It was late by the time Bernt finally stopped for the night, curling up in his bedroll in a somewhat sheltered spot between a few large boulders. He slept fitfully for a few hours, plagued by nightmares of the day’s events. It wasn’t the cultist ambush, the demons or the guard with the rock that plagued his dreams. No, it was Emata’s dead eyes, staring at him accusingly as he checked her pockets.

  He hadn't closed them when he left – he should have done that. It was what you did.

  Bernt woke up feeling sick and exhausted in full darkness. But he couldn’t get back to sleep.

  There was no point in waiting around, he decided. He had a long way to go, and limited resources. So, he packed up his things and got underway, paring bits off of half a dried apple with his knife as he went. He wasn’t really hungry yet, but he hated running around on an empty stomach in the morning, and a bite of breakfast always helped him wake up properly.

  ***

  Aelos drifted high into the night sky, stretching his incorporeal limbs while the darkness still permitted him to hold his true shape. The first light of dawn was starting to color the horizon, and soon he’d be forced back down into two dimensions, pushed down by the accursed light into the shadows. He couldn’t wait to grow stronger, until even the light of the sun couldn’t constrain him.

  If only he could find that accursed warlock, Zijeregh would reward him. Maybe even Nuros himself!

  It had been a mistake to take in that stupid imp – one of Tallash’s remnants. The cursed thing hadn’t even managed to alert the others. The hellhound could be excused, maybe – they were stupid beasts, after all – but the imp would pay for its incompetence. The Duergar wouldn’t be able to summon them back for a day or two at least. Now, he needed to push his other thralls to work harder. He couldn’t afford to fail, like Tallash and Roaznis. He already had failed once, by keeping their target’s identity to himself, and Zijeregh had only grudingly allowed him to attempt to correct his mistake.

  Right now, Roaznis’ thralls were still running after the other mortals, following her last order to attack before she’d been sent back to the hells. They would continue until they succeeded, or they were all gone. Most likely, the remaining mortals would make short work of them. Thralls were stupid and reckless. Barely more than fodder even with leadership.

  But that was good for him – or it would be if he could catch that accursed warlock!

  Circling in agitation, he cast his gaze through the darkness all around. He could see far here, but the road was empty. There was nothing to find. He was about to return to the ground, when something caught his eye – the barest hint of light.

  It glinted off of something metal, in the far distance. Not on the road, though… what could it be? Racing the dawn, he cast himself through the darkness toward his prey.

  ***

  Bernt emerged from the boulder field and looked up at the scree covered slope. It was a lot steeper than it had looked from a distance. He sighed. This was not going to be fun, but it was as good as he was going to get. He’d picked this spot because he’d noticed on his approach that there was a clear gap in the sheer cliffs up above – one of many along the mountain range, but this was by far the closest. If he didn’t want to go up here, he’d have to walk at least an hour east or west to find another spot that would work, with no guarantee that it would be better.

  To buy himself another moment of rest, he dug out his cup and drank some water, following it up with a rock-hard biscuit that he dunked and then gnawed on half-heartedly for a few minutes. Then he re-tied the laces on his boots and stood up.

  His feet sinking into the unstable gravel, Bernt began his ascent.

  ***

  Aelos cast himself in the shadow of a boulder as he watched the mortal climb. The oppressive morning light beat down mercilessly on the slope. He could see the hint of a shadow being cast high up above, where craggy peaks broke out of the scree to scratch at the sky. He could make it, taking refuge in the many tiny shadows cast by the rocks and pebbles on the slopes or in the substance of the ground – but it would be slow. Far too slow.

  Besides, he couldn’t kill the warlock on his own. He needed to report what he’d found and gather his thralls. From there, the mortal would be easy to follow. The hounds could track by smell, and so could the imp if it managed to get itself summoned again in time to make itself useful.

  Such unreliable creatures.

  ***

  Bernt dug both hands into the scree, crawling up the last bit on all fours. It helped to keep him from slipping down quite so far every time he put his foot down into the loose material. He felt exhausted already, though he’d been climbing for less than an hour. Still, his progress so far had felt infuriatingly slow.

  Then, finally, the scree thinned and he found himself on nearly solid rock. He crested the ridge and craned his neck to get his first look at… more mountains?

  Bernt groaned and cursed. Below him lay a narrow, dead valley and on the far side, another ridge – taller than the one he’d just climbed. He’d known it wasn’t going to be as simple as crossing a single ridge, but he’d hoped that he would at least be able to see his destination. Fighting down his disappointment, he sat down to rest on a rock outcropping and drink some water. At least he had a beautiful view, even if it was awfully stark.

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  As he sipped on conjured water, he examined the valley below and the topography. He needed to find a good route down and back up the other side. Ideally, he needed to avoid dropping too far down and then crest the next ridge at the lowest possible point. There was no sense in climbing higher than he had to. That, and he wanted to avoid anything too… cliffy? Dwarves probably had a better word for it, but he wasn’t any kind of mountaineer. He’d brought a rope, sure, but he wasn’t planning to use it.

