Chapter 0 - The Altar of Storms

The Altar of Storms
Aranthir VIII
 
              It was perhaps an hour past sundown in the foothills town of Dalthem. The taproom of the Jovial Juggler Inn was filling up quickly. Merchants, pilgrims, and sellswords alike crowded its tables, swilling the inn’s famous local brews and trading stories over the night’s pork stew. At a corner table, with his back to the wall, sat a half-elf mercenary, two wheellock pistols thrust through his belt loops and a longsword resting against the table in its scabbard. He was slender but well-muscled, his strength apparent even under the cuirass and brigandine coat he wore. His short hair of dark brown was cut close to his head, allowing his pointed ears to stand out, and he surveyed the busy taproom with lively green eyes as he sipped dark red wine from a pewter mug. 
              The barmaid approached, a young, pretty girl in a red skirt and blue blouse cut low enough to exhibit her ample bosom. She smiled at him, brushing her blonde curls away from her freckled face, and held up a fresh mug of wine. The half-elf nodded and exchanged it for his empty cup and a few copper coins. 
              “Is there anything else I can get you, sir…?”
              “It’s not a sir,” the half-elf replied, setting the fresh wine on the table before him, “and it’s Aranthir. Of Ildranon.”
              “Aranthir,” she echoed, her cheeks turning red. “I’ve heard of you. Men tell tales of you every night in the taverns across the realm.”
              “Good ones, I hope,” Aranthir replied, taking the first sip of his wine. The girl blushed.
              “Yes, sir. They tell me you’re a master swordsman, and a sorcerer, too?”
              “They flatter me, then. It is to be expected from tavern tales. I killed a lizard that crawled up next to me while I slept, and surely by now the tale has grown enough to make me a dragonslayer.”
              She sat down at his table, setting her drinks tray down between them. She shoved it aside and leaned forward. “Is it true you bedded a nymph?” she asked in a scandalized whisper. Aranthir could only laugh.
              “There wasn’t really a bed involved,” he replied sheepishly, taking another sip of wine. The girl’s mouth dropped open, her blue eyes wide.
              “A nymph!” she gasped. “One of Nystra’s daughters! You are truly blessed! What was that like?”
              Aranthir shrugged. “I could show you, if you want.”
              The girl broke out into giggles, biting her thumb as she turned away. She considered the drinks tray a moment, then looked around the busy tavern. 
              “Two silvers,” she said, and Aranthir sighed. 
              “You want me to pay? Would you let this opportunity slide just for some silver?”
              “Would you?” she retorted. “I have drinks to deliver,” she indicated the abandoned tray, “And the innkeep will not be pleased if I shirk my duties for some fun that he doesn’t get a cut of. And I assure you, I’m worth it.” To prove it, she yanked her bodice down to expose her breasts. She was buxom, with soft white skin and beautiful round breasts. Her nipples were pale and pink, inviting in the taproom’s candlelight. Aranthir wanted to grab hold of them and start sucking right away. He sighed internally, for she had won.
              “Very well, you’ll have your money. A pleasure doing business with you.”
              “And also with you. I’m Pya, by the way.” She held out her hand in greeting and Aranthir shook it gladly. 
              He drained the rest of his wine in one gulp, then rose from his seat and shouldered his things. Pya pulled her breasts back into her bodice and looked around to see if anyone had noticed. The other patrons remained oblivious, and she smiled to herself with flushed cheeks. Aranthir passed her the money and she eagerly pocketed it.
              “Come on, now,” she urged, taking him by the hand and pulling him toward the stairs. “There’s a place upstairs where we can be alone.”
              Heading for the stairs, Aranthir passed a table where a group of mercenaries sat drinking. Their leader was a short, wiry man who wore a half dozen or more knives strapped to his chest. He stood on a chair, regaling his companions with a tale.
              “So, they bundled him up and hauled him away. Just like that, Janguld the Fox is off to meet the hangman!”
              Aranthir stopped as the mercenaries broke out in laughter. The girl pulled on his arm, her expression curious. Aranthir broke from her grip and turned to the table.
              “You know Janguld the Fox?” he asked. The lead mercenary turned a curious eye on him, his face half buried in his mug of ale. His eyebrow arched and he mumbled something around his drink. When Aranthir did not reply, the man lowered his mug, brushed the foam from his lip and spoke again.
              “Aye, and what’s he to you?”
              “He’s an old friend of mine. If he’s off to meet the hangman, I should like to see him off.”
              “Well, he won’t be a friend of yours much longer. He’s got himself into too much trouble this time.”
              “What’s he done?” Aranthir demanded. Pya pulled on his sleeve again and he brushed her away. 
              “He was in a brawl over at the Huntsman and killed two of the burgomaster’s men. The guard dragged him off and he’s to hang at dawn.”
              “So soon? What about seeing the magistrate?”
              “Magistrate’s the burgomaster’s son. He passed the sentence from his dinner table. That’s the way it goes here in Dalthem. Who are you, anyway?”
              “A concerned friend. Which way to the jail?”
              The man snorted. “Punch a guard, you’ll find out soon enough.”
              “You want money?” asked Aranthir with an exasperated sigh. “I want to know where to find my friend.”
              “Why should I help you?” the man shot back. “I’ve crossed paths and swords with the Fox more than once and I’ll be happy to watch him dance on the scaffold tomorrow.”
              “I told you why: money. You want it or not?”
              “I don’t know,” the man mused, taking another sip. His eyes went to Pya, standing at Aranthir’s side. “Who is she?”
              “The Queen of Irollian,” an exasperated Aranthir replied. “Who do you think? She’s the barmaid.”
              “She’s pretty,” the mercenary murmured. 
              “She’s not mine,” Aranthir replied. “Though I did pay for some time with her. I’ll surrender my time to you and your lot if you point me to Janguld. Otherwise, I’ve had enough with this and I’ll find the jail myself.”
              “Aye,” the leader agreed, “I can do that much. She’s got a nice pair on her.”
              Pya protested, her arm on Aranthir’s elbow. “Sir, I thought we were engaged?”
              “I am sorry, dear girl, but I cannot leave a friend in peril. Perhaps some other time. Until then, these mercenaries look the paying type.”
              The poor girl looked crestfallen. Her blue eyes went to the lead mercenary, then to each of his leering men in turn. Somberly, she nodded.
              “It is as they said in the stories, you are a good man, sir.”
              “Indeed. Keep my silver, I’ll pay for this one, but his men must pay their own way.”
              “Two silvers for each of you,” Pya declared with an extended finger, “And you stop when I say.” The men all reached for their purses, and Pya allowed herself a small smile. Aranthir gave her a slim smile of apology, and she returned it.
              The lead mercenary set down his mug and stepped forward. He took Pya by her arm and pinched her breast. “Aye, you’ll do nicely. Come along, girl.”
              “A moment, my good man,” Aranthir cut in, blocking the man’s path toward the stairs. “You haven’t told me where to go.”
              “Ah, very well. I would like to see that bastard Janguld hang, but you’ve won me over with the girl’s pretty smile and fat tits. So I’ll tell you, then get out of my way so I can get my cock wet.”
              
              Aranthir left them to it and swept out of the inn in a rush into the night, the revelry in the Jovial Juggler fading away into the night behind him. The streets of Dalthem were narrow and winding. The eaves loomed overhead, creeping in like an oppressive forest canopy as they blotted out the stars overhead. The town seethed with the kind of urban corruption Aranthir had grown inured to. Of course I would reencounter Janguld in a place like this, he mused. 
              The jail came into sight soon enough for the town was not large. It was a squat stone building tucked in between a forging house and a wainwright’s workshop, with iron bars over the windows and a banded wooden door for an entrance. A single brass lantern hung overhead, illuminating a small pool of light around the door.
              Aranthir approached the door and jiggled the handle. It was locked. Casting looks up and down the street, he ensured he was alone. Leaning down to the lock, he whispered a charm of opening. He had barely spoken half the words when he heard the metallic clicking of an opening lock and the door swung open. He crouched there a moment, staring in the eyes of a jailor who had opened the door.
              “Who in the names of the gods are you?” the man demanded, his eyes red and cheeks ruddy. 
              “Aranthir of Ildranon,” Aranthir said, rising from his crouch. He extended his hand in greeting. The jailor looked at it in contempt. Behind him, another man stepped up, a studded truncheon resting on his shoulder. 
              “Why the fuck would I want to make your acquaintance, half-blood?” the man growled. “This is a jail, either fuck off or I’ll throw you in one of my cells!” he slammed the door shut, but Aranthir got his boot in the way. Grimacing in pain as his foot was smashed between the door and the jamb, he raised his hand in protest.
              “Sir, I have come to see about one of your prisoners.”
              The man opened the door again. One hand rested on the door handle, while the other was balled into a fist and rested on his hip.
              “You from the constable’s office?” he demanded, his speech slurring.
              “I have come to secure his release. His name is Janguld the Fox, perhaps you recognize the name? Thin man, on the short side, handsome and sly as a fox?”
              The jailor spat, and his companion behind him sneered.
              “Aye, I know him. But you can’t have him out. He’s bound for the hangman in the morning.”
              “That’s a shame,” Aranthir replied. “He’s a good friend of mine. What’s he done to deserve such a fate?”
              The jailor spat again. “Fuck if I know. Constable says he hangs, so he hangs. Unless you want to have a double hanging, fuck off already!”
              “Perhaps I could persuade you to release him to me,” Aranthir offered. “I’ve a few golden crowns. Maybe we could make a deal?”
              The jailor leaned forward and shook his fist in Aranthir’s face. “I told you, half-blood. He’s gonna hang. Are you fucking deaf? I thought you lot were supposed to be good at hearing things. Maybe you got your mum’s ears?”
              Aranthir allowed himself a half-smile. He punched the man in the face. His fist cracked against the man’s face and Aranthir felt the nose break.   The jailor staggered back, blood running from his nose, and Aranthir advanced. He seized the man by his ears and slammed the jailor’s face down into his knee. They met at their maximum extents, and the man went limp with a resounding crack. His companion with the truncheon blanched and grabbed for a bell rope that hung against the wall.
              The man groped for it in fear, at last grasping the rope in his hand.
              “Stop,” Aranthir commanded sharply, and the man froze mid pull. Aranthir leveled a pistol at him, his face serious.
              “This will make quite a bit of noise when it goes off,” Aranthir conceded, “and wake up a lot of people. All of that will make my escape a fair bit harder. But none of that will matter to you, because you’ll be dead. So, what do you say you make this easier on both of us, and step away from that bell?”
              The man considered his prospects for a moment. But the experience of staring down the barrel of a loaded pistol sat unwell with him, and he slowly relinquished the rope.
              “That’s a good lad,” Aranthir soothed. “Now, come with me.” He stepped into the jail and pressed the muzzle of his pistol to the back of the man’s neck. “Let’s see my old friend together.”
              Aranthir ushered them through another locked door and into the jail’s interior. A single hall ran through the jail in a loop, its sides lined with heavy wooden doors with barred windows. Aranthir shoved the unfortunate jailor down the hall before him, his pistol at the ready. From within a cell on the far end of the hall, he could hear a familiar voice, drunkenly blabbering away.
              “Oh, to be a sailing man at sea. Chasing that far horizon is the chosen life for me… To weigh anchor and… go? Weigh anchor and go… to sea? No, that’s not it…”
              Aranthir approached slowly, a familiar smile spreading across his face. He stopped at the door and looked in. His old friend lay in the cell, his reddish hair falling about his shoulders like a lion’s mane, and his signature mustache looking as thick and wild as ever. He was bare-chested, a torn and bloody shirt wrapped around his arm, but his chest showed several scars that had not been there when they last met.
              Janguld lay on a rude cot, his back against the wall and an empty bottle of spirits at his feet. In his hand, he held another bottle that was nearly gone. His brow was furrowed in deep thought, his hair in drunken disarray. His face was bruised, and he had been cut above his right ear, but Aranthir could tell it was the drink that had done the most damage. 
“Key,” he demanded of the jailor with an outstretched hand. The man glared at him but slowly complied, and Aranthir turned the key in the lock. Janguld was slow to react, still mouthing the words of the half-forgotten song, and so Aranthir wrapped the muzzle of his pistol on the door’s bars.
He looked up at Aranthir and the captive guard as the rusty door squealed its way open. His mouth hung open mid-sentence. 
              “I must be drunker than I thought. Is that really you?” he mumbled to himself. He wrenched himself to a sitting position, but lost his balance and slumped to the side. “Old pointy-ears, is that you?”
              “It is,” Aranthir replied. He shoved the guard to the side, where he staggered into the corner and tripped over the overflowing chamber pot.
              “Eldrin’s breath,” the guard swore, his foot wedged in the pot. He crashed into the far wall and upended the pot all over the floor of the cell. “Ah, fuck me! Now my foot’s all covered in piss.”
              Janguld threw back his head and laughed uproariously. “That’s for all the drink you stole off me, you thieving bastard! Aranthir, my old friend!” he staggered off the bed and threw his arms around Aranthir. For his part, Aranthir blanched at the strong stench of alcohol. 
              “Goodness, Janguld. Put a candle in front of you and you’d turn into a dragon.”
              Janguld laughed ahead and sheepishly brushed his mouth clean. “Sorry about that… these fuckers told me I’d hang in the morning, so I thought I’d have a last night of fun. But then they stole half my booze and refused to bring in a whore.”
              “You won’t hang tomorrow,” Aranthir promised. “Though I can’t speak to anything beyond that, given how you act.”
              “Ha! One more day is all I can ask for. What brings you here? Surely, you didn’t come for me.”
              Aranthir shrugged. “I was in town for work and heard on the grapevine that someone had you locked up.”
              “And you thought to drop by and spring me? What a friend!”
              “Come on, then. We can be out of town before anyone notices.”
              “What about this one here?” Janguld asked, indicating his erstwhile captor.
              “No need to bring any more attention to us. Leave him alive, but he won’t be able to follow us.” Aranthir held up the cell key and waved it about.
              “Seems fair, though he did take great delight in my upcoming hanging.” Janguld turned to the guard, who sneered at them both with disgust. He had wrenched his foot free of the chamberpot, but his legs were both soaked. 
              “Oh, fuck you both,” he snapped. Janguld shrugged.
