Nachia nodded and looked out at the cloud cover in the distance. The sky above the Blasted Lands was gray, and more clouds were moving in, mirroring the ones below in the valley. There would very likely be rain coming. Whatever fell into the Blasted Lands, Merros knew, would fall as freezing sleet and howling winds. The clouds hid so much of the raging fury just below them.

Nachia said, "Absolutely. He paid for the expeditions himself. But he would not have done so without the permission of the Emperor and in the past there were less of them. Pathra encouraged the explorations. Pathra wanted to see more."

Merros sighed and looked again at the wasteland just a stone's throw from them, contained by a sheer cliff side and little else. He could not for the life of him remember if he could see the Seven Forges in the distance the first time he'd been in the area. Mostly he'd been drawn to the turbulent motion of the storm clouds.

"So whatever the case, I think we would have met with the Sa'ba Taalor sooner or later. Hopefully we can make peace with them before it is too late."

Merros nodded his head. "Hopefully, indeed, Majesty." He feared it was already too late. But hope was a lovely thing to cling to when the winds were raging.

Andover Lashk met his second god. This time he was not alone. Tarag Paedori stood at his side, unflinching in the face of the raging heat and the boiling magma. Hot as it was, Andover could still breathe and his flesh did not burn. That seemed a miracle by itself.

The walls in the room ran with liquid fire. It drooled down along the sides and mingled with the rising waves of heat and smoke. The ground where he stood, the same as the gray stone that the castle was cut from, was not burning hot and the molten stuff never touched it. Instead it fell into deep cuts along the floor and slipped harmlessly into whatever lay beneath.

On the wall before him, sweating fiery metal never quite touched the centerpiece of the stone. The only decoration in the area was unmarked by the molten metal or stone.

A vast metallic face stared at him, one that he had seen before. The exact same one that had adorned the blessing box before he was gifted his new hands and learned that pain could be a healing thing as well as a hurtful one. The light of the raging volcano below and the smoke rising upward highlighted rather than obscured the edifice.

The face glared down from that wall, the mouth open in a cruel sneer. Truska-Pren seemed an angry god if one stared at his visage.

Just the same, Andover Lashk lowered himself to one knee before the face, and offered his hammer handle first, exactly as he had done with the King in Iron. "I am Andover Lashk, of Fellein, and I am here to thank you for the gift of my hands and all the blessings you have afforded me."

He half expected the face before him to grow animate, to work as easily as the iron features of Kallir Lundt, but nothing happened.

Nothing physical at least. Instead he felt the presence come into the area, a powerful thing, vast and potent that if it had mass it surely would have crushed him beneath it without even noticing his insignificance.

It was not fear he felt when Truska-Pren came before him. It was awe.

His hands tingled. They did not burn, but when he looked at them the metal glowed, growing first red and then yellow and finally white with heat. By all rights his arms should have burned away but there was nothing, no pain, no bubbling meat and burning blood. Instead that presence grew even greater and he understood that Truska-Pren was studying his hands, a god examining the work it had offered to a mere mortal.

It was Tarag Paedori who spoke, though his voice was not his own. His voice echoed with the presence of the Daxar Taalor. "You have proven worthy of this gift, Andover Lashk. You have shown yourself capable of defending yourself. You have faced the trials I demanded and you have triumphed."

The King in Iron stepped forward and placed one finger against Andover's lips as if to shush him. Instead of demanding silence he pressed his finger down harder, and Andover froze, feeling the pain come on him as it had when Durhallem touched him.

He did not scream, but only because he could not. The heat that he should have felt in his hands directed itself across his mouth, his face. He did not smell burning meat but it seemed to him he should have. The King in Iron's one hand grabbed the back of Andover's head and held him in place. "Do not move, Andover Lashk. Do not flinch. The Iron God offers you a gift this day."

The blessings of gods, it seemed, never came without agonies of their own.

What was it that Drask Silver Hand had said to him? Life is pain.

Oh, how he lived just then.

Chapter Sixteen.

Captain Callan unloaded his cargo along with his men. He commanded the ship, he made a good wage, but he did not shirk his portion of the workload. That was why the men liked him well enough to let him call himself captain. By the time they were done he was pleasantly tired and his crew was happy for the break. Dealing with the Brellar was always a risk, but this time it had paid off handsomely.

