As they neared the foot of the mountain, the mercenary group began to hum. It was an old song. A slave song. First sung in the deepest depths of the Jintan mines, where countless toiled in the oppressive dark of twisting tunnels that burrowed deep, deep beneath the ground.

The sorrowful tune echoed from the past - from a time long before the dragons' departure and into now - where Guarda was laid to waste. Some of the mercenaries had grown up in those mines, hauling stone and metal until their bodies were forged into nigh unbreakable tools that didn't even break a sweat beneath the blaring sun.

They had brought that song with them along the trip, often humming its morose tune as the endless expanse of salt whisked by below them. And now, as they swapped salt for golden sand, they hummed again.

Even Garot knew the tune, although he was lucky enough to have avoided experiencing the hell in which it began. Still, he hummed along.

It helped pass the time, if nothing else.

Not that there was much time left.

He walked somewhere towards the back of the procession, his services no longer required since the skiff had been abandoned many miles back. One of its runners had sagged like rotten wood, tilting the craft and throwing it sideways. The great ship had bucked like an angry bull, throwing its riders off and capsizing on dry land.

At the front of the group were men who towered over the others. Their strides were twice his, and he had to jog to keep up with the pace set by the leaders.

"Damn second tiers," he grumbled.

"I hear you," said an older man to his right. He had wispy grey hair that waved in the wind and a lurching, stooped step that was more shuffle than walk. "It's not fair that those lot got Oasis, and I was stuck with Hester."

Garot snorted. "Hester's not half bad, old man. At least he helps with smithing and whatnot."

"Not much use to me right now, is it?" the old man spat. "Don't see how holding a hammer helps me walk for days on end. If anything, it makes it more difficult - seeing as I've to carry the damn thing."

All Garot could offer in reply was a shake of his head. He knew the pain of being stuck with a less-than-useful god. In fact, his had often gotten him into more trouble than he could talk his way out of.

His hand throbbed again at the thought of his god. The blasted thing was burning like there fire ants crawling all over it, gnawing on his bones and skin in their thousands. It had only been getting worse since they neared the mountain, and with the massive slab of rock cantered before them, he was beginning to feel more and more certain that something bad was going to happen.

"Any idea how long we've got?" he asked.

The old man shrugged. "Hell if I know." He looked at the mountain and frowned. "At the pace we're going, maybe we'll get there around noon."

"A few hours then…" Garot looked down at his hand. At the mention of noon, it had sent a blast of burning agony, the likes of which he had never experienced before, up his arm. "So noon is when it happens…" he muttered.

"What?" The old man asked loudly, pointing to his ear. "You'll have to speak up."

Garot shook his head and smiled. "Oh, just talking to myself…" he glanced at the gnarled old man and squinted. "Say, you wouldn't happen to know what we're doing here, would you?"

"Ah, sticking your nose where it doesn't belong, eh?" The old man laughed dryly. "What makes you think I'd have the foggiest what's going on?"

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

"Eh… you just look like you've been around here for a while, is all."

"That I have… that I have…" The old man licked his chapped lips revealing gums where his teeth should have been. "Sure you want to know, kid?"

"I've heard rumours… just…"

"Aye," said the old man. "There's rumours aplenty in this group. Second In command doesn't like the captain much, see. Spreads em to drum up discontent. I'm not saying he's looking for a coup, but..."

Garot nodded. He'd heard something similar from the other mechanics but hadn't much care for the politics of a mercenary group he would be escaping at the first opportunity.

"As for what we're doing here…" The old man paused, collecting his thoughts. "I can tell you it's got something to do with a legend about these parts."

"There are still legends about this wasteland?" Garot asked, somewhat surprised.

"Oh aye, plenty." The old man nodded. "Wasn't always a wasteland, see. Back in the day, this place had gods running about like wild Lairen."

"And these gods have something to do with why we're here?"

The old man nodded slowly. "Aye, see, our 'illustrious' captain has ties to some big shot in the capitol. He knows a guy who knows a guy, that sort of thing. And from what I've heard, this big shot wants something to do with one of them legends."

"But…" Garot paused. "But they are just legends, right?"

"I guess we'll be seeing the truth of the matter soon," said the old man. "At noon, from what I've been told, something strange will happen. A storm of magics of inhuman comprehension. A storm we'll be in the eye of, or so I'm told."

"…" Garot looked over at the mountain, his hand burning. "Is that…"

"Aye." The old man nodded. "It is."

Garot took a shaky breath and ran a nervous hand through his hair. He could sense a tidal force of misfortune growing behind a disintegrating dam. It was barely held in check, and the shackles were loosening with every passing second. Soon, it would be free.

"Oi!" A gruff shout travelled down the group, landing in Garot's ears. He whipped his head up and found a massive boulder of a man staring right at him. "You're the mechanic, ain't ya?"

Garot nodded dumbly.

"Then come with me. We'll need you on standby." A huge hand whipped out, clamping onto his shoulder, and suddenly, Garot was getting dragged through the hundred or so mercenaries towards the front. He had very little say in the matter.

The man pulling him was bald and giant, standing over nine feet tall and almost as wide. He was a second-tier, of course. Normal humans didn't grow that big.

Garot was hauled towards the inner circle of hulking brutes, and the closer he got, the bigger they felt. They loomed over him like the distant mountain, and he could almost feel their bullish breath on the back of his neck, sending shivers down his spine.

"This the guy?" The man dragging him asked.

The captain shot Garot a look and nodded. "He'll do." He glanced at another man, who was more ogre than human, with a thick black beard and white scars running down his neck in gruesome welts. "Tell him what's what, will ya?" said the captain gruffly.

Garot recognised the man with the beard as the second in command, noting the dissatisfied look he shot the captain when the leader wasn't paying attention.

Another big hand shot out, hauling Garot away from the inner circle and back a little. The furious quiet of the second in command only served to make Garot nervous. It looks like the rumours were true, Garot thought. They really have fallen out.

He was jostled back to a group of four big second-tiers hauling a stretcher. The item on it was covered in a tarp, but Garot could guess what it was. It was about the right size and shape to be the cage he had seen a few nights previously.

The second in command tossed Garot towards the stretcher and pointed at it with a meaty finger. "This here cannot break, you understand?"

"I-I don't know what it is?" Garot stuttered.

"You'll know when the time comes," said the man. "And if the time comes, and it isn't ready to be used, then…" He shot Garot a searing look. "We'll be returning with one less man."

Garot swallowed and nodded. "Understood," he said. "But if I could just see it, then maybe…"

The second in command had already stalked off, heading back towards the front at blistering speed, as though afraid he would miss something.

Cursing his bad luck – which he knew to be objectively bad from the glowing heat in his palm – Garot couldn't help but feel hard done by. He glanced at the huge men carrying the tarp and wondered if they would let him check under it.

Judging from their blocky, grim faces, they wouldn't.

Still… he might as well try.

Garot inched his way towards the stretcher doing his best to appear nonchalant. But right as he neared the tarp and reached out to lift it an inch, a big hand shot out – as they seemed to do a lot recently – and slapped his prying fingers away.

"Nice try," said a grizzled, booming voice. "But if Kopel says you aren't looking under the tarp. You aren't looking under the tarp."

"…" Garot held his smarting hand and nodded. "Okay."

As of now, he had no plans to argue with a man who could sit on him by accident and not notice the human-coloured smear he'd left behind.