              “See how you like your own hospitality,” Janguld chuckled. Then he hauled off and knocked the man to the floor with a mighty punch to the jaw. “Think on my stolen booze while you sleep it off,” he said with another laugh. He and Aranthir stepped back into the hall and slammed the door shut behind them. The guard glared at them from within the cell, holding his reddening jaw.
              “Now tell me,” Aranthir began, “how did you get yourself into this mess?”
              “Ah, that’s a story. But first, there’s another man we must spring.” He pointed to the door opposite his and peered in. “The poor lad’s asleep, but we’ll wake him up.”
              “We should get moving, Janguld. The guard in the front room won’t be asleep forever.”
              “No? You’ve changed. But I won’t leave this poor lad behind. He’s a sad tale and I can’t bear to see him perish.” He banged on the bars. “Elys, Elys, wake up! Deliverance has arrived!”
              Someone within the cell stirred and Aranthir peered through the window. Inside was a young man, his hair disheveled and his clothes torn. His face was drawn and pale, his eyes sunken. He trembled as he cast off his thin covers and rose from the bed.
              “D-deliverance?” he stammered. Janguld turned to Aranthir and sighed.
              “The poor lad is sentenced to die by breaking, but the dread of it has got him half-dead already.”
              “Breaking? What’s he done?”
              “I was… indiscrete, sir,” the lad managed, wrapping his arms about himself for warmth, though the room was not chilly.
              “He fucked the magistrate’s daughter,” Janguld provided. “The man was most irate and sentenced him for rape.”
              “It wasn’t, sir!” Elys protested. “She came after me! It was only her father who thought her unwilling…”
              “No, lad,” Aranthir sighed, lifting the key in his hand. “He knew it was no crime as well. He’s just a wicked man drunk on power. Come on,” he unlocked the door and pulled it open. “We’re headed out of town. I don’t know how far we can take you, but anywhere will be better than here.”
              “Thank you, sir, oh thank you! I will sacrifice to your generosity as soon as I am able!”
              “Let’s go, before we are discovered.” Aranthir pulled the lad into the hall and gave him a push toward the door. Janguld went off in search of the things that had been taken from him. At the door to his former cell, the guard sneered out from behind the bars.
              “You won’t get far, half-blood. The burgomaster will find you and drag you back, and then you’ll get to share the gallows.”
              “Perhaps it’d improve the odds of my escape if I eliminated the witnesses?” Aranthir mused. He tapped his pistol against the door’s bars, and the guard blanched. He retreated into the cell and said nothing more. Aranthir smiled with small amusement.
              “That’s what I thought,” he muttered, and went off after Janguld. He found him in the jail’s armory, picking his confiscated weapons and clothes from where they lay on shelves. 
              “Bastards took my sword somewhere else,” he grumbled. “It’s been just a few hours!”
              “We’ll find you another one. You won’t need it soon, will you?”
              “Well, that’s the thing. I was traveling in the company of four White Sisters, and we got into a brawl with the Forsaken. One of the Forsaken knew the burgomaster’s men, or was drinking with them, and they jumped into the fight. I’ve got to find the Sisters before the guard does.”
              “Were you on a contract?” Aranthir asked, “Or just traveling?”
              “A contract. Some baron in the lowlands had a book stolen. He wants it back.”
              “What kind of book?”
              “A grimoire. Ancient spells, fel sorcery. Actually, it’s good fortune that you found me here, because you know about that kind of thing.”
              Aranthir sighed. I should have known it would be a whole escapade with him. “I suppose I do. Tell me more about this book. And who stole it?”
              “A sorcerer by the name of Sennidor. I’ve crossed paths with him before, in Faurkone, and he dd not take a liking to me. He’s in the employ of the baron’s nephew, or cousin, or something. I can’t keep rich peoples’ relations straight, everyone is a cousin if you go out a few generations.”
              “How much are you being paid to bring it back?”
              “Ten pounds of silver,” Janguld replied. Aranthir let out a low whistle. 
              “Must be very important.” 
              “Seems that way.” Janguld buckled on his belt and holstered a pair of pistols. “But, like you said, we should get going. I know where the Sisters were staying, hopefully we can pick up their trail there. Come on, Elys! We’ve got to get moving before the alarm is raised.”
              They dragged the unconscious guard from the front into another cell and set off. Elys trailed timidly behind while Aranthir and Janguld wound through the winding streets toward the tavern called the Huntsman, where Janguld had brawled with the Forsaken. Around the corner from the Huntsman was the second-floor flophouse where they had been bunking. Aranthir stopped in an alley across the street from it, keeping himself hidden. 
              “Think they’ll be there?” he asked. Janguld shrugged. 
“At least one of them was wounded, they can’t have gone far. I had better approach them, they might think you’re the constable’s man.”
              “It’s best we don’t split up, come along, Elys.”
              The three of them made quickly across the street and up the exterior staircase to the flophouse door. Janguld knocked, and after a pause, a woman’s voice answered.
              “What do you want?”
              “Is Gannica there?” Janguld whispered. “It’s Janguld.”
              There was a pause, then they heard harsh, urgent whispers behind the door. “How did you escape the constable?”
              “Apliss’ fortune. My friend Aranthir is in town and freed me. He’s come to help retrieve the book.”
              The door crept open a hand’s breath, secured by an iron chain. A red-haired woman peered around it, her face harrowed and suspicious. “It’s just the two of us,” Janguld assured her, “And this poor boy we rescued from the jail.”
              “Well, come in then, I suppose.” She unchained the door and allowed them inside. The room was small and cramped, with beds crowded together almost as one and a single lantern for light. A blonde woman lay on the bed against the far wall, her chest wrapped in bloody bandages. A third, dark-haired, woman sat by her side, wringing her hands.
              All three women wore the form-fitting leather cuirass and pauldrons with knee-high boots that had come to be known as the mark of the White Sisterhood, a company of mercenaries famous throughout the realms of Colatha. They wore their hair tied up behind them in a tail, and against the wall of the room sat their implements of war; bows, quivers, an arquebus, and long, narrow, double-edged swords. 
              Janguld stepped into the room behind them and scowled. 
              “Damn it all, I knew that fight was a mistake. I should have let them go.”
              “Gannica was stabbed by one of the Forsaken, and they took Ramissia with them,” the redheaded woman who had admitted them said, “Gannica’s not likely to last the night unless we can get help, but we dare not move her. And we dare not go looking for a healer with the constable still looking for us.”
              “She needs a priest of Kanaron,” Janguld muttered, but Aranthir shook his head. 
              “She needs a healer. Here, hold this.” He thrust his pack into Janguld’s hands and went to the woman. 
              Aranthir swallowed a vialful of spice from his belt and knelt beside Gannica’s bed. “Gannica, my name is Aranthir of Ildranon. I am here to help. Now hold still.”
              He peeled away her bandages until he could see the wound. She grimaced as the cloth was pried away from her bloody flesh but did not resist. After much unwrapping, Aranthir could see where she had been stabbed. The wound was deep and likely to prove fatal in a matter of hours, but he was a skilled healer trained in the colleges of Ildranon. 
              Closing his eyes, he opened his mind’s eye and pictured the wound. Working deftly, he conjured healing threads and wound them over the open wound, channeling raw energy of the spice into life force to replace the blood that had poured out of Gannica’s body. She lifted her head slightly and her breath came more easily to her. She raised a hand toward Aranthir.
              “What did you do?”
              “There,” he pronounced. “It will be enough to move you out of town. There’s a temple of Askallon on the southern road that will do.”
              “We should be going east,” the redhaired woman declared, “that’s where the sorcerer and the book are going.”
              “East?” Janguld asked, “Why east?”
              “He’s headed for something in the mountains, I do not know. But they have Ramissia and I won’t abandon her.”
              “I won’t abandon Gannica,” the other woman shot back. “We must get her to a temple and then we can go hunting Zyek and his sorcerer.”
              “This Zyek,” Aranthir asked, “he is the baron’s relative? Who stole the book?”
              “He’s a young dilettante who fell in with a sorcerer,” Gannica gasped in pain as she sat up. “They stole the book together and the baron thinks they will use it in some ritual to make themselves gods.”
              “Doubtful,” Aranthir replied, “The gods do not desire company. But the book could prove dangerous to us all the same. We will get you to the healer and then recover your sister.”
              “Let’s get going then,” Gannica said. She swung her legs out of bed and sat a moment, taking deep breaths.
              “Can you walk, Gannica?” the dark-haired woman asked, leaning forward to help her elder companion.
              “I’ll manage,” Gannica replied. “Really, Selvenna, I’ll manage. Gather our things.” Selvenna moved away toward their packs against the wall. “Thank you, master half-elf,” Gannica continued quietly. “I’d be as good as dead with you, I fear. And then these two would be left with Janguld here, and how could that turn out well for anyone?”
              “I can hear you, you know,” Janguld said with a smile. He extended a hand and helped Gannica to her feet. “Glad to see you too.”
              “Aye, I’m pleased to see you’re not bound for the hangman. I’m afraid I won’t be much use to you two for a few days, but can I trust you to finish the job and get Ramissia back? She’s been with the company barely a year, and so young… I hate to see her remain a prisoner of the Forsaken. Bastards thought it was funny, carrying her off like a pig…”
              “We’ll get her back,” Janguld assured her. “And teach the fuckers a good lesson while we’re at it.”
              “Good,” Gannica said. She pulled her arm back from Janguld and stood on her own two feet, swaying slightly. “I’ll be fine in a few days,” she said, to herself as much as anyone. “Let’s get moving.”
              The Sisters gathered their things, buckling on armor and swordbelts, slinging their bows over their shoulders, and then arming Janguld with Gannica’s sword and arquebus. They wrapped themselves in their signature white cloaks and headed for the door. With the redheaded woman, Raenia, just behind him and Elys supporting Gannica, Aranthir led the group of them down the stairs from the flophouse. The streets had quieted now, and only the distant chatter of an alehouse around the corner broke the quiet hum of night. 
              “Do you have a horse?” Raenia asked in a whisper. Aranthir could only shake his head.
              “Nay, left one in a pile with three brigands a few days ago and I’ve been wearing out the soles of my boots ever since.”
              “We’ll find some,” Janguld assured them. Aranthir shook his head.
              “We’ll buy some. We don’t need the trouble that horse thievery will bring, we have enough problems already.”
              “They’re already looking to hang us all, what does it matter if we’re horse thieves, too?”
              “It matters because we have enough people looking for us without being horse thieves, Janguld.”
              “How are we going to get out the gates?” Raenia demanded. “Surely the guards will be looking for us.”
              “I suppose we’ll do it the usual way,” Janguld mused. “Charm, bribery, threats, violence, in that order.”
              “Nothing ever changes,” Aranthir grumbled. He stopped and passed Gannica off to Elys. The lad held her well enough, though the veteran mercenary clearly disliked needing anyone else’s help to walk. But Aranthir struck out ahead of them, ranging up the street to ensure it was clear. They dodged around a street before a tavern that lay choked with rowdy drunks and the brave whores who catered to them. Instead, Aranthir’s party squeezed through a narrow alley choked with filth and refuse. Aranthir emerged onto a quiet avenue beyond.
              “The town gate isn’t far,” he assured the group behind him. “Stick close.”
              They crept up the street in silence, cloaks wrapped around them to shield them from the early spring chill. Little stirred above them, for only a few pairs of curious eyes watched their progress toward the town gate at this hour. His senses heightened by the residual energy of the spice he had consumed, Aranthir’s eyes darted back and forth, peering into the open windows at the darkened faces that watched them. 
              In due time, they reached the town’s gate, where a pair of bored sentries stood guard. The heavy oaken gate, banded with iron, stood shut, though a small sally port in it remained ajar, a sentry standing in the opening as he spoke to a peddler outside. 
              “Apliss spits in my eye,” Janguld muttered. “I expected the gate to be unguarded at this hour.”
              “Can we slip out while they’re distracted?” Elys suggested.
              “Or climb over the wall,” Janguld supplied, clearly remembering past times with Aranthir. The half-elf allowed himself a small smile, but it vanished when he turned toward Gannice.
              “She’d never make it. We have to choose charm or violence. Which will it be?”
              “I suppose I could try charm for once,” Janguld muttered. “Wait here until I call for you.”
              He straightened his clothes and stowed his borrowed weapons, then strode confidently toward the gate. The guards noticed his approach, slammed the door in the peddler’s face, and stood at attention before the gate.
              “Halt,” the taller of the two called, “the town gates are closed for the night.”
              “Indeed, and might I say that you do an admirable job keeping the riffraff out,” Janguld replied cheerfully, his finger extended toward the closed sally port. “As it happens, however, I need to depart immediately.”
              “Gate’s closed,” the other man growled, his voulge clutched before him in two hands. “Turn around, stranger.”
              “If I might prevail upon your good sense, sirs. I bear a message for the baron, and it must be delivered into his hands straight away.”
              “We don’t work for a baron,” the taller sentry replied. “We take orders and silver from the burgomaster, and he says no one passes through the gate between sunset and sunrise.”
              “Surely you can see that I am no scoundrel. I merely wish to serve my master the same as you.”
              “Orders are orders,” the shorter sentry replied. 
              “You take orders from the burgomaster, but perhaps you might take silver from both of us?”
              The sentries exchanged suspicious looks before turning their gaze back toward Janguld.
              “Are you trying to bribe us?”
              “No, of course not,” he replied with an easy laugh. “Unless you would take a bribe?”
              “How much?” the taller sentry asked, and his companion started with surprise.
              “Would five silvers do it?”
              “Five each?” the man pressed, and Janguld nodded. “Five each, and you be on your way. But if you tell anyone, we’ll have you clapped in irons straight away.”
              “Of course, of course. Here,” he said, holding out his hand. “Ten silvers for the pair of you.”
              The sentries extended their hands. Just before their hands reached the coins, Janguld added “ten silvers for my companions and I to leave through the gate.”
              “Companions?” the sentries started and their hands recoiled. “You didn’t say you have companions.”
              “Oh, it must have slipped my mind. There they are, five of them.” He signaled to Aranthir and they hobbled around the corner with Gannica supported on Elys’ shoulder. 
              “Hold on, now. Those are no messengers. What are you trying to pull over our eyes?”
              “I am merely trying to secure a way out of town for us. What business of yours is it what we do? Do you want the money or not?”
