In the year 370 of the Second Age, a drifter was making his way north, knowingly towards certain doom. He was a raggedy young man of lean build and dangerous look; carried with him was a rucksack of travel supplies, and at his belt were a canteen, a hatchet, a buck knife, and at least fifty pistol cartridges tucked snuggly into sewn bandolier loops. Beneath his cloak, he wore a shoulder holster, and in it was a medium-caliber revolving pistol. His eyes were wild, and the thoughts behind them were few and scattered.

A biting wind whipped through the scraggly underbrush, carrying little scent. The land was flat and littered with petrified trunks of ancient timber, once a forest, now sun-starved and long dead. Through a gray haze, he could see the silhouette of a mountain range. Dry twigs snapped like tiny bones beneath his boots. In some places the trees had fallen in piles, and either had to be maneuvered around or climbed over.

These were the Inbetweens, or more commonly known as the Wasteland. An expansive and wretched territory beyond the Frontier, stretching all the way to the foot of the Gray Mountains on the northern horizon. He would reach them in another two or three days, he wagered, eyeing the great wall of jagged peaks through the fog - but it was hard to say for certain. Malnourishment had taken hold of him in the recent weeks, sapping his strength and slowing his travel. There was no forage or wildlife in these lands, even the insects seemed disinterested in it. All that remained of his rations was the tack he had brought with him, empty carbohydrates and minimal protein that scarcely kept him on his feet. He had been essentially living on it for four weeks now, and it was beginning to seem like he wouldn’t survive the return trip.

It was difficult to gauge the time as it passed, the days had grown dim and short as he made his way through the Wastes. He continued towards the mountains for what felt like several hours, until what little light the day offered began to ebb away. He slowed to a stop, slinging the ruck from his back to the ground. Stooping low, he loosened the main pocket and dug out a large but tightly rolled sheet of canvas, with small metal rings sewn into the corners and along the edges about a foot apart from each. It was olive toned, meant for fashioning low profile shelter in the woodlands of the Frontier - but amidst the pale white deadwoods of the Inbetweens, the effect was opposite. Though his mind was scattered, his actions were precise and effective as he worked.

He cleared a spot between a massive pile of the fallen timber and a particularly large trunk, giving himself cover on three sides, though it was unlikely he would need it. The Wildmen make their homes even further north, beyond the Gray Mountains at the edge of the Ice Sheets. They were no more interested in the Inbetweens than the insects.

There were stories of the Wildmen, the way there were stories of anything and everything regarding the First Age and the Age of Darkness. It was sometimes hard to separate fact from myth - There was little writing that survived those days, and time had assuredly warped history through word of mouth. The drifter was not so foolish as to completely disregard it, however.

They say that in a year long forgotten, there erupted a vast and monstrous fire, followed by a long and cruel winter. In that awful cold, darkness enveloped the Earth for several generations, nearly ending life as we know it. Men who survived did so as beasts, preying upon their fellow man and abandoning that which made them human. At the time of the drifter’s journey, men and horses were believed to be some of the last land-dwelling mammals alive.

The sun returned first in the southern shores where it was most abundant throughout the year. In time, green sprouted from the icy ash. Except, there was a breed of man that lamented at this, rather than rejoiced. With agriculture came civilization, and with civilization came an end to their warrior-nomad way of life.

In some small part, the drifter understood their plight. To live in the southern citadels is to forfeit your freedom, to suffer endless servitude under the emperor and his nobles. He had been born in one of their colonies, further north into the wilderness where men couldn’t be as strictly policed. It was home to outlaws, escaped slaves, and other undesirables, but it was a privilege in ways he didn’t understand - at least not until he saw the citadels for himself. He could leave town whenever he desired, could choose his trade, could earn and save his own coin, and under the right circumstances he could even own land. It wasn’t until his teenage years that he made a pilgrimage south and truly witnessed life under the Empire. The stone camps, the slave collars, and the plantations... It wasn’t how mankind was supposed to live.

Though, however much he despised the civilized people, he would never place himself among those beyond the mountains. After all, if legend was to be believed, the Wildmen were hardly people at all.

They went to war with the civilized peoples in the early days of the Second Age, a last-ditch effort to preserve their place in the food chain. Though brutal, they were disorganized and lacked the numbers or the means to stand up against the Empire. It was said that the surviving tribes crossed the Inbetweens, seeking a promised return to their Age of Darkness, where only strength and cruelty could decide a man’s station.

