PRESENTLY…

The Amon’tha was cruel, the castellan had not lied to her about that. A jagged piece of rock that had gone unchecked and unchallenged for eons, the mountain was like some guardian who was determined to bar her path. It had false peaks, places where it flattened out and allowed her to think her climbing was done, that she had reached the summit, but just a short walk through a narrow passage revealed only more wall, more ice, leading forever up, up, up into the sky.

And so, she recommenced her climb.

The Amon’tha towered over the other mountains in this region, a loner with a singular goal, its true peak piercing the clouds. Yet it still wasn’t satisfied. It wanted to ascend.

Like Dorja, she thought.

Bitterly and slowly, doggedly and determined, the mountain ascended. It did not want company in its climb. It wanted to be left alone, it wanted to shake her off. This much was evident when the second avalanche nearly raked her off the wall. And as the ice bounced around her in flowing white cascades, she listened to the dull roar of the mountain, like a long dormant beast finally waking up.

I will keep the child, the mountain said. I will keep the child in my dark caverns, in my secret cold heart. You can turn back now, Dorja, you have done enough. You tried, but none can ascend as I have.

The mountain rumbled again. The ice all around her crackled. The place where her fingers were dug in began to crack and form spider webs. The ice was breaking.

She climbed faster. No time to waste.

Dorja’s hands searched for purchase anywhere she could find. Sometimes it was a jagged handhold that cut her hands, sometimes it was a tiny nook that forced her to squeeze with all her might just to hang on. Her grip was strong—no bladeswoman could be without a good grip—but it took focus to fight back against the stabbing cold and keep climbing. More than once she missed a handhold, slipped, reached out quickly with her weeping hands for another, and twisted loose a fingernail.

Blood ran down her hands and froze in black mirrors.

Two days she had pushed herself. Two days she had tried to negotiate the hateful mountain. Two days she had thrown herself at it, eating when she could, holding her canteen over her firemaker to melt the water. The mountain was her enemy, as was the cold, as was the wind. They seemed to reject her like a Master rejecting his Apprentice. You have not been chosen, the Amon’tha said. You will not save her. The child is mine. You always knew this. She’s mine!

Through gritted teeth, Dorja screamed at the mountain in a blistering of curses, in a tongue few living would understand. “Dorja rejects your judgment! There is a girl up here, and as long as Dorja draws breath, she is coming for her. Hateful Amon’tha! You do not get to keep the girl!”

Her scream echoed.

The mountain rumbled.

Her challenge had been accepted.

* * *

Dorja had been warned about the Amon’tha’s fickle nature. Sometimes its ice was brittle like autumn leaves, and sometimes it was as hard as granite. Sometimes its slopes were not slopes at all, just blunt walls. Sometimes…sometimes you heard things…voices on the wind, cries for help or warnings to turn back. The voices of revenants. Ghosts. Spirits of children that had been snatched up by Vash’tik.

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Dorja heard them. They were on the wind, there and gone, a faint and pitiful fugue, followed by someone else answering…

Dorja ignored these voices. She was nearing the Cave of Whispers. She knew this because the swirling snow and mist had parted for the moment, and the cold winds ceased. There was an ease about the world, a calm in the storm. In that moment, Dorja saw the sharp piece of rock Kirek had mentioned, like a giant’s blade, marking the entrance to the cave. It was not too far above her, maybe another ten-minute climb.

Then, the moment passed, and the skies around the Amon’tha became choked once more by gales of heavy snow. The Amon’tha knew her victory was at hand and meant to stop her at all costs. But Dorja had seen her destination now, she knew where to go.

Hand over hand, foot over foot, she climbed.

At last, Dorja reached over a flat piece of rock, crawled several feet, stood up, and removed her glaive from her back and used it as a walking stick. She gazed into the gaping black maw of the cave entrance and screamed.

“Look here, Amon’tha,” she panted, her words almost lost to the wind. Her breath came out in tufts of white cloud and her arms and legs trembled from overuse. “Look here at Dorja. She has arrived.” She thumped her fist against her chestplaste. “Dorja has beaten you! See here!” She stamped her glaive against the stone floor. “See here!”

For a moment there was nothing but the howling wind and the biting cold. Then, the mountain rumbled beneath her feet, and for a fearful moment she imagined it would come alive, stand like a titan facing off against some ancient god, and swat her off. Her mother had told her of the Stone Gods that lived underneath every planet’s surface, and had warned her not to taunt them. But the Amon’tha remained where it was. It was displeased, but not yet beaten. The child is mine, it seemed to say. But if come you must, she waits for you. Come. Walk my caves of stone and ice. See what I have hidden here. Come.

Dorja rested for a moment, and her body thanked her. She took out a blanket from her gear bag and laid it out and sat down. Hugging herself with all four arms, she inhaled through her nose and exhaled through numb lips. Couldn’t rest for too long, though. If she did, her joints would become rigid. She had to keep moving.

She cast about. There was a footpath ahead of her, it led crookedly into the black maw. The Cave of Whispers.

Dorja had to be cautious here. She could not be too eager to rush inside. It was an enticing idea, rushing inside to be free of the deadly winds, to find the girl Senjelica and liberate her from Vash’tik, but she had to resist the urge. Something was waiting for her inside the cave, she could feel it. As sure as she was looking into it, it was looking back.

“Foolish cave. Dorja is not stupid.”

She had been in this sort of situation before and her Master always warned her about being brave to the point of stupidity. As a student she had always volunteered for the hardest training, whether she was ready for it or not. Her haste to prove herself against others, or to learn some new advanced technique, had translated, in adulthood, into a haste to reach a goal too quickly.

When that happened, Dorja tended to make mistakes.

She wanted nothing more than to rush inside the cave and warm herself, to find and save Senjelica, but discipline—true discipline—is control. And control only comes from denying the self what it wants. Discipline is saying, “Not this,” “Not that,” “Not now,” and “Not ever.” Those were the Master’s words, spoken from across leagues of uncounted years and forgotten star systems.

Dorja placed her reaching hands on her knees and held her weeping hands out to her side. She took in deep, steadying breaths, and let them out slowly. Her concentration was fierce at first, but the ultimate goal was not to concentrate at all. She needed to clear her mind before heading inside the cave. She needed to focus.

After a few moments, Dorja climbed back to her feet, clutching her glaive by its ice-covered haft in her weeping hands. She approached the cave, gazing through its dark aperture. There were long, pointed stalactites that hung like fangs from the ceiling, giving the cave’s mouth the semblance of ravenous jaws. It made her feel as though she were walking into the mouth of some colossal predator. A Stone God?

She shook off the feeling, took one final calming breath, dropped her camping gear at the mouth of the cave, and stepped inside.

image [https://i.imgur.com/f6fHUfp.jpeg]