Freeholdt was busier than usual and he rather liked it. The port town was always busy, yes, but this time around, the activity was not as simple as he'd have expected. There were ships unloading cargo, but there just as many hauling new cargo onboard.

What he found interesting, though he was barely aware of it, was how few of the Guntha or the Roathians he saw in port. He'd expected to see a good deal more of both, seeing as their lands were gone. Instead there was just business and more business with none of the begging masses he'd half dreaded encountering. Business was excellent in Freeholdt.

That meant a good chance at another commission. Commission meant a good chance at enough money to celebrate properly. After spending time with the witch Tataya he had a powerful desire to find a dozen wenches and rut himself senseless. Paying for it hardly bothered him. He wasn't likely to be around any port town long enough to make a relationship, but he could surely spend enough time to handle the finer physical aspects of one.

Vondum climbed the gangplank back onboard with a grin on his face. "It seems everyone wants to leave the area, Callan. But wave a flag to let them know you're ready to negotiate and you'll have a dozen passengers and their goods to carry out of this town."

"What? Why?" He smiled as he asked. The reasons hardly mattered as long as the money was good and by the smile on his first mate's face the passengers seemed willing to pay good coin for their travels.

"The Empress heads back for Canhoon. People either take their wagons along the Imperial Highway or they take the Freeholdt River to the Jeurgis and ride into Canhoon in safety and comfort."

"So people are heading south to get to Freeholdt so they won't have to take a wagon north?" Callan chuckled.

Vondum laughed out loud. "Isn't it lovely?"

"By the gods, man, anyone willing to take a long way to a short cut must be willing to pay good coin indeed." Callan's grin refused to go away.

"I say we spend a night celebrating, restock in the morning and then head out tomorrow night, Captain."

Callan nodded. "Whores, supplies and feasts, in that order."

"Feasts, indeed. We have some of the finest of Tyrne's merchants looking to take their supplies and stock to Canhoon."

"Well, if we could find the finest brothel willing to transport their whores by river, we could sail out tonight." Callan wiped at his brow and looked out at the town.

"I don't think we'll be quite that lucky, Callan, but it would be a lovely thing."

Callan shrugged. "Tell the lads to enjoy their night. We're going to see about earning some extra gold and heading into Canhoon." They didn't often take the river routes, but they could. That was one of the things about a smaller ship that Callan liked. The Brellar's vessels would have managed nothing but getting themselves mired in sand bars if they tried a river run. Callan's little ship was a deal smaller, but also faster and mobile. Still, he'd actually have to work this time around. Piloting through the rougher areas of the rivers would take concentration.

Vondum said he'd pass the order around and Callan took him at his word. His second had long since earned his trust.

The night was spent exactly the way he wanted, with three lovelies who did their best to take away the hurt of never bedding the redhead who'd paid him handsomely to get her to her destinations safely.

And in the morning the lads looked as ill as he felt, but most of them managed a smile just the same as they started restocking the holds. The trip would take a few weeks, but not much more so they went light on supplies. Better to hold a little storage space for the customers wanted to move with their possessions.

Sadly there were no brothels willing to transport their wenches as cargo. One could only get so lucky.

By the time the sun reached its zenith and started a leisurely crawl to the west Callan and his crew were helping a few very wealthy folks get their cargo stowed and were nearly salivating over how much they were earning.

The captain was considering the merits of leaving in the morning versus leaving earlier for a bit of extra coin when Vondum reported the news that set them for immediate evacuation.

Three words made all the difference. "Black ships, Captain." Vondum pointed to the horizon, in the direction of where the Guntha Islands had been.

There were indeed black ships. Callan couldn't see exactly how many, but it was enough to make his blood sing and his testicles try to hide themselves away. He found himself thinking of the redhead again and wishing he had a way to warn her that she was right. It seemed the black ships were looking to Fellein, and at the moment that meant they were looking at Freeholdt.

He wondered how long it would be before news of the port town being attacked made it to his ears.

He hoped it would be a long time, and possibly never. He feared it would be much sooner.

Either way, he'd be heavier with coin before this trip was done. One merely had to polish the silver to make it reflect properly.