Some skeptics believe that they’ve since died off, that nothing lies beyond the mountains but the endless expanse of ash and sea-ice. The drifter hoped desperately that this was true, but doubt lingered firmly in his heart. They were all of the same ancestors, the generations of mankind that survived in the Age of Darkness. If they could survive then, they could survive now.

When the shelter was finished, he decided he would risk a small fire before night was truly upon him. Taking his hatchet, he cleared a space of underbrush and hacked at the icy ground, digging a shallow spot to shield the fire from wind and reduce visibility from ground level. The forage was brittle and bone-dry - and a good thing too, as it would smoke less when burning.

Gathering twigs of varying thickness, he arranged a small tepee of kindling and then again went to his rucksack. This time, pulling out a tin can from one of the outer pockets, warm to the touch. Bending the lid open, the drifter lifted the can to his face and softly blew into it. Inside were white embers of a fire he had built that morning, glowing soft and red as the fresh air passed through them.

He crushed a handful of twigs in his free hand, and carefully added them to the can before blowing into it again. In moments, the twigs were alight, and he shook the contents out into the base of the tepee.

He had nothing to cook and there was no water to boil, but the twice daily building of fire, and the carrying of it as he traveled was a means of saving wear on his flint-striker. Starting a fire from embers was also much easier than from sparks, even with good kindling, and it would help him in the event that he needed to start one quickly.

More than anything though, it did a great deal for morale. The comfort from the little flame was a pittance in the ever growing cold of the northern lands, but it was a comfort nonetheless. Mentally, it made him feel like he was still capable, and that he could survive his journey. The embers he carried had been burning since he set out from the green woodlands of the Frontier two months prior, and a part of him was intent on carrying them back again. The rest of him was more accepting and honest about the fate he’d chosen.

As night crept over the Inbetweens, the fire began to smolder. Taking the can, the drifter scraped some of the white-hot coals into it and cupped it in his rough-hewn hands, warming them. It would need to be stoked in the morning, it was usually between six and eight hours when they grow cold and die.

With the last of the day’s light, he snuffed the campfire and stowed the embers in his pack, slinking into his shelter with it. Bundling himself in his bedroll, he positioned the rucksack to where the warm spot was near his head and used it as a pillow. The space inside the tent was small, and in the dark sound seemed to amplify. Wind whipped through the underbrush and around the deadwoods, and his breathing seemed loud in his ears. His right hand found its way to his left side, where the pistol was snugly holstered. There was some relief in knowing that anyone sneaking upon his camp would be just as blind as he was; and if they were carrying lights, he would see them first.

~

When sleep finally took him, he dreamed of a lush river canyon. It was late in the afternoon, and the autumn air smelled sweetly of pine straw and wet limestone. A breeze moved lazily through the evergreens, and in the distance he could hear the river babbling through the rocky basin of the canyon.

~

The days were short and seemed to be growing shorter. In another month, there might not be any daylight to travel by. He had seen a globe once, when he was still a boy. A friend had shown him, born of a wealthier family than most in their colony. She tried to explain the Earth’s “axis” to him with a lantern in a dark room, casting a shadow along it and tilting it as it spun. Depending on the tilt, it was impossible for light to reach the top or bottom as it spun. It was strange to see in person, and foolish not to have considered until then. She still would’ve liked to have seen this, he thought. It was a wonder she ever took an interest in him, and part of him wished she hadn’t. He always thought she was a hell of a lot smarter than he was, and she was highborn. She could’ve had anything she set her mind to.

If she was still alive, she might’ve gone to school in the citadels and found work as a cartographer for the Empire - but she set her mind on him.

It had been two dreamless nights since the river canyon, and he was nearly at the foot of the Gray Mountains. The deadwoods had thinned out, and the icy soil had become rocky and strewn with boulders. As he passed into the foothills, the terrain grew steep, and would eventually have to be climbed. Looking south, the Inbetweens seemed to go on forever, melting into the dim gray haze of the horizon. There have been very few recorded cases of civilized men crossing them and living to tell the tale, even fewer that venture beyond the mountains.

It would’ve been easier going with his horse, “Eli,” but he had been left no choice but to turn him loose some weeks back in a similar mountain pass. There simply wasn’t any way to lift him up the cliffs and crags that he was climbing through. It was better that he be left behind back in the Frontier anyhow, where there were still woodlands and green countryside. The Wasteland was no place for a horse.