  After choking down another rock-hard biscuit to keep himself going, Bernt rose and began picking his way down the most likely path.

  At least he had good boots.

  It took only about twenty minutes to get down into the narrow valley, but his knees felt like jelly by the time he got there. He was almost glad to start climbing again. This time, it took him nearly twice as long to make it to the top. It was barely approaching noon as he scrambled up the last bit, but he was more than ready to call it a day.

  Preparing himself for the sight of yet another ridge beyond, Bernt rounded an outcropping to see what lay ahead. He stopped and stared at the sight, too tired and cold to feel anything but numbness.

  There was another ridge, sure enough. But the new ridge was, in a sense, the old ridge. From below, this had looked like the top, but he’d been tricked by his perspective. The ground leveled off for a while, but then began to slope up again sharply, to what Bernt could only hope was the true top of the Sunset Range here.

  Thunder rumbled in the distance and Bernt wondered for a moment if he needed to find shelter. But the ground here was as dry and dead as the valley behind him had been. Rain didn't fall here, and that wasn't going to change today.

  He sighed and repositioned his bag, slinging it over his other shoulder.

  Well, there was nothing for it. The only way forward was up.

  Bernt lost track of time as he ascended – he just put one foot in front of the other mechanically, trying not to think about how far he had to go. When he looked up, it looked like he’d barely even started, even though the ridge below looked as though it were already a league away. Still, he pushed on. His steps grew shorter the longer he went, and he found himself breathing hard from what should have been a modest physical effort. He stumbled and nearly fell on his face before it occurred to him that he wasn’t thinking straight.

  Groggily, he looked up, trying to find a good spot to sit and eat something. Maybe that would help. To his surprise, he saw only open sky. Slowly, his gaze drifted down, finally stopping at the top of the ridge. The steep mountain face had already leveled off somewhat, but Bernt had been too addled to notice. Light flashed in the distance, and his steps regained a little of their vigor as the land beyond the ridge finally came into view.

  A warm wind blasted him in the face, contrasting starkly with the thin, freezing air he’d been breathing just a moment before. He looked down onto a sea of clouds, roiling and flashing with lightning. Here and there a mountain peak broke through the roiling mass ahead but none were higher than where he stood now. Beyond it, the horizon was painted in a reddish orange – the same glow that illuminated these mountains from behind at night.

  Strangest of all to Bernt’s eyes though, was that the slope beneath him was alive.

  It wasn’t much, but grasses poked out of cracks in the rock, and what looked like patches of herbs grew in every crack that might contain a bit of soil on the slopes. It wasn’t much, but it was a drastic change from the dead landscape behind him. They weren’t plants native to the Phoenix Reaches, either. No, this was just ordinary grass. It was disorienting to find life up here of all places.

  Enjoying the warmer, somehow fuller air, Bernt hiked down a short distance to get out of the worst of the wind and sat down, gazing at the storm below. He wasn’t looking forward to hiking through that, but he’d made it. He was in the Phoenix Reaches.

  ***

  Jori shook off the uncomfortable sensation of being dragged between planes and glared at her summoners.

  “You’re late!”

  “Sorry,” Ed said, shouldering his bag and stepping toward her, “Emergency meeting at the castle. The King wants us to start sending scouting parties into the Depths to map out the Duergar borders. I had to argue with him to keep him from roping the Underkeepers into the effort – as if we didn’t have enough to do trying to keep thousands of desperate refugees from each others’ throats. Never mind the state of the sewers. Damned politicians. You solve one problem, and suddenly they come to you for every little thing!”

  “Ah,” Jori said. “Well, I guess you can get back to that, then.” She pulled a bag off her belt and turned it over, dumping its grisly contents out on the floor. It was a hand, long and thin with wicked claws. She picked it up and held it out. It was blackened and melty on the wrist end. “We got the hag already. I was waiting for your summon when she appeared, so Mal and I torched her before she could figure out what was happening. It was easy!”

  “Oh,” Ed said, visibly deflating at the news. “That’s… that’s great. Good work.”

  Iriala, who seemed much more pleased with this outcome, stepped forward and picked up the trophy with a handkerchief.

  “Excellent! Good work. And her thralls? What happened when she died?“

  Jori shook her head. “I don’t know yet. We killed the guards before she arrived. We’ll have to see what the other thralls do when they return to the hells themselves. I've got my imps watching. We'll see if we can recruit a few of them if they seem friendly. Maybe there will be a few imps!”

  The archmage nodded absently, still examining the hand. “You know, I don’t know that we’ve ever had demon parts directly from the hells before. It might be something of interest to the Alchemists' Guild. Do you think they're alchemically different from those of summoned demons who die here?”

  Jori shrugged. “Just make sure you document my contributions! I want everything in writing – Josie always told me to get everything in writing – and in triplicate! We can send a copy to her, and she can use it in my case so I can come back!”

  Both Ed and Iriala just stared at her for a moment, but then Iriala huffed out a dry laugh. “Very well. I’ll make a formal record and forward a copy to Teres. It’ll get back to Radast, but I suppose I don’t really care at this point.”