A rolling fog lay so thick upon the ocean that Konrad felt he could scoop up a handful of it. The mist obscured all but the tip of the Coldest Mountain and forced the floating island of Mir to rest on the edge of the swirling haze.

“It’s a magical mist, Odred and the others tried to dispel it, but it’s quite strong. We can’t get any closer to the mountain without risking crashing into it,” Malan explained.

“Can you see anything?” Konrad called out for what had to be the thousandth time that day.

“Yes, I saw something important and didn’t tell you,” Harper called down from high above them.

“Sorry about him, he’s been under a lot of stress,” Malan added in a whisper.

Odred, the leader of the elven arcanists, approached, waving off a group of his colleagues who were chittering and arguing behind him. “The map says that Volos is out there somewhere.”

Malan had seen in a flicker in the fates that the arcanists would challenge their presence in the north, but Konrad was surprised that only one flying citadel had answered the call of the Fist of the Father. The small eye of the elven boy wasn’t exactly an accurate guide to the future. The way he explained it, it was more like peering at the sun through the eye of a needle.

“What about Siantir?” Konrad asked.

“No sign of them," Odred replied.

“Yet,” Malan added, tapping his small eye.

A horn blared as a red glow appeared from deep in the blanket of fog.

“Shield!” Orded cried as a fireball the size of a horse arced gracefully out of the mist and descended on them.

The staffs of the elven arcanists flared into life, and a magical shield crafted of glowing runes appeared above their heads. The fireball hit the shield, and it rang like a giant bell had been struck.

“Hold onto it!” a voice cried.

Seven witches hurried out of the gloom. Each of them grasped the shoulder of the witch in front, and a magical shockwave passed through them, getting stronger each time until the witch in front was bathed in a magical glow and lifted slightly off of the ground. She clapped her hands in front of her, and the fireball shot off of the magical shield as if it had been hit with a battering ram, wheeling back into the mists, where it exploded in a dull red glow.

“Direct hit!” Harper called down.

The horn blared once more, and as if summoned, the flying citadel of Volos emerged from the billowing mist. Seven tall towers crowned its summit, one for each master of the archanists conservatory. The buildings were made of glass and white stone that appeared a languid gray under the dull sky. Underneath the citadel was a craggy wasteland of granite, which sparked with the magical energy that moved the impossible weight through the sky.

“Dome!” Orded shrieked, sending up a green flare from the tip of his staff.

The island shuddered, and a thin yellow spear of light shot into the air and exploded into a complex web of light that covered the whole island. Bove them, Volos came to a halt and answered with its own defensive sphere that encircled the entire floating citadel.

“Let’s show them what we’ve got,” Odred shouted, to the rallying cries of the arcanists.

Under Odred’s direction, windows opened in their dome and allowed titanic works of magic to be flung out. Missiles of white and blue twisted like dragons and battered the dome of Volos high above them.

In response, a shockwave emanated from Volos like a giant hand pressing down on them. The pressure forced the defenders to the floor and was so strong that it pushed the island of Mir down into the ocean, and a wave of icy water breached the walls, surging towards them. Konrad hurriedly summoned the Cold Bite and froze the tide into a wall of ice before it swept them into the ocean.

“Ready yourselves, sisters,” called one of the witches.

“Let the strongest test themselves on the mortal plane!” Intoned another.

The seven witches gathered together, and a circular void appeared at their feet. Clawed hands pulled at the edges, and Konrad heard shrieks that sounded like fighting in the darkness before a nightmarish creature pulled its way out. The head was vaguely bat-like, as were the long wings, but the body was like that of a bear, and the creature wielded a flail that was crusted with blood and hair.

It opened its crusted maw and spoke in an abyssal hiss. “Who pays?”

The lead witch, Casandra, stepped up to the void, her head held high and her face a chiseled mask of determination. “The debt is mine alone,” she said, and she stepped into the darkness.

With a shriek, the demon soared into the air and alighted on the dome above Volos, striking it repeatedly with its flail.

Konrad himself had been busy while his allies created works of wonder and terror around him. The air vibrated with power, and it was time for him to add his own.

When Volo’s first appeared, Konrad sent the twin powers of the Lyran tree and the Cold Bite into the deepest part of the ocean, and now they called to him as they emerged in the form of a colossal sea serpent. It’s body was formed of ice and layered with a thick armor of twisted green weed that also formed the long wings it unfolded.