It was a shame though, he was difficult to get ahold of - really, it was a miracle that any horses were alive at all following the Age of Darkness. Though there’s no writing to support this, it’s said that one or several of the roaming Warlords of Old cared for the creatures, raising them on maggot-feed like what was done in recent years with chickens and fish farms. To own an animal expressly for riding was a statement of authority and power in a world where meat and flesh was prized above all else.

Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.

This sentiment carried over for generations, but the context shifted as civilization was reestablished. Horses had been carefully bred back from the brink of extinction, a piece of living history and a remnant of the First Age. Owning one was a statement of economic status, a privilege typically reserved for wealthy merchants or nobles. (Eli was stolen, not purchased, however.)

Though it had felt like only half the day had passed, the sky grew very dim. Frustratedly, the drifter began scanning the mountainside for a suitable place to make camp. There was less forage to work with as he trekked further into the foothills, and this worried him. The days would continue to darken, perhaps until travel was only possible by lamp light. He only had oil for two or three refills, and there would be no timber for making fire on the sea ice.

The night was restless, and in the morning it was still pitch dark for some time after he woke. It was colder that day, and the gale was ruthless as he made his way up through the foothills. He was not as well insulated as he would’ve liked to be, and the air stung his bare face. As it got darker, it would grow colder.

Drawing the hood of his cloak over his matted head, he pressed on. While his resolve was unshaken, he did question the calling. If he had known he was coming all this way just to die in the cold, he would’ve shot himself and spared the effort. He had sought death before, but did not find it. They would’ve wanted him to go on living, but he wasn’t sure they understood what that meant for him. In any case, there was work to be done - business he should like to conclude before leaving this earthly world behind. Only, he had not the will or the means to see it finished.

That is until he heard them, spitefully cold voices in the wind.

The journey had to be made. There was naught for him in the Frontier or the southlands but the weight of his sins and the consequence of his weakness. The wind had called him north, and promised him the strength to right his wrongs.

He had not heard them since he entered the Inbetweens, which was worrisome. Before then there had been nightly whispers in his mind, beckoning and bargaining. He knew there was little good that could come from such a calling, and at first had tried to shut them out - it was assuredly the work of some demon, or a maddening of his mind. Though he desperately needed help, he dared not seek it. The civilized men were a superstitious lot, and if the wrong person caught wind of it then they could call for him to be flayed and burnt at the stake. There were moments of clarity scattered throughout his delirium, but it was increasingly difficult to function on a day-to-day basis. His work suffered, he drank more, and he took to brawling for coin. He had been boxing since he was a boy, and was especially dangerous by the time he was grown. The voices encouraged him, letting his mind rest as he fought; through this, he grew bloodthirsty.

After a time, what little reason he could muster against them was spent. They grew bold, peering into his mind, levying his pains and fears against him and driving him near to madness. The drinking had grown exceptionally destructive, and he couldn't find work, putting himself entirely at the mercy of the brawler's pit to quiet the voices and support his habit. It went on like this until he killed some poor boy in a public match, nearly caving his skull as the handlers tried to pull him off of the newly minted corpse. In an effort to keep the law from shutting them down, they banned him from competing in any further fights and denounced his character. Ultimately, a bounty was placed on the drifter for manslaughter, and he fled into the wilderness. It was in seclusion there atop a peak overlooking a lush valley of evergreens, that his spirit finally broke. The gale there was monstrously strong, and it carried a northern chill.

With it the voice came clearest and loudest, beckoning him a last time to follow it into the Wasteland and reopen his old, festering wounds; to clean them, to let them breathe, and finally to let them heal. All he stood to lose was his life, and he was not terribly attached to it then.

Perhaps, he thought, it would call out to him again atop the Gray Mountains.

As the day pressed on past the foothills and onto the jagged mountainside, the terrain grew treacherous. It was taking longer to cover shorter distances, as much of the ground had to be scaled or maneuvered through. Though he was frightfully strong for his size, (appearing much lighter than he actually was), he was malnourished, and his ruck had grown very burdensome as he climbed. At that point, he was carrying roughly seventy pounds of gear, not including the clothes he wore. His fingers were numb through his gloves, increasing the risk of slips and potentially fatal falls.

