Whoever the Lord of Skies was dispersed the storm.
Clouds parted, revealing a bright white-blue moon, stars glimmered, a ice almost sparkled along the cliffsides.
Cold as it was, his heart raced, Hardok's breath so close he could smell it.
There were far worse stenches, namely one so far south in a wretch filled wetland. The ironite clad dragon, so massive it wings blotted out part of the moon, snarled down at them. A few hundred meters off they were, yet closer than before it felt to be.
"Well," Leon said, drawing a heavy spear. "I'm the quickest of us. Perhaps I-."
"No," Al said, dragging up Paul. "You are the fastest, all the more reason you need to draw his attention."
Curious, Leon asked, "Now what would be the reasoning in that? I could probably reach his tail in less than half the time either of you could."
"You won't tire as quickly, and you're less likely to be struck," Al explained, Hardok's growls making icicles fall. Then she pointed at him. "He's the strongest of us here, it'll be easier for him to get strip anything off."
"And, you'll have me with you!" Paul laughed, slipping away from Al. "Come my friend!"
"The fuck are you doing?" He growled.
"Go," Leon said hastily, "The Elder and I'll give you your time."
He readied his hammer, and she tightened her waist belt.
They crept behind Paul and Leon for a moment, then separated as the two hurried up farther along the trail. Opposite way was a cliff, something no living man or woman in their right mind would dare think to climb. Soulless wretches however had a much higher tolerance for all things deathly, and as fire rained from above, they slid against the frigid cliff face.
Paul laughed, screaming like a drunken pig.
Leon cursed, every word in the unholy Book of the Lords, whether at the old man or Hardok it was difficult to tell.
They were so far along the cliffs, just a sliver of rock for them to slide against while grasping whatever they could, the trails were out of sight. Safety was well over a hundred meters round the other side.
He dared not look down.
Plenty of time he'd fallen to his death, the very same mountain, a horde of dragonborne, dozens at a time. His flail, how he missed it, a weapon blessed to him by the death god. It was so easy to break their necks, and Hardok would've fallen no different, ironite or not.
Though when looking straight forward, dark clouds greeting him, or pressing his face against rocks, kissing icy stone, emptiness gripped him. Not of sorrow, but of uncertainty.
He didn't like being on uneven ground, so high up, and he started panting.
"You're doing fine," Al said, grasping his palm.
Sweat soaking him down to his frozen toes, he nodded.
Gusts swooped overhead.
They held tight, Hardok's tail swinging above.
"There!" He whispered, reaching up.
It was a slow climb, one slippery rock for every grasp or step.
Even Al began to doubt they'd reach the top, nothing but ice and packed snow on what would've been solid ground for grasping.
Paul was still howling.
Impossible.
It felt to be endless minutes, maybe even an our in his mind, yet there was no doubt the Elder was still alive.
Paul cried, "Yield ya' bastard! In the name of the-."
Flames engulfed the summit.
Then silence.
When they shifted to the side, gaining on easier ground, a burnt corpse fell inches behind them. They looked down, Paul's blackened smokey body becoming a dark dot disappearing into the darkness.
Light shined, Hardok's gaze almost blinding.
Al cursed, drawing her scimitar.
He readied his hammer, the dragon leaning closer.
Down against the cliffs, Hardok's jaws were almost within arm's reach of them. The dragon smiled, taunting them, a breath hotter than a thousand furnaces.
"Very clever," Hardok hissed, a long scalding black tongue steaming the mountain side, "though I expected more. You, slayer of the White Ri-."
Roars shook them off the cliffs, Al trying to reach for him.
He reached back, and they slipped. Rocks fell round them, as they reached for anything to grab hold, though they were gaining speed.
Upon a jagged ledge, just a few paces wide, he landed, bashing his head open.
Al loosed arrows, as many as she could, then screamed. All the way down her cries made his spine shiver, until darkness consumed her.
He cursed, looking up at Hardok, who wailed.
They dragon whipped around, and he saw chunks of missing ironite. A few steps back, and the dragon slipped, regaining balance. Hardok then took to the air, boulders rolling towards him.
Fire rose atop the summit, everything engulfed in waves of fire overflowing on all sides.
Several boulders fell right beside him.
One crushed his skull, splattering him, and darkness came in an instant.
No memories. No white walls, alarms, 'Babe', or a sweet taste of rum. Just a soothing warmth it was over, though he heard a familiar voice taunting him.
'Leave this place…wretched soulless…thou art a fool, foul sleepless husk of the fallen lord…'
The hut was cold.