              The sentries shifted back and forth, hands on their weapons. The taller one muttered to his companion “ten silver is ten silver…” the shorter one glowered at his companion from under his kettle helm. Aranthir stopped next to Janguld and looked the men over.
              “Everything alright here, friend?” the sentries took note of his pointed ears and eyes that glittered in the starlight and each took a half step back. 
              “Everything is alright,” the shorter sentry replied. “Hand over the money and be on your way.”
              “Half now, half when we are through the gate,” Janguld replied. The sentries clearly disliked the new conditions on their deal, but wasted little time in opening the sally port. Aranthir and Elys helped Gannica through and Janguld handed over the money before the gate slammed shut behind them.
              “Get moving now, and keep your mouths shut,” one sentry snapped through a viewing slit. Aranthir smiled to himself and clapped Janguld on the shoulder.
              “You’ve still got it.”
              “Never lost it. Now come on, let’s get moving. How far is this temple?”
              “Some miles. We’ll need to move fast if we’re to catch this sorcerer in the morning.”
              They set a hard pace through the night such that Elys struggled to keep up, unused as he was to the soldier’s life. They took turns supporting Gannica until at last, after several miles of marching under a waning moon, they arrived before the temple. The squat gray hall was ringed by a low hedge pierced every ten paces by a tall cypress tree. Twin braziers burned to either side of the bronze door, the warm glow welcoming in the dead of night. 
              Gannica threw herself off Janguld’s shoulder to hobble the last fifty paces to the temple under her own power with the rest of them in tow. A white-robed acolyte emerged from the temple to greet them, his face freshly washed and clean shaven.
              “You are injured,” he exclaimed, somewhat unhelpfully, Aranthir noted sourly. “Please, allow me to help you.” 
              Gannica grimaced as her strength waned, and nearly fell into his arms. With a supportive arm, he turned and helped her inside. Aranthir and the others followed close behind.            
              The interior of the temple was a clean, bare hall of plastered stone, lined with beds. Many of them were occupied by sick and injured persons in varying stages of convalescence. The acolyte found an empty bed for Gannica and laid her down before beginning to inspect her wound.
              “Are these fresh?” he asked, and Gannica nodded.
              “From earlier this night.”
              “You have already had a healer see to them, then? And a good one, I can tell.”
              “That would be master half-elf there,” Gannica nodded in Aranthir’s direction, and the acolyte looked up in appreciation.
              “You have a healer’s hands, sir,” he said, bowing slightly.
              “I had good tutors.”
              “Where did you study then?”
              “Ildranon,” was Aranthir’s reply, and the acolyte nodded again, this time in awe.
              “Truly Ildranon is shining beacon of knowledge. I am honored to meet one steeped in such knowledge as yourself, sir elf.”
              “You can take care of her from here?” Janguld asked, and the acolyte nodded.
              “The priesthood of Askallon are masters of our craft. Fear not, we will restore her to health in due time.”
              “How much time is due?” demanded Raenia. “We must set off at once.”
              “It will be a few days, at least,” the acolyte replied. “Despite the healing from master elf, the wound is deep.”
              “Leave me then,” Gannica ordered. “You have a task that needs to be done. I won’t let my injuries hold you back.”
              “Where are they going?” Aranthir demanded. “Where do we pick up the trail?”
              “The baron said his nephew had spoken of a mountain peak. There is some ancient altar atop it, a holy place to Azlit.”
              “I know the place,” the acolyte said suddenly. “The mountaineers call it the Altar of Storms. It is a terrible place, a bare peak blasted by countless storms.”
              “How do we get there?”
              “Head east toward the village of Mossy Bridge. After you pass through the village, follow the trails into the mountains and up the crooked peak to the top. There you will find the altar, in a bowl at the summit.”
              “Very well,” Aranthir sighed. “We will rest here until dawn, then start on our way again.”
              “Press yourselves, master half-elf. Press yourselves hard.” Gannica lay back in her bed and grimaced. “I never should have let them take Ramissia. Find her for me, won’t you? Make sure she’s safe.”
              “Fear not,” Aranthir replied quietly. “I will.”
 
              Sennidor and his companions left the city some time after dawn. The gate guards gave them no trouble for the burgomaster had cleared their way. The men were in high spirits, buoyed by their victory in the brawl against their hated rivals, the White Sisters, as well as by their prisoner. The girl they had captured in the brawl was thrown over the back of a packhorse, stripped naked and bound tightly with ropes, she had provided them with much entertainment the night before. The sorcerer wondered how much sleep the men had gotten. He had not gotten much, listening to them all night long.
              The sorcerer looked to his patron, a tall, stocky man on a fine gray horse, who rode next to Sennidor with a smile, his eyes fixed on the form of their captive underneath the cloak they had thrown over her. Her bare feet stuck out on one side, her long, loose chestnut hair hung out the other. The nobleman was looking forward to when they stopped for the night, his long tongue licking his lips as he rode. Sennidor sighed. 
              “No interest in our prize, sorcerer?” Zyek asked with a mocking smile. “I was glad to take your turn last night, but the men will ask questions if you don’t take yours tonight. We can tell you want her, what’s the use in withholding from yourself?”
              “I keep my focus on the task ahead, sir. The rewards we stand to gain will outshine this little wench like the sun outshines a candle.”
              “The task ahead,” the nobleman mused. “What more is there to be done? We have the book, we know where to go. Will it not be a simple matter?”
              Sennidor refrained from rolling his eyes. The rich fop knew nothing. “The ritual to harness a storm will be difficult enough. And we would be blessed by Azlit to get a storm without a long wait.”
              “The early spring is wracked with storms,” Zyek protested, “how long will we have to wait?”
              “I am unsure. The signs were good, but the weather is always unpredictable.”
              “Tell me about the signs again,” Zyek asked. “Do the signs include her?” he pointed to the young woman under the cloak. Sennidor shook his head.
              “The signs are concerned with things of importance. They will not tell the future of some wench.” Or you, Sennidor thought bitterly. They were barely a week from the wastrel’s home manor, and he was already growing tired of the man. Zyek stroked his beardless chin in thought, though Sennidor doubted there was anything happening behind his eyes. 
              At last, the man spoke again. “Do the signs say we will be successful?”
              “They do,” Sennidor lied. “They speak of a new power rising soon. But they are still unclear. Perhaps, if I had the book, I could match them to something within it?”
              “Oh, no,” Zyek replied with a laugh. “The book is mine. I’ll not hand it off to you, only to watch you disappear around the next bend. The book remains with me until we reach the altar.”
              Sennidor fumed. Why is this the only smart thought he has? he wondered to himself. His eyes went to the book, hanging from Zyek’s saddle. It was made of well-worn parchment and bound with brass covers fronted with jet and carved in the shape of an alien face. Sennidor remembered an illustration of it from his days in the Sable Tower and had long dreamed of finding it himself, but the sight of it for real had left him shaken.
              Zyek had been trusting enough to let him leaf through it back at his uncle’s manor, but he had not been able to glean much from it. Yet still, few sorcerers in the world earned the chance to leaf through one of the Thirty-Seven Volumes of Vercenx, Sorcerer-King of old. Each of them contained a wealth of ancient knowledge, just waiting to be uncovered. Yet here sat Sennidor, watching the book bob up and down on the saddle of a worthless dilettante who expected his hired spellsword to make him into a god.
              How low have I sunk? The sorcerer mused bitterly. Get hold of yourself, he chided. The man’s a damned fool, his mind addled by drink and women. It should prove easy to trick him into giving you the book. Sennidor chewed his lip in thought. They were at least three days from the altar on the mountain summit. He had time to work his silver tongue.
              “It does me little good to have the altar, but not the book,” he started, but Zyek cut him off.
              “You will have both, in time. Once we reach the altar, I will hand it over, and you will make me a god. Then you will have all the riches, power, and women you might desire.”
              “Books like this require much study,” Sennidor protested, “it might take some time once we reach the altar, and we only have so many days of rations. If a storm strikes, we must be ready to exploit it.”
              “You’re a quick study, sorcerer,” Zyek replied. “I have faith that you’ll make do.”
              Sennidor thought, not for the first time, to simply seize the book and make a run for it, but the seven seasoned mercenaries that Zyek had hired dissuaded him from such thoughts. The men rode ahead of them, each mounted on a heavyset warhorse and clad in brigandine coats with sallet helms. They carried demi-lances, sabers, and pistols hanging from their saddles. The group of them were laughing, sharing stories of past exploits. 
              He thought back to the brawl in the Huntsman. Four White Sisters and their male companion had battle against the burgomaster’s four men and the seven Forsaken. In the end, one Sister had been stabbed, another captured, in exchange for the deaths of two of the burgomaster’s lazy louts. Sennidor had marveled at their strength and ferocity in the tavern, but upon seeing the result he could not be so sure. Despite having twice their number, the Forsaken had failed to win a decisive victory. Perhaps he could escape with the book if he were clever? Yet they all knew where he was headed, and Sennidor could only sigh. His attention returned to the book hanging from Zyek’s saddle.
              “Tell me, sir. Where did the baron acquire this book?”
              “From a passing trader, he tells me. It was before my time, and all he has done with it since is let it collect dust in the library. I am doing him a favor, I think. He would surely prefer to have a divine nephew than another ornament in his library.”
              “I think we would be better served by letting me have a look at the book,” Sennidor broached again. Zyek simply shook his head.
              “The book stays closed and in my possession. There will be no more discussion of the matter.”
              Sullenly, Sennidor spurred his horse ahead to ride close behind the Forsaken. The mercenaries noted his presence, but immediately returned to their chatter unconcerned. He rode behind them, listening to the banter of seasoned soldiers until they stopped for their midday break.
              The horses were fed and watered in a brook, their bags and the captive girl unloaded to give them a rest. Zyek took another turn on the girl by the brook, her whimpering and pleading only serving to urge him on. Sennidor ignored them as he sat between the mercenaries having their meal. They bantered about food, women, past battles, and friends lost. Sennidor sat quietly, making note of their proudest victories and bitterest defeats. He knew some of the history of the Forsaken, especially their legendary feud with the White Sisters, but reliable information about the mercenary companies of Colatha was hard to come by in the Towers, for the sorcerers cared for loftier things than the bickering of princes. 
              The leader of the mercenary group was a man named Balegan, a plainly average man. He wore a thick coat of red and white stripes, and green breeches above splint mail boots. At his side was a balding, mustachioed man named Durras, the quartermaster of their little group. Durras tore a piece of hardtack in half and passed it to Balegan, who continued the story he was telling.
              “Aye, we faced the Sisters as Sastem once. They felled many of our men outside the wall. I lost a few good friends that day and so, when we at last made it inside the fortress, we weren’t in much of a talking mood. The captain wanted to put the whole garrison to the sword, but the Duchess of Baranica was in charge, and she spared them. She ransomed all the prisoners for a paltry ten ounces of silver per head, and denied us all a great victory.”
              “It was a bad day for us,” Durras grumbled. “The Duchess got the fortress, the ransom, and the whole valley, and all we got was double wages for assaulting the breach.”            
              “Aye,” Balegan nodded. “And the Sisters remembered. We fought them again across the field at Plorun, and we knew they were aching for revenge. So soon as the Count of Kayen fell, we turned and pulled the whole company out of there.”
              “You new lot could learn a lesson from that,” Durras declared with an extended finger. “Look after yourselves, because these noblemen won’t. And remember the feuds.”
              “Oh, I’ll be remembering the feuds soon enough,” one of the men replied with a smile. “Soon as the rich lad’s done.”
              With smiles on their faces, they all turned in the direction of Zyek. The nobleman lay atop their prisoner, his pants pulled down around his ankles as his hips pulsed into hers. The girl lay still, her head turned away even as Zyek kissed her. His thrusting quickened, then stopped suddenly, and he rolled off her.
              With Zyek finished, the girl lay on her side, curled up with her knees to her chest. Her hands were bound with rope, but her feet remained unencumbered. However, she did not run, and merely lay in the grass, crying softly to herself while the others ate. The dilettante stood up, his cock flopping limply between his legs, and pulled up his pants.
              “That was fun,” he pronounced. “Who’s next?”
              Sennidor frowned as the Forsaken scrambled up from their seats. Balegan turned an eye to him.
              “No interest sorcerer? Perhaps one of the lads would be more your type?”
              “As I told our employer,” Sennidor replied, trying to temper his annoyance, “I have my mind set on the task ahead.”
              “A little rut in the grass ought to clear your head,” Balegan replied. “But suit yourself.”
              The mercenaries hurried over to take their turns. Mercifully, they were quick, and soon washed the girl off in the brook, rebound her feet and threw her over the horse again. 
              Balegan smiled contentedly and slapped the girl’s ass. She yelped and the mercenaries broke out into laughter. Sennidor felt his mouth twist in annoyance, but his mind was at work. The mercenaries were simple men with simple desires. It was a well-known fact that a mercenary’s loyalty was always for sale, even when it had already been bought. Though the fop Zyek had deeper pockets, Sennidor could offer rewards money could never buy. Plots and schemes ran through his mind as they remounted their steeds and continued east toward the distant mountains.
 
              Aranthir and his three companions left the temple at first light, leaving the young man Elys behind to begin his new life as an acolyte of Askallon. The companions made their way east, toward the rising sun that crept upwards from behind the looming Copperpeak Mountains. The surprisingly worldly acolyte had given them the lay of the land, including knowledge of a treacherous path that ran up the mountain’s southern shoulder toward the summit. Impassable for horses, it suited the four of them perfectly, and would give them an opportunity to reach the Forsaken in time to halt the ritual, even with their opponents ahorse. 
              “Keep your eyes open,” he told the others, “The path will be treacherous, and there are all many of dangerous beasts in these mountains. The winter will have left them hungry, and they won’t think twice about attacking even an armed party like ours.”
              His companions nodded silently, checking their weapons as they walked. Aranthir took the moment to study them. Janguld was as he had always been, strolling confidently down the road with his borrowed sword belted at his side, her arquebus hanging off his, thrown-back as he surveyed the idyllic fields to either side of the road. A pair of peasant lads waved at them as they passed along the edge of their field and Janguld returned the gesture with an easy smile. 
