They clambered over rocks and brush, levied each other over sharp ridges, waded through inches of powder snow, all while the song continued. They were gasping in the cold. The air here was much thinner, and if not for the Druid's protection, they would have long fainted from altitude sickness.
A shadow passed over them as they entered the final leg of the route. A section of the crag had fallen above the path, forming a small cave that wound the rest of the way to the other side. Sprigs of frostweed lined the walls, creeping to the dregs of daylight that pooled in the corners of the passage. Calden spoke a word and a flame burst to life in the air next to his head, lighting their path. The song grew muffled above them, covered out by the clanging of armor and clinking of swords in their sheaths.
When they emerged into the roiling snowstorm at the mountaintop, the path had fallen away, plunging into a drop on either side. Above the clouds, they stood atop a swirling sea of white. A narrow stretch led to a plateau with a final ridge. Now, the song was as sharp and clear as smashing ice, piercing through the air, rolling off the mountain in quivering crests and troughs.
"There she is," Jon shouted. "Chained in front of the crag."
"Where?" Lywin lowered his visor to keep the snow from his eyes. His armor rattled in his ears.
"Over there."
Jon pointed, and Lywin saw a slight figure sitting on the ground: a girl on the border of adulthood, her long, dark hair whipping in the wind, obscured by the grey haze of the snowstorm. He took a step forward, but Calden stopped him.
"Be careful," he said. "We don't know where the relict is. It could come at any moment."
Lywin nodded and drew his sword. The fiery Valengold flashed defiantly against the cold wind. Slowly, one step at a time, he approached the Summit of the World.
The wind seemed to grow angrier as he traversed the path, threatening to pick him up and hurl him into the clouds. He crouched low, crawling his way forward on all fours, never looking down, never looking back. He heard the grunts and curses of his men behind him as they stayed close behind.
The girl wore a threadbare robe, the type a simple serving girl would wear, and she was barefoot. Her hair was midnight black, her eyes ice-blue, and her skin flaking in the snow. The song spilled from her lips, heavy with spirit and magic. It warmed her in the storm, staved off the cold.
"She's practically naked," Damon shouted. "How has she not frozen dead?"
The girl jerked upright, the glaze in her eyes disappearing. She saw them and stumbled to her feet, but fell over. Lywin realized she was chained to a stone in the ground, bound by a black manacle that had rubbed her skin raw.
"Hang on," he cried. "We're coming!"
She shook her head, hair lashing across her face, desperately waving her hands. As Lywin and the rest of the men moved onto the plateau, she backed away to the rock behind her.
"Don't come any nearer," she cried. "Go back! Go back while you still can!"
The song broke to a halt, its spell shattered for a brief instant. The mountain trembled.
"Damon," Lywin yelled, ignoring her. "Help me break this chain!"
He brought the Valengold blade down as hard as he could. The sound of steel rang clear atop the summit, but the chain held. Damon stopped next to him, his axe ready.
"Go away!" the girl pleaded again. "Before it's too late!"
Her voice was as hoarse as sandpaper. How long had she been alone in the cold? She was young, the age his son would be if he were alive. Anger boiled through Lywin at the people of Darmith, at the relict that lived atop the mountain, and at the mountain itself. No person deserved such a fate.
"Hold still," he said. "We'll have you freed before it comes back."
The girl shook her head. "No," she exhaled. "It's already here. It was always here."
The mountain shook again. The stone structure behind the girl trembled.
"Hurry up," Lywin cried, "or the mountain will come down upon us!" He chopped at the chain again, but no one helped him. He looked around for Damon and the others, confused. "Come on, what are you all doing—"
The rest of his men were standing still behind him, looking past his shoulder. Frowning, Lywin turned around.
The ridge shifted slowly, groaning, snow spilling off its sides and to the ground below. One giant coated leg emerged and then another. Two blood-red eyes opened, each as big as a horse, peering about the mountaintop as it reared its head towards the sky, revealing its yellowed teeth. The creature growled and shook itself—snow falling off its silver pelt in great chunks, churning into a makeshift blizzard. The mountain quaked, sending everyone to their knees.
Below them, rocks and ice crashed to the base of the mountain.
"Val save us," Lywin said, craning his neck up and up, trying to assess the sheer enormity of the beast. He had never seen anything so big. It dwarfed the tallest buildings in Aldaros, stretched across the mountaintop, rose almost as high as Antony Keep.
It was Fenrir The World-Devourer—A child of Ash'ar, an old relict, a survivor of the War of the Centuries and the Age of Gods.
Down by its feet, Lywin saw the fetters that bound it—a gossamer thread of a million colors that tightened as Fenrir roared, preventing it from standing. Even so, its maw could swallow them all; it could swallow the sun if it wanted to, if it somehow found a way to stand.
The black-haired girl cried, lurching until her chains stretched taut. Lywin shivered as the World-Devourer took a breathe, the earth quaking, the men thrown onto their knees. The mountain tore, the clouds fell away, and the blizzard held itself for a moment.
Fenrir the World-Devourer had awoken once again.