it anymore.

  He’d started with the more damaged blanket, cutting it roughly with his knife and tying strips around his feet – but it had lasted barely two days until he wore through the entire thing. At that point he’d needed more cloth, leaving him to choose between protecting his feet or keeping his makeshift sack intact.

  Now, he only had what he could carry or loop into his scavenged belt – his tin cup, his knife and as much of his remaining food as he could cram into his pockets.

  It wasn’t going to last long – but it wouldn’t matter. He’d almost made it. He could see two of the Sacral Peaks from here, both part of a single ridge that rose up in the distance. It looked close, but Bernt had learned over the last few days that looks could be deceiving. It would be another day, at least before he reached them.

  He didn’t realize that he’d crossed the border out of the Phoenix Reaches until little patches of green grass began to appear, sprouting from cracks in the rock. It was a much more gradual transition than last time, or at least it wasn’t as obvious since there just wasn’t as much life up here. There were no massive cloud banks or endless rainstorms here, like there had been on the northern portion of the Sunset Range, but it wasn’t totally dry, either.

  Reaching the top of the ridge, Bernt looked for a good spot to place his next marker, but stopped when something caught his eye. He’d emerged onto a small level area with an incredible view back out toward the Phoenix Reaches behind him to the East, and the Sacral Peaks toward the West. It was a perfect spot to take a break, but that wasn’t what had caught his eye. Three rocks had been piled on top of one another on the west side in a way that just didn’t happen naturally. Someone had been here.

  Nearly unable to believe his eyes, Bernt approached, looking around stupidly as if whoever had done it would just be standing around, waiting for him.

  The far side of the ridge dropped almost vertically down to a deep, narrow valley far below. It would have been a nightmare to climb down into and back out of it on the other side – but he wouldn’t be doing that. No, Bernt was going to take the stairs.

  They’d been carved directly into the cliff face, leading down a short distance to a landing where a narrow path ran along the cliff face, providing safe and easy passage.

  Bernt let out a breathless little laugh that quickly grew into a relieved chuckle. It was the path! The one he’d originally meant to take from the Sacral Peaks down to the Phoenix Reaches.

  He was going to make it.

  ***

  Torvald looked out at the fire raining down on the mountains in the distance, far below as the golden cloud bank swept southward, away from the Peaks. The view was incredible, like he was standing at the end of the world. He couldn’t imagine anyone actually hiking through it. But Bernt was down there, somewhere.

  He’d known that Bernt was alive ever since they’d stumbled into Goldwater exhausted and out of supplies, only to be met by a messenger from the local Mages’ Guild. The letter, signed by archmage Iriala, had informed them that their lost wizard had opted to try making his way through the Phoenix Reaches, rather than fighting through the pursuing demons to rejoin the group.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  Xul’evareg had told him not to expect much – that he’d be dead within a week. But Torvald had known better. He’d checked in with every Mages’ Guild and a even military scryers’ outpost that they’d come across along the river for updates since. Most resisted giving him information, but a few words from his great uncle Olias always seemed to do the trick.

  Last he’d heard, Bernt was still alive, injured and on his way here through the mountains.

  That was three days ago. Torvald had, of course, tried to set up a rescue mission to go and look for him, but had quickly run into problems. The mountains here were vast, and finding a single person hiking through was an exercise in futility. Ina and Xul’evareg might have been able to help with that, but they’d turned back with the others to wait in Norhold when Noruk’s temple guards at the base of the mountain made it clear that only temple representatives and their legitimators would be allowed to climb the never ending stairway up to the temple complex.

  Left with few real options, he’d gone to the only place that he knew he wouldn’t be turned down – the world’s only Temple of Ruzinia. It had been almost totally deserted, except for a single wizened priestess and a Mirian from the mountains beyond the free cities.

  The man in question was standing, perfectly balanced on the tip of his long staff, the end of which was planted on a narrow spur of rock that jutted far up above the ground where Torvald stood.

  “You see anything?” he called.

  Kicking down at an angle, the man performed a totally unnecessary somersault, bending the oddly flexible staff and launching it up at an angle, which allowed him to catch it on his way down. He seemed to fall just a little bit slower than he should have and touched down lightly, not a hair out of place.

  “A white fire burns on the ridge,” he replied, pointing. “Too near to be the blazing tears of the phoenix, and the wrong color. I believe your martial brother may be close.”

  The way he spoke took more than a little getting used to, even though it was all in only lightly accented Mirian. Sure, he could understand the words, all the major human languages on the continent traced back to Madurian in the not too distant past, including Mirian. But Torvald suspected that the language barrier here had more to do with culture than anything else. In all, he was the strangest person Torvald had ever met – at least the strangest human.

