But on these stony, steep-descending slopes, there was no
opportunity for brawling distractions. There was instead the
coldness of unfeeling reality, the uncompromising solidity of
stone, the randomness of scree, and the sharp-beak threats of
hunger, thirst and entropy.
        Like so many broken cockroaches, the air-wrecked aeronauts
stumbled stone by stone down the rockside, mite-made creatures of
bony flesh pinpricking their way across the rumplings of geology,
their significance dwarfed and denied by the razor-blade heights
of hostility which etched the skies above them.
        Up on those stone-slice heights - high, high above the rock
slopes and scree drifts where the travelers labored - lay white
snow-slice eternities of cold. A high wind was scouring a mist of
snow from one knife-edge peak, but this was so far above and beyond the travelers that they could not hear so much as a whisper of the crisping and keening of the ferocity of that bright-sun wind. Rather, they labored in stillness, a stillness loud with their harsh-panting breathing, the creaking of their knee joints, the
squiff-pulse labors of their hearts.
        At the bottom of the slope, when all downlabor was done and
their uplabor was about to be commenced, there was a stream which
ran toward the east. From which Sken-Pitilkin, learned in
geography, deduced that in all probability this valley would
ultimately provide them with an escape to the Swelaway Sea, should
they choose to follow that stream to the east.
        There was no need to ford the stream, since it was bridged. A
path came up the valley from out of the east, crossed the stream
by way of the bridge, then climbed toward the block-built building
up above.
        "What now?" asked Guest Gulkan, he who in the folly of his
youth still possessed strength sufficient for senseless questions.
        Guest Gulkan's traveling companions, who were one and all
exhausted by the rigors of the mountain heights, wasted no breath
on useless reply.
        Pelagius Zozimus took the lead.
        Pelagius Zozimus, still wearing his elf-bright fish-scale
armor, crossed the bridge, then began to mountain-climb upwards,
one trudge at a time. After him went Thodric Jarl, mouth agape in
a constant, unconscious, almost inaudible lisp of pain - for Jarl
was suffering grievously from his broken ribs. Then went Zelafona,
leaning on Sken-Pitilkin's country crook. Glambrax dogged his
mother's heels, and Sken-Pitilkin followed, half-hoping that
Zelafona would drop dead. For if she died then Sken-Pitilkin would
be able to recover his country crook, and his journey would be
that much easier. Naturally, the wizard had far too much pride to
ask for the voluntary return of that instrument.
        After Sken-Pitilkin came Guest Gulkan. The boy had long since
drawn his sword, and had been abusing that instrument shamelessly,
using it as a walking stick.
        The Rovac warrior Rolf Thelemite had been bravely trying to
resist Guest's example. For Rolf was - he was, wasn't he? - a
mighty killer of men. A conqueror of dragons. A slaughterer of
kings and emperors. A killer of orcs, ghouls, ghosts and
necromancers. As such, he could scarcely abuse the pride of his
steel by using it as a walking stick. Could he?
        As the way bent upward, the going got harder. Rolf at first
walked with a hand on each knee, as if striving the stabilize his
knee joints by force of digital pressure. Then at last he drew his
sword, and followed Guest's disgraceful example - hoping that
Thodric Jarl would not turn and discover him.
        In such procession, the air-crashed aeronauts went laboring
up the path, making for the building which dominated the heights,
and for an uncertain reception at the hands of unknown strangers.