              Behind him strode the two White Sisters. Of them, Raenia was the taller, with her dark red hair pulled back into a short ponytail behind her head. Over her shoulder was slung a bow of horn and sinew, and she wore a slender rapier at her hip. Her chest was enclosed in a cuirass of simple beaten iron. Like her sisters, she wore tall boots and a skirt of leather bands. Her heavy soldier’s pack thudded against her back as they walked, adding to her annoyance as she fiddled with the straps.
              Raenia’s face was pale and pretty, with delicate features like those of a doll, but her blue eyes were flecked with frustration and her red lips were set in a bitter pout. All throughout their march and the night, she had complained about their pace and direction, though finally being on the way to battle had done little to improve her mood.
              Her sister Selvenna was shorter, with a long ponytail of dark hair that hung to her waist. She too carried a bow and sword, though her sword was a single-edged saber, curved toward the tip. She too wore a cuirass, though hers was made of finer steel that shone in the early morning sun and had been sculpted in the shape of a woman’s chest. Aranthir wondered if the big breasts on her armor reflected what truly lay beneath them, or merely her idealized self.
              Selvenna was the younger of the two, though only by a few years. Her face was equally delicate, with big brown eyes and a narrow, pointed chin. She looked about them with more wonder than worry, smiling kindly at the peasant lads who threw amorous glances in her direction. 
              They passed the morning in near total silence, only broken at their mid-day meal by the bare necessities of conversation. They ate, packed, and continued their march until dusk when, at last, Aranthir broke the silence.
              “Tell me Janguld, how did you come to be working for the baron? Last I saw you, you were headed downriver to Faurkone.”
              “Well,” Janguld said, settling himself onto a log. He brushed his hair back from his face and sighed. “I was down there a while, but I came to miss Irollian, and made my way back here. I met these Sisters on the road and we enjoyed each other’s company enough to keep traveling together.”
              “It was Janguld who found the baron’s man,” Selvenna said. “He turned us onto this job in the first place.”
              “Indeed. And where down south were you working?”
              “Along the coast. You know, our old stomping grounds.”
              “I see. I’ve been down there recently. I wonder why I didn’t encounter you?”
              “A shame, really. I could have used you.” 
              Aranthir stared hard at his friend, who busied himself with the cook fire. Janguld was hiding something, and without his characteristic finesse. 
              “I’ve heard of you, Aranthir,” Selvenna broke in, perhaps inadvertently rescuing Janguld from interrogation. “Janguld has not told us stories, of course, but the minstrels love to sing of your exploits. How many of them are true?”
              “Doubtlessly only some, if any,” Aranthir replied. He prodded the ashes of the campfire with a stick. “What have you heard?”
              “That you set a crown upon a head, rescued a goddess, slew a demon, and saw the very roof of the world.”
              “All of them true enough, in a way.”
              “So you have faced greater enemies than we face now?”
              “Aye,” Aranthir replied sagely. Thoughts of them ran through his mind, many of them slain with Janguld at his side. He smiled.
              “What do you think our chances are? Of killing the sorcerer and recovering the book?”
              “I am not familiar with this sorcerer, though I try to keep track of the dangerous ones. Still, even a novice sorcerer is a dangerous enough opponent. Be wary and stay nimble. I will do what I can to break his spells, but I am only one man.”
              “Only half a man,” Janguld teased with a smile. 
              “Aye, half a man, half an elf, though the latter works more to your advantage than anything else does.”
              “I’ve heard the rumors,” Selvenna said with a sly smile. “That you are man and a half where it counts.”
              Aranthir smiled back at her. The White Sister was leaning forward toward the campfire, her cuirass set aside that he could see her breasts were as big as her armor advertised.
              “Rumors are just rumors. There’s only one way to find out for sure.”
              “Ramissia is being held prisoner,” Raenia broke in sourly. “And you’re flirting over a campfire.”
              Selvenna dropped her eyes to the dirt, her cheeks turning red. She turned away from the fire and lay her head on her pack. Raenia kept her eyes fixed on the blazing fire. Janguld gave Aranthir a look of amusement before turning in himself.
              Aranthir and Raenia sat in silence for a while before she too lay down to sleep. He continued tending the fire as it burned low, wondering what the looming mountain to the east held in store for them. As if in answer, there came on the cold night wind a terrible howl. Aranthir instinctively clutched his weapons closer, though he could tell it was many miles off. He waited the rest of his watch in silence, listening to the wind in the trees, but it did not sound again. 
 
              Sennidor’s group stopped along the road as the sun fell low in the west. They were well off the beaten tracks, and had no more inns to take advantage of. Instead, they found a small hollow within sight of the road and made their camp within. The sorcerer seated himself among the mercenaries as they ate, still quietly observing them. The men were in good spirits, cooking bacon, vegetables, and rice in their cook pot as they passed around a wheel of cheese and cut off pieces for themselves. Zyek sat across from him, sharpening his jeweled sword. Sennidor wondered if it had ever been used.
              Their prisoner had been ushered off into the bushes for the men to enjoy in turns, but Zyek had been the first to take her tonight, his cock out before they had even started a cookfire. As was inevitable among mercenaries, their conversation inevitably turned to women.
              “Give me a lass with tits,” Balegan rumbled around a mouthful of cheese. “Something to fill my hand while we fuck and then something to lay my head on when we’re done.”
              The men enthusiastically chorused their agreement. “Aye, tits!” shouted one man.
              “I like my women small enough to throw around. Small enough to throw over my shoulder or a pack horse’s rump!” Zyek roared with laughter and threw a look over his shoulder to where the girl lay underneath one of his men.
              “Small enough that your cock looks big in comparison!” Durras roared back, and the men broke out in more laughter.
              “What do you say, sorcerer?” Balegan asked, turning to Sennidor. “You’ve been quiet all day. What do you like in a lass?”
              Sennidor grimaced. He hated conversing with such lowlifes, but winning their loyalty was key to his plan. He looked up from the fire, deep in thought, and thought of the young apprentices at the Sable Tower. They were often aloof, studious, and even cold, yet there had been some sluts who had responded to his attention. The ones he had most desired were of course those who had ignored him, and now he found himself thinking back on lonely nights spent playing with himself before he had learned even scrying to slip past the wards cast around the girls’ bathhouse. 
The memories of naked girls bathing came flooding back, and he found himself agreeing with Balegan. Images of hot, soapy water washing off buxom chests flooded his mind, and he felt his cock hardening underneath his tunic.
              “Tits,” he muttered, and the mercenaries cheered. He jolted as Durras slapped him on the back, hard, and nearly spilled his wineskin. Gritting his teeth, he took another swig from the wineskin, his shoulder aching already.
He looked to where the captive girl lay, her pale body just visible through the bushes, glowing in the flickering light of their cookfire. Atop her was one of Balegan’s men, hungrily thrusting away into her. Through the thin brush, he could hear her whimpering amidst his grunting. Sennidor was loath to admit it, but he found her whimpers enticing, like the cries of a wounded animal to a wolf.
              Zyek clearly felt the same way, for he set aside his food and stood up.
              “Speaking of lasses,” he said, “I will be back in a few moments.” He strode off. Sennidor snorted.
              “You haven’t had a turn yet,” Durras muttered. “But this rich fucker’s off to take his third of the day.”
              “Rich men,” Sennidor agreed. “All take and no give.”
              “We are getting paid,” Balegan reminded them. “And a mercenary’s not much good if he doesn’t keep his word.”
              “How much are you getting paid?” Sennidor asked. “Is it good pay?”
              “The usual rate,” Balegan shrugged. “It’s a quiet time of year. Most campaigns won’t start for another few weeks, so it’s good to get in some small work here and there before we join with a larger company and an army.”
              “The usual rate? Seems unfair given what he wants.”
              “What does he want?” Durras inquired. He and two other mercenaries checked over their shoulders and leaned in close. “He’s been tight-lipped about all of this.”
              “Aye, he just said we’re to climb a mountain,” put in one of the other mercenaries.
              “He seeks an altar,” Sennidor replied. “An ancient ritual site that will let him appeal to the gods.”
              “For what?” asked Durras. “There are plenty of temples in and around Dalthem.”
              “This is no ordinary altar. With that book he stole from his uncle, it will let him ascend to the heavens as a newborn god.”
              “Pfft,” Balegan snorted. “He’s more likely to get smote by a bolt of lightning. You all had best stand far away from him when he gets up there.”
              “Perhaps,” Sennidor replied. “But that book is no simple ledger. It is an ancient grimoire of long-lost magics, one that the sorcerers of the Sable Tower have spent centuries searching for.”
              “And so how does some rich fop come to have it?” Durras demanded.
              “Apliss is both kind and cruel. I have spent every night since I first saw it wondering that myself. I should like to have it for my own use.”
              “We’re paid to protect him,” Balegan reminded him, his eyes suddenly dangerous. 
              “Aye, you are. Though I must now tell you that he will not extend that favor to you.”
              “What do you mean?” Durras said. The mercenary leaned closer, his hands still full of forgotten food.
              “The ritual he intends to have me perform requires a sacrifice. Many sacrifices. And so he sought out men he thought disposable.”
              “He means to kill us?” Balegan hissed, his face darkening.
              “You would be wise indeed to stand far away.”
              “The snake!” Durras snapped. Behind them, they heard the cracking of twigs, and the man who had been fucking their prisoner came stumbling out of the brush, his belt loose around his waist. He was muttering to himself as he pulled his clothes on and threw himself down by the fire.
              “That rich prat threw me out before I had even finished!” he groused. “And what’s worse, he claims credit for capturing her in the first place. Says she’s his slave.”
              “Ungrateful bastard,” spat Durras.
              “Taking what’s rightfully ours!”
              “So we must repay him in kind,” Sennidor urged. “If I had the book, I could deliver to you all great rewards. Strength, luck, long health. You name it, I will call it down from the heavens.”
              “He won’t give up the book easily,” Balegan said. “And if we were known to have turned on a patron, we’d never work in Irollian again.”
              “Who would know if something happened to him?” Sennidor asked quietly. “It’s just us out here.”
              “I have found myself envious of that beautiful sword he carries,” Balegan murmured.
              “And what a horse!” Durras added. “Mine is getting too long in the years, but a new palfrey would be a welcome prize.”
              “Indeed,” Sennidor agreed. “Then we are agreed on our course?” the others nodded grimly. “We must wait until we are up the mountain, where there is no chance for a peasant to stumble on us and give the plot away. Once we have passed beyond the fields and even the woodsman’s huts, we will deal with Zyek, and then on to the altar.”
              The men smiled together, fearsome in the firelight. Soon, I will have the book, and all the rewards it entails, Sennidor thought to himself.
 
              Aranthir roused his party before dawn. After a hastily cooked meal, they set off into the hills. The trees grew thinner around them and the ground rockier, sloping ever upward toward the gray crown far ahead of them. They passed a patch of lightning-blasted trees, a solemn reminder of the Storm Goddess’ fury. Beyond the shattered copse lay a gray waste through which they struggled to discern the trail. Only Aranthir’s elven eyes allowed him pick out the path through which pilgrims had wound their way to the summit since ancient times.
              For most of the morning they struggled up the increasingly loose and rocky ground, making so little progress that Aranthir thought by midday he could still reach their starting point with a vigorous throw. At last, the rocky slope gave way to towering granite cliffs, and a narrow path that wound between them toward the peak. Aranthir stopped in sight of the canyon mouth to catch his breath and allow the others to catch up.
              “At least it looks like easier going up there,” Janguld panted as he struggled up next to Aranthir.
              “Aye, the trail isn’t so steep there,” Raenia agreed. Selvenna said nothing, her eyes following Aranthir’s to the cliff above them.
              “It’s the perfect ambush spot,” Aranthir muttered. “Load your firearms and stay on your guard.”
              “Is there a way around?” wondered Selvenna. She cast her gaze to either side of the trail mouth, but all they could see were sheer cliffs, an impenetrable belt around the mountain’s wide waist.
              “Damn,” Janguld muttered. “Check your weapons and armor, then let’s get going. This won’t get any easier if we wait.”
              Aranthir checked his pistols to ensure that the flashpans were filled, then reholstered them and looked toward the crags. He drew his longsword and started forward toward the canyon mouth. They passed through the narrow mouth of the trail without incident, and Aranthir could see that countless generations of pilgrims had left their mark on it. Names and prayers were painted or chiseled into the rock in scripts long forgotten, and one boulder had been carved into a passable seat. The trail did indeed flatten out, making for a welcome relief from the hard climb they had endured to reach this place, but Aranthir could not relax.
              He kept his eyes ever upward, looking for something peering over the cliff’s rim above him. The terrible howl from the previous night echoed in his mind and he drew his pistol for comfort. While painfully claustrophobic at first, the trail soon widened enough to allow them to spread out, though they were still hemmed in by granite cliffs no more than fifteen paces apart. Aranthir had felt less corralled when crossing a fortress’ killing field. 
              Movement up high alerted him, and he spun toward the source. A lone pebble bounced down the cliff face, each strike against the rocks echoing sharply off the canyon walls. Aranthir’s pistol snapped to position.
              From above came a terrible roar, then a great winged beast sprang over the cliff’s edge and swooped down on them. It had the body and claws of a great lion, with a long, spiked tail behind it. Two dark bat wings beat at the air, swirling up the dust and rocks about them, while a toothy maw opened wide. The monster dove from above at Janguld, the closest to it, and he readied his arquebus. He pulled the trigger and the burning match cord swung low, but the powder in the flashpan sizzled without sparking. Janguld discarded the arquebus and threw himself aside as the beast pounced, narrowly avoiding its razor-sharp claws. 
              The manticore struck the ground with a great crash, throwing up rocks as it landed. Its spiked tail whipped around and hurled needle spines at Raenia and Selvenna, and Aranthir heard the bony missiles strike off their cuirasses. He dashed to meet he monster, sword flashing, pistol at the ready, and fired. The spring-loaded wheels spun, sparking as he ran. Where Janguld’s borrowed arquebus had failed, his weapon fired and the shot struck the manticore in its flank. The creature roared in pain, turning its head to glare at Aranthir, much to Janguld’s relief, for he still lay within reach of its claws.
              Aranthir found himself looking into a surprisingly human face. It was ringed in golden hair like a lion’s mane, and its mouth was too wide and too toothy, but it was otherwise like a face he would see in any town, and the incongruity of its form gave Aranthir the slightest moment’s pause.
