“I expected better of you, Kill.”
Meaning, he didn’t expect to have to fight at all. He’s good with a bow and decent in a fight, but monsters rattle him. They rattle everyone. Even me, not that I let it show.
Ironic that he’s set himself up as the defender of Belterre against the influx of monsters.
“You’re alive, aren’t you?”
I sling the shield onto my back, check the quiver at my hip to ensure I haven’t crushed my supply of arrows, and heft my axe once more. I’m covered in offal and blood, but there’s nothing to be done about the fact that I smell like a charnel house.
“Keep moving. We have a distance to go yet.”
I’m not optimistic about our chances of making it to that castle before nightfall.
“Wait.” Alistair wipes his blade clean and sheathes it. “I want to try something.”
He rummages in the pack, wraps a thick stick in a twist of linen, strikes flint until it catches, and raises his makeshift torchto the rapidly spreading vines. Once singed, it stops sending shoots and turns brown.
“Good idea,” I admit begrudgingly. “Let’s keep moving.”
“How close are we?”
“Not very.”
Having made it through the thick barrier of vines, it’s time to begin our proper ascent, up a nearly sheer wall. I point to the top.
“We need to use this”—I toss him a severed vine—“to climb up that.”
“I’d have worn better clothes if I knew we were going to be mountain climbing.”
“Did you think this was going to be a walk in a park?”
“No. But I did think you’d have matters in hand.”
“I do.” Gripping the vine, I lean back to test its strength. I’m a large man, and while my armor is as lightweight as it is strong, my weapons are heavy steel. “Not my fault you dressed like a prat.”
Alistair’s blue velvet sleeve rips at the seam.
“Why did you wear such a ridiculous outfit, anyway?” I ask, eyeing his peacock-blue and gold-trimmed jacket. The white pants are marred with stains, and his gleaming boots’ polish was scuffed off miles ago.
“She’s expecting a prince when she awakens,” he says as loftily as a man can when dangling ten feet off the ground, with his feet braced on a sheer cliff. “A prince she shall have.”
I snort. “How do you know she’s expecting anything? According to the history books, she was poisoned at her own betrothal ball.”
For all we know, the lady’s been dead for a hundred years. Alistair’s great-great-grandfather claimed she was asleep when he laid her to rest in this monstrosity of a castle, and had lain unchanged in a glass coffin. But given the royal family’s penchant for deception and intrigue, I won’t be surprised if we get to the top and find a skeleton inside.
Pissed, but not surprised.
“You aren’t entirely illiterate, then.” Alistair grunts. “I had wondered.”
“With all due respect, fuck all the way off, Your Highness.”
Alistair’s half-grin tells me my insult has been received the way it was intended.
We spend the next several minutes huffing and straining our way up the sheer cliff face while I mull the ways in which his marriage will change our friendship, when it happens. We’ll never be free to go on adventures like this together again. His pampered arse will be glued to that throne while his queen pops out a litter of heirs.
I understand why he wanted this misadventure before he settles into his predestined role. As much as I hate it here, I can’t shake the disturbing sense that this is our final escapade together. A bittersweet tang of nostalgia already hangs over Thorn Mountain and its mysterious castle.
The stone is so pale it glows almost white in the strong afternoon sun. Now that we’re above the thicket of vines, it beats mercilessly upon our backs.