When he was around halfway up the mountain the day was growing dim again, it couldn't have been light for more than five hours. On one hand it was making his travel frustratingly slow, but part of him was itching for an excuse to stop and rest anyways. He was sore and weary, more than what was usual for the distance he made that day. The terrain was largely stone and ice at this point, so forage for the fire was scarce. He considered gathering what he could while he could find it, and then carrying it with him. While he had the space in his ruck and lashing to carry more than would fit inside, the thought of the extra weight, (however small for such dry and brittle timber), was discouraging. Not only that, but he planned to refill his canteen and waterskin that evening with ice melt, which was already going to add at least ten pounds to his load. He ultimately decided to bring some of the timber with him, knowing it could be the difference between living and freezing should a storm wander in.

When the fire was built, he loosed a small cast iron pan from the side of his ruck and set it aside before pulling his hatchet from his belt. There was a huge overhanging stone nearby where icicles had formed like stalactites, and he set to work hacking some of them loose. When he returned and melted the ice, he strained the liquid through a fine cloth and boiled it into what he hoped would be comparatively clean drinking water. The ash that filled the sky and coated the land in this part of the world was somewhat toxic to consume, as well as to breathe. In small amounts it did little harm, but to spend years living and breathing in it led to painful growths under the skin, and it would eventually fail your organs. It was all over the earth during the Age of Darkness, and many who survived did so underground. Even they were subject to sickness and deformity, however.

There was not much food left, enough for two or three weeks if he kept going as he was, longer if he rationed it somehow. Doing so might do more harm than good, though; he was already eating very little. On average, he was getting around five hundred calories a day, but was burning over three thousand. After unwrapping one of the biscuits of tack from a folded cloth, he dipped it into a tin cup of water he'd set near the flames to soften it where it could be chewed. (He also thought the taste was marginally better when warm). It was better eaten with a dish than as its own dish, but this was all that was left. He could've murdered someone for a simple tin of creamed chicken. Maybe there were spots of open water in the sea ice where seals and other creatures gather, and maybe they were nice and fatty. Though, he figured this was unlikely.

Once he had eaten and stowed his supplies, he set up his shelter nearby and filled his can with fresh coals. Carrying the fire across the mountains and back was feeling more and more like a lost cause, and this saddened him suddenly and deeply. He desperately wanted a drink, but had none. The last of his whiskey had gone around a month ago with the last of his cigarettes, and he now sometimes woke with shaking hands.

As twilight set in across the land, he moved into his tent and laid awake. He had no means of keeping the time, but it only felt like it was two in the afternoon. The wind kicked up as night set in, and he found himself wishing it would speak to him again. Sometimes he thought he heard whispers, but they were intangible, and he had probably only hoped he heard them. Sleep was slow to take him, and when it did it was restless.

~

The next day the drifter made his way farther up the mountain, nearing three quarters of the way to the ridgeline where he hoped the ground leveled out for a stretch before continuing back down. The view from his position was haunting, but beautiful. He was over fifteen hundred feet above sea level.

Nearest the top, the mountain range tapered into a sheer cliff face, and he was dreading the climb. It was almost uniformly so for miles, as if the Creator Himself had carved a wall to keep His creation from the evil beyond it.

The drifter had gotten a better look at the mountain range days earlier when he was approaching it from the ground, and he was already in one of the best positions to attempt a climb that he could see. It was shorter there than most spots, he estimated two hundred feet of wall from the base to the tips, and the incline was slightly more forgiving. There was also a massive crack in the stone that zig-zagged vertically through the length of it, a spot where he could reliably find hand and footholds. If it had been a few inches wider, he could’ve even fit himself inside and shimmied up in relative safety. But it was too tight, and most of the work would have to be done through side pulls and pinches against the full weight of his body and his gear. He carried no climbing equipment save for fifty feet of thick hemp rope and a heavy steel carabiner clip, which was all but useless here. It was all he could manage to get a hold of in the outer colonies of the Frontier, where supplies from the southlands were scarcely available, if at all.

He could’ve veered off east or west in search of a safer path to cross them, but it would’ve set him back days, or even weeks, and there was no such time to spare. Whatever or whomever he was to find on the other side of the Gray Mountains was deep into the sea ice, his journey was far from complete.