              It pounced, with jaws and claws lunging for him. Aranthir raised his sword in defense, his pistol discarded, and while he fended off its claws, the beast bore him to the ground. His head hit the rocky ground and he felt sharp pain crackle across his body. He heard himself cry out, but it was drowned in the manticore’s roar. Spittle flew, and he felt its hot breath on his face.
              With his longsword held in front of him, he dug for a dagger with his other hand. The manticore thrashed about on top of him, its wings and tail fending off relief attempts by his companions. Taking advantage of its momentary distraction, Aranthir tore a poignard free from his belt and thrust it into the beast’s underbelly. 
              The manticore bellowed in fury, its attention once again refocused on him in full. A great paw slammed into his face, crushing his head into the rocks as it dug its claws into the top of his head. He felt the claws scrape against his skull, and the warm blood begin to flow down his scalp. 
              The manticore jolted, its body shaking atop him as it roared yet again. Aranthir’s vision was blinded by the paw, but he heard muffled shouts and Raenia crying in triumph.
              “It’s stuck! My spear’s in there good!” the manticore thrashed again and lifted its paw, allowing Aranthir to free himself. He scrabbled out from beneath it, narrowly ducking a flailing paw. Its other paw came across and smashed into him, screeching terribly against his cuirass as it threw him to the ground. The breath was nearly blasted from him, but at last he got a look at what his companions had done. 
              Raenia had indeed lodged her spear in the beast’s flank, and held on to it as best she could. Selvenna had her blade drawn, fencing desperately with the monster’s flashing tail. And Janguld lifted his arquebus, taking aim again.
              The weapon cracked, and a gout of blood erupted from the manticore’s side, just beneath place where its wing joined the shoulder. It whirled on Janguld, its tail flashing in a great arc as it did. Aranthir ducked the bony appendage as it went whistling overhead. The spear in its flank was torn out, and Raenia stumbled to the ground. Janguld knelt where he had recovered the arquebus as the enraged manticore stared hatred down at him. It lumbered forward, limping with each step, but snarling and frothing with vengeful fury. Janguld fumbled for his sword, the spent arquebus toppling to the ground. 
              Raenia jumped in front of the beast, her blade held at the ready.
              “Have a chance at me, monster!” she spat, and the manticore considered her for a moment. Its tail twitched, then its wings beat once. Aranthir drew his second pistol. 
              The monster pounced, and though Raenia darted aside and smote it on its neck, its good wing surged forward and knocked her off balance. The beast pounced and threw her to the ground, her sword flying from her grasp. She cried out, vanishing beneath the beast’s bulk until all Aranthir could see was her red hair underneath it. He ran forward and leapt onto the monster’s back. Seizing a handful of its majestic mane, he jammed the muzzle of his pistol against its skull and pilled the trigger. The wheels spun, the sparks flew, and the pistol cracked. 
              A geyser blood, bone, and brains shot backward. The monster spasmed, then went limp and slumped to the side. 
              Selvenna ran to her companion. “Raenia, Raenia? Are you alright?” 
              Aranthir dismounted from the beast. All he could see of the White Sister was her hair and one hand that lay still against the rocks. Selvenna tried to shove the corpse off. 
              “Gods, it’s so heavy!” 
              “Janguld!” Aranthir barked. “Let’s get this ugly bastard off her!”
              The three of them put their shoulders against the dead manticore and, with great groaning and straining, at last shoved it off Raenia to get a look at her. She lay pressed against the rocks, partly buried beneath the loose rocks. Blood ran down her face and chest, soaking her white tunic beneath her armor. Selvenna knelt beside her, her face taught as she reached out a hand.
              Raenia’s opens flew open, shining blue in the noon sun. Aranthir breathed a sigh of relief as she sat up.
              “Thank Arvoran!” Selvenna gasped. She threw her arms around her sister, and Raenia slowly reciprocated. “We feared the worst.”
              Raenia looked to her bloody tunic and ran her hands over herself. “It didn’t get me,” she whispered. She touched a hand to her head. “This is all the beast’s blood.”
              “Apliss smiles on us indeed,” Janguld beamed. Aranthir smiled softly and extended a hand. Raenia took his hand and pulled herself to her feet. Dusting herself off, she smiled sadly at her clothes.
              “And I just bought this. Just my luck,” she laughed.
              “We lead a hazardous life for apparel,” Aranthir said, looked down to the fresh scratches on his cuirass. He dabbed at his head wounds with a bandage before casting a spell of healing. He felt the wounds tingle as they knitted themselves up, and washed away the blood with water from his waterskin.
Meanwhile, Janguld bent by the manticore’s side, a knife in hand. He cut a tooth from its mouth, along with a lock of hair that he braided around his belt. 
              “There, now maybe someone will believe me when I tell the tale,” he proclaimed.
              “Come on,” he said. “There is still quite a way to go.”
              Their trophies claimed, they resumed their hike up the mountain. The canyon they had been in widened further until it ceased to exist completely, leaving them back on the mountain’s open slopes, now blanketed with snowfields. The sudden cold bit at him sharply, and he drew a scarf from his pack that he wrapped around his shoulders for warmth. 
              The view from here was spectacular, and far off to the west, Aranthir thought he could make out the smoke climbing from the chimneys of Dalthem. He wondered if the guards were still looking for them. He could not help but smile at the thought.
              “Look!” called Selvenna. “There is a clear mountain pool. We can wash your clothes there, Raenia.”
Aranthir saw that she was right. On a flat expanse of the mountain lay a shallow pool of clear mountain water fed by melting snow, no more than waist-deep for him. The Sisters ran to it eagerly, their waterskins in their hands. Janguld smiled as he followed them. 
              Raenia drank right from the pool before filling her waterskin. She then stripped off her armor and tunic, baring her round breasts in the cold sun. Aranthir saw that she had broken out in gooseflesh, and her pink nipples stood out tall and hard as a cold wind whipped across the slopes. On her flank was a tattoo of a spear with a serpent coiled around it, brilliantly colored and emblazoned with some script he did not know. He studied it, trying to place it or discern its meaning, but to no avail. The White Sisters were part mercenary company and part secret society; no doubt this was related to the latter. 
              Raenia paid little mind to him, submerging her blood-stained clothing in the cold water and scrubbing vigorously at it. Aranthir filled his own waterskin from the far side of the pool and watched with interest. Selvenna noticed, and smiled at his sudden embarrassment. 
              “We are all a bit dusty,” she said, unbuckling her sculpted cuirass. “Perhaps a bath before we move on?”
              “Aye, the mountain will be there when we’re done,” Janguld agreed, casting a look up its long slope to the distant summit.” 
              Selvenna was already pulling off her shirt to let her big breasts spill out into the mountain air. Aranthir felt his breath catch in his throat. His breath now came shallower in the thin mountain air. Selvenna unbuckled her sword belt and let her trousers fall to her ankles. Janguld was not far behind her in stripping to his skin.
              Raenia looked up from her laundering in shock. “What are you doing?!”
              “Taking a bath,” came Selvenna’s reply. “You could use one too, Raenia. You look filthy.”
              The elder of the Sisters stood up, her face twisted in disapproval. But Aranthir could not staring at her round little breasts as she stood topless and wringing her wet tunic in her hands. Selvenna and Janguld waded naked into the pool, cringing as the icy waters crept up their legs and then to their most sensitive regions. Selvenna shuddered as the water rose up over her shaven sex and wrapped her arms around her chest.
              “Don’t do that,” Janguld teased. “You’ll obscure our view of those magnificent tits of yours.”
              She smiled shyly, looking down to the breasts she sheltered under her arms. “She’s no whore,” Raenia warned from the other side, covering her own breasts with one arm. Her tunic was washed mostly free of blood, but still hung dripping wet from her hand.
              “I’m well aware,” Janguld replied. He too stood naked in the pool, though even the icy waters were not enough to keep his cock down. Aranthir saw it now, rising just above the water’s surface. Selvenna saw it too. She blushed and turned away. Janguld stood his ground proudly, turning an eye to Aranthir. “Won’t you come in?” 
              Aranthir looked up the mountain slope, then to Selvenna’s naked form standing in the pool. The woman smiled at him, her long black hair cascading over her big breasts as she stroked it in her hands. He stood up and removed his armor and weapons.
              Winter’s icy grip closed in about his legs as he stepped into the pool. He waded deeper into the water to reach Selvenna, who watched him approach with great interest. Behind her, Janguld cupped his hands together and raised a handful of water over her head. He opened his hands and the cold, clear water rained down on her.
              Selvenna yelped, her mouth falling open and her eyes wide. She whirled on him in shock, her arms wrapping themselves around her as the frigid water ran down her naked chest. Janguld laughed, and she reached down to sweep an arm through the water and douse him with a great wave. He staggered back as the cold grip extended up his chest, then splashed her right back. His wave washed over her to hit Aranthir as well, and he too cringed in the cold. 
              Selvenna waded forward and grabbed Janguld’s shoulders, then shoved him down into the water. He lost his footing and went under, crying in pained surprise as the cold water swallowed him up. Moments later, he burst from the water again, shaking his head like a dog and spraying frigid droplets over them.
              “I was only trying to help you wash off the dirt and sweat,” he laughed. Selvenna scowled playfully at him, her arms wrapped around her chest again.
              “Your help comes unbidden and unwanted. But seeing as I’m wet already…”
              She crossed her arms over her chest and toppled herself backwards into the water with a great splash. Aranthir raised an arm to shield himself from the spray. Smaller waves lapped against his chest and Selvenna rose from the water again, brushing her long, dark, wet hair back from her eyes. Her bare chest glistened in the sun, and Aranthir’s hungry gaze was drawn to it.
              “Gods, that’s cold!” she gasped. She saw him staring at her breasts and smiled coyly. “Like what you see, half-elf?”
              “Indeed,” he replied, moving closer. She raised her arms above her head and arched her back. 
              “Help me clean off the dirt of the road.”
              Aranthir and Janguld closed in about her, scrubbing and rubbing at her naked form. Aranthir felt his cock harden. Janguld’s had long ago done the same, and Selvenna noticed. Gently, she touched their cocks and began to slowly stroke them. Aranthir brushed away the locks of hair covering her breast and kissed her cheek.
              Selvenna giggled and gripped their cocks tighter. She stroked harder, a man to either side, and turned a hungry gaze to the shore.
              “Won’t you come in Raenia? There’s one for each of us…”
              Raenia scowled. Her wet tunic she had laid out on a flat boulder behind her to dry, but though she stood naked above the waist, her stance showed no intention of joining in the fun. 
              “We still have a mountain to climb,” Raenia complained, her arms crossed across her bare chest.
              “It’s not going anywhere. Come on and have some fun, Raenia!” The other woman wordlessly sat down on her tunic and looked away. “Fine. More for me.”
              Selvenna knelt in the icy pool, bringing her mouth down to their cocks. With red lips she touched Aranthir’s cock and slid it into her mouth. He moaned softly with pleasure and she giggled around his cock in reply. She stroked and sucked him for a few moments and then withdrew her mouth.
              “Good enough for you?” she asked playfully, and Aranthir nodded.
              “Don’t neglect me,” Janguld urged. He held his hard cock forward for her and gently turned her head toward it. He pressed his cock against her lips and Selvenna smiled before opening to admit him. Aranthir stroked her long hair with one hand, leaning down to play with her breasts with the other. They were big and firm, but receptive to his touch. Her pink nipples grew darker in cold in the cold, and he bent his head to kiss them. 
              Looking up, he saw Raenia standing unamused on the shore, but a slight crook at the edge of her mouth betrayed her growing interest. Aranthir merely smiled at her before turning his attention back to her younger companion. Janguld was thrusting his cock into her mouth even as she sucked and stroked him. She turned her eyes upward to stare into his and Janguld matcher her gaze. He grabbed at her long hair and wrapped it about her throat, at which Selvenna smiled and stood up. Turning, she offered her behind to Janguld and bent to suck Aranthir’s cock again.
              Standing nude in the cold water, Selvenna braced herself with two hands on Aranthir’s hips. Janguld took her by her own hips and hungrily slid his cock inside her. Selvenna moaned around the cock in her mouth, her big breasts swinging underneath her as Janguld’s powerful impacts struck hers. 
              “Harder,” she moaned, holding Aranthir’s cock against her lips with one hand. She kissed it and Janguld slammed himself into her, drawing a delighted squeal. Aranthir looked to Raenia again, who was seated on a rock trying hard to look anywhere else. Selvenna followed his gaze and giggled. 
              “Come on, Raenia. It’s all good fun.”
              Aranthir grabbed a handful of her hair and wound his fingers through it. She swallowed his cock again, all the way to the base, and ran her tongue around it. He felt her cute little nose against his belly and looked down at her bare back. Her plump beckoned, ripples pulsing through it with each slap of Janguld’s hips against her thighs. Aranthir gave her ass a slap, and she squealed again. Janguld did the same, and her squeals fueled his vigorous fucking.               Aranthir began to feel neglected as Selvenna spent more time squealing and begging for more than she spent sucking his cock. He reached beneath her and grabbed her big breasts in his hands to amuse himself. He squeezed them between his fingers, kneading her nipples with two fingers each and Selvenna moaned again. Janguld lifted one of her legs up, providing Raenia with a clear view of the other woman’s sex being penetrated. 
              Selvenna lifted her mouth from Aranthir’s cock to smile at her friend, who turned away again. Amusement plain on her face, Selvenna reached down and splashed a handful of water on Raenia, who leapt up from her seat in shock. Eyes wide and her mouth open, the redheaded woman gasped at her friend, who greeted her with only an unrepentant smile.
              “Since you’re all wet, might as well come in,” she giggled, then oooed as Janguld slammed his cock into her again. Selvenna craned her head back and closed her eyes. “Nystra’s Tits, your cock feels so good inside me…”
              “Gods, I’m about to come,” Janguld gasped in reply. 
              “Not yet!” she protested. She shoved him out of her and stood up, Aranthir’s cock still in hand. “Control yourself, Janguld. Let’s go on land, it’s cold in here.” With one hand on each of their cocks, she led them to the shore, brushing past Raenia to stand beside her flat rock. 
