On the approach to the mountains, Dovik felt himself being subtly pushed towards the center of the new range, the topography of the forest slowly transitioning into a decline that led him that direction. He wondered briefly whether the downhill gradient that led to the road cut into the mountain was natural or a fabrication of the guild to help the competitors not lose their way. In the end, it didn’t matter much. Standing before the huge mountain, its snowy cap straining towards the lazy clouds, he knew that he had arrived.

For the better part of a day he hiked the trail, his boots crunching first through the loose stones of the path and then the deepening snow. Strangers were camped along the path of the road, groups of two or three that sat together by the light and warmth of a campfire. They paid him little mind as he pushed upward along the road, not even sparing covetous glances in his direction or admiring his weapons and fine coat.

The coat itself was a blessing, and as the temperature of the world plummeted and the snow rose around him, he needed to remove his armor to keep it from freezing to his skin. The additional weight, bundled as tightly as he could manage on his back by sturdy string the farm girl had gifted him, was not so much of a burden as the heavy suit would have been for most others. Dovik’s breath began to puff in front of his face by the time that he reached the middle point of the road and took a break to rest and eat. There were more people lining the path then, groups that were still scattered along the path and who kept to themselves. As he ate, finding a boulder to sit on and recover his strength, a group of two men and a woman came marching down the road from ahead, their faces rimed with frost and sourness in their eyes.

Dovik made an attempt to take the news from them, to find out what awaited at the top of the road. A surly man answered him, frustration and contempt in his voice. “It’s useless to go up. Turn back now and save yourself the trouble. There must be some other way around these mountains.”

When Dovik tried to get more information from the man, he merely grunted and continued his trudge down the mountain, the two others in his group keeping their silence. He found it odd and thought for a moment to pursue the man to demand answers from him but decided against it. Keeping his coat pulled tight around him, Dovik continued to the climb towards the peak, fighting the force of the wind and cold.

More and more he spotted people camping off the side of the road, the trickle of competitors building to a mass that camped inside large tents erected on a plateau. The flatland surrounding a bend in the road was an oddity in and of itself. A mass of all kinds of people camped around the road, but standing in the center of the road itself were three men, each wearing furs and equipped with devilishly keen weapons. Dovik spared the impromptu camp a moment of consideration; the temptation to walk to the nearest fire and warm his bones pulled on him powerfully. Instead, he continued up the road, coming to face the three that held the way forward.

The lead man was a human, short and squat, bearing a scraggly orange beard and a spear that was more spearhead than haft. The man’s eyes came alive at Dovik’s approach, his fingers flexing where he held the spear, shaking off the lethargy of the cold.

“Stop,” the man commanded of Dovik.

With the cold pushing aches into his legs, Dovik did as the man ordered, stopping in front of the three guards. “Are you highwaymen?” he asked. “I’ve never met a highwayman.”

“The road is closed,” the man said, his tone serious. “There are already too many at the top. Wait here with the others for the gate to the tower to open, then everyone can move upwards.”

“We wouldn’t want things to become too crowded,” Dovik said, nodding. “Tell me about this tower and gate.”

One of the other guards, either an elf or a svelte looking human, it was difficult to tell through the man’s helmet, licked his lips and spoke up. “There is a tower at the end of the road. It is the second dungeon, but the gates to the tower are locked and closed. There are already plenty of noblemen at the top attempting to sort out this business. It is up to us commoners to wait here and rest ourselves until the solution to the problem at the top is found.”

“You assume that I am not nobility,” Dovik said, feigning offense but finding his joke carried off by the cry of the wind.

“A real nobleman would have balked when he found the road closed,” the first guard chuckled. “Go find a fire to wait near. This matter should be sorted in the next day or two. Best to save your energy until then.”

Dovik looked between the welcoming fires in the camp and the steep climb of the road that led past him. He had to admit, waiting out the rest of the day next to one of the fires and enjoying a cooked meal was awfully tempting.

“I wish that I could, gentlemen. I truly do,” he said. “Unfortunately, I have already allowed myself to fall behind in this competition. It would not do for me to rest easy while the front of the pack continues to forge ahead.”

“We told you,” the bearded guard in the middle of the road said. “The gate is shut at the top of the road. No one is getting ahead of you. We are all stuck here on this mountain, the same as you.”

“If it is all the same to you,” Dovik said. “I would rather see the matter for myself. Not that I don’t trust you, but…well, I don’t particularly trust you.”

