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  “But we will, on the way back,” she insisted. “We’ll have to cross the same one again.”

  “We have to make it back alive first. But then ...” He gave a hiss of exasperation and threw the piece of wood he’d been carving to the ground. “I don’t know! It’s not as though I asked to be leading up this whole thing. I was Chosen just like the rest of you. I didn’t volunteer. I don’t know anything more than anyone else.”

  The older man got to his feet and paced away from them, his head shaking. It was strange, but Dela found some comfort in his words. She didn’t like to be afraid, but it was good to know she wasn’t the only one who felt that way. It didn’t make her weak or a bad person, it just made her normal.

  “We just have to keep going.” She lifted her voice so Norton would hear. “Keep going and take care of each other the best we can. We don’t have any other choice. People do come back from the Passover. Every six months, the Chosen return. We’re not the first, and we won’t be the last, but we have to remember this isn’t a certain death sentence. People do come back.” She did her best to ignore the twisting in her gut as she remembered one of the people who hadn’t come back.

  Norton’s back was to them, but his shoulders slumped, and he turned around to face them. He ran his hand over his graying hair. “You’re right. My apologies. I didn’t mean to behave like a child.”

  She shrugged. “Apology accepted.”

  Norton came and took his place around the fire and picked up his whittling once more. Dela exchanged a glance with Layla, and her friend gave her a smile and a nod and started to eat the rations she’d been staring at for the past hour.

  MID-MORNING THE FOLLOWING day, they approached the entrance to the Southern Pass. They walked alongside the carts still laden with the bags of grain. The oxen were starting to slow after several days of walking, but they still appeared strong and unhindered by the huge weights they pulled. The same couldn’t be said of the people, and though they knew it would add more weight to the carts, they took turns hopping up on the bags of grain to give their feet a rest.

  Dela was sporting a number of huge blisters, but she did her best to ignore them. She worried about Layla. The other girl appeared to have already lost weight, her face becoming gaunt. If Layla grew too weak to continue the journey, what would Dela do? Could she continue without her, and leave the others even more people short, or would she stop with her friend and do her best to take care of her? They were already down from twenty members of the Chosen to only fifteen, having lost people along the way. What if they were attacked and didn’t have enough people to fight off the assailants? The possibility of being robbed of this grain was very real, and Dela was thankful for the knife at her hip. They’d all been offered different weapons with which to defend themselves and their produce before they’d left on this journey, but these weren’t a group of warriors she traveled with. She thought herself capable of being able to defend herself, but that was about all.

  The flat tundra leading to the Great Dividing Range gave way to sudden mountain slopes. Grassy fields were overtaken by outcroppings of rock. The temperature noticeably dropped. The atmosphere of the group became even more tense, if such a thing were possible. Approaching the mountains was like facing a giant.

  The gap of the Southern Pass opened up like a yawning maw through the mountain range, threatening to swallow them. Despite the bright day, the sides of the mountains threw deep shadows across the pass, making it appear as though it was almost in darkness.

  The fables told that when the Gods were creating the lands, they caused the mountain range to erupt right through the middle of the land, dividing west and east. But when they looked down, they realized the mountain range was too inhospitable and would mean the two sides of the lands would never meet, so one of the mountain Gods, Oreus, reached down with both hands and scooped two massive pathways through the mountains—one in the south and one in the north—giving them a way to meet. But at the same time, he put a curse on each of the passes, that only the best and bravest would be able to make the journey from one side of the country to the other.

  Dela didn’t believe for a second that they were either the best or the bravest, but they were here.

  The hardest part of their journey was about to begin.

  Layla was riding one of the grain carts, and Dela looked up at her and lifted her hand in a wave. They could do this. The distance they had to travel into the Southern Pass wasn’t as far as for the folk entering from the western side, so they were due to meet about one third of the full distance across.

  A thrill of excitement prickled through Dela. She’d never met any other races, not properly, anyway. She’d come across them on occasion in the market square when they’d entered the city walls to sell something of importance to humans, such as an ancient artifact they may have unburied, or when a higher class human had purchased a lower class race as a slave, but she’d never actually had a conversation with one of them. In many ways, they were like humans. They had two arms and legs, and a head, but there the similarities ended. Some were huge like giants, and others more diminutive in size. Their skin came in different shades, and she didn’t understand their cultures. Some were versed in magic, while others ate only meat and lived like wild men. Would she even understand when they spoke? She knew they were supposed to have a universal language, but different dialects were bound to have developed with them all living in such different lands. Years ago, before the Treaty, they shared the same lands, and the city of Anthoinia didn’t have its high walls. She couldn’t imagine everyone living side by side, working together and living together.

  Of course, things hadn’t stayed that way. They wouldn’t have needed the Treaty, otherwise, and their lands wouldn’t have been divided up the way they had. And they wouldn’t need to have The Choosing, or the Passover either.

  But that was the price of peace.