Drask eyed the sloping mountain of ice before him and nodded. Brackka was nearby, but currently had no interest in climbing.

Drask did not have that option. Ydramil demanded and he obeyed, and so he set his hands carefully into the places where the ice had broken away and started climbing.

The surface was pitted with hundreds of spots where a hand or foot could find purchase, but most were filled with ice. It took time and patience to start scaling the structure. And it took a good axe to make fresh handholds. The silver hand held him with ease, the fingertips crushing frozen precipitation into a new shape when he gripped. He used his other hand to cut away the ice and allow him a fresh grip before moving upward again. It was an arduous task, but one he managed well enough.

By the time he'd reached an area where he could stand and walk the sun was almost up and he had a perfect view of the wagon and tent where the others slept.

They'd danced around each other for over a day now and he was tired of it. Rather than worrying about them he chose to observe what they did for the day without conflict.

Drask crouched and dug into one of his pouches until he found a few nuts and dried meat. Better to have a bit of food in his stomach while he waited for the foreigners to start their explorations again.

The winds were starting up again with proper fury and he pulled his furs closer around his body, taking the time to tie them to his wrists and ankles. The hood was drawn over his head and he crouched lower. The winds could be damned for all he was concerned. He had a task to do and he would do it.

Soon enough he was rewarded.

Nolan climbed from the tent and shook his head.

The air outside was bad. The stench inside the tent was worse. Maun was dying, but taking his time about it. His breath stank of infection and his skin was pasty white and sweating.

Stradly was no better. The man's body had taken on a yellowish tint. His eyes were also yellowing. Nolan was not a healer, but he knew that the colors were bad. The large, jovial solder was not dead but he was definitely dying.

Vonders and Tolpen were as fit as Nolan himself, uninjured by the Pra-Moresh or whatever sorcery Tega had done. But Darus was not well. His arm had swelled to ponderous size, the fingers barely recognizable, and he was in agony. The best plans for seeking a way into the Mounds had fallen quickly into ruin and there was nothing to be done for it.

Vonders climbed from the tent next and the worried expression on his face made clear he knew exactly what Nolan did, that their three companions would not survive this trip. With Vonders along they might survive themselves, despite the lack of horses, but he was having doubts.

Tolpen was a hunter. He'd spent the last day looking for anything he could hunt, but so far had failed. If there were creatures out there, like the rider they thought they'd seen, then the wind was scouring away any tracks that might have been left in the drifts of dirtied snow or on the rare patches of dirt.

And off to the left was the wagon Tega slept in. The damned thing seemed nearly unaltered by the ice and sand and wind. The ground under Nolan's boots crunched with every step he took, a mixture of snow and dirt, but the wagon remained untouched by it. He resented the damned thing with an irrational dislike. It had certainly proved a worthy shelter when they had stayed in it.

One of the men in the tent let out a moan and Nolan closed his eyes. At least one of them would die today, he could feel it.

The sun was up, which meant that the darkness was kissed with lighter shades of gray and brown.

The structures around them, the towers and lumps that made up the Mounds, took on detail again. The closest of the things had a beauty to it he'd deliberately refused to acknowledge before but after days on end of nothing, he allowed himself the pleasure of staring at the texture of the thing. There were striations of what looked like ice or glass, fused with flecks of metal and layers of different stones. The feeble sunlight washed the surface and let him see all of that under the thin layer of ice that had grown over the last two days. No noise from the Mounds, which meant nothing to break the ice away and so it was growing again, like a scab over the open sore of the slanted tower itself.

"Maun won't make it." Vonders' voice was soft, just loud enough to make the distance between them past the wind Nolan nodded. "I don't think any of them will. We've no way to take care of them properly.

Vonders glared at the wagon and Nolan knew he was thinking Tega was to blame. She had saved them. She had damned half of them. That was still something to consider. She was powerful but she had flaws. Didn't they all, really?

Tolpen came out of the tent, his face pale and grim. "Stradly is dead."

Vonders spit. Nolan nodded his head. "Best tell Tega."

Without waiting for one of the others to do it, he headed for her wagon.

So he saw the thing first.