The center guard hefted his spear, leaning it forward just slightly. “We were asked not to allow anyone else. I suggest you turn back now, unless you believe that you can overman the three of us.”

Dovik considered the three guards for a long moment. They reminded him of the house retainers that he had seen often back in Grim, the sons and daughters of well-placed folk of common stock that clung to the nobility for stability and fortune. He did not think poorly of these people. Like everyone else, they were doing their best to survive the harshness of the world and better their position. Still, he never credited house retainers with all that much martial prowess. Their strength came from their numbers and their discipline. Looking over these three, he had no doubt that they could be quite dangerous in their way, but standing stiff in the cold blowing wind had stiffened their muscles and eaten away at their stamina.

Striding ahead, Dovik produced a wooden gourd from his belt, something that he had found in a chest hidden in the forest. He unstopped the gourd and took a swig of the fire inside, sighing before offering it to the middle guard. “As way of apology,” he said.

The middle guard considered the gourd, clearly wary. “What is it?”

“Whisky, I think. It might be a kind of brandy, but I have never been adept at differentiating spirits.”

“Who could confuse brandy and whisky,” the lanky guard asked, taking the offered gourd and drinking from it. By the time the man could sigh at the splash of sweet liquor on his tongue, Dovik had already vanished.

He appeared fifty feet up the road, slowly continuing his trek up towards the top. He heard shouts from the three guards a moment later, demanding that he turn back. Dovik waved to them over his shoulder as he continued his climb, letting the shouts fade into the wind. Less than a minute later, the three were out of sight as he rounded a bend in the road. They never bothered to pursue him.

The gradient of the road only became steeper as he continued on. A mist formed around Dovik, a cold wall of vapor that burned with the color of the sun and that tried to steal the warmth from his body. By the time he reached the top of the road and it began to level once more, he was left panting for breath and shivering, stuttering puffs of cloud coming from his mouth as he worked to control his racing heart.

A certain amount of shame rose in Dovik’s chest, though that could have just been the pounding of his heart against its bony cage. He had lived all his life in Grim, a city built into a wall, where the slopes of the inclines from building to building were legendary for driving away the tourists. Most never even saw the upper reaches of the city. Perhaps, he had been relying on the elevator system for far too long. It was a luxury that he could afford, but just then he was thinking that it might cost him more than the silver penny he paid the operator every day.

The fog persisted as the ground became level once more, and as Dovik stalked the road a figure appeared out of the fog. The shadow in the glowing vapor condensed into the form of an elven man wearing armor heavy enough to put his own to shame, standing in the shin-high snow as if he was incapable of feeling the chill.

“Who are you?” the man asked, the stern features of his face twitchy.

“My name is Dovik, I heard that there is an issue happening at the top of this mountain that bars us from entering some kind of tower. I am here to investigate the issue.”

The elven man showed no emotion on his face, asking, “Did the guards down the road send you on to us?”

“If they hadn’t, how else might I have gotten here?” Dovik said.

Rather than putting the man at ease, the stranger reached for the grip of a great war hammer sticking up out of the snow at his feet, pulling the vicious head of the weapon free. “You answered my question with a question,” the stranger said.

Dovik tried to smile to this stranger in as disarming a way as he could, but the chill was digging into him. He believed he might have come off more cocky than friendly judging by the stranger’s reaction of taking a threatening step forward. “Hold, my good man.” Dovik put his hands up. He tried to look past the man, to find a good place to jump to if this situation turned more dangerous, but the fog was keeping him from seeing any point to land, a weakness of his ability. “There is no need to resort to violence.”

“Then, turn and be on your way. We have enough people up here as it is.” The stranger pointed the head of his hammer straight toward Dovik.

The agitation at the weather and his general discomfort was nagging Dovik to the point he could feel himself pushed towards that destructive and non-productive path. “And if I do not?”

“Then, I will hit you in the head and hurl you over the side. You look sturdy enough, you should survive.”

Dovik’s fingers twitched toward his own weapon tucked in the loop of his belt. His movement nearly provoked the stranger. Both men stood just a few feet from each other, the threat of violence building in the air. Just then, a third man burst into the scene, putting himself between the two.

“Kendon, wait!” Macille said, grabbing his brother’s arm.

In but a moment the tension in the air eased. Dovik stood straighter, seeing Macille there, putting himself between the stranger and him. “Macille,” Dovik said, “I should have known that you would have made it here already.”