  Chapter Nine

  Vehel

  THE FIRST NIGHT IN the Southern Pass went by without event. Vehel and the other Elvish set up camp. Each race stuck to their own kind, though they were forced to remain nearby due to both the narrowness of the Southern Pass and for their own safety. There were things that lived in the mountains that could end any of their lives in a single instant, and if the Gods decided they’d only survive one night in the mountain pass, then that would be the end of them. Vehel was used to setting up camp wherever they ended up, but the vast sides of the mountains towering on either side made everyone nervous. A single rock fall could crush their shelters and whoever slept beneath them.

  The Elvish took two-hour stints keeping watch, rotating through the night, so while four of them slept, one was always on lookout. Vehel never reached a point of deep sleep throughout the entire night, a part of him primed for something to happen, ready to leap into action. Plus, he had all the different noises of the other men sleeping around him. He was used to the company of his group, but hearing the Moerians pray through the night, and the Norcs snore and grunt in their sleep, was enough to keep anyone awake.

  The Elvish weren’t used to being in a large group. Because of their long lifespans, and because each couple only ever had two to three offspring, their numbers always remained low. The Elvish’s strength didn’t come in their number or size. They had other abilities on their side when it came to war. Though they weren’t big either in population or stature, they had magic on their side. Since the Treaty, however, the Elvish had been sworn not to use their magic. The other races saw it as too great a threat, and should they ever use magic, they would see their part of the Treaty revoked, leaving them open to their part of the kingdom, the Inverlands, being invaded. But that had been several hundred years ago now, and because the Elvish hadn’t been using magic, the youngest generations—himself included—had not been taught the old ways.

  It had been Vehel’s grandparents who had fought in the Great War, and those same grandparents who’d signed the Treaty. His parents were the king and queen of the
Elvish, and had been alive when the Treaty was being signed, though they’d only been young Elvish of thirty or forty years old back then. Vehel was one hundred and fifty-three years old now, but he was still the youngest of his brothers, Vehten and Vanthum. His father, the Elvish King, made no attempt to hide the fact he thought far less of Vehel than he did his brothers. They were both larger in stature, and though Vehel was still of a good size for his kind, his father saw this as a disappointment. No matter what he did, he was never as good as Vehten and Vanthum. They were better than he was with a sword, better at literature, and they were funnier and easier to be around. Both his brothers had previously been on this journey and returned with all lives still intact, but also with gifts for the king and queen, their parents. A winged Marmoset they had trapped, or a candy made from the Moonflower—the sweetest and rarest plant in Xantearos. It was their way of showing their parents that not only were they able to accomplish what had been asked of them, but also that they found it so easy they were able to add extra tasks to their missions.

  Vehel did his best to make it appear as though he was capable of getting the diamonds to the humans and returning with the grain, yet that niggling feeling that he’d somehow end up failing wouldn’t leave him be. Maybe a hundred and fifty years of his father telling him of his disappointment in him wasn’t so easy to shake off.

  If he did this, however, and brought home something even grander than the items his brothers had returned with, then the king would have to acknowledge that he was an equal to his brothers. Yes, he was third in line, and the chances of his ever ruling the Elvish kingdom were slim, but at least he’d garner some respect.

  When morning finally arrived, Vehel felt sluggish from the lack of rest, but he forced himself to pull his weight, dismantling the makeshift camp and stamping down the remains of their fire. They fed and watered the deer before getting them ready to move on. He found himself watching the leaders of the two other races while he worked, envying the easy banter that passed between them. Both Orergon and Warsgra appeared so comfortable in the presence of their people, where Vehel watched every word he said and every action he made.

  With the camp packed up, and the Norcs and Moerians also ready to continue, Vehel pulled himself up onto the back of his stag. Even the animal didn’t belong to him, having been loaned to him by his father’s stables. His Elvish kin—Ehlark, Folwin, Athtar, and Ivran—rode either side of him on their smaller deer. Though they rode with him, they were his father’s men, and a part of him knew they would report back to their king on how they thought Vehel behaved, and whether or not he did their kingdom proud and represented them accordingly. If things went wrong, they’d be sure to report back to his father about that, too.

  Traveling with the Norcs made for dirty work. Their huge beasts pulling the carts left shit everywhere, and the coal filled carts caused a black dust to fill the air, choking his lungs and settling on his armor. The Norcs themselves were also filthy, throwing meat bones to the ground when they finished eating, pissing wherever they stood, yelling to each other in great, booming voices. Vehel could be a hard man when he needed to be, and would kill if the necessity arose, but he couldn’t help but look down on how rough the Norcs, and in particular their leader Warsgra, were. He struggled to see the reasoning behind it. You could be a good, strong leader without resorting to spitting on the ground every few minutes.

  The way the leader of the Norcs looked at him reminded him of his father, too. A kind of disdain, and a way of letting him know he was only putting up with him because he had to. He didn’t need to prove anything to Warsgra. After the next few days, he hoped he’d never have to see the other man again.

  The sound of their convoy traveling was immense. Horses’ hooves clacked behind them, and the creak of the wheels of the coal carts and the snorts of the bison filled the air. Men called to one another, while others sang a ballad of old, and someone else coughed repeatedly.

  “I normally prefer to make less noise,” he said from the side of his mouth to Athtar, who rode beside him. “We must be alerting everyone in the area to our approach.”

