Kyros is led up an icy trail. Cold hits him like a fist, nearly pushing him off the saddle.

“I-I hope you have spare coats,” he says, teeth chattering his words to pieces.

“Better get used to this quick, aye?” says Mung. “Cause it ain't gonna get any better.” He rides with an air of ease, taking tight turns on the slippery path at speeds normal riders will balk at.

Kyros glances back, expecting to see the other riders getting left behind, but they are all following close.

Not even our outriders dare stay on horseback in this weather.

The trail changes from sleet to thick snow. Frigid wind whips at Kyros’s face. He buries his chin in his shirt and shoves his hands in his armpits. Against his leg, Frostbane weighs like a slab of ice, freezing his skin through scabbard and clothing.

Kyros keeps it bound tight to his belt. He must not lose it. But it's not only because of his promise but because he needs something physical to hold on to, to keep by his side as a continuous affirmation that Cathra is still alive.

The climb begins to get steep. The men dismount to lead their horses behind them. Kyros finds himself walking beside Mung and two other Battlefront men he does not know. Together, they trek up the mountain, saying nothing to each other as no other sound can be heard over the howling wind.

Kyros spots the Pass first.

Gorgon's Pass, a canyon yawning across the space between two mountains, is as astonishing to witness as the tales tell it.

Spanning thousands of feet across either side, it looks as if one of the Goddesses took a sword and carved through the world, leaving behind a vast expanse of nothingness.

Expect there is something in the nothing.

The Wall.

A straight barrier of dark obsidian stretches from one side of the Pass to the other, broken only by watchtowers every few hundred feet. Countless lanterns hang across the top of the wall, casting deep blue orbs of light across the stormy skies.

One of the men next to Mung raises a lantern and taps at the gem inside, flashing a series of light bursts.

A second later, one of the lanterns at the top of the wall flashes in response.

Kyros has never seen obsidian up close. It shines even in the shadows of the mountains, but to Kyros the glow seems to be something that is not light.

A vibrant darkness.

As they enter the valley, all the light in the world snuffs out like a candle.

Everywhere Kyros looks, he sees man-made structures. Most of it seems broken and dilapidated, sticking out from the sides of mountains and even in the snow.

"I didn't know you had so many builders up here," he says.

"We got a dwarf," says Mung, "and that's about it, aye?"

"Then..."

Mung follows Kyros's gaze. "Oh, them?" he says. "Thems just what the Ancient folks left us. No one knows what they supposed to have done, but none of that don't matter now, aye?"

Hundreds upon thousands of obsidian spikes stick out from the cavern walls. Their age is hinted at by the thick ice encasing them, and just as Mung said, whatever the Ancients used them for is no longer the case today.

Today, the spikes seem to be used primarily for light. Thousands of lanterns hang from the dark stone, casting their faint glows across the chasm.

The wind dies as they head deeper into the mountains' embrace.

Kyros’s boots have filled with snow. He asks if he can stop to empty them.

“Not here,” says Mung. “Just cause we’re on this side doesn't mean it’s safe, aye?”

The men around him stay silent, each leading his own horse through the gorge of icy stone and lanterns.

A row of steel cages stands half-hidden in the snow.

The fat man, Butcher, leads his horse into one. He steps in after the animal and then swings the gate closed.

With a groan, the cage begins to rise along the wall.

Other men from the group do the same thing, some squeezing into the same cage.

Soon, Kyros and Mung are standing in the last cage as it shudders off the ground.

The view of the mountains is grand. Kyros gazes from between the bars, watching the land stretch to the horizon. The Bladed Road from here looks like a winding stream, only the color is one of mud.

A gust of wind swings the cage. Kyros grips the bars tightly. He hears Mung snicker.

“Never flown this high before, aye? Better get used to this too.”

“Do we descend often?” Kyros asks, inching back from the bars while still holding on.

“Not this side,” says Mung. He pats Kyros on the back. “But dun let that stop you, aye? Been a while since I last shot a man running away from me.”

At the top of the wall, Butcher and the other men are already making their way to the eastern mountain. The wall itself is wide enough to allow four riders side by side, but the wind howling across the canyon is strong enough to toss a lighter person right off the edge without mercy.

They go in twos.

Few men seem to be working this high up. The ones that do look to be tending the lanterns hanging off steel polls, or restocking barrels full of arrows and what seem to be metal canisters.

What’s in those, I wonder.

Eventually, they reach the place where wall meets mountain. A metal gate has been inserted into the rock, held open by Butcher as the men file through with their horses.

“After you, Sir Knight,” says Mung. “Dun want you turning tail here, aye?”