  But he was also a paladin of Ruzinia, just like Torvald. At least, he assumed he was a paladin – the man had introduced himself as a “Song of the Lofty Eastern Gale, martial servant of the great celestial spirit, Ru Zhin” – whatever that meant.

  It didn’t really matter. When Torvald had come looking for help, Song had simply nodded, grabbed his staff and led him straight down the path on the far side of the temple complex with the pragmatic assurance that anyone with eyes would find their way onto it eventually if they were coming up toward the Peaks.

  Torvald peered in the indicated direction eagerly, but he couldn’t see anything. That was disappointing, but after spending nearly a day with the man, that no longer surprised him. Besides his flair for acrobatics, Song had repeatedly demonstrated unnaturally good eyesight and an unerring sense of direction.

  “That’s him! Bernt always makes white fires to cook on. It’s some kind of special spell that can keep burning all night. Do you know how quickly we can reach it? I don’t think we have much more than an hour before we’ll be forced to make camp ourselves.”

  Song cocked his head consideringly. “I am unsure how long it would take us to walk. However, I can investigate and return in just a few minutes on my own, if you would like.”

  Torvald blinked at him. “You can?”

  Song nodded modestly. “Movement lies close to the heart of the wind drake, and the wind drake is the origin of my bloodline,” he gestured around at the mountains all around, “ These techniques are the first that we master in my clan.”

  “Ah. Uh… yes, then please go and check, if you don’t mind,” Torvald replied, now exceptionally confused.

  With a tiny bow and a smile, Song took a running leap directly off the side of the mountain.

  Torvald gave a shout and rushed to the edge. What in all the hells was that?!

  Far below, Song leapt from rock to rock like a goat – if a goat could jump twenty or thirty strides at a time. He made it look effortless and once or twice, Torvald could have sworn that he jumped directly off of the air as he began his ascent back up the ridge on the other side. Seconds later, he’d reached the top and disappeared on the far side.

  Right. Of course he hadn’t meant the nearest ridge.

  ***

  Bernt conjured water into his tin cup and dug around for the last handful of dried peas and beans in his pockets. After cleaning a bit of lint off, he dumped them into the water and relaxed the small sorcerous channels in his hands to bring the water up to a boil.

  He’d conjured a fire for himself, even though he didn’t really need it anymore – it just didn’t feel like a proper camp without at least some kind of fire, even if he couldn’t enjoy the crackle and pop of burning wood.

  Relaxing back against the wall of his small stone shelter, he looked out toward the peaks. He’d stopped early today, because the blisters on his feet had broken and started to bleed. With his injured rib, he just hadn’t had it in him to keep going. Every step and every deep breath was painful, wearing him down faster every day.

  On the one hand, Bernt knew that he’d practically made it. The path was clearly marked now, and worn by the passing of many footsteps. Tomorrow or the day after, it didn’t matter. He wouldn’t starve in that time. On the other hand, it didn’t feel like he’d made it anywhere. The prospect of getting up and walking just another hour on bleeding feet felt daunting. It felt like it was never going to end.

  At least he’d have plenty of time to contact Jori tonight. It had been a few days since he’d checked in and heard that she’d brought Ed back into the hells for a surgical strike against this Zijeregh. He was starting to worry about her and the way she was risking herself in these attacks. Killing powerful demons in the heart of an even more powerful demon’s territory... it couldn't end well. If Nuros hadn’t already wanted to come after them, he’d definitely be out for their blood now.

  If Bernt could just bring her back, she would be functionally immortal again – far safer than she could be in the hells. He needed to get in contact with Josie to see how her legal procedure was progressing.

  A man shot up from the mountainside below, flipped once in the air and landed lightly on the ground directly in front of Bernt’s fire, knees slightly bent. Before he could say anything, the man bowed formally, one fist pressed into the opposing palm.

  “Legitimator Bernard Underkeeper. I bring greetings from your martial brother, Torvald Underkeeper, who is my fellow martial servant of the celestial immortal, Ru Zhin.”

  He was dressed in an unfamiliar style with a short, layered robe over loose-fitting pants and strange, soft shoes. His facial features were unfamiliar, though definitely human, and his hair was much longer than he’d ever seen on a man before, tied up into a bun. Bernt stared, totally flabbergasted by the stranger’s sudden appearance.

  “I… what?”

  “Your martial brother has heard of your injury and it does appear that you are in distress.” the man continued reasonably, gesturing with an open hand at Bernt’s feet, though he was probably also referring to his general appearance. He must look like a homeless vagabond. “Is there any way in which I might render assistance?”

  As the words sank in, a weight that he hadn’t quite realized had been there lifted from Bernt’s chest. This person was real. Torvald was nearby.

  He’d made it.

  Blinking back sudden tears of relief, Brent swallowed thickly and set down his boiling cup with suddenly unsteady hands.

  “You wouldn’t happen to have any shoes?”