  Like the rest of his kind, Athtar had white blond hair and pointed ears. The rest of Athtar’s features were also pointy—his chin and nose in particular. Athtar was about fifty years older than Vehel, but was not born to royalty, and had worked for his father for many years.

  “If someone tried to attack this convoy,” Athtar replied, “they’re a braver man than I. Taking on each of the races’ strongest people? They might as well sign their own death warrants.”

  It wasn’t the mortals who worried Vehel, however. The stories of the creatures that lurked in these mountains were told from generation to generation. Just because many of them hadn’t been seen for centuries didn’t mean they no longer existed. It wasn’t as though the Elvish were able to cover every inch of Xantearos to find out. There were too many remote places inaccessible by their kind. Tales used to speak of dragons dominating the skies of Xantearos, but the great beasts hadn’t been seen in hundreds of years, and it was believed the last was killed off during the Great War, or that the volcanic region of Drusga where they lived had erupted and drowned the last dragons in molten lava as they slept.

  Vehel sat straighter on his stag. “Still, a little caution doesn’t go unwarranted.”

  Athtar lifted his fine white eyebrows. “Would you like me to tell Warsgra to keep it down?”

  Vehel gave a laugh. “I don’t think the man would know how to be quiet if his life depended on it.”

  “No, probably not. He does seem to like the sound of his own voice.”

  They both looked to where the big man led the way, his thick curly hair reaching halfway down the middle of his naked back. He certainly didn’t seem to feel the cold of the mountains either, and it was getting colder with every step taking them deeper into the pass.

  They rounded a bend, and for a moment Vehel lost sight of Warsgra and his companions.

  A sudden yell of shock met his ears, and the next moment, the bison pulling the carts drew to a halt, nostrils flared and ears flat back against their skulls. They stamped the ground with their hooves, and their snorts of breath created white plumes on the chilled air.

  Another cry of fright set Vehel’s heart racing. He exchanged a glance with Athtar, who nodded in response, and Vehel lifted his heels and kicked the flank of his stag to get him moving.

  He rounded the corner to find Warsgra and his men flailing and yelling as though a swarm of Bottlehead wasps was after them. Warsgra swung his axe, but Veher couldn’t see what he was swiping at.

  Then he caught sight of it, something black and furry, about the size of a large rat, but with six legs that protruded from its fuzzy body like spider’s legs. It darted up Warsgra’s thick thigh. Warsgra spun around and let out a roar. Vehel spotted a second of the creatures, clinging to Warsgra’s long hair with its spindly little claws. From the expression on its face, it looked like it was laughing.

  He’d never seen anything like this before. He stared around, and saw Warsgra’s men were in similar positions. Little creatures clinging to their bodies. Some of the things started to climb the carts, spooking the bison further. They couldn’t have the bison breaking free of their yokes, or have them tipping the carts, or making a break for it. They needed that coal. Even though it wasn’t the mineral the Elvish exchanged during the Passover, it was imperative they each make it to the meeting and were able to complete what they pledged. Failure to do so might mean the breaking down of the Treaty, and no one wanted to go back to a time of war.

  Even more of the creatures were clinging to the craggy rock walls of the Southern Pass. What were they? Little rodents of some kind, but that appeared to have a strange kind of wicked intelligence in their dark beady eyes.

  Vehel felt a pulse of energy flood through him.

  He’d experienced this energy before, but it still took him by surprise. He held it back, unable to give in.

  But he could
n’t sit there and do nothing.

  He jumped from his stag, his feet hitting the ground of solid rock. Around him, his fellow Elvish did the same. The Moerians were right behind them, and he heard Orergon give a yell of surprise as he saw what was happening. One of their horses let out a whinny and reared up onto its hind legs.

  Vehel drew his bow from where it was attached to his back and pulled an arrow from his quiver. He drew it back, aimed, and let the arrow fly. The arrow speared first one, and then two of the little creatures, so they looked like miniature hogs on a spit. He drew another arrow and repeated the motion.

  All around, everyone was fighting. The Moerians let out war cries and charged with the spears they favored. The Norcs swung axes, chopping down on the beasts, splitting them in two. But no matter how many of the creatures they managed to kill, more appeared to be coming. They ran over the rock face, skittering toward them. If they weren’t careful, they’d be overrun and there would be no way they’d be able to fight their way back from that. What did the things want? To kill them? Take their food? Or did they simply not like the convoy in their territory?

  He pulled another arrow and let it fly, spinning on his toes just in time to bat away another one that had leapt at him from the pass wall.

  Athtar was struggling. He had two attached to each leg and was unable to let loose an arrow with them in such close proximity.

  That same feeling of energy burned up inside Vehel again. He wanted to push it back down, knowing it would be frowned upon. But he needed to help, and fighting the creatures with hand to hand combat wasn’t working. He could feel his consciousness pulling away from the edges, centering to the fire inside himself. Turmoil wrenched him from side to side. It could work. It would help.

  But, no, magic wasn’t allowed. It was banned for the Elvish, and doing this could put everyone in jeopardy.