Daggers of ice hung from the edges of mountainous rock like crystal. Their upper roots spread into a slick glaze over the sides and tops of frozen stone, denying any chance of a grip for trying fingers.
Heavy clouds, near-black and oppressive, dominated every hint of the sun. The distance between mountain and cloud blurred by thick, relentless snow. Yet unconquered, the wild mountainside was a grave, a tomb waiting to be filled. The slopes reaching to its olympic heights served as the hands leading only to the sharp maw of its caverns. The day was dark, unforgiving, treacherous;
barbaric.
As wild the mountain and tempestuous the raging storm, there dared a man of yet unmatched determination. Unyielding and untamed, he lived from a feral spirit; that many would consider him savage. A perfect opponent for the landscape, he challenged the mountain with two vocations echoing in his chest.
He had to know which was best – the mountain or himself. Could he conquer every trick and danger or would the cavernous grave be satisfied? The question nearly drove him mad. The risk was acceptable; he arrived at every adventure, every perilous odyssey, expecting to be handed a horn of mead from those ancient and dead heroes of Valhalla.
Fear held no price over him.
He had chased his limits through scrape and snare, past creature and demon; the edge of himself always elusively advantageous. It drove him and seduced him increasingly toward peril. This mountain – a final beast to be slain; a personal armageddon to survive. Rumors of it grew more wild with each telling. There were fearful whispers of ancient evils dwelling at the peak. His spirit deciding for him, he accepted the mountain’s gauntlet. And it was proving a mortal climb.
The second purpose luring him to trudge and grasp through the snow was an item of legend: the fire orchid. It is said the fire orchid only grows on the highest of mountain peaks. Its roots are made of fire and the stems unbreakable, harder than any blade. Legend tells of a potion made from the petals that can cure all illness. As with any legend, the fire orchid could easily not exist. Not even the oldest of sages had ever seen one, only having read their lore or heard the recited poems about long-dead kings.
Finding one; bringing the legend down from the mountain would guarantee enough wealth to last several lifetimes. But gold was not the motivation; not even fame. The fire orchid held another characteristic, a less sensational yet more compelling quality. It was the symbol of the gods. According to ancient law, at this time more civil myth than legal code, anyone bearing the fire orchid could lay rightful claim to the throne. In the first days, this is how the crown was passed from one chieftain to the next. The plant was also mentioned in prophecies – prophecies that inspired a messianic hope, however fragile, during the ongoing rebellion.
Tormented by thoughts of strife and the attrition of his people that smoldered thousands of feet below him, his foothold was bested by ice and wind, launching him backward from the precipice. Rolling to break the fall, his camping pack caught a sharp rock and, splitting, sent both food and supplies scattered into dark oblivion, now claimed by the mountain. He mourned a moment. But only a moment, before hefting himself back to his feet.
He lifted his eyes as if hoping to see the summit through the gargantuan clouds; seeing, instead, only as high as he had just fallen. He breathed deep, deep from his spirit. Then resolutely gripped a handhold on the rock-face.