“You know this man?” Kendon asked, gesturing toward Dovik.

“He is a friend,” Macille said. Kendon looked between his brother and the odd man in the coat before stepping back and letting his weapon fall to the snow once more. “Brother, this is Dovik Willian. I mentioned him before.”

Kendon snorted, looking over the man. “You would have let me knock you down rather than giving me your family’s name? Small wonder, many aren’t happy with your family just now.”

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

“You make the mistake of thinking that you can best me, sir,” Dovik said. A wave of magical force washed over Dovik, stinging his skin like a bath of burning oil. Dovik did his best not to react to the show of force, the numbness of his skin helping. He noted that this man before him must be of the second rank, perhaps all of his bluster did not come from imagined power. The sting of the man’s soul presence retreated nearly as fast as it was noticed.

“We have a larger tent up the road,” Macille said, gesturing back into the fog.

“Will I be allowed through now?” Dovik asked, looking at the armored man still standing in the middle of the road.

Kendon shrugged, looking over his brother. “If you are a friend of Macille then I will not stop you. There is not much use for being up at the top here, you will be waiting, the same as if you stayed down below.”

Dovik merely nodded to the man, allowing him to have the last word as he walked past further up the road and into the fog. A hurried crunch of boots in the snow let him know that Macille followed close on his heels. The two men walked abreast for a while, the fog thinning around them as they came upon an encampment situated around a wall of stone and two huge doors.

“This is where–”

“Your brother certainly thinks highly of himself,” Dovik said, looking around the camp. Many lazed about, not so different from the other encampment further down the road; except the nice armor and the shine of the odd expensive weapon gave away the affluence of these people. Certainly, some of the gem-encrusted swords and staves he noticed must have been artifacts or heirloom weapons given to these wealthy scions. His own weapon, given to him due only to his parentage and station, dangled on his hip, but Dovik took pride in its understated appearance.

“He is…confident,” Macille replied, scratching the back of his head.

“Earned confidence I hope.”

“As he would say it, there is no situation where a lack of confidence is superior to possessing an abundance of it.”

Dovik quirked an eyebrow at the man. “That is just plainly untrue.”

Macille snickered and looked back with a helpless expression. “Maybe you will be able to teach him that. I certainly have failed to do so.”

“Let us hope not,” Dovik said, laying a hand on Macille’s shoulder. “It is good to see that you have made it this far, and that you have found your brother. I know that was a terrible worry for you.”

“Thank you.” Macille tried to smile, but Dovik noticed a sadness in the man’s eyes.

“What is the matter?”

“I will tell you in a moment,” Macille said. “When we are out of this fog and wind.” He pointed to a large tent formed from dried animal skins. A long tail of smoke snaked out of a hole in the top of the tent, disappearing into the fog that clouded out the sky overhead. “How would you like a meal that has been cooked over a fire and seasoned by someone that knows what they are doing?”

“That sounds far better than what I have been eating lately,” Dovik admitted. “First though, I would like to inspect this gate.” Dovik began to march toward the gate, ignoring Macille’s immediate complaint. Six figures turned in his direction as he made it to the door, and Dovik could tell their good grooming by their bearing and the look of condescension in their eyes.

Five elves and a woman Dovik thought might have been a kressin–a species of aquatic humanoids from the Vivantee empire that looked to have more in common with fish than the dragons they professed their race descended from. She would have been the first kressin Dovik had ever met, and he noted the pale blue of her skin and the bright purple of her lips that hid a dangerous set of teeth, her eyes deep orbs of a golden-yellow shot through with violent pulsing veins. To look at one, the tallest of which only reached five and a half feet in height, you would never imagine the sheer power the Vivantee empire wielded. Among all the major powers in the world, there was no contention that the Vivantee claimed the highest position in both material resource and sheer martial power.

The woman, only coming up to the middle of his chest, made an off-handed comment about a human approaching a meeting of his betters in the sing-song Vivantee language. Dovik was a beat too slow in answering, his attention captured by an onyx haired true-blood elf woman standing near the back of the group, or rather, the staff the woman held casually as it leaned against her seat made from piled rocks. A dark premonition came over Dovik seeing that weapon, a weapon he had last seen in the hands of a certain naive and intriguing farm girl. He pushed aside his melancholic thoughts, turning his attention to the kressin woman in front of him.