It was moving not far from the wagon, not really looking at anything but the ground as it shuffled forward. He doubted it could have moved faster if it had to.

There was no sense to it. The skin of the thing was mottled gray, and covered in several places with bubbled clusters of watery blisters. At the very best it made him think of the monstrous lumps they'd fought on the road to Tyrne, but the comparison was merely because, like those beasts, it hurt his eyes and head to look at the thing. It was bloated and its body was squat. The torso was as wide as three men and none of the limbs on it made much sense.

It moved forward on one foreleg and two rear legs, none of which matched in thickness or length, which lent it a very uneven shuffling gait. A second forelimb was there, but like the rest did not seem to fit. It was much shorter than the a it hardly seemed right to call it a mate a other foreleg, and ended in a mass of stubby clawed fingers, and a thumb. The body was heavy, yes, but muscular. The four legs differed so much that none even matched in width. Judging by the mass dangling from its hindquarters he suspected the beast was male, but frankly he didn't want to consider that appendage, as it was as malformed as the rest of the thing.

None of which prepared him for the face. There were two eyes, but neither of them matched. One was as large as his balled fist and the other, higher up on the left side of the face, no bigger than a grape. Both gave off a pale gray light that Tega said the Sa'ba Taalor also cast from their eyes. The nose was a gash in the front of the face. The mouth was a great, drooling, uneven thing, an angry slash that had somehow sprouted teeth and a tongue.

Nolan noticed all of that at the same time that the thing saw him and looked him over from his head to his boots.

For exactly four heartbeats he thought the thing might simply keep going. His hands shook a bit and he almost reached for his axe before he remembered that it was back in the tent. He'd only come out to relieve his bladder and had certainly not planned to meet a fiend or learn that one of his companions was dead.

And then that great mouth opened and the thing grunted.

And then it charged him, screaming out a shrill battle cry. It did not roar. He knew a battle cry when he heard one. Hell, half the soldiers he'd trained with tended to let them out when they attacked.

Nolan threw himself sideways and dodged as the malformed brute came for him. His elbow slammed into the thing's face, hitting and mashing the oversized eye on its right side.

It yelped and the foreleg it ran with slapped him across his chest and staggered him backward. Had he not already been in motion it would likely have caved his ribcage in.

"Attacked! Arms!" It was all he could think to say.

The thing looked like it could barely stand, but it charged him again, as fast as the attack dogs his uncle had trained. Nolan let out a scream of pure panic and cuffed the thing in the face a second time, feeling its wet breath blast across him. Gods, it gave of a frightful heat.

His knee came up into the side of the thing's face as it lost balance and tried to recover. The blow was good and it fell back, grunting again. Nolan danced back, repulsed, his heart hammering and his eyes wide.

Vonders called out, but Nolan didn't have time to focus on him because the thing was coming again, loping forward and as he watched, the thing planted both rear legs, squatted and then jumped at him, clearing the distance with ease.

Nolan did exactly as his father had trained him to do and caught the immense weight, pivoted his body at the hips and helped the thing on its way, adding his strength to its momentum.

It crashed into the side of Tega's wagon, hitting one of the wheels and disproving his thought that magic protected the wagon. The wheel broke, several spokes snapping, and the wagon rocked on its axles.

The thing was back up before he could even congratulate himself on the maneuver. That mouth, that ugly slit in its face, bloomed open until it was large enough to give a Pra-Moresh feelings of inadequacy. Those mismatched eyes glared at him as the thing jumped again and Nolan met it head on, slamming his body against the thing's bulk, hoping to kick it aside.

And failing. He staggered backward, tried to find his footing and instead slid and skidded like a skipped stone, bouncing along until he ran into the side of the tent. His ears rang and he tasted blood in his mouth.

Tolpen put an arrow through the hellish thing's fat, bruised right eye. It let out half a squeal and fell on its backside. It was possibly dying, but it was not dead. It kicked and shrieked and rolled itself to hands and knees and then flopped down on its face. Still, it managed to get back up, its one remaining eye glaring undying hatred in Tolpen's direction.

The hunter let out a curse under his breath and reached for another arrow from the quiver at his feet. His hand was shaking and the first arrow slipped from his fingers. His calm demeanor broke as the thing came for him, once again leaping instead of running.