The creature soared gracefully through the air and landed alongside the demon on the dome of Volos, battering at the magical barrier with its tail and screeching with each strike.

With a sound like shattering glass, the sphere around Volos failed, and the demon and the serpent charged into the citadel, leveling buildings as the archaists fled to their towers. The flying citadel itself shuddered and climbed high into the air, fleeing south and taking the magical fog with it.

The cheers of the defenders rang out on Mir as the magical fog thinned to reveal the snow-capped Coldest Mountain, but the sounds of triumph died in their throats as a shape emerged from behind the mountain. Siantir, the largest and most powerful of the flying cities of the archanists, descended rapidly, coming so close that Konrad could see the water dripping off of the craggy bedrock that supported the citadel.

On a granite plateau, a bald-headed figure in a blood-red robe raised his staff and sent out a blinding pulse of red light that burned away the edges of their defensive dome.

The Fist of the Father had arrived.

“Konrad, you have to go, hurry,” Malan shouted.

A second eruption of light from the staff sent a red beam of light towards the domed conservatory, and it exploded, sending molten marble chunks high into the air to rain down on them.

“Go, or we’re all dead!” Harper snapped, swooping down on Konrad and forcing him to stumble away.

This was the part of the plan that he had agonized over. The defenders were putting their lives on the line, and he was leaving them, knowing that if he failed, the island of Mir would most likely be sunk to the bottom of the ocean.

“Thank you.” Was all he managed to say.

“See you on the other side,” Malan replied.

Konrad and Spirit made their way down to the stone quayside alone. The steps were green and slimy, and he created a walkway of ice that extended out into the ocean.

"Whatever happens now, Spirit, there’s no going back. Perhaps you should stay here.”

To Konrad's delight, Spirit snorted and leapt onto the icy platform. Konrad ran after her, willing the ocean to freeze in his path as he pounded towards the coldest mountain.

The beach was empty, and the silence of a grave emanated from the gateway that led into the mountain. Just inside the cave, Konrad saw the cold remains of blackened rocks that had been his campfire. This is where he and Serena had sat, cold and weak, thinking that his companions had been lost in the shipwreck of Renau’s ship, The Blue-Faced Booby. At that time, the waif had saved him from starvation and death, but he had long ago given up any hope that the strange creature or any of the small gods really cared about anything.

“Konrad. You are hereby tried with treason against the church of the Father, and consorting with Faelen demons. You do not have to plead, I find you guilty.”

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

The Fist of the Father stood on the beach, a skeletal figure in the cold morning. Behind him were three hooded arcanists in their gray robes. Two of them held a long chain and a set of manacles.

Spirit was nowhere to be seen, and Konrad felt at least a little comfort in that. She had a job to do, just like everyone else.

“I want to give you the option to give up now, I can find a way for you to be free of the Father, if you work with us,” Konrad said.

The Fist of the Father gave a high pitched cackle of laughter. “Such naivety. This world is a hard and dark place, how you are even still alive is a mystery to me.”

“You’re not the only one,” Konrad muttered, thinking briefly of Athir and how her last words to him had been very similar.

Many had said that he was too nice, too generous, or too forgiving, but those very same people were all too often lacking in the very qualities they used to criticize him.

“There is no escape, no place where I will not find you. I am everywhere.”

The Fist’s voice now came from inside the mountain, and Konrad whipped around and backed out onto the beach as the thin man emerged from the dim light of the cave.

“You fight for nothing, your patrons have already betrayed you. Join us in service to the Father, and I promise you will enjoy the power as much as your brother did.”

Konrad heard the slightest movement of grinding stone and held his breath.

“You never really knew me at all, did you, High Priest.” Otto strode out onto the beach, drawing his black sword. The transformation was incredible. He no longer wore the face of the Father, but the strength had returned to his features. He looked stronger and more determined than ever, giving off a feeling that he had somehow veiled a great power.

“You should be dead, but that is easily rectifiable. You three, take the boy,” the Fist snapped at arcanists.

The Fist conjoured a red arrow that crackled with magical energy and it twisted gently into the air before shooting towards Otto, hitting him squarely in the chest and causing him to stagger backward several steps.