"I'm no Sir," Kyros reminds him again, and steps through the gate into a steel room.

It is dark. Men and horses crowd in around him. Mung is the last. He closes the gate and almost immediately a light shines from above.

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

It is yellow. Strange.

Mung sniffles. "Butcher, if you would, aye?"

Butcher hammers against the side of the room, his knuckles echoing loud.

Something whirls behind Kyros's head. He ducks but nothing comes at him.

With a shudder, the room starts to descend.

"What is this magic?" Kyros asks out loud, but all the answer he gets is bemused chuckling from the men.

Kyros is about to ask again when the wall behind the gate falls away, revealing more lights. They flicker upwards, disappearing into the roof as quickly as another appears from below.

Kyros watches, transfixed, as through the lights he sees rooms, then hallways with people, then a stable and armory and then his stomach drops out. His ears get plugged. Pressure pops behind his eyes.

The sensation is enough to make him stagger and heave out a stomachful of empty air.

But again, his discomfort is met with more laughs.

Finally, they stop. The yellow lights above them blink. Kyros looks up to see a grand hall filled with people and torchlight.

The smell of food is immediate and enough to make Kyros sick again.

Mung pulls open the iron-barred gate and steps out. The men pile out with their horses. Butcher is one of the last and seeing Kyros not leaving, he reaches for him.

"No," says Kyros, "I can walk."

He steps out from the moving steel room.

Lit up by lanterns on every wall, the mess hall is many times larger than the one in the Kesrockian Knights’ headquarters. Kyros follows Mung through the crowded tables, Butcher close behind.

The noise of a hundred or so bodies eating together is a creature of its own, burrowing inside Kyros’s ears and making his head hurt. He keeps his gaze averted from any eyes but that doesn’t stop people staring.

Stare they do. One by one, heads turn. Grins slip out from behind unkempt beards. People start to point. Conversations lull, replaced by whispers of,

“New blood.”

Kyros hears it. As he is led towards the far end of the room, more voices join in until it builds into a chant.

“New blood. New blood. New blood!”

The chant trails after Kyros. Fists pound against the table. A huge man unfolds from one of the tables, cutting in front of Kyros like a towering oak. He’s gripping two mugs of foamy ale in his massive paws, and just when Kyros thinks one of them is going to end up on his head, the huge man grins and shoves Kyros a mug.

"New blood!" he roars, and chugs his own ale.

Then the chanting stops, as abruptly as it starts.

Kyros keeps his gaze on the huge man, who is grinning at him expectantly. Foam drips from the ends of his beard.

The mug is almost as big as Kyros's head. But he knows what he must do.

He throws his head back and dumps the whole thing down his throat.

The ale burns. It’s much stronger than what he’s used to. A few times his body tries to reject it but he forces his throat to move, swallowing every last drop until there is no more.

With a gaspy cry of triumph, Kyros throws the empty mug down on the ground.

The Battlefront cheers. Men throw food and ale into the air. Some begin to wrestle. A man is thrown into a table. Hands grab at Kyros, patting and slapping him until he’s so dizzy he almost vomits out the ale.

“Dun expect that,” says Mung. “Aye, Butcher?”

Butcher grumbles something, digs into his breeches and fists something into Mung’s outstretched hand.

Mung puts one piece of silver between his crooked teeth and bites down.

Kyros wants to stop and ask what the bet was, but more people are trying to drink with him. He takes whatever is given him, downing one ale after another.

By the time Mung is walking again, the world has stopped making much sense.

Kyros does his best to follow but faces begin to blur and the lanterns hanging on the walls are too bright. Someone smacks him on the back and he trips, stumbling right into the bosom of an approaching woman.

The crowd goes wild.

“S-so sorry!” With difficulty, Kyros manages to detach his face from the pair of very soft breasts. He tries to focus on the woman to who they belong to but his vision is shot and he can see nothing but a dark smudge of a person.

And white hair.

The memory of the spider woman Ae'ru instantly sobers Kyros. He steps back, hand flying to the hilt of Frostbane, only to pitch back this time.

Mung’s laughter rings louder than anyone else’s. “Now I call that an introduction, aye?”

Butcher joins in. “10 silvers says he doesn’t make it two rounds!”

Kyros steadies himself. He manages by gripping onto the back of a chair.

The woman in front of him is tall. Her skin is dark as night, her hair the color of ice. She wears an eyepatch on one eye and when she speaks, her voice is husky but womanly.

“If this is the state of Kesrock’s Knights, small surprise then that their home is in shambles.”

Her indifference angers Kyros, more than he feels it should. “By all seriousness, miss,” he says, trying his best to annunciate his words. “Kesrock has the finest knights in all of Gandolia. I will not have you taint the honor of my brothers.”