              “Lay yourself down,” Selvenna commanded Aranthir, and he obeyed with his feet hanging over the edge. She then stepped onto the rock, her naked form standing tall above him in the cold alpine breeze. Her body glistening wetly, her skin standing out in gooseflesh as the breeze flowed over wet skin. Unbothered and unashamed, she slowly lowered her shaven sex onto his cock. He split her soft pink lips with his cock and her brown eyes met his as he slid inside her. Planting her hands on his muscular chest, she leaned in close for a kiss. Her lips were as soft and warm as her purse, and Aranthir grabbed two handfuls of her ass and fucked her slowly. Her sex pulsed around his cock, warm and wet. The warm press of her skin against his in the cold mountain air staved off the chill, and Aranthir clutched her closer.
              The moment was interrupted by Janguld, who stepped onto the flat boulder and held his cock out for her. Selvenna rose from Aranthir’s lips and took the other cock in hand, stroking it even as her free hand caressed Aranthir’s chest. She rode him expertly, her buxom tits bouncing hypnotically even as both men clutched and fondled them. Aranthir pulled himself up to suckle at her breast. 
              Raenia approached cautiously, her eyes fixed on Selvenna’s bouncing breasts and the cock in her mouth. The elder woman slowly sat down on the rock beside Aranthir, entranced by the gyrating motion of her friend’s hips and the cocks driving into her with abandon. Selvenna pulled Janguld’s cock from her mouth and smiled.
              “Would you like a taste?” she teased, holding the cock out for Raenia. Gingerly, the redheaded woman reached up to touch it. Her bared breasts hung over Aranthir’s head tantalizingly. Raenia sensed his gaze and looked down into his eyes. She smiled sheepishly even as she stroked Janguld’s cock in her hand. Her desires achieved, Selvenna turned her full attention back to Aranthir. She shifted her position, planting her feet on the rock so she could rise higher on his cock, making him penetrate deeper inside her as well as making her breasts bounce even more. Both of these were things that Aranthir greatly appreciated, even when she clasped his hands for support, forcing him to unhand her breasts.
              Beside him, Raenia lowered her lips to touch Janguld’s cock, soon enough swallowing it entirely in her little mouth. Blue eyes stared up at Janguld, then down at Aranthir, her fair cheeks turning slightly red with embarrassment as she sucked cock topless in the open air. Janguld stroked her red hair, pulling on her ponytail like a horse’s reins.
At last, Raenia could stand it no longer and bolted up from the rock. She quickly stripped off her remaining clothes and crawled back onto the rock. She crouched over Aranthir on all fours and kissed him. Her touch was sensuous, and the cold manner she had treated him with since they met in the flophouse melting away like spring snow. Raenia took his head in her hands and kissed him deeply, her deft tongue seducing its way into his mouth to wrestle with his own. He reached up to embrace her, grabbing at her little round breasts as he did.
              Janguld hopped down from the rock and set himself behind Raenia. Cock in hand, he gripped her waist and shoved himself inside her. Raenia lifted her head from Aranthir’s lips and moaned. She was answered by the loud slap of Janguld’s hips against hers, and her whole body shuddered. Her round breasts swayed delightfully on her toned chest, and Aranthir caught one in his hand and squeezed. The woman tightened her grip on his head as Janguld’s thrust into her intensified. On the other end, Selvenna rode his cock vigorously, her own hips clapping against his each time she slammed herself down on it. 
              Aranthir was at a loss for which woman to grab. Raenia’s breasts were soft and the perfect size for his hands, but Selvenna’s ample bottom beckoned to him as she rode him. He settled for a hand on each, with Raenia’s breasts shaking in his hand under Janguld’s assault.
              He cried out again, and his thrusting slowed.
              “Coming already?” Aranthir asked through Raenia’s kisses. “You’ve lost your touch, old man.”
              “Not all of us are blessed with elder blood,” Janguld huffed, his hips slowing to a stop. “Switch the women up, give me a respite.”
              “You heard the man,” Aranthir called. He gently pushed Raenia away, and with Janguld’s cock out of her she turned over to sit on the rock. Selvenna dismounted with a pout, and Aranthir laughed as he sat up. “Only for a moment, girl. You’ll be full of cock again before you know it.”
              He rose from the boulder to stand on the rocky ground, uncaring of the harsh edges digging into the bare soles of his feet. Taking Selvenna by the hand, he pulled her closer to the edge to sit beside Raenia.
Raenia lay on her back, hips at the edge of the rock, and settled Selvenna beside her. The women linked their arms, legs raised to expose their shaven sexes. Aranthir and Janguld planted themselves at the edge of the boulder, finding comfortable footing in the broken rocks, and drove their cocks into the waiting purses together. As one, the women’s eyes rolled back in their heads and they moaned with ecstasy. Raenia bit her lower lip and moaned at the sight of Aranthir’s cock inside her. Their hands clasped together, feet waving with each impact of hips against hips.
              “I’ve never fucked an elf before,” Raenia giggled. Neither has that pretty girl Pya with big tits back at the Jovial Juggler, Aranthir thought. He wondered if they could make it back that way, and whether she would still be in a state to bed him once the mercenaries were done with her. He shook off the thought, chastising himself for thinking of a distant wench when he had two eager beauties laid out before him. 
              Putting the girl from his mind, Aranthir entered Raenia and bent over her as he fucked. He grabbed Raenia by her ankles and set them on his shoulders. To his side, Selvenna’s feet waved in the air with each thrust of Janguld’s cock. Her calves held against his chest, Raenia gritted her teeth, arms about his shoulders, and begged for more. Aranthir gave it to her in long, hard thrusts, their bodies slammed together in lust. His cock throbbed inside her. Selvenna reached across to grab the base of his cock as it plunged into her friend and then drew back out. The other woman tightened her grip such that Aranthir was sliding his cock from a tight hand to a tight purse and soon could contain himself no more.
              He yanked his cock out of Raenia and spurted a rope of cum across her naked chest, falling past her onto Selvenna’s chin. Both women squealed in delight, mouths open and tongues out. Raenia licked her lips clean and smacked her lips with satisfaction.
              “Want more?” Janguld grunted, and before either could reply he too pulled out and came. His cum ran a line up Selvenna’s body and onto her big breasts where it clung stubbornly. He groaned again and came once more, this time spurting a trickle onto her belly. Aranthir, not to be outdone, pinched his cock closed and mounted the rock, aiming his cock into Raenia’s mouth. He unleashed himself, shooting a burst of sticky white seed into the back of her throat. 
              Moaning with delight, she closed her mouth and swallowed before opening again. “All gone!” she crowed. Beside her, clinging to her naked, sticky chest, Selvenna pouted with a disappointed whimper. 
              “So greedy,” she complained, and flicked the other woman’s exposed nipple. “Is there more?” she asked the men. Aranthir shook his head but Janguld stubbornly tried to squeeze some last drops from his cock to no avail. Undaunted, Selvenna crawled over her friend to lick Aranthir’s cock clean. Her generous bosom brushed across Raenia’s mouth and the redheaded woman latched onto a nipple with a pleasure-filled moan that her friend soon joined in. Janguld sat back on his heels and wiped his brow, having worked up quite a sweat even in the alpine chill. 
              Aranthir stood atop the rock with his fists planted on his hips, looking far down the slopes, past the corpse of the manticore, toward the green foothills below and the storm clouds rolling in. Naked, standing astride two nude women covered in his cum, he felt a world conqueror in the moment. 
              Between his legs, Raenia looked up at him and laughed. “You may cut quite the figure, but this is not a favorable view.”
              “Speak for yourself,” Selvenna giggled, and raised her head to suck on the tip of his cock again. Aranthir looked down into her brown eyes and sighed with content. Behind him, Janguld bent over and slapped her bare ass. Raenia lay herself back on the rock and stared up at him with clear blue eyes, all traces of her former hostility gone. 
They lingered naked on the rock for a time, exchanging kisses and gropes as the cold mountain winds gusted around them. When the cum began to dry, they washed themselves in the pool again, cleaning off the sweat and cum.               Aranthir gave Raenia another splash, and she responded in kind. Laughing delightedly, the two Sisters jumped him, trying to haul him down into the icy water, and it was only Janguld’s intervention that prevented them from succeeding. Raenia was pulled away, and Aranthir was left to kiss and grope Selvenna again.
              At last, they could delay no longer and dressed themselves for the continued climb. Raenia’s tunic was nearly dry again, and so she covered her breasts with it again to Janguld and Aranthir’s immense disappointment. With a sly smirk at their protests, she shouldered her pack and set off up the mountain at the head of their group. Aranthir fell in behind her, at least able to admire her backside on the climb.
 
              Zyek called an early halt on the mountain with more than an hour before sundown. Sennidor did not think to complain, for the day had been hard and their horses were near to breaking. They camped atop a cliff overlooking the forest below and built a cookfire. The rough ground of the mountain had worn them out faster than expected, and the mercenaries who expected to return to their lives after this were loathe to lose such valuable mounts. On top of it all,  Zyek still hoped to carry his stolen toy to the mountain top as well. 
              Sennidor could only shake his head. The man expected to become a god soon, but was still wasting his time with this pathetic wench he had fucked half to death already. Sennidor could only silently scorn the weak man who let himself be guided by the pleasures of the flesh. Godhood awaited him; women were nothing next to such a goal. True to form, Zyek finished his meal early and took the girl off behind a rock. Sennidor found himself sitting with the mercenaries around the fire, listening to the dilettante grunting and the girl whimpering over the crackle of the fire. 
He looked from one scowling mercenary to another, then to the waning sun in the west. The brilliant colors of the sunset reflected off dark clouds, and Sennidor smiled. 
              “There,” he said, pointing west for the mercenaries’ benefit. “A storm is coming.”
              “How soon?” Balegan asked.
              “Tomorrow,” was Sennidor’s reply. “We must make it to the summit before it passes.”
              “And him?” Durras asked. “When will we be rid of him?”
              “Tomorrow,” Sennidor whispered. “We’ll do it when we break camp, so we don’t have to sleep next to a rotting corpse all night.”
              “There’s a perfectly good slope right there,” Durras objected. “And it means we won’t have to listen to him all night.”
              “Or waste breakfast on him.”
              “Aye, we’re committed to it. What’s the sense in waiting?”
              Sennidor had thought to break in the new day with the act, but could not think of a reason to give the others.
              “Fine, do it now.”
              Balegan rose from his seat without another word. Dagger in hand, he stepped over to Zyek with Durras and two others in tow.
              “Wait your turn,” the nobleman snapped. 
              “Tired of waiting,” Balegan growled. He hauled Zyek off the girl, the man’s cock flopping uselessly as it withdrew. He struggled to his feet in the mercenary’s grasp, naked in the cold evening air, but seemingly unaware of his own vulnerability.
              “Now wait just a damned moment,” Zyek growled. “I hired you to take orders, and I order you to--- oof!”
              He cut off as Balegan plunged the blade into his chest. Zyek looked up in shock as blood began to flow from the wound. Balegan sneered and shoved him backwards. The nobleman staggered backward and his foot slipped on the edge of the cliff. Clutching the wound in his chest, he looked from Balegan to Sennidor, who merely shrugged and bit off another mouthful of hardtack. Durras stepped forward, standing over the naked girl, and kicked Zyek square in the chest.
              With a strangled cry, the nobleman toppled backwards and plummeted off the cliff. As soon as he was gone, Balegan turned to where he had set his things when undressing. He picked up Zyek’s sword in its scabbard and smiled. It was a straight, double-edged blade with a gilded hilt inset with emeralds. The senior mercenary whistled as he drew it out. “This is a fine sword,” he murmured.
              “Oh, ho!” cried Durras. “He hit the ground hard down there. He’ll make a good meal for whatever wolf or vulture finds him first.”
              “I care not,” replied Sennidor. “Never speak to me of him again, for far greater things await us.”
              “Like this?” Durras asked, pulling the girl to her feet. She hung her head, her hands still roped together. She was young and slender, with small breasts and a narrow waist. Her sex was red from overuse, but Sennidor still felt his cock calling to him as he looked upon her. Despite the abuse heaped upon her by these men for the last few days, she was still comely. “You’re in charge now, sorcerer, so you get first rights.”
              He led her around the rock to stand barefoot and naked before him. The girl trembled with fear, a single tear running down her smooth, dirt-stained cheek. I am still a mortal, he thought to himself. It would seem that women still do have power over me. He stood up and pulled her close. 
              “There you are!” cried Balegan. “You are not so above these things after all. Eat, drink, fuck the little slut to your heart’s content. For in the morning, you have some sorcery to work, and we are eagerly awaiting our reward for climbing all the way up this damned mountain.”
              “In time,” Sennidor murmured. He put his arm around the girl and cupped her breast. She whimpered in his grasp, and he felt his cock harden under his robes. One last night as a mortal, he thought to himself. “Watch and wait, loyal servants of mine. I’ll go first and leave the rest to you.”
              The men grinned, some already unlacing their breeches. Balegan seated himself on a rock and leaned his chin on his upraised palm. “Do go on, sorcerer,” he said. “I’m eager to know how a nascent god fucks a wench.”
              “Wonder no more,” Sennidor replied, eyes fixed on the girl in his grasp. He lifted a hand to cup her chin and turned her head to face him. “Do I frighten you?” he asked, and the girl shuddered. “Of course I do,” the sorcerer chuckled. “You are but a girl, playing at war. While I am to be a god on the morrow. What could a foolish little girl know of my power?”
              “Oh, for the love of the gods that you shall soon be,” Durras grumbled. “Hurry up and fuck the little slut already so we can have our turn.”
              Sennidor felt the anger rising in him at their impatience. But at the same time, his cock grew impatient as well. “Very well,” he muttered and doffed his robe in one swift motion. Beneath it he wore on smallclothes that soon fell to the rocky mountainside as well. He stood naked beside his prize and took his cock in one hand.
              “The sorcerer has the same cock as any other man,” one of the mercenaries muttered to his companions’ quiet laughter. Much as he wanted to burn them all to ash with a wave of his hand, he still had use for them and ignored their mockery. The girl before him turned her blue eyes to the ground again and a pathetic sob escaped her throat. Sennidor thought to shut her up with a cock in her mouth, but he was already hard and her raw red sex beckoned to him. 
              He turned her away from him and slapped her taut ass with an open hand. She yelped, and the mercenaries laughed. Sennidor pressed his cock against her purse lips and his mouth twisted in a sneer as three droplets of cum leaked out of her. That foppish bastard found the time to come in her before we threw him off the mountain, damn him, he told himself. No matter, he will never lay with a woman again, unless one finds him broken and bloodied down there. 
