The Weeping Mountains, blazing glossy black with hues of yellow and crystalline in the moonlight.
Even after all these weeks, the sight of it still sent shivers.
Centuries of windblown dirt had pocked and scoured it, covering it like a film, and from the distance it often seemed a pale obsidian grey, the color of an overcast sky … but when the sun caught it fair on a bright day, it shone, alive with light, seven colossal glossy obsidian mountains that filled up half the sky.
Only mount Coalin– Where the ice queen sat, and the Serpent's Jaw were known to be larger than the sprawling weeping mountains.
The air grew heavy, pregnant with moisture, as dark clouds gathered overhead.
A few hesitant droplets broke the silence, tapping lightly against the earth.
Then, like a gentle whisper, the rain began to fall, at first in scattered drops, then steadily gaining momentum.
Each raindrop danced as it made contact, creating a soothing rhythm that echoed through the surroundings.
The drops slid down the slope of two mountains and gathered at the bottom of the valley of mourning, bathing a long line of miserable slaves. The scent of wet earth mingled with the crispness of rain, enveloping everything in an oppressive atmosphere.
A dull ache radiated through Artam's body as he shivered from the cold.
His ragged cloth was useless against the biting wind and downpour.
Clothed in chiton and the remains of stolen sandals, nothing was stopping the cold from chipping away at his already sapped strength.
His wrists were the main source of agony; badly hurt by the iron shackles, they sent a sharp pang of pain every time the freezing metal touched his broken skin.
'A puddle.' There was his reflection, blurred amidst the ripples, and he forgot himself in that gaze. It had been so long since he last saw who he was… what he was.
All he saw was an easily forgotten face, an unimpressive face you could find in a crowd.
Gray pupils peered out from under a lank fall of dark hair that was relatively messy and tousled.
His slim and lanky body had seen better days, and some would say he was slightly below average height.
Bags had wedged themselves under his eyes from so many nights spent with short sleep; his wounds from so long ago were dry cracks, and their dull shades tightened his pale skin.
He shivered, he had always hated his reflection. A behavior that made him seem queer to the rest.
Well, a queer appearance deserved a queer personality to match, did it not?
'I didn't think this was how I'd spend my sixteenth yearday.'
Indeed, Artam had always had it worse, but trekking miles and miles, shackled and already half-dead, was a new kind of worse. A voice snapped him out of his train of thought.
"Hey, you there, you with the ominous eyes."
A young man around the age of 20 stopped his horse a few steps back. Boy and horse alike wore gilded mail and enameled crimson plate, with matching golden flaming lions on their heads.
The pale moonlight flashed off the gold and red every time he moved.
'Bright and shining,' Artam thought.
The boy looked down, and Artam got a better glimpse of his face.
His hair was a golden-red color, curly too, with flashing golden eyes and a smile that cut like a knife.
The young man was very handsome and regal-looking.
Artam found it difficult to look away from him. 'Someone important? Maybe a prince.'
"So, is it true you can skinwalk with those eyes?" the boy asked.
Confused, Artam was at a loss for words. He bowed to greet the nobleman before speaking, "Your grace, I—"
Then a whip cracked in the air, and suddenly Artam was thrown into a sea of pain. He stumbled, pulling on the chain.
"Get away from the prince, you filth!" he heard a soldier say.
"Prince Raedas, are you alright?" he heard another say, this one a bit familiar.
"That damned cursed bastard caused trouble again," he heard his fellow slaves mutter.
Still reeling from the pain, Artam glared at the first soldier. That move seemed to piss the soldier off even more.
Tightening his grip on the whip, he spat, "Filthy damned! It seems the last lashing wasn't enough."
The whip cracked in the air a second time and would have sent Artam into another realm of pain again.
"Enough!" the prince voiced with authority, and the whip missed Artam, striking just shy of his feet.
"I was talking to the slave! I never asked you to intervene, Captain Kaloc. And the next time you act without orders will be the last time your mundane-haired body wears that suit, understood?"
Meekly, the captain answered, "Yes, my prince."
Throwing a disgusted look over his shoulder, the prince ordered,
"Now get out of my sight!" Lowering his head, Captain Kaloc rode his horse higher up the line of slaves, but not before throwing a contemptuous glare at Artam.
'Oh, for heroes' sake,' Artam thought.
The prince turned his horse to address his guards, "Now, Father sent me here to gain a little experience handling slaves, not so you can babysit me. If I need your assistance, I'll call for you."
'What an arrogant guy,' Artam thought. Prince Raedas gave Artam a curious and aloof gaze before riding to another section of the line of slaves. Artam could hear the young prince give orders.
But then a hoarse voice caught his attention. "For one so young to suffer, what an unfortunate soul." Artam turned to see the owner of the voice, a weathered and frail old man.
"Oh, great Amarak! One wonders what you did in your past life to suffer like this." The man's eyes seemed more brown than yellow, and his hair was spattered with splotches of white and gray.
"Not so unfortunate, it seems, because he met me."
'Another voice.' The owner of this voice looked younger than the first man, though a tad bit older.
"And who are you supposed to be?" the first man whispered.
The second man answered with much enthusiasm, "I'm Hesophycus the Great, and I've lived longer than anyone in the world."
"Are you saying you're immortal?"
"Exactly!"
But Artam wasn't buying whatever the hell he was saying, and neither was the first man.
"Oh really? Well, Hesophycus, why haven't I heard your name in folk songs? Also, forgive my poor mind, but I doubt you are older than King Guluny. Isn't that so?" he posed with much sarcasm.
"Well, I'm pretty sure I'm older than that runt."
'Calling the king a runt? That's blasphemy and punishable by death,' thought Artam.
"Oh really, then why are you chained and trekking the treacherous mountains like us slaves, when his kingship is ruling the oldest empire in all the realm?" Artam asked.
"Because I would rather not rule any kingdom. You might not understand this, young lad, but it's extremely tasking and saddening to rule while watching everyone wither and die," said the man.
"Also, I mocked the Lord of Caer while performing as a jester in a tavern in the very same city. That's why I'm chained," he said with a sheepish grin.
Artam sighed and stopped conversing with the two old men, while the two old men continued their bickering.
The line of slaves slowly dragged through the valley, with more and more slaves stumbling and periodically falling to the ground.
More often than not, those who could not walk anymore were taken off the chain and unceremoniously had their necks sliced open, their corpses bleeding out, and left for the beasts of the wild to feed on.
Artam watched their fallen corpses with a bit of empathy.
"Poor fellows. Rest easy, you pitiful souls, for your quest has ended," chimed Hesophycus. Artam paid him no attention.
Soon the rain increased its tempo, and the water level was rising steadily to their knees, making it nigh impossible to cross the valley. Someone, probably a high-ranking officer, gave an order from the front, and the chain of slaves came to a halt.
Then another order was issued, throwing the slaves into another oppressive mood. Artam shivered and sneezed.
They were going to scale the mountain.