“Have you already established a ranking of superiority?” Dovik answered the woman in unaccented Vivantee. The woman showed no surprise at his knowledge of her tongue, but two of the men standing behind her could not cover their shock before he noticed.

“So, it can speak,” the kressin woman said. It was obvious that this one was the leader of this small band of someday lords and ladies.

“Dovik Willian, at your service,” he said, offering a bow. “May the winds not reach to your depths.”

“May your waters stay clear,” the woman said, offering him a small smile. “I am Lady Kit Auger Forendous, Faux-Baroness of the Amber Shores. By your name, I would know you as belonging to the clan that sponsors this little hunt of ours, yes?”

“You would be correct, milady.” Dovik looked between the group, noting that the elves in the mix did not seem inclined to introduce themselves, or maybe they did not have a proper grasp on Vivantee. “I have only just arrived, finding everyone sitting around and not progressing. If I would be so bold to ask, what prevents us from moving ahead?”

“Malingerers on the other side of the gate,” an elven man with crystalline blue hair said, the sheen complimented by the moisture clinging to it. He gestured to the strong doors built into the stone wall. Now that he was nearer, Dovik could see the vague shape of a tall tower looming out of the fog. “You may call me, Graessa Mor, my lord,” the elven man said, with a slight bow.

“I am not of the peerage, Lord Mor,” Dovik demurred.

The elven man offered a winning smile and continued to speak in Vivantee for the benefit of the woman standing in front of him. It was becoming obvious to Dovik that at least two of the elves did not understand a lick of the language. “When we arrived, we found the gate sealed against our entry. There are others inside, but they have refused to treat with us as of yet. As such, there is not much that we can do other than wait here and amass more people before we make an attempt on the gate. We are hoping to find someone capable of manipulating the stone of the wall and offering us a way through.”

“Have you not tried tearing down the gate?” Dovik asked.

“We have made several attempts to do so,” Graessa answered. “Unfortunately, the enchantments on the door have repelled all of our attempts.”

“I see.” Dovik tapped his chin, studying the gate. “Might I inspect the gate? Like you, I do not wish to linger here. We are all on the same timetable.”

“You think that you might succeed at forcing an opening where we could not?” Lady Forendous asked, not even trying to mask the skepticism in her voice. “You must think yourself powerful. Especially so for one that has not descended into the second depth.”

Before Dovik could get his mind around the strange term for the second rank, he felt an immense force descend upon him. It felt as if the air itself had become as hard as stone, and in its heaviness, it squeezed in on him from all sides, trying to crush him with unfathomable pressure. The onset of the woman’s soul presence was a deadly thing, something that would have immediately squashed an ordinary man into paste.

Dovik flexed his hand into a fist, calling upon his immortal conflux to push back the pressure of the invisible soul presence. For his entire life, people had wielded their presences upon him, pushing him around and shoving him down into the place they thought proper for him. That was how the world worked, those with real power forced others into submission, able to crush others without even lifting a finger. Dozens, no, more than a hundred times he had found himself bent before those that thought themselves better than him. The sting of those humiliations burned in his belly, ate him up inside whenever he laid eyes on this particular breed of nobility, and had led him to choose the essentia that would give him the conflux famous for confounding such people.

The Immortal Conflux had its uses, narrow uses, and certainly the soul of its users lent the powers it bestowed some air of personality and uniqueness. There was one thing it was famous for producing, however, an incredible resilience against magic. Dovik smiled at the woman in front of him as the pressure pushing in on his body became nothing more than a minor annoyance, stepping in close enough that he could reach out and touch her if he so desired.

“There may be things that even a lowly vulture like me might be able to accomplish, where a well-bred and refined lady like yourself would falter. My kind has a good nose for finding the soon to be departed, there is a ripeness we find attractive. Certainly, you might credit me with being able to pick meat off the bones of the dead with a superior alacrity.”

The woman smiled up at him, her razor-like teeth catching the light. “I would not be so sure of that Master Willian.” The pressure pushing in on him released suddenly, and Lady Forendous offered him a path toward the gate. “Examine it at your leisure. If you have a device or plan to overcome this obstacle, we would be inclined to listen.”

Dovik bowed to the group before taking his leave and approaching the gates. Macille joined him, standing silently to the side as Dovik looked over the strong and intricate iron running over the oak. There was evidence of attacks against the gate before, minor cuts in the doors and scorch mark, but nothing that seemed to truly effect the barrier.