              With a grimace, he banished thoughts of the dead man from his mind and focused on the live, sobbing girl in front of him. Naked, trembling, hands bounds, she was everything he wanted from a girl. He wrapped a hand around her soft throat as the other guided his cock into her. She shuddered with another sob as his filled her up to its base. The crowd of watching mercenaries murmured in appreciation. Durras yanked his breeches all the way off, only for them to become entangled in his dusty boots. He grunted in frustration as he fought to free them, but Sennidor ignored him in favor of the girl on his cock. 
              With a growl of lust, he slammed his cock into her. The captive girl squealed and raised her bound hands to her face. 
              “Don’t try to hide,” taunted Balegan. His companions cackled. “You know you like it, you little slut, you!”
Sennidor reached up and yanked her hands away from her face.
              “Look them in the eyes, girl. Each of them will be inside you soon enough. They can enjoy what’s left of you when I’m done. You should all be honored to enjoy the leavings of a god!”
              The mercenaries showed little gratitude, instead focused on the girl. Durras had freed his feet from the tangle of his clothes and sat stroking his cock and biting his lip. The girl was crying now, and Sennidor saw tears drip off her face to strike against the rocks at his feet. Her bound hands swung limply in front of her as he fucked her.
He quickened his thrusting, feeling the lust for flesh overpower him. However much she cried, she was warm and wet inside, and Sennidor craved the feel of it. His cock was wrapped in the silky smoothness of a pretty woman for the first time in what seemed like so long and for just a moment, all thoughts of godhood and magical power slipped away. There was only the soft-skinned girl in his ravenous iron grip and the slap-slap-slap of his hips against her taut little ass and his cock penetrated the red lips of her purse.
              “Look at her titties shake!” cried Balegan, pointing with a calloused finger.
              “What titties?” Durras snorted in derision. “The whore’s flat as a boy. At least she’s got a cunt to fuck.”
              “Speaking of which, how’s her asshole, sorcerer?”
              “Please, no,” the girl pleaded, protesting her abuse for the first time since they had captured and broken her in. “Please don’t hurt me anymore.”
              “Shut up!” Sennidor snapped. He hauled the girl off his cock and turned her to face him. “You’ll do as I say.”
Her pretty face was streaked with tears and now contorted with horror at her predicament. “Please, sir, not my ass. I’ve never been fucked in the ass before.”
              Sennidor slapped her across the face, which brought laughter and cheers to his mercenaries. The girl sagged to her knees and would have fallen to the ground, but he caught by the elbow and hauled her back to her feet. He shook a finger in her face.
              “No more whining out of you. You’ll get fucked how we want to fuck you and that’s that.”
              Her lip trembled and she raised her bound hands to her reddening cheek. “Yes, master,” she whispered. 
              “Good. Now turn around so I can fuck your little asshole, slattern.”
              Sufficiently cowed, she obeyed. Sennidor bent her forward, holding her hair like a horse’s reins. The weight of her would soon become a problem, he realized, and so he walked her forward under she could brace herself with her hands on Balegan’s knees.
              “Well, hello there, pretty girl,” Balegan purred. One hand on his cock, he held her chin with the other and ran it down her naked body until he clutched her little breasts between his thick, coarse fingers. “Do you like when I touch you there?” he hissed.
              The girl whimpered and seemed to nod. “Of course you do,” Balegan went on. “You cry and fight it, but deep down you’re still a wanton little whore and like all wanton little whores you want nothing more than to be fucked and cummed on like a piece of meat. Isn’t that right?”
              She moaned as Sennidor pressed the head of his cock against her asshole. The ring of ridged, pink flesh pulsed under his probing. Her body was hot, even as a cold mountain breeze blew over them. 
              “Open your hole, slut,” he hissed. She only tightened it further. Sennidor cursed under his breath. At the Tower, he had heard of spells for this, passed in whispers between giggling students with plans for the night, but in his distaste for the pleasures of the flesh, he had never stooped to learn them. Soon I will be a god, he reminded himself. A god with no need for these things. But tonight, another part of his mind thought, tonight I will fuck this girl in her asshole and she will beg for me to stop. 
              “You’ve got to work it, sorcerer,” Balegan called.
              “Aye, spit on it a little,” called Durras.
              “Durras knows his assholes!” called another man. “Aye, he’s fucked every whore from here to Faurkone!” added another.
              Sennidor scowled at the thought of taking advice from a group of paid ruffians. But, some part of him mused from a deep recess of his mind, if anyone knows, it would be them. While I studied magic, they were out wasting money on frivolous pleasures of the flesh.
              He summoned up a globule of spit with his spit and slowly dribbled it forth to drip onto the girl’s tightly clenched hole. She shivered as it touched her, but her hole pulsed open for the briefest instant. Sennidor felt himself smile.
              “Please don’t,” she whimpered again and Sennidor yanked her head back by her hair.
              “Shut up,” he spat. “Submit yourself to my cock and be no more trouble.”
              “Don’t submit too much,” Durras cackled. “I like some fight in ‘em!”
              “There won’t be much of her left by the time he’s done,” another man laughed. “I can see it, the sorcerer’s got his blood up for this wench.”
              Ignoring their jeers, Sennidor wrapped the girl’s long hair about her throat. “Open your hole,” he demanded again. He spat again.
              “Rub your cock against her hole,” Durras suggested. “You got to charm her a bit.”
              “What do you know about charming?” Balegan challenged. Durras shrugged.
              “Sometimes you want one that’s willing. Then you have to charm them.”
              Sennidor grew hot with anger as he teasingly rubbed his cockhead against her clenched hole. The warm spittle that clung to it glistening in the waning light. Then her hole began to open, just enough for him to force his cock in the rest of the way. She cried out in pain as he entered her, the pleasure of her tight ass drowning out all other thoughts. Distantly, he heard Durras comment in appreciation, but he shut the man’s voice out of his mind.
Her flesh throbbed around him, drowning him in pleasure he had never thought possible. He felt the girl shake in his grasp and heard the men cheer in delight, but his thoughts were reserved for himself and the grip of pleasure he found himself in. Could Nystra herself be any better? He wondered. Soon I’ll find out, he told himself with a smile.
              “This is tight,” he gasped as he returned from his ecstatic reverie, “you weren’t lying about never having been fucked here before.”
              “Don’t worry,” Durras laughed, both hands stroking his cock, “We’ll have you loosened up by morning!”
He and the others found that uproariously funny, but the girl could only hang her head and sob uselessly. Sennidor now realized that he despised her utterly. A pathetic little wench, a weakling even among mortals. She was nothing to him but a warm hole to pleasure his cock. He drove his cock into her again and she wailed with despair, her cries echoing down the mountainside.
              “Beg for my cock, you little trollop!” he sneered. His hands wrapped around her throat as he fucked her from behind, the slapping of flesh on flesh echoing off the bare rocks around them. The girl made no sound but for a pained cry of disgust.
              He tightened his grip about her throat. “Beg for it!” he snarled. His fucking increased in speed and harshness and he saw her cheeks begin to grow red. 
              “Come on, girl,” Balegan cheered, “Do as the man says. He’s to be a god, after all.”
Some of the other men chortled to each other. Sennidor thought to punish their insolence, but the girl’s tight holes beckoned more strongly than his pride.
              “Durras,” Sennidor snarled through gritted teeth, “Get your knife. If she won’t beg for it, she has no need of her tongue.”
              The mercenary grinned a wolf’s grin and drew the knife from his discarded belt and stood up. He approached the girl with one hand stroking his cock and the other fondling his knife. The girl turned her head away, so Durras grabbed her by her hair and pulled her toward him. Sennidor felt excitement course through him as he fucked her little ass harder.
              Durras took his hand off his cock and tried to spread her lips. She shook her head, moaning with mounting terror as he held the knife up before her. 
              “Hold still, little girl. This will only hurt a bit.”
              “Fuck me, master!” she cried. As her mouth opened, Durras tried to jam his fingers inside and seize her tongue, but she shook him off briefly. 
              “That’s the spirit!” Sennidor crowed. His hands tightened about her throat. “Say it again!”
              “Fuck me, master!” she screamed, and again Durras tried to grab her tongue.
              “That’s enough, Durras!” Sennidor shouted. He shoved the mercenary away. “Do you like the feel of my cock in your ass, whore?”
              “Yes, master,” she replied obediently. Durras backed off, disappointed. Scowling, he sat down on his rock again and tossed his knife back onto the pile of discarded clothes. Sennidor paid the man no more mind, he had served his purpose. He instead turned his attention to the girl on the end of his cock. 
              “Say it,” he commanded. She made no reply. He caught her hair in one hand and turned her cheek up. He slapped her. “Say you like my cock in your ass.”
              “I-- I like your-- cock in my ass, master,” she stammered, each word punctuated by the pounding of his hips.
              “Do you want these men to fuck you next?”
              “I only want your cock, master,” she replied, her voice breaking into sobs again.
              “We’re all your masters, bitch!” cried Durras. The girl whimpered again.
Sennidor sneered at her. “Too bad. They’re all going to fuck you until you can’t walk. You exist for our enjoyment. You’re lower than a slave. Fuck! Oh, Nystra’s Tits, fuck!” he cried the last word as he suddenly neared climax.
He wrenched his cock from the girl and pinched it off before he could come all over the stones. Wrapping a hand around her narrow white throat, he forced her to her knees and aimed his cock at her face. The men rumbled in gleeful anticipation, both for the final ritual of humiliation but also for the approach of their turns. 
              Sennidor held the girl by her throat, pushing her back over her heels as he readied his cum. She closed her eyes and mouth, straining against his grip to avoid the spray she knew was coming. It was to no avail, for he held her firm. His cock throbbed in his hand, the mercenaries chattered with excitement and he could contain himself no longer.
              He let loose all over her pretty young face. White ropes of hot, sticky cum spurted from his cock and landed in her unkempt hair, on her squeezed-shut eyes and her soft red lips. She trembled with a muffled sob, her lips pressed thin together but the sound escaping them all the same. Cum dripped down her cheeks to her chin and Sennidor spurted again. He came unexpectedly hard, unleashing a hidden reservoir that he had not anticipated was in him. The men cheered in amusement as his cock twitched and spurted again and again. 
              He painted the girl’s face white in long, runny curtains of cum, squeezing her by the throat as he held her upright to receive his seed. She trembled, whimpered, and sputtered, droplets flying from her nose and mouth as she struggled to breathe under the assault. At last, his cock was drained and Sennidor released her throat and stepped back. The girl slumped to the ground in exhaustion.
              “That means you’re done, right?” Durras demanded. He stood up from his rock, holding his erect cock in both hands. Desire danced in his eyes, undimmed by the girl’s wretched state. Sennidor shook his head.
“Not yet.” He wrapped a hand in the girl’s long brown hair and pulled her up to a sitting position. Slowly, she raised her face to look into his eyes. Sennidor smiled, feeling the cold mountain air against his bare teeth. Her pretty young face was so innocent, even stained by dust and cum. Even with his cock spent, he felt the urge to mount her all over again, to fuck her until he could no longer move and she was nothing more than a hot mess of flesh and liquids. His eyes locked onto hers, the blue in her own orbs dulled by the abuse she had suffered but still showing some light deep within them. 
              He cocked his head with curiosity, for he saw something in them he had not seen before. For a moment, he could not discern what it was that he saw in her pale blue eyes until it clicked in his mind. It was hate that he saw. His lip curled with amusement. 
              She hated him. Dread and panic were giving way in her to raw, burning hatred. How dare she hate me? He wondered to himself. How many other whores such as this are so honored as to be fucked by a god? The little wretch should be on her knees, thanking me! Not staring up at me with hate in her eyes even as my cum blesses her cheek.
He slapped her across the face again. The sharp crack of his hand against her cum-stained cheek stirred his cock, and the jolt in his arm made his toes curl. The girl convulsed in another pathetic sob, and he let her hair slide from her grasp until she collapsed back to the ground.
              “Whore,” he sneered and then spat a fat glob of spit at her. It struck her at her hairline, some hissing against her bare skin while the rest soaked into her hair. She closed her eyes and curled up into a ball. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Balegan nodding in gleeful approval. 
              Sennidor bent to pick up his clothes and slung them over his shoulder. 
              “Now she’s all yours,” he pronounced. As the mercenaries leapt to their feet, he stepped over the naked girl, taking care to tread one dusty foot sole on her face. He felt the heat of her skin and the sticky wetness of cum and spit. When his foot touched down again, he felt the mountain dust stick to the wetness of his feet. 
              Dust, just like all the rest, he thought. I am to be a god on the morrow, but this was a fine last night as a mortal. He smiled to himself, while behind him the mercenaries hauled the wretched girl to her feet for another few rounds of rape.
 
              Aranthir held the first watch that night. His companions bedded down together for warmth as the storm clouds rolled in. Aranthir contented himself with sitting by the fire underneath a heavy cloak, sharpening his sword and focusing his mind on the battle to come. Distant thunder disturbed his thoughts, and turning to the west he saw all the lights of the lowlands had disappeared under a mask of rain clouds.
              “It’s going to be a cold night,” Janguld muttered from beside him. Aranthir turned to regard his old friend.
              “A cold night before a hot battle.”
              “Just like old times, eh?” Janguld smiled. Aranthir nodded in return.
              “There’s something you’ve been hiding from me.”
              Janguld winced, then sighed. “You haven’t lost your edge.” He looked to the two Sisters, both fast asleep, then shook his head. 
              “It’s been a time, I’ll tell you. I met this sorcerer there, an exile from the Sable Tower. He wanted this book, one of the thirty-seven volumes of someone or other. I didn’t much care. But he hired me to find it, so off I went. I found it here, or there.” He waved off in the direction they had come, then sighed again. “The baron had it. So I told him where to find it, collected my money and went looking for the nearest taphouse.”
              “But something brought you back. It wasn’t a coincidence that you led the Sisters to the baron’s job.”
              “Aye, something brought me back. I couldn’t stop thinking about the sorcerer, and what he would do with the book. He’s an odd one, that sorcerer. He thinks of little else but his book and what to do with it. As you said, he’s not likely to become a god, but if he succeeds, I’d hate to live in that world.”
              “I shouldn’t think we have much to worry about,” Aranthir replied. He cast his gaze out over the mountain before them, and his eyes alit upon a distant point of light, glowing softly in the darkening night sky.
