He walked in a world of salt and fire.

  Sweat dripped from his nose, splashing harmlessly onto the uneven steps carved into the mountain itself. It traced rivulets through the white lines of long dry salt that marred his face, and stung his eyes no matter how he blinked to clear them.

  His legs were burning, his lungs aflame, but still he soldiered on. Rafael Forger had spent far too long and given far too much to give up now. A thousand thousand steps he had climbed, and now he teetered on the precipice.

  ‘The Unconquered Peak’ his people had called it, visible from the outskirts of Ir Arlathen. They were not an easy people to awe, either, having lived in the shade of Illyn Solynia for many generations, making a home of her roots and spires from her boughs.

  Despite that, he was the first of his generation to reach so high. None had even attempted the climb save the heroes from legend. Rafael would count himself among that number soon, though.

  He'd always been special, and once he returned to Ir Arlathen's dappled meadows with the wisdom of The Unconquered Peak in his heart, all would finally recognise his potential. He thought of Sindris' gentle smile, and the dimples that he has spent so many days and nights snatching glances at from a distance.

  Just a few more steps.

  He emerged onto a plateau, and soon the world opened up. No longer was it obscured behind an impenetrable fog bank. No, now he saw a world of wonder.

  Peaks and troughs, split stone piercing the white mists to rise high into the golden sky above in great buttes, the clear sun blessing them with warmth. Lizards scuttled across rocks to disappear beneath luscious, verdant undergrowth, while beautiful trees full of multicoloured blossoms clung with determination to the uneven spires.

  Once his breathing had finally evened out, he stood from his hunched position to look over the landscape emerging before him and once more felt his breath leave his body leave his body. Not from days of exertion and greedy muscles sucking away all his air, but from the shock of people. People!

  What were they doing here? Not one or two, but dozens, no; hundreds. They gallivanted around the uneven peaks, chasing one another over rough terrain with whoops and hollers and visible joy. He blinked as he caught sight of two old men flitting through the sky, literally running through the air, while a third with wings of woven starlight pursued them.

  Three buttes over, a small collection of men and women practiced forms in the gleaming sun; spear, sword, and other more obscure weapons flashing in the light. A barked command and they abruptly broke away, sharing smiles and words of comfort as they surrounded a pale of water, dipping cups and exchanging laughter as they rested. Nearby, a group of old men and women cooed and played with swaddled babes, caring for the youngsters with obvious affection.

  Rafael couldn’t believe his eyes. For days he had hiked, hundreds of miles passing beneath his steady gait. He had climbed for untold hours without surcease, and it had taken him nearly two decades to build the stamina and strength to complete an undertaking of this magnitude. Now that he had arrived, he saw ancient elders and babies still in need of swaddling. How had they made it up here?

  And more importantly, why? Surely, they were not here for the same reason as him; to seek the wisdom of the ancients that resided on The Unconquered Peak? The Guardian of the Mountains was a literal legend, said to have bested a hundred would-be conquerors in their day and had a hundred other names and deeds besides.

  Rafael knew well of powerful forces. How could he not when living within the verdant groves of Ir Arlathen itself? Illyn Solynia stood above all, but she guarded her secrets and treasures well. So it had always been, according to their elders. Rafael had been taught well as a boy, and he knew that nobody rose to power by sharing it.

  No, the powerful were jealous. They clutched to what they had, and only offered a hand down to those they thought would benefit them. That is why it had taken so long for him to embark upon this quest – only once he knew that he was willing to risk the price he was sure would be asked of him had he decided to pursue greatness.

  But here these useless people were, smiling at the top of the world and playing around like it was all a game. Like they had nothing to fear, and no reason to be grateful. Although…perhaps that wasn’t quite right. He saw cheer and joy wherever he looked, but that did not necessarily mean they were ungrateful.

  He hoped so, in any case. To be given leave to live and train on The Unconquered Peak would surely require the largesse of its guardian, and that was a rare and valuable thing to obtain.

  He was startled from his musings by a soft voice spoken from close behind him.

  “Welcome.”

  He jerked round, searching out the owner of that calm voice, before his eyes alighted on a serene man, sitting cross-legged on a nearby rock beneath the shade of an orange blossom tree. He stared for a few moments at the man, his presence strange. Had he been so still that Rafael hadn’t noticed him? Or was there some sort of aura at work here to disguise his existence.

  He took in the man’s appearance – bronze skin weathered by sun and rain, long hair braided on one side and left to hang loose on the other, neat but no particular order imposed upon it. He sat with composure, arms folded in his lap and simple smile on his face. Content, if a single word was to be used.

  “Who are you?” Rafael asked, not wanting to be rude, but unsure how to address the strange man sunning himself on a rock like a particularly unbothered lizard.

  If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  The man just smiled wider. “Guess,” he replied, infuriatingly.

  Rafael strained out with his spiritual sense but could detect nothing from the man beside him. The people playing and training further out shone like lighthouses in storm-wracked seas, but this stranger seemed to blend in with the spiritual ocean. As if of the world itself, rather than apart from it.

  Rafael then noticed the red-lacquered haft of a long spear propped against the man’s shoulder, the ice-blue head jagged and dripping a pattern of softly pulsing light down the haft, shaped like spiralling leaves. He then took in the lean muscle and faint scars wrapping his arms, and his eyes widened.

  “Forgive me,” he stammered out, as he dropped to his knees. The impact was brutal, stone bruising his worn knees. He lacked the strength to slow himself properly after such a harrowing climb, but a skinned knee was the last thing from his mind as he beheld the legend he had been searching for.

  “There is nothing to forgive, lad,” the stranger said, soft voice reaching out towards him as if an arm extended in support.