“That woman,” Dovik said as he pressed a hand to a solid block of iron that ran lengthwise through the door, “she has Charlene’s staff.”

Macille was quiet a while, watching on as Dovik continued to inspect the gate. “We can speak about that in private,” the man said in a small voice.

Trying to conceal the stab of pain that ran through him at his friend’s words, Dovik nodded and stood away from his inspection. Macille led him to the tent he had shown before, where the two ate in silence for a while.

Once they had the strong fire of an especially awful whisky in their bellies, Macille began his story. He spoke of coming out of the dungeon and being set upon by an unknown group, of staying behind to fight while Charlene got away, of falling at the hands of his enemies. Macille spoke about waking up days later, surrounded by his brother and a group of strangers he didn’t know. It was they who told him about how Charlene had found them and brought them back to save Macille, about how she had died in the attempt to rescue him from the group. By the time that he had awoken, he had already been carried far away from the place where they had buried the girl in an unmarked grave in the forest.

“You protected each other,” Dovik said, patting his friend’s arm, trying to offer what comfort he could. He wiped a tear away from his face, blaming the terrible alcohol.

“No, I failed to protect her,” he said. “She was the one who saved me.”

“What will you do now?” Dovik asked, filling the crude tin cup in front of Macille.

“What do you mean? I have found my brother, and I intend to stay with him.”

“This group seems content to linger here,” Dovik said, looking down at his own drink.

“They haven’t managed to get through the gate,” Macille said.

“With how many people that are here, a magical gate should be no real impediment. It might be strong, but the concentrated efforts of this many magicians should be plenty to bring it down.”

“If that is the case, then why haven’t they?” Macille asked.

Dovik shook his head. “I don’t know. Perhaps they are afraid of the people on the other side. Maybe they are just lazy. Or, maybe, they are feeling the same thing that I have begun to feel, that there is something amiss with this contest.”

Macille quirked an eyebrow at that. “Don’t you belong to the guild that is running this contest?”

“Not technically,” Dovik admitted. “I might be the son of the guild, but I am not a member myself, and I will not be allowed to be until I have reached the second rank and achieved something profound enough to gain me entrance.”

“And what is this thing that is amiss?”

“I have felt it since the slope. Perhaps I have been able to tell due to my sensitivity to such things, but something has been trying to influence me; its subtlety is profound. I don’t know how to put into words this magical influence. I have only noticed since I am adept at repelling such things, but it feels as if it is trying to push me towards base violence, to make me see that path as the proper way forward.” Dovik neglected to mention the warning his aunt had delivered to him. It would do no one any good to know that he had been given outside information, even if it was just a hint toward something greater.

“I haven’t noticed anything like that,” Macille said. “Though, I have found some rather quick to turn toward violence. I had thought that might simply be how some of these people were. There are so many cultures mixing in this contest that I don’t have a proper ground on which to judge these kinds of things.”

“It may be that you are right,” Dovik admitted. “As I mentioned, this influence seems to be awfully slight and subtle. In either case, I would ask you to abandon this group and come with me into the tower. My plan is to sprint ahead of the pack and scoop up all the truly delicious things this contest has to offer well ahead of everyone else. I would have you join me on that adventure. You are a stout man and a good one too.”

“I have felt my feet dragging here,” Macille said. “But I have just found my brother again after having lost him. There is no way that I will abandon him here.”

“You should convince him to come along as well,” Dovik said. “He is a bit cocky, but he seems the sort that might be able to back up such an attitude. A group like this is not a place that either of you should stay. I can assure you that in a gathering with people like those six aristocrats in charge will not offer you any treasure or adventure worth your time.”

“I won’t turn you down,” Macille said. “If I am being honest, my brother is the only thing keeping me with this group. I do not enjoy the general pretention myself. Do you plan to leave back down the road, try your hand at finding a new way through the mountains?”

“No, my friend. I will be going the way of the tower.”

“How do you plan on doing that?”

Past Macille’s shoulder, Dovik noticed the onyx-haired elf woman duck into the large tent. She offered him a smile, a rather beautiful one if he was being honest, but his eyes only saw the staff strapped to her back. He suppressed the heat that threatened to boil his blood, taking a long sip of his liquor before turning back to his friend.

“That is rather simple,” Dovik said. “I will create a proper path forward with a hefty application of base violence.”