The elation on the Fists face faded as Otto gave a slow smile and a rude gesture before disappearing into a hidden door in the rock face as a rumbling sound shook the mountain. The arcanists, who were approaching Konrad, began to shout as an avalanche of snow pounded down onto the beach, and Konrad sprinted as fast as he could, gaining the safety of the cavern just as everything went dark.

Konrad ran forward, winding his way through the cavern until he reached the room with three archways. The left one would take him into the mines, the right would lead to the harbor, and straight ahead into the depths of the coldest mountain itself.

Konrad waited by the middle archway and tensed when he heard a scratching coming from the mines. A figure appeared and leaned on the stone, breathing heavily.

“What did you think?” Renau asked.

“Your greatest performance to date. Rolo’s ready?” Konrad replied.

“He is deeply unhappy about this, but as ready as he can be, see you soon,” Reanu replied, handing Konrad Otto's sword and darting up the stairs just as a huge booming sound reverberated through the cavern.

Konrad waited until he could see the bald head of the Fist of the Father, and then he made a spear of ice and sent it thundering towards him. The old man crossed his arms and formed a magical shield, and Konrad fled.

The level above was filled with pools of still water. It was here that Serena and Konrad discovered the bodies of her friends, Jena and Hesp, frozen in time. At that time, the mountain had been under the control of a poor fisherman named Lot, but now the mountain belonged to Konrad. He approached the central pool and touched the water, and the tendrils of ice rose up like a dog greeting its master.

“Enough of your tricks, stand and face me, boy,” the Fist shouted.

The air in the chamber seemed to fold in on itself as a wall of fire erupted in the doorway. It spread from one side of the chamber to the other, forty feet high and the Fist stepped through it. The wall followed in his wake, scorching the rock as it advanced.

Konrad willed tentacles of water to rise from each of the pools. They lashed against the wall of flame, each strike releasing billowing clouds of steam that choked the air. The Fist struck the flagstones with his staff, and the wall of fire became a three-headed hydra made of flame, its jaws snapping at the ice tentacles.

Konrad pulled the shadows towards him, creating the thickest suit of armor he had ever worn and drawing Otto’s black sword.

“Leave now, or this mountain will be your tomb,” Konrad called, knowing that somewhere Renau was rolling his eyes and calling Konrad overly dramatic.

Konrad let the shadows fall so that the Fist could see him for a moment, and the sight caused a vein in the old archanists temple to throb. An explosion of heat exploded from his staff and all of the water in the chamber was evaporated in a great cloud of steam.

This much magial use must be weakening the old arcanist, and Konrad just hoped it would be enough. He fled higher, taking the stairs two at a time until he reached the heavy doors on the mountaintop.

The last time he had been here, the mountaintop had been open to the elements. The wind had howled freely around the flattened summit, and the headless statue of Casovan had sat on a giant carved throne. In the time that they had been here, the northmen had been busy. They had raised a great chamber of stone around the mountaintop, and the wind battered against it.

Konrad hurried to the middle of the chamber and turned to face his enemy; there would be no running from here. Pulling the last of the shadows towards him, Konrad willed a black helmet onto his head.

The Fist of the Father entered the chamber like a vengeful spirit, snarling in his hatred and anger. He threw out his gnarled hands, and a force smashed against Konrad’s armor, ripping tendrils of shadow from it. The shockwave ripped a hole in the back wall of the dome, and Konrad was forced to dive to the side and roll as huge blocks of stone collapsed onto the floor around him. Snow and howling wind entered through the hole in the rock, billowing around them.

Konrad sent the cold bite into the mountaintop, and a moment later, a fifteen-foot-tall snow creature lumbered into the chamber, each step cracking the flagstones beneath as it lumbered towards the Fist of the Father. The old arcanist defended with crackling balls of blue fire, but each time it was struck, the monster seemed to reform, pulling in the swirling snow around it. The Fist yelled in rage and struck his staff to the floor, causing the monster to stagger and implode and a trickle of blood ran from the old arcanists nose.

“Fist, help me,” called a voice from the direction of the doorway.

There was a sound like someone punching a side of beef, and a figure flew through the open doorway and slid to a stop, unconscious on the floor. The man wore the face of the father, and his arm had been replaced by a black metal hook. A shadow fell over him as Rolo strode through the door, his axe held in his fist and a dark look on his brow.

The Fist threw up a magical shield to block Konrad with one hand, and with the other, he threw a small cube at the dome above Rolo, which exploded, covering the northman in falling stones.

