The Web of Iron

Chapter Fifteen: The Withering King

Some days later, when the weather had cleared up, Behorn led William into the mountains. They journeyed high, slope by slope, bundled up in heavy cloaks. Their only shelter from the wind was the barren trees that covered the mountaintop. As they went higher, the air became thinner, and it was harder to breathe. The winds were howling, and it was bitterly cold, so your breath came from your nostrils like steam.

William tightened the scarf around his face as he pressed up the mountain. Ahead of him, Behorn was forcing a path through the accumulated snow. The wind was howling. The air was chill, and it was getting harder to breathe. And this was supposed to be good weather?

"Howling wind is particularly nice today, isn't it?" asked Behorn. "You need good armor to keep it from cutting down to your bones.

"But you're not even shaking. Are you alright?"

"How close are we?" William asked.

"Only a little way up now," said Behorn, leaning on her staff. "Come, we're nearly there."

They emerged from the trees, and William saw a sheer rock cliff ahead of sorrowful-looking gray stone. It was overhung by vast amounts of snow that had never melted, and it fell over the edge to freeze in great hills. William wondered if archers might be posted on such hills but thought the wind alone would kill them. Yet there was a crack in the mountains. It was about five feet at the widest. Behorn led him to it, and he looked within.

Muttering the incantations of the sun, he summoned a light. The warmth was pleasant on his palm, but keeping it sustained was tricky in this cold. There wasn't a lot of sunlight that came down through those clouds above.

Within, he saw bones. Hundreds of hundreds of bones are arranged into the shape of a path. He stepped back as a foul wind came from within the mountain. It reeked of carrion, and he resisted the urge to gag.

"Is this the only way?" he asked.

"Of course it is," said Behorn. "We are approaching the heart of death itself, the Withering King's domain. None dwell here, save specters and less natural things.

"Are you sure you want to go through?"

William dearly wanted to say no. Going back to Easorman and spending a few months telling and listening to stories did not sound so bad. But he screwed himself up. That was different from how one had adventures worth telling about.

"I'm sure," he said. "Has anyone ever gotten through?"

"That all depends on what the Withering King thinks of them," said Behorn. "Those who anger him and pass through those doors never return home alive. Those who are respectful and do not tempt him to make it sometimes.

"I spoke with him once. Me and Balfast were an adventuresome duo. He was quite courteous to us and even let us leave with some gifts—just a word of advice. Don't take anything. You may see some amazing treasures, riches beyond imagination. But don't take anything. He is very particular about the rules of hospitality."