Even with Al, up before him, kindling the fire, it was nothing compared to the great dragon's fire.
She turned back to him with a forced grin.
After getting up, rubbing his forehead at the slightest gust of wind, he joined her side, putting his arms around her.
"Was a brilliant idea," he said, raising a hand to the fire.
She sighed, "I appreciate it, but you saw what happened out there."
"Aye!" He said, ruffling her shoulder with his free hand. "So Hardok's missing a chunk of fine mithril forged iron!"
"Is he?" She asked, raising her voice. "Did you see?"
He nodded. "Right before a rock the size of a steed crushed my skull like a tomato, must've been Leon. The dragon's tail's exposed."
A knock at the door was followed by Paul's voice.
"He did it! He retrieved the ironite, plenty of it!"
"Is he awake?" Al asked, making her way to the door.
Paul kicked snow off his boots, making his way inside. "Indeed! He made for Dresmund first thing, and he's awaiting your input as to what ought be forged."
She looked at him, then her quiver.
He admitted outright, without the Elfstone's arrows in the Burning Lands, many of their battles against the dragonborne would've been difficult, if not lost.
"Especially one powerful as him," he said, looking at the glowing summit. "We got plenty of heavy hitters. We need a ranger."
Al wasn't as thrilled as he expected.
Even Paul touched her hand. "My dear you mustn't be so hesitant, not after how far you've made it. Look to our friends, the brutes Eric and our Hero of the Swamp, what perseverance can achieve in defying the odds."
"It's not that I'm nervous, it's just," she said, rubbing her bow arm, "I can't miss to many times."
"Hmm," Paul said, touching the pipe on his belt. "Then you'll be more cautious. It'll help you shoot straighter."
"Aye," he agreed, lightly grabbing her shoulders. "We'll hold him steady. You just trust your eyes and nothing more."
"Right," she agreed, taking his hand in hers.
Paul stumbled out, desperate for some crispy bacon and a good ale.
They kissed, tore of their clothes, then fucked by the fire until noon. She rode atop him, digging her nails into his chest. She moaned, so loud he believed all the village was sure to have heard, but it mattered not.
They were so close, returning to the mainlands, returning to the Embers.
And, returning to Eldreth, where the bitch of the First Sword was waging a war against the kingdom.
"There wasn't much in the letter," Paul explained, walking with them to Dresmund's hut, beneath a clear sky. "Just a word of caution, for any travelers who made the journey beyond the mountains. What few of us do anyway."
"Who returns your birds?" Al asked, Dresmund waving from his steaming huts doorway.
"A young innkeeper within a town known as, Draynsville. She's rather helpful to traveling adventurers, even us soulless lot," Paul said, the trio entering the smokey hut. "Though she is cautious, given our 'treacherous' nature, exchanging notes only so often."
Focus, he told himself, biting his own tongue.
Much as he wanted to see the innkeepers bright face, and the ale and the chickens which would follow soon after, there was a champion above awaiting them.
Dresmund cleared smoke, waving a large fan with the language of the eastern lands inscribed on it.
"Gift from a traveler," Dresmund said, putting the fan down. "Believe he called himself a blood sword? Anyway, here are your arrows, crafted 'specially for slaying dragons."
Al was lost for words.
Leon handed her a massive bow, forged of ironite, with twine strung of the same metal as well. It was tall as she was, and, though it would've been hard for her to draw even before falling to Quarrath, her muscles appeared even wrapped in leather. She tug at the oil doused string, ringing it a few time with a smile.
Along the wall, twenty-five arrows rested. Large as javelins, ironite tips, they were razor with a spiral all the way to the tip. Shafts feathered with black feathers, it was all the star forged metal, one end to another. Dresmund handed her a quiver, carved from roots and bark of the great redwell tree.
"Amazing," she said, wiping her eyes.
As she placed the arrows in her quiver, Dresmund tapped his shoulder.
"There was little enough left for you, good friend," the smith said, approaching a thick cover covered towering weapon. "Leon went to Eric first, though the lad was content with his own weapons."
Leon put a hand on his shoulder. "I believe you're familiar with such tools."
Dresmund slung off the cover, and a black iron hilt rested against the wall.
A chain coiled beside the hilt, at least ten meters or so. At the end of the chain was a hundred-kilogram hunk of ironite, spikes sticking out, dozens round, gleaming from the furnace flames.
Fingers around the hilt, he lifted it with moderate struggle.
'Still not strong enough. But it'll do.'
A wide smile on his face, tears of joy ran down his cheek.