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ChapterOne
“My father is a goddamned sadist.”
The words were muffled by the woolen scarf I’d wrapped around the lower part of my face, but they nevertheless seemed to freeze briefly in the air. It was damnably cold and would undoubtedly get a whole lot worse, given we were only a third of the way through a decidedly insane eleven-miles-round-trip hike up Ben Nevis, Scotland’s tallest mountain.
In the winter.
In the fog and the rain and the occasional flurry of snow.
The figure immediately ahead of me chuckled. Like me, my brother was dressed from head to toe in waterproofs to keep out the weather, and multiple layers underneath to keep in the heat. He was also wearing a backpack filled with tea, water, and food. Strapped to the back of this was a black sword that, even though it was fully sheathed in a silver-coated leather scabbard, emanated dark fury.
It was the sole reason we were on this goddamn mountain.
We needed to safely get rid of the thing, and that meant handing it back to the old gods who’d made it.
Presuming, of course, said old gods were home and that one of them would deign to talk to me.
There was never any guarantee, because the old gods could be cranky old bitches and bastards at the best of times.
“You’ve got the ‘god’ part of that right,” Lugh said. “But I think the only sadist here is you. It was your idea to risk the climb on such a shitty day; no one else’s.”
Despite the fact the wind was at our backs and should have been snatching his words away from me, I could hear him quite clearly. I’d created a small “weather bubble” at the beginning of our climb, not only to ensure that we could hear each other, but also to keep the three of us out of the very worst of the weather. Maintaining it tugged at my strength, but it also made moving through the storm easier, so it basically evened out.
“True,” I replied, “but it wasn’t like we had any real choice.”
We’d already wasted two days waiting for the weather to clear, and the feeling that we were running out of time had grown so sharp, it felt like I was being knifed. I might have been a late bloomer when it came to second sight, but to date it had proven remarkably accurate. I didn’t dare ignore the warning.
Thankfully, we’d pre-arranged a guide to take us up to the summit, and while he hadn’t been too pleased about the prospect of a possible nine-hour trek in inclement weather, he’d also agreed that today was as good as it was likely to get for at least the next week. He’d charged us double for the inconvenience, of course. If there was one thing to be said about dwarves, it was that they never wasted an opportunity to make an extra buck.
But in this case, it was worth it. Holgan’s people had called this region home eons before it became a national park, and they made a good living escorting hikers up and down the mountains.
The zigzagging path changed direction again, and the wind’s ferocity briefly eased.
Holgan turned to face us. Unlike either Lugh or me, he wasn’t wrapped to the nines in waterproofs, ski masks, and scarves, although he did have an oilskin on. His thick red beard—which had been artfully platted—was tucked inside the coat, but his sodden red hair was plastered to his skull. He didn’t seem to care.
But then, his people did live under Stob Coire Easain, which was a “lesser” part of this mountain range, so he was no doubt used to these conditions. It wasn’t as if there was much in the way of public transport or even roads in that particular area.
“If you be needing a drink and something to eat,” he said, his voice seeming to come from somewhere near the vicinity of his boots, “it’s best you do so now. There’s not going to be much chance once we get onto the scree slopes.”
Lugh immediately tugged off his pack and retrieved the thermos and three chocolate bars. Holgan refused the latter, so I grabbed it. We’d had a full English breakfast at the pub we’d been staying at, but that was hours ago, and my stomach was getting to that grumbly stage. Besides, I’d no doubt need the energy boost once we hit the more open areas near the summit.
Lugh handed me a steaming mug of tea. I took a sip and then asked, “How much further to the top?”
Holgan shrugged. “Depends whether the conditions ease like they’re predicting or get worse. Either way, we can’t go too fast because we’ll run the risk of the wind pushing us into the gully.”
The wind would do no such thing, and I’d make sure of it. I wasn’t the daughter of a storm god for nothing. While my control of the weather could at best be described as minuscule right now, I was decidedly more proficient when it came to the wind.
Holgan accepted his mug with a nod, then added, “There’s going to be zero visibility on the summit.”
“There’s zero visibility right now,” I replied, “so that’s hardly a surprise.”
It didn’t really matter anyway, because we weren’t here for the views. While the summit held all the usual remnants of bygone eras—the remains of the meteorological observatory, a few memorials, and some cairns—it was also, according to Beira—who was a hag and one of the aforementioned cranky old goddesses—a confluence. Which in dictionary terms meant a meeting or gathering point, but in this instance meant a gateway junction between heaven and earth.
Apparently, such gateways rarely opened for humans or any of the other races that still inhabited our modern world, such as elves, dwarves, shifters, and the like, and Beira had no idea whether it would open for me, despite the fact my father was a minor storm god.
Or, indeed, what would happen if itdid.
“Then what’s the reason for this insanity?” Holgan said. “Is it the sword on the wee lad’s back then?”