“Big words for a small knight,” says the woman. She takes a steak knife off a table and holds it to Kyros’s nose. “Let's see if you can live up to them.”

Kyros takes a long moment to understand what the woman is saying. “You want me… to fight you? Here? With that?”

“Unless you’re afraid to go down to a woman with a letter opener.” The woman steps back with a lopsided smile. “You won’t be the first.”

The men around her laugh.

“No need to worry bout that!” one of them hollers. “Maria ain’t one of your city wenches!”

Kyros glances around. His head is clearing a little, enough to see that half the hall has gathered around.

Butcher is yelling about his 10 silvers to whoever will listen.

He turns back to the woman. “Is Maria your real name, or some inside joke?”

Instead of answering, the woman springs at Kyros like a leopard, her dagger flashing under the light of lanterns.

Kyros stumbles back, knocking against the table and sending plates falling.

Men start to form a circle, cheering them on.

Maria's slashes are so quick Kyros doesn’t even feel the pain. Or it might be the ale. He knocks into someone, who shoves him forwards into an oncoming strike.

Blood blossoms from his shoulder from where the knife sinks through clothes and into flesh.

“Alright,” Kyros says, reaching across a table for a butter knife of his own. “You want to fight, let’s do it!”

Maria seems surprised by his action. “You're not using your sword?”

“I’m not such a scoundrel I will fight a woman on unequal terms,” Kyros tells her. “Especially a half-blind one.”

He attacks, striking the woman from multiple angles.

“New blood!” the men chant with pounding fists and stomping feet. “New blood! New blood!” The noise is so loud Kyros cannot hear anything else. He keeps charging, bolstered by ale and pain. He throws himself at Maria with everything he has.

But none of his attacks get close. Maria deflects his blows with comical ease, a look of unimpressed boredom on her face.

Kyros tries harder but cold and exhaustion take their toll. With a burst of sparks, his knife spins from his grasp. In the next heartbeat, Maria is pressing her own knife to his throat.

“Commendable spirit,” she says. “You’ll make good beast-bait.” She straightens, plunges the knife into a nearby table, and says, “Beast Bait!”

The men start to howl. “Beast Bait, Beast Bait!”

The circle breaks. Bodies descend on Kyros, shoving ale and food into his hands. So surprised is he by this, that when Mung finds him again his arms are full with ale, smoked fowl legs, and three whole potatoes.

“Not so dim after all, aye?” says the thin man. “The knife move was the smartest thing I've seen, aye?”

Kyros shakes his head. “I was drunk. I still am.”

“Then let's keep it like that, aye?” Mung takes one of the mugs from Kyros’s pile and goes off to join some other men.

It is all such a surprisingly friendly sight that for a moment Kyros forgets that these people are all exiles, criminals, and the worst people in all of Gandolia.

And yet they drink like free, merry men.

The celebrations continue. Kyros wanders the mess hall, completely lost, until he spots her again.

Maria is drinking alone with her feet up on the table, watching everything with an expression that borders soft.

Kyros makes his way over. A number of men beat him there. They clang mugs with the woman and exchange a few exclamations. Then they leave.

She gazes over as Kyros sets his food and ale across the table.

“You brought a feast,” she says.

Kyros sits in one of the many vacant chairs. “A potato for your help,” he says, picking one up and setting it down in front of the woman. "What exactly is this place?"

"The gate to hell," says Maria. She sinks her teeth into the potato, releasing a puff of steam. “We have two rules here,” she continues. “Follow my orders and no shedding blood among brothers.”

"I saw two men punching the snot out of each other."

"Was there blood?"

"I was told you were expecting me."

"New blood is becoming rare," says Maria, chewing her potato with one arm behind the back of her chair. "Too many vultures on the road nowadays. You should know."

"You mean the barbarians on the Bladed Road?"

Maria finishes off the potato and licks her fingers. Her nails are short and clean. "Yup."

Kyros waits for a beat before asking, "Are you searching for my captain?"

“Hell no,” says Maria, plucking a piece of fowl off the table. “I don't have enough men for that. Besides, she's dead, isn't she?"

Kyros chooses not to answer. "You look plenty free right now," he says, gesturing to the feast going on. "Is it your day of birth or something?"

If Maria is annoyed by his accusations, she does look it. Reaching behind her, she yanks a tankard of ale from one of the men passing by.

"They are celebrating life," she says, "because they've seen the alternative and do not wish to face it sober."

She takes a long drink, then puts the mug down and smiles at Kyros with that same lopsided smile again.

“I’ve just thought of one more rule,” she says. “Learn to shut up and drink.”