Konrad flailed against the magical barrier with Otto’s sword, but it didn’t even seem to damage it, so instead he summoned the half-blade that remained of his shadow sword and continued hacking anew, forced to watch hopelessly as the Fist plucked Rolo from the wreckage and ripped the chainmail vest from his friend's body.

The magical barrier shattered under Konrad’s assault as the Fist battered Rolo in the face, screaming hatred with each blow. Then he hauled the limp northman in front of him and held a slim dagger to his neck.

“Yield, or he dies,” the Fist cried.

Rivulets of blood ran from the old arcanist’s eyes now as the strain of the magic he had used took it’s toll on his body.

“Do it,” Rolo mumbled thickly through his broken lips.

The Fist gave a maddened smile. “You see? The Northman understands. You will yield, too weak to do what must be done.”

Konrad stepped forward, the hand that held his broken shadow sword falling limply to his side and his shadow armor dissipating. His mouth was dry, and his nerves were frayed to breaking point. Rolo had been with him almost from the very beginning, a friend, confident and ally. Even now the northman’s eyes resonated with trust and a calm faith.

“Now Spirit,” Konrad whispered, and the Shade fell.

The Shade was Avram's final gift to Spirit. Darkness is only the absence of light and still holds it’s memory, but the Shade feeds on light, leaving an umbra that is absolute.

In this unlit world, Konrad stepped forward and stabbed Rolo, the broken blade passing through the Northman and into the abdomen of the Fist of the Father who stood behind him.

The Shade retreated, and light crept back into the chamber as Konrad pulled out the two feet of broken sword blade. The Fist of the Father slumped down to the floor, leaving Rolo looking down in amazement at where a hole should be.

“You told me you were sure that would work, but I swear for a moment you hesitated,” Rolo said.

Rolo was right to be concerned. Konrad had only seen this ability of his sword once in combat, when he had been fighting his brother in the warehouse in Portia. He had swung the sword behind him and should have taken the head off of the baker, but somehow the sword knew his intention and turned to shadow to avoid hurting the man.

Konrad pushed past his friend and rushed to the side of the Fist of the Father. Blood was pooling from the wound in his stomach, and Konrad reached for it, pouring healing power and feeling the heat build under his palm.

“Why heal me?” The Fist croaked.

“Join me, we can win, together,” Konrad replied.

“You really are weak.”

Konrad had really thought that when the Fist of the Father was close to death, he would desert the Father. Instead, the Fist clutched Konrad’s arm, and a red light pulsed through the veins of the old man and flooded out of his skin. The light enveloped Konrad and began to eviscerate him.

The pain was indescribable, every inch of his soul was exposed to a gnawing, hungry power that was devouring him. His first instinct was to heal himself, and as he did so, he directed that same power into the Fist of the Father, desperately trying to stop the old man from exploding and wiping out the whole mountain.

Rolo was a distant blurred shape, shouting to Konrad but unable to approach the burning pyre that the two champions had become. His friends couldn’t help him now. Konrad and the Fist were locked in a death spiral, as fast as Konrad healed them both, the Fist of the Father tried to scorch them from the mortal world.

“Konrad, you’re going to lose. You have to let me help you.” Lyran’s voice was soft in his mind.

Lyran wanted to inhabit him and control his body, but his mind rebelled at the idea.

“I can win,” Konrad hissed, even as he felt the destructive light eating away at his body.

He fought on, and as his healing power dried up, he delved into his own life force to keep them both alive. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. If the Fist died here and now, it would all have been for nothing. He had to keep him alive.

“Let me in,” Lyran pleaded.

Konrad saw the skin on his hand begin to flake off and be carried away on the wind, the face of the Fist of the Father had been stripped on one side, a hole in his cheek showing his yellowing teeth.

And Konrad let Lyran in.

The ancient power of Lyran shook his spirit, and he watched from behind his own eyes as his body and the body of the Fist were made whole again. Konrad felt healed, but the power of Lyran’s healing did not relent, continuing to pour into the body of the old arcanist. The lines on his face began to deepen, and the skin was sagging and yellowing.

“Lyran stop,” Konrad yelled, his voice echoing inside his head.

But the flood of power continued, and Konrad felt it tremble, watching helplessly as Lyran flooded all of her power in to smother the power of the Fist.

“This is for the best, Konrad,” Lyran replied, her voice a faint whisper.