              “There they are,” he whispered. Janguld turned to follow his outstretched finger. “That is a campfire. And who else would be on the mountain?”
              Janguld considered the distant fire, then the mountain that loomed about them in the darkness. “They’re ahead of us,” he said at last.
              “Aye, they’ll probably beat us to the summit.”
              “Should we strike camp and leave now?”
              “We wouldn’t make it far in the dark. We’ll go on in the morning. Whatever ritual they’re planning will take time, and when they’re distracted by it is when they’ll be most vulnerable.”
              “You’re not concerned by much, are you, Pointy-ears?”
              “Not much,” Aranthir replied.
              “Well then come to bed. We’ve got two women to lie between, heavy cloaks to shield us from the rain, and some embers in the fire still. Women at night and battle in the morning. Just like old times!”
 
              Aranthir awoke before dawn to a heavy downpour. Their campfire had long ago been doused by the rain, so they ate a quick, cold breakfast before setting out along the trail. The slick rocks made climbing even more arduous and treacherous than it had been before, and they spent all morning struggling to the top. Twice they slipped on loose, wet rocks, saving someone from falling down the mountain only through quick reflexes and a guide rope. Distant thunder boomed and jagged lances of lightning split the sky as the storm intensified.
              The rain grew fiercer and the lightning more frequent as they neared the peak. Aranthir slipped in the loose ground again, smashing his knee against the ground. He grimaced in pain as he pulled himself to his feet again.
              “Careful, half-elf!” Raenia called over another peal of thunder. “You’re our best hope against the sorcerer up there.”
              Aranthir said nothing, but steadied himself against the rock. Janguld stepped up to his side.
              “Are you alright?” he asked. Aranthir nodded.
              “This damned mountain will be the death of us.”
              “Well, at least we won’t have to live in a world where that sorcerer is a god.” The two of them smiled together and resumed their climb. The mountaintop grew closer and closer in their vision, until at last they pulled themselves over the edge to reach a flat space just below the summit. One last rise of perhaps ten feet separated them from the mountain’s peak. Just audible above the driving rain, Aranthir could hear voices from the summit.
              “They’re here,” he called to his friends. They set their packs down at the base of the rise, and Aranthir checked his weapons. The rain made their bows useless, and their firelocks little better. Instead, they drew swords and daggers in preparation for the battle ahead. 
              Aranthir imbibed a full vial of the precious indigo spice, the familiar jolt setting his head spinning. Sparks danced in his vision as he fought to control the sorcerous energies coursing through him. With practiced focus, he closed his eyes and calmed himself until the energies were under control. He cast across himself and his companions a spell of ironskin, and then a spell of warding. 
              “This should defeat the sorcerer’s spells, but it won’t hold for long. Do this quickly,” he told them. Janguld nodded, and the Sisters’ faces were grim with determination. They had not forgotten their captive companion up there.
              They crawled up the last few yards together until they could peer over the rim of the summit, a nearly flat, bare expanse of the same loose, rocky ground that they had struggled over for many miles to reach this place. Seven men in dark raincloaks stood before an altar, their cloaks pulled tight against the driving rain.
              The altar was a great slab of polished granite under the open sky. It was surrounded by five mighty stone statues of hooded figures. Their outstretched hands linked together to form a ring, and through that ring Aranthir could see in his mind’s eye currents of arcane energy running in a great circuit. Between the statues stood another man in an open cloak, billowing behind him in a mighty wind that whipped across the summit. In one hand he held out a staff of gnarled wood while the other held open a book from which he read aloud. At his feet, chained to the altar by wrists and ankles, lay a naked young woman, her body slick with rainwater.
              “Ramissia!” Raenia hissed. “The bastards are going to sacrifice her for some dark ritual!” she drew her blade and rose from the lip to rush forward.
              “Hold!” Aranthir hissed, grabbing at her shoulder. He pulled her back to the ground where her cuirass ground loudly against the loose rocks, though fortunately the noise was lost amid the roar of the storm. “Move quietly and take them by surprise. There is no need to rush in foolishly.”
              Raenia scowled, but nodded in agreement. Aranthir signaled to Janguld and Selvenna to approach quietly, then the four of them pulled themselves over the lip of the summit and crept forward. Aranthir held a poignard in one hand and his sword in the other. They were right in the sorcerer’s field of vision, but his head was turned skyward, only lowering to read from the book. He called out in a fell voice that echoed about the mountaintop, louder than the wind.
              A bolt of lightning split the sky, striking all five heads of the statues at once. Red arcane energies coursed through the statues, circling faster and fast. Thunder boomed, rattling Aranthir’s teeth with its force, and the sorcerer cried out in triumph. 
              “I’ve done it!” he cried. “The gods answer my call! Now, Lords of the Heavens, take these sacrifices that I offer and open your gates that I might join you!”
              The naked girl wailed, the mercenaries shifted in confusion, and the sorcerer lowered his gaze to look upon his unwitting dupes. His face, first full of gleeful triumph, fell as he spied Aranthir and his companions approaching behind them.
              “Intruders!” he shrieked, pointing with his staff. The mercenaries whirled, and Aranthir sprang at them in return. He plunged his poignard into the throat of one man and tore it back out, sending a spray of blood across his nearby fellows. With a cry as one, they sprang into action. Blades flashed, illuminated by a fresh bolt of lightning, and there was a clash of steel in the rain. Aranthir knocked aside one blow and countered with a would-be killing stroke, only to be defeated by the man’s brigandine. The man staggered back and a companion darted in to take his place. 
They stood six against four, with the element of surprise. Raenia and Selvenna attacked with vengeful fury, their blades ringing against those of their foes again and again. Janguld darted back and forth, lunging forward to exploit a gap in his foes’ posture before nimbly sidestepping their counterstrokes. Aranthir discarded the poignard and closed both his hands about his longsword. 
              He feinted, then struck a heavy, two-handed overhead blow against his foe. The man wore no helmet and the feint had totally flummoxed him, so the blow landed squarely on the crown of his head. The man next to him cried out as Aranthir clove a skull in two. He unleashed a spray of blood and brain along with a roar of triumph. The adjacent man quailed, shrinking a half step back, and Aranthir closed in for the kill. 
              At the edge of his vision, he saw a glowing orb of green fire streaking toward him and threw himself out of the way. The orb turned to follow him, but not fast enough. It cut across his vision, close enough to his face for him to feel the fell heat of the thing, but went streaking off into the darkened sky and dissipated. Aranthir turned to the source of the thing, the sorcerer on his altar.
              “You know not what you have stumbled into, half-blood,” he sneered. “You cannot stop me, but now you will become a dying witness to my apotheosis! Die, puny one!” he thrust his staff at Aranthir and conjured forth another burst of green flame. Fire poured down from the altar, scattering the combatants who battled before it. Aranthir rolled across the rocky ground with the sorcerous fire licking at his heels until at last it went out. He then turned and leapt onto the granite slab of the altar. The sorcerer turned toward him, his face lit by the red glow of the statues above them.
              “Do not interrupt me,” he snarled. He held the book before him and read aloud from it. Words of ancient power reverberated about them, shaking the very mountain beneath his feet. The statues trembled and Aranthir felt the power coursing through them. The sorcerer smiled a cruel smile. “I have the power to unmake you, half-blood. Does that frighten you?”
              Aranthir sprang forward, blade held overhead in both hands, and brought down a mighty stroke on the sorcerer’s head. Runes in the sword’s fuller flashed, and for a moment, the sorcerer’s face fell in fear. But he raised his staff and from it burst a flash of blinding light. Aranthir fell back, shielding his eyes from the light, and when it cleared, the sorcerer had retreated to the far side of the altar.
              “You cannot defeat me!” he cried, and thrust his staff into the air. In answer, a bolt of lightning cut from the heavens, striking the ground at Aranthir’s feet. The ground roared and cracked, hurling Aranthir backwards. His hair danced, his skin crackled, and his sword was torn from his grasp. He landed on his back on the rocky ground below the altar, looking up into the falling rain. 
              He turned dazedly to look at his companions. One man lay dead at Janguld’s feet, another knelt on the ground near Raenia, clutching a bleeding wound in his side. The rest battled on against the three of them, steel ringing against steel as the storm thundered on above. From the altar, Aranthir heard the sorcerer laugh, then cry out to the heavens again.
              “Take my sacrifice! Take all my sacrifices and give me the power I deserve!” Aranthir snatched up his sword and charged back toward the altar. The sorcerer faced him as he mounted the altar, the girl still lying at his feet. He conjured again and a wall of glittering ice erupted from the ground, enclosing himself completely. Aranthir slashed at it, his sword flashed in the light of the storm, but he failed to so much as chip the wall. The sorcerer smiled mockingly at him, his voice strangely filtering through his protective barrier.
              “You cannot harm me in here, half-blood. Stand there and await your doom, for this may take some time.” He began to read from the book again, chanting in a deep voice that set the ice shell shaking.
              Aranthir stood with his blade at the ready. In his mind’s eye he could see the sorcerous energies of the altar flowing into the ice wall, empowering the sorcerer within. Each time the storm thundered, a fresh surge of energy pulsed through the statues. His mind reached back to his instructors the Colleges of Sorcery at Ildranon. The lessons rang clearly in his mind. When confronted with a sorcerer drawing power from a power source, interrupting the connection to the power source is always preferrable to battling against it.
              In his mind’s eye, he shaped a siphon for the energies that flowed from the statues to the sorcerer and planted it between them. Immediately, he felt the energies coursing through his veins. Using them, he enlarged his siphon, stealing not a portion of the altar’s energies, but soon enough the entirety of it.
As the flow of power to him was cut off, the sorcerer stopped his chanting and raised his head from the book. His face fell at the realization, and Aranthir smiled.
              He jolted as the power suddenly surged through him. He was energized with an unearthly vigor and felt his body swell with power so much that he feared he would soon burst. Sparks danced along his arms and down his sword, his heart pounded, his vision sharpened, and he felt fill to burst with raw sorcerous energies. The fury of the storm coursed through him as the sorcerous energies were redirected. Channeling them into his blade, he caused it to burst into white flame. The flames coursed up his sword and he returned his attention to the sorcerer’s icy bastion. Within it, the sorcerer looked on with growing consternation.
              Aranthir smote the wall of ice with a mighty blow and it cracked, a long spiderweb pattern radiating out from where he had struck it. He drew back his sword for another blow. The sorcerer flattened himself against the opposite wall, clutching his book and staff to his chest. Aranthir smashed his sword into the ice again and the spiderweb scurried out across the whole shell. The sorcerer reopened his book and began hurriedly casting a new spell, but Aranthir was faster. 
              His third blow shattered the icy fortress entirely, chunks of it raining down on both of them. One large chunk struck the sorcerer on his head, interrupting his casting. He grabbed at his head, letting his staff fall, and backed away. But Aranthir did not let him leave.
              He closed in, sword flaming white, and slashed again. The sorcerer just barely darted aside, his robes singed by the eldritch flames. He turned tail and ran, the book clutched to his chest, crying out in terror.
              “No! Please! I am to be a god! A god! I’ll give you anything! Just don’t—” 
              He cut off as Aranthir seized him from behind and plunged the flaming blade through his chest. The sorcerer cried out in agony, his robes catching fire as he spasmed his last. Aranthir pulled his head back and looked into his eyes as the light left him. Overhead, thunder pealed one last time and the sorcerer fell dead. The book tumbled from his grasp and flopped open on the wet ground. 
              The arcane energies continued to course through his veins, threatening to overwhelm him, and Aranthir cut off his connection to the altar’s statues. The fire on his sword went out and he felt his unearthly vigor wane.
Triumphant but exhausted, Aranthir turned back to the battle below the altar. There now stood only two, and Janguld quickly slipped beneath one man’s guard and cut his legs out from under him. He fell to the dirt, and Raenia plunged her blade into his exposed neck where it burst out the other side to spark against the rocks.
The last man turned and ran, but quickly slipped on the loose, wet ground and tumbled forward. He skidded through rocks and then off the edge of the mountain, screaming all the way down until his cries were lost in the wind. Aranthir sighed in relief, his swordpoint falling to his feet as he slumped against a towering statue.
              Raenia tore one off one of the dead men’s cloaks and ran to her sister chained to the altar.
              “Ramissia,” she cried, “Are you alright?” the girl looked up to her sister, the tears in her eyes washing away in the rain.
              “I thought I’d never see you again,” she sobbed.
              “I know, and I’m sorry.” Raenia knelt beside her, covering her with one of the dead men’s cloaks. “But you’re safe now.”
              “Gannica?” Ramissia asked, choking on her tears.
              “She’s at a Temple of Askallon. She’s hurt, but getting better. She can’t wait to see you.”
              “They… did things to me,” the younger woman sobbed. Raenia nodded.
              “I know, but they’re gone now. It’s just us, and we’ll get you to the priests. Selvenna, help me with these chains!”
              They wasted little time in prying open the ancient shackles and helped Ramissia to her feet. The statues above dimmed in the rain until the fire in their eyes went out and they stood dormant again. Janguld yanked a pair of boots off a dead man and handed them to Ramissia to spare her bare feet from the jagged rocks.
              The rain slackened, and Aranthir turned to look west. The dark clouds above turned gray not far to the west before at last giving way to blue sky just above the horizon. 
              Janguld turned back to the dead men and his eyes alit on the jeweled sword, which he took for himself. As the White Sisters comforted Ramissia, he and Aranthir picked the corpses clean of anything of value, claiming coins, jewelry, and assorted weapons. Janguld took an onyx signet ring from the sorcerer’s hand, then turned to the ancient tome lying on the altar.
              “What about the book?” Janguld asked. He picked it up from where it lay, its strange pages undamaged by the driving rain.
              “It should be somewhere safe,” Aranthir replied. He extended a hand toward Janguld and his old friend closed the book and passed it to him.
              “Will you take it to Ildranon, then?”
              “Perhaps. It’s a long way.”
              “Aye, but I’ll travel it with you if you’d like. Though it will wear out my boots to be sure. Even just getting down this mountain will be a difficult task.”
              Aranthir smiled and pointed over the edge of the summit. Down below in a rocky bowl were the dead men’s horses, clustered together for warmth and protection from the storm.
              “Well,” Aranthir proclaimed. “At least we won’t have to walk back.”