He did not trail Duncan. The route the General chose was different from his. Rather Alexander retraced his steps to the world the climb proving to be a tougher ordeal, than the fall. The darkness appeared to cling onto him like a second skin of moist cold opposing the weak presumed heat of the surface. The quiet, formerly an emptiness, now vibrated with the lingering echo of their dialogue. A lone sincere noise.
When he eventually glimpsed it—a faint ashen gleam at the tunnel's end—it seemed like deliverance and more, like a release. The mountain was releasing him for the moment after encountering his rebellion and deeming it… intriguing.
He stepped out into a day that had grown old. The fog had lifted, uncovering a blue sky. The sun felt harsh against his skin a clamorous disturbance. He paused briefly inhaling air that appeared thin and tasteless compared to the mineral-rich atmosphere of the depths. The village, beneath remained quiet. Nobody observed him anymore.
He gazed southward at the remote, skyline of the Drunengalm. The trek would require days on foot. The internal directive awoke inside him. Its tone had shifted. It wasn't a summons anymore. Instead it was a test he had imposed upon himself.
He trudged along. The initial day was a haze of trails and throbbing muscles. Steering clear of roads he traversed alpine meadows where the sole noises were the breeze and the clear ringing clank of cowbells. He consumed little from his pack his appetite a muted, off feeling. The Penitent's Blade, fastened on his back remained a chilly weight. He caught himself grasping its hilt not for comfort. As a prompt. A prompt of the question.
By the day the scenery started to transform. The gentle smooth Alps yielded to a geological scene. The atmosphere became thinner more acute. The trees became stunted, before vanishing revealing expansive slopes of loose rock and bare grey stone that appeared gnawed rather than eroded. The Drunengalm were not mountains; they resembled the teeth of the earth thrust stubbornly into the heavens.
The feeling of being observed came back. It lacked the calm engrossed stare of the Hölloch. This was keener. More ravenous.
That night he set up camp sheltered by a boulder too exhausted to call forth his celestial light to provide heat. He lit a smokeless fire using lichen-dried twigs, its flicker a stubborn feeble flicker of orange, amid the immense star-filled darkness. The quiet here was not a covering. A suspended breath.
He had barely shut his eyes when a stone rattled thirty steps down the hill.
His hand reached for the sword. He stood motionless paying attention. The wind howled among the towers. Another noise, nearer. Intentional.
He stood, brushing dirt onto his fire immersing himself in the moonlit darkness. He noticed them then—figures emerging from the recesses of the rocks. They advanced with a insect-like agility close to the earth. Three, in number. Their bodies were bent their skin a grey matching the scree and their eyes caught the starlight as pinpoint, soulless blue gleams. Abyssal scouts. Not soldiers, but feral things, drawn to the scent of celestial power like moths to a guttering flame.
They refrained from charging. Instead they prowled around their claws raking the stone surface. Alexander unsheathed his sword. Under the moon's glow its shine proclaimed a warning. The beasts hissed, shrinking from its brightness. Their craving overpowered their disgust.
The initial charge came first. Alexander's block was instinctive a ethereal sweep. The blade slashed through bone. Shell with a disturbing snap. The creature perished with a wail that was disturbingly lifelike. The second and third struck together. He twisted, his armor grinding against the rock and decapitated one. The third sprang toward his back claws reaching for the space, between his helmet and shoulder guard.
Instinctively Alexander let go of his sword reached behind him and pulled out the Penitent's Blade.
The motion was smooth natural. He twirled, lifting the sword in an inverted hold. It didn't collide with the creature's claws. Instead it went through them and through the creature's body making a noise, like a breath escaping.
The abyssal scout halted mid-flight its drive vanished. It did not shatter into fragments. Instead it collapsed onto the earth intact yet devoid of life. Its blue eyes dulled, not from agony. From an abrupt deep bewilderment as though its very purpose had been softly cut away.
Alexander was breathing heavily gripping two swords. The golden sword oozed dark ichor. The Penitent's Blade remained spotless. Unblemished, absorbing the moonlight rather than bouncing it back.
