Page 81 of Realm of Nightmares
Balor had never resurfaced from the darkness.
At this point, he could only hope the Fury had been strong enough to survive the wrath of the cursedfaolan.
Through the thinning forest, Tiernan spied a faint glow between the dense trunks of trees.
“There.” He pointed ahead of them.
Aran lifted his head, lines of pain etched in his face. “The Golden Plains.”
They took the final few steps through the woods, and before them were thousands of golden steps spiraling upward into a clear blue sky. Each stair was long and wide, made of shimmering gilded stone, and in pristine condition despite being rather archaic.
Aran huffed out a breath and looked up, squinting against the brilliance of the light. “Can’t we just fly to the top?”
Tiernan chuckled, then gestured upward. “Be my guest.”
Aran scowled, his gaze narrowing. “I don’t like the sound of that.”
“Maghmell is in the same ward as the forest. Its skies are charmed against all other magic.”
Danua knew what she was doing when she made it so only the souls of the worthy could reach eternal paradise. As if the Ice Straits and the Kethwyn Woods weren’t enough, she threw in an impossibly high stairwell as well.
“Well, damn.” Aran adjusted his stance, shifting his weight from his injured leg.
“Exactly.” Tiernan glanced up, shielding his eyes against the blinding staircase. Then he stole another look at Aran. He didn’t want to insult the High Prince, but a leg wound would make their progress significantly slower. “How’s your leg?”
“I’ll manage.” Aran squared his shoulders, his spine snapping into place. But there was no mistaking the distinctive set of his jaw, the look of gritted agony.
“If you need to stop—”
“I said I’ll manage.” Aran ground the words out, then belatedly added, “Your Grace.”
“Very well.” Tiernan bit down on his smirk. He’d keep an eye on the arrogant High Prince anyway, whether he liked it or not.
With silent understanding, they both started climbing.
No more than three hundred steps up and Tiernan’s thighs and calves were on fire. Every so often, Aran would mutter some colorful stream of swears, and Tiernan found himself laughing through the agony of it all. A dull ache formed along his temples, the constant throbbing spreading to the base of his neck. His muscles spasmed and a sharp, biting pain stabbed into the side of his wounded abdomen. Sweat poured from his body, sliding down his forehead, back, and chest, soaking his clothing and ruining the leather of his armor.
After another hundred steps or so, they finally paused to drink some water. Not whiskey. Each of them tossed away their fur cloaks long ago, leaving them behind. They were just another thing to carry, another burden to bear.
Plus, they were stifling.
“Fuck,” Aran groaned, and Tiernan’s gaze instantly went to the High Prince’s leg.
The bleeding had stopped some while back, but he hadn’t yet been able to put his full weight on it.
“It’s like we’re climbing into the damned sun,” he muttered, taking another swig from his flask.
Tiernan was too parched to speak, like he’d swallowed a bottle of sand. His mouth was gritty and dry, his lips cracked, peeling from the lack of moisture. He’d almost forgotten that climbing the stairs to Maghmell was like being dragged through a high desert with a blazing hot sun overhead and left to die.
Unhooking the strap of daggers across his chest, he removed them and set them on the ground. He peeled off the top layer of his armor, careful not to make the damage to his arm any worse, then dumped them on the stairs as well. Using his good arm, he tugged his shirt off over his head. Sweat drained from the fabric so it dripped onto the golden stones, the sound of it like falling rain. Tiernan discarded the shirt, and it landed with a thud against the ground, sopping wet. The thing would be utterly useless.
Aran slowly started removing his winter armor as well, hissing when the injury to his back was exposed.
Tiernan’s jaw clenched against the sight.
It was a gruesome series of gashes. Aran’s back was shredded, some of the skin nearly shaved off completely. The claw marks ran deep, and though his flesh looked to be gradually recovering, it was a vicious wound.
“Hold on a minute.” Tiernan crouched down and rifled through the remnants of his pack. At the very bottom of the leather sack was the small glass jar of healing ointment. Brynn had given them each one before they left Niahvess, but since Aran’s pack didn’t survive thefaolanattack, they would have to share Tiernan’s.