The wall loomed menacingly as he approached, roughly hewn granite rippled with ice and spanning endlessly in either direction. The dark sea of clouds behind it were moving fast, swirling into cryptic shapes and leering faces. Overcast light barely made its way through, and was spotty when it did, casting waves of pitch shadow as the sea thickened and thinned between him and the sun. The gale was manic and fearsome - it caught in his cloak and billowed violently around him, filling his ears with painful howls. Freezing air stung his face and burned in his lungs as he breathed. If a storm was brewing, he was in the worst place in the world to meet it. As high up as he was, thunder and lightning could spell his end quicker than the climb.

The Frontier was home to countless rocky canyons and cliffs, many of which he had been climbing since his boyhood. Experienced as he was, however, he had never attempted anything like this. None were so tall, nor treacherous, and he knew better than to go out and explore when the weather was inclement. Doubt gave way to fear. It would be foolhardy indeed to attempt this, he thought. It was going to get him killed.

He continued up regardless. The mountainside up to the base of the peak was in itself a strenuous climb, steep enough that he was reduced to crawling on all fours among the boulders to keep his balance. Were he not weak under the weight of his ruck he might’ve tried to make the hike on his feet, but it threw him far too off balance to risk it. A strong enough gust of wind could’ve sent him tumbling backwards down the slope and to his death.

He cursed himself for not bringing a set of crampons for his boots, as the ground was slick in places and he had nearly slipped twice now. (They might have also made the upcoming climb considerably safer.) His gloves were damp from crawling among the icy stone, which further numbed his hands and increased the potential for fatal slips. They needed to be dry before he scaled the cliff, but it would be difficult to build a fire with the wind as fierce as it was, and they would probably just get damp again as he climbed.

The peak was huge and intimidating as he approached it, seeming ever taller directly from the base. There was little in the way of hand or foot holds in the wall of stone, most of the climbing would have to be done from the huge crack sprawling up to the top. The insides of it were jagged and angular, almost acting as a natural ladder in places. Amateur work, he thought, were it not for the weather and conditions he faced.

Fearing an oncoming storm, he got to work quickly. His hands found the inside walls of the crack, and he pulled apart as if he were forcing open a sliding double-door. His gloves were made up of a coarse wool-cloth fabric, and the friction they created against the stone seemed strong even when damp. Testing his limits, he put his whole weight onto them, lifting his feet up onto the wall and straddling the crevice. He suspended himself there for a short time, leaning side to side, up and down, and then attempted to shift the pressure from one of his hands to his feet, where he could make a new handhold higher in the nook. It was a strenuous hold, but he was managing it well.

Though he had not slipped or fallen at any point in this test of ability, he still liked no part of it. The wind was catching his ruck and pulling him to the side, if it grew any stronger during the climb it could strain his grip to failure. The crag was at least two hundred feet tall, and he wasn’t sure he had the strength to carry himself and his gear that far without rest. There was no safety line; even if he were to secure one himself part ways up the wall, there was no stretch in his old hemp rope and he trusted it for little more than rappelling. If he were to fall while fastened to it, it would likely snap in two once the slack pulled tight. Or if it actually held somehow, the whiplash could break his neck.

More than anything he feared the ice that gathered in the nooks and crannies of the split, but there was nothing for it. He set his feet back to the ground and allowed himself several minutes to rest and gather himself. When he felt he was ready, he assumed the position and got moving.

It was slow-going, caution was first and foremost in his mind as he worked. Each hold was sounded thoroughly before any weight was shifted, and when it was, it was done gradually. He spent more time positioning his feet than his hands, as his boots were rubber soled, lightly treaded, and slick against the stone. Progress was made in as little as two inches in several minutes, though there were some places that were well suited for climbing where he could confidently advance several feet within one.

The crack widened and narrowed sporadically as he went. After nearly forty five minutes he approached what he estimated to be the seventy-foot mark, where he found a spot wide enough to wedge himself into. Suspending himself in the air, with the ruck on his back to the inner wall and his feet lower down against a small shelf that had formed on the opposite side, he rested. The effort had made him sweat profusely beneath his clothes, worsening the chill as he sat still to catch his breath. It was all murderous work for his hands, which had borne most of the weight and grown worrisomely numb. Though it was a tight squeeze, he shifted each of them across his chest, into his coat, and under his armpits to warm them. It was nearly dark, and miserably cold - though the wind was not so torturous inside the crevice.