He glanced at each in turn. The first had destroyed the body. The second had destroyed the purpose. Which represented the genuine triumph?
From overhead came a slow purposeful applause.
Perched on a ledge twenty feet was a shape outlined against the Milky Way. Not a wild creature. A man. He wore weathered travel leathers with a thick cloak draped over him. His face was obscured by shadow. Alexander noticed the sparkle in his eyes and a broad relaxed grin.
"Bravo! A splendid display. The classic celestial cleave, efficient, a bit theatrical. And then… oh, the flourish with the relic! Cutting the puppet's strings. Much more elegant. Much more… philosophical."
The mans tone was deep, harmonious and completely fearless. He leapt off the ledge touching down quietly on the stones. He stood at a height his face keen and clever with eyes that noticed every detail. A full pack was strapped, to his back and a number of pouches and tools dangled from his belt.
"Who exactly are you?" Alexander asked sharply keeping his swords raised.
"A viewer. An expert. A dealer in intriguing items." The man performed a teasing bow. "Giovani Azaria, at your disposal. Merchant of secrets, relics. From time, to time deliverance. Though it appears you're gathering relics yourself." His eyes paused on the Penitent's Blade. "The Hölloch's little thorn. I'm amazed you acquired it. More amazed you remain… articulate."
"You belong to the Abyss."
Giovani laughed softly a heartfelt noise that felt completely out of place in this barren land. "With? My Messenger I have no allegiance to anyone. I deal with every faction. The Abyssal scouts stationed here " he tapped a body with his boot "their leaders compensate handsomely for updates, on paths. The Scarlet Kingdom's aristocrats offer more for abyssal relics. Occasionally a bewildered sacred fighter sacrifices the most, for a glimpse of what transpires in the nine hells.
He moved nearer his gaze keen. "You're making your way, to Drunengalm peak. The Screaming Spire. For the Chalice."
Alexander remained silent his hold growing firmer.
"Ah the silent treatment. Smart move. Never reveal your hand." Giovani smiled. "Allow me to provide an example. An exchange of knowledge, without any expense. The Chalice isn't an instrument. It's a wound. It's the scar from the initial shattered vow the first enchantment-bound falsehood, made tangible. To sip from it means receiving every spell every hex, every murmured charm that ever existed or will infused straight into your essence. Most lose their minds. The others… lose their memory of being anything, beyond an echo."
He bent closer his tone lowering to a murmur. "Your Angel didn't mention that right? He only said it was power. Required power.. What else is madness, if not another form of power?"
Alexander recalled the cave's message: We reveal nothing. We reflect. This merchant, Giovani wasn't a reflection. He acted as a prism bending truths into perplexing alluring hues.
"Why tell me this?"
"Because I enjoy a market " Giovani stated, retreating and extending his hands. "A Messenger who carries a truth-blade and heeds abyssal generals represents an intriguing factor. A crazed omnipotent one is another disaster. Dull. Harmful, for business." He gave a wink. "Think of it as an investment. If you make it through you'll possess intriguing goods to trade."
He spun around. Started ascending back, to his perch with the agility of a mountain goat.
"Hold on " Alexander shouted, a thought coming to him. "You're a trader. What information do you have about the Blue Ring of Stillness?"
Giovani. For the very first time his smile shifted into a more thoughtful expression. "The Weisshorn's curse. The ultimate silence. That's not a deal for now. That's a deal, for after the Chalice. If you remain yourself." He nodded as if tipping a hat. "Good luck, Messenger. Don't let the choir pull you under."
Suddenly he vanished, engulfed by the darkness.
Alexander remained among the chilling remains the breeze cutting into him. He glanced down at the blades he held. One forged to slay creatures. One designed to end purpose.. Before him a Chalice promising to overwhelm him with the cries of all of existence's purpose.
He sheathed the golden sword. He kept the Penitent's Blade in his hand as he broke camp and began the final, steep ascent towards the screaming dark. The weight of it was the only thing that felt real.