Chapter 49

Balefor, Pyre, and Marrowsven moved carefully through the Farbound Delegation’s claimfield, which was less a marked territory and more a deliberate scattering of presence with their reflective banners fixed to jutting stone, a constant reminder that this area was spoken for.

Large formations of stone rose at uneven intervals, some shaped like broken spires, others like shattered hulls of ships lodged upright in the dark. The ground here felt more stable than the shifting fragments they had crossed before, but that did little to ease Pyre’s mind as they continued on, through bits of floating gravel and stone intercut by wisps of light.

“How Veylan charts any of this is beyond me,” Balefor said as he scanned the ridgelines. “But I suppose if he really was some sort of scholar or navigator in his past life, it would make sense.”

“We’re still new to this,” Marrowsven reminded him as they came to another Farbound Delegation banner.

“How far do you think their claimfield stretches?” Pyre asked, peering ahead toward yet another banner planted against a slab of rock.

“No telling,” Balefor said. “But you said the Butcher’s Court is up next.”

“Yes. If things didn’t get rearranged,” Pyre said. “I’m still not certain how we ended up where we ended up. “Do you think the Unmoored are looking for us?”

“Hard to say,” Balefor told him. “They were somewhat charged with keeping us safe. Although that was never specifically stated.” He smirked. “Who am I kidding? The only one that would care is likely Sura.”

“They may have been displaced as well,” Marrowsven said.

“A warning would have been nice,” Balefor said, “but I’m going to go out on a limb here and say that this is the way things work out here.”

They crossed more of the Deep Nether until they came to a landmass that looked like it would be impossible to travel around.

Pyre looked up at the vast wall of jagged stone, an escarpment carved as though by some ancient, violent tide, the rock boring grooves and channels. It loomed high and uneven, its face broken by shallow ledges and jutting protrusions.

Marrowsven did not hesitate.

She moved toward it, placed her hands against the stone, and began climbing as though gravity were an afterthought. Her claws found purchase in cracks Pyre could barely see. In moments she was halfway up, then nearly at the crest.

“Look at her go,” Balefor said, squinting with one eye to the top. “Yeah. I think I can make the jump. What about you?”

“I don’t know,” Pyre said.

“Arms out.”

“Arms out?” Pyre asked him.

“To catch me.” Balefor stepped back, gauged the distance, and then bounded forward. The Deep Nether answered his effort with a slight buoyancy. He launched upward, fingers catching the lip of the escarpment, and just barely managed to reach the top, his boots scraping against the stone as he hauled himself up.

Marrowsven crouched at the edge and looked down at Pyre as Balefor turned to him and motioned for him to try.

“Come on, Pyre!” he called down.

It’s pretty high, Pyre thought as he weighed his chances. Balefor is taller than me, and he had barely made it. If I miss…

Pyre didn’t actually know what would happen. Would he simply fall back to the ground? Would the Nether swallow him? Would he crack his skull and lie there bleeding Anima he didn’t have?

Balefor and Marrowsven suddenly turned. There was movement above and some shouting as they vanished from view.

It was all the motivation Pyre needed to try to reach them.

But not by jumping, he thought as he placed both hands against the rock. The surface was rough, and some patches crumbled under his fingers. Others bit into his skin.

He lifted one foot, pressed it against a shallow ridge, and started up, clumsy at first. His boot slipped almost immediately, skidding across dust-coated stone.

He forced himself to breathe and pressed on, finding another hold, this one more solid, where he shifted his weight carefully. He kept his body close to the stone, hugging it, minimizing the distance he could fall.

His fingers ached slightly as he climbed higher and higher.

I have to get to the others…

His left hand found a crack. He tested it gently and was just pulling himself up when his right foot slipped. For a heartbeat, Pyre’s body swung outward. His stomach dropped. He pressed himself back into the wall of stone, gritted his teeth, and looked up.

Not here. Not now.

He continued his climb. It was not graceful. It was not quick.

Twice more his footing faltered. Once, his hand scraped across loose shale and he felt some skin peel from his palm. He ignored the sting as Defiance flared quietly in his chest.

You’ve survived worse, he reminded himself as he reached a small outward-facing rock that jutted from the escarpment like a broken tooth. It was wide enough for him to press his chest and one knee against it. He paused there, breathing hard.

Above him, the wall steepened.

To his right, a narrow ledge angled upward. It was thinner than he liked—barely wider than his boot—but it would allow him to inch sideways rather than climb straight up.

Pyre moved onto it carefully. He kept one hand pressed flat to the stone, the other searching ahead. He did not look down.

A sudden rush of wind swept across the escarpment. Pyre flattened himself against the rock instinctively as a flock of scavels twisted overhead.

Their bodies passed like a storm of black silk and razor beaks. Pyre held his breath, his heart pounding so loudly he feared they would hear it.

For a moment, one scavel broke formation, dipping slightly toward him and finally veering away. The flock spiraled toward some distant flash of light, leaving him clinging to the wall.

Pyre waited until the sound of wings faded before moving again.

His arms trembled now. His fingers felt numb, but he was close. So close. He had to continue the climb. Pyre found a final series of handholds and hauled himself upward inch by inch until he reached for the lip of the escarpment, where his fingers curled over the edge as he tested it.

Firm.

Pyre pulled himself up as quietly as he could and flattened against the stone the moment he crested the escarpment.

Ahead, several members of the Farbound Delegation stood in their skirted armor, Balefor and Marrowsven facing them. Beyond them, the Delegation’s mirror-bright banners formed a rough semicircle. Opposite stood white standards streaked with blood, marking the edge of the Butcher’s Court claimfield.

What now? Pyre scanned the line and found Lyra just behind Balefor, her shaved head unmistakable even at a distance.

She turned, and the others followed her gaze as a new group advanced into the open space between banners. The Butcher’s Court moved in tight formation, Sigils already drawn.

Pyre lowered himself against the stone, hand hovering, braced for the first strike.