Insurmountable. That's what everyone said about the snow-covered peaks of Aultitia. Impassable. Unconquerable. Hopeless. Insurmountable. For most people.

  The jagged, dagger-like peaks of the Aultitia mountain range cut through the clouds like a spoon through rancid butter, scooping thick, gloopy chunks of mist and throwing them down at any who attempted to climb the sheer cliffs. They existed in a state of perpetual gray, day being no more bright than night due to the swirling storm that surrounded the summit, the only brief instances of light being the crackling lightning that shot through the heavens. On a clear day, one might have been able to see the entire world from the top of Aultitia, but clear days were rarer than a loyal mercenary. The mountains had claimed many lives in the millennia that they’d existed, and they would claim many, many more by the time they were forgotten, and on this day, the mountains had claimed the lives of fourteen who attempted to reach its summit. Now, only two remained.

  “King Ziusudra!” Squallon screamed, stumbling through the thick, concrete-like snow. “Your majesty! We have to turn back!”

  Silence. Squallon could see the figure of his king up ahead, lit by the light of a single fading torch. Even in the blasting wind and increasingly thick fog, Ziusudra strode forward as if he were making the grand march to his throne, regality oozing off of every movement he made. The two strode along a knife’s edge, a thin bit of rock that dropped off almost vertically to either side, the cold fingers of death reaching up and threatening to yank the squire and his king to their demise.

  The fur cape that covered the king flapped wildly as the storm-winds threatened to blow the duo off the side of the mountain, and the more that Squallon struggled to inch his way forward, the more he felt that he would fall. He had seen fourteen of his fellow comrades die to the cold and snow, he had seen fourteen great knights succumb to the cold, despite all their strength and loyalty. It was by sheer luck that Squallon found himself alive. And it was by sheer misfortune that he served Ziusudra, of all people.

  “Your majesty!” Squallon cried out, his voice drowned out by the howling of the wind. “King Ziusudra!”

  Finally, the king stopped and turned to face his squire. Squallon sighed in relief and attempted to catch up, words of thanks beginning to rise in his throat, before they caught right before leaving his mouth. The king turned away. Squallon could hear his voice through the wind, though it was quiet and muffled.

  “Tread in my steps, squire. Have I not made the path easier for you?” The king continued forward. “See here, where the snow lay dinted. My bootprints have carved out a path for you, but you must have strength enough to seize it.”

  By the time Ziusudra reached the mouth of the cave, Squallon was dead. He had tried to take the king’s advice, he had tried to tread in Ziusudra’s path and match the large man’s bootprints, but the spaces between each mark were too large for any boy of fifteen to follow. In his attempt, he had lost his balance and saw Blackened Death's grim countenance, and so he tumbled into the longest night that awaited him at the base of the mountain. Ziusudra knew none of this, however, nor did he care. In reality, the king had forgotten the boy’s name some time ago.

  Ziusudra held his torch forward, illuminating the inside of a large, open cavern. It was clean, far cleaner than a cave should be, with no snow whatsoever in any corner of the room. Small motes of light hung suspended in the air, making his torch seem dimmer in comparison, and old lyrical glyphs were carved into the walls, no doubt the incantations and prayers of a sorcerer. The far end of the cavern disappeared into sheer darkness, complete with an overwhelming sense of dread that filled the king with a shivering fear. He threw his torch to the ground and stomped it out under his boot, wiping the snow off of his clean-shaven face as he began to doff his large furs and heavy winter clothing. He rested his hand against the golden handle of a sheathed broadsword that clung to his side, adjusting it to make sure it was easy to draw. He rubbed his thumb over the large, red gemstone embedded in the blade’s pommel, nervously picking at it to help calm his nerves.

  The unmistakable sound of cloth flapping in the wind could be heard from deeper into the cavern, like a banner flapping loudly above a battlefield. Ziusudra cleared his throat and produced a glistening silver crown from his satchel. He placed it gently on his head and stepped forward.

  “Sorcerer!” Ziusudra called, walking further into the cave. “Sorcerer! Show yourself!”

  Ziusudra was left in silence. He grunted and glanced over at one of the glyphs etched into the walls. A glyph meant for growing flowers, it seemed, though it would only work if carved into a clay pot before the seed of the flower was planted. His rudimentary knowledge of