  Rafael drew strength from the words and looked up to meet the man’s gaze. It was calm, just as before, faint laugh lines crinkling the corners of his eyes as he spoke once more.

  “You asked who I am. I am Husband, Father, Uncle, and occasionally ‘Old Git’. I am many things to many people. You’ll have to be more specific.”

  A riddle then. Rafael held back a sigh. It was expected, and he was well used to the elders speaking in such a way to him and his generation, but he had come here for answers, not questions. Still, perhaps it was simply a test of patience, and there was no need to get off on the wrong foot.

  He thought for a moment. “Are you the Guardian of the Mountains? The one who claims The Unconquered Peak?”

  The man cocked his head to one side slowly, humming to himself for a moment, before speaking again. “Some call me that, aye, though I do not count it among my many names, and I can assure you that nobody holds dominion over this peak, save for the birds and the insects, perhaps.”

  He paused to take in the words, mull them over and ensure he was not misunderstanding in his haste. Songbirds whistled and chirped in the background, the noise lyrical and melodic, but he paid it no mind. Was this perhaps a disciple rather than the master he sought? But then the stranger had not denied it…best to assume status rather than the reverse when unsure, as his aunt had reminded him many a time.

  He tried again. “What is your name?” he asked, trying to match the even, unhurried tone of the man on the rock.

  “I have many names,” the stranger said. “Some I have taken for myself; World-Walker, Surefoot, The Ram Whose Horns Breach The Sky. In my youth I had pretentions on Shield-Shaker and the Fell-Handed. Red names for red deeds. But time has changed me, and experience has written its ballad across my body as surely as it does to all.

  “I have had many friends, too, and they have gifted me names of an entirely different calibre; Lamb Chop, Lamb Shank, Lambikins, The Gallant Goat. Names given in jest, I suppose, though true enough all the same.”

  Rafael fought heroically to keep his eyebrows still where they rested. The man’s warrior-like appearance and lack of aura had initially convinced him he was dealing with a true power, but the doubts were adding up. No powerhouse would allow themselves to be denigrated in such a way, even by a friend, surely?

  Still, better to not show his concerns openly just yet. There could still be wisdom to gain here. After all, he had heard of the Ram of Broken Skies, and that was a reputation that warranted a second look, even if things did not look promising just yet.

  He quested out once more with his spiritual senses, digging deeper beneath the plain exterior that the man projected out into the spiritual sea. He caught a brief flash of something, flickering and thin, akin to a second realm acolyte within The Order of Verdant Blades. Impressive, for sure, and stronger than Rafael was himself, but only marginally so. Far from the power of The Ram’s legend that he claimed.

  He felt a stirring of anger bubble within him at the thought of an unworthy imposter trying to claim such lofty heights but forced the feeling down. Much more likely he was meeting a young disciple playing a joke on the newest climber come seeking glory and power. In some senses, that was a good sign. If the true master was permissive of such jests, that spoke well to their tolerance.

  Still, imitating a Great Power was not done, in jest or otherwise, without ramifications. He would follow along with the man’s delusions for now, but he could use this lack of discretion later as leverage. He was also quietly confident that he could show his worth as greater than the jester sitting by his side, wasting his days in leisure rather than training. Rafael decided to play along though, entertaining the possibility he was wrong, even if he privately doubted it.

  The stranger carried on, blissfully unaware of his doubts. “You might be familiar with some of the more recent names: Keeper Of The Grove, The Monk Atop The World, The Unfettered Wind, or perhaps ‘Wielder Of Resolution’? That last one has managed to last the centuries for some reason, though I have never quite understood why.”

  Rafael frowned. Ir Arlathen’s reach was not endless, but their libraries were vast and captured much of the history of Tsanderos within, at least of the current era. He had studied many of the greats that came before, and even more vociferously absorbed the stories of those legends still striding the continent, intent on joining their number one day, but he was not aware of any such names.

  ‘Resolution’ did stand out for some reason, and he recalled a fable his mother had sung to him when he was young and stricken with illness for those long years of his childhood. How had it gone? Something about the hunt for a lost weapon, and Syldred Dark-Strider – another legendary name from among his own Order – taking up a quest from one of the Subakir themselves. It was an old nursery rhyme though, sung to his own mother as a child, from what she had told him.

  How a middling disciple would know of his people’s close-kept and obscure cultural touchstones, he had no idea. He looked again at the man’s pleasant face, seeing no resemblance to any son of Arlathen. He searched again with his spiritual sense, pitting the full force of his will again the man’s subtle veil, hoping to peak behind it once again.

  After a few moments, the stranger cocked his head. “No patience in the young anymore, is there?” he said, seemingly to himself, and then the veil dropped.

  It was only for a few heartbeats, but in that short time, Rafael saw the truth. The roiling waves of the spiritual sea were as nothing to the beacon of power he glimpsed. Like a lodestone dropped in a river of iron filings, the very sea itself seemed to warp around his presence, moulding itself to the man’s shape.

  The veil slipped back on once more, and the man shrugged before carrying on with his tale, ignoring Rafael’s bowed head and heavy breathing.

  “I have wandered with Truth's Favoured Son and traded barbs – and more – with The Axe In The Night,” the stranger said. A fond smile graced his features at that, and he glanced behind himself for a moment, though to what Rafael could not tell.

  “I have learned from Progress herself, and witnessed the rise and fall of many names and legends throughout my long life…but before all of that; before I had titles and names and deeds a plenty, before all that history has proclaimed me to be, I was just a lost man, taught by The Shepherd, and The Burning One.”

  The man looked over Rafael’s shoulder, eyes distant and fixed on something beyond the horizon, as if he was looking through time itself. His smile was softer in that moment, a touch wistful.

  “You asked for my name, and so I shall give you my oldest and most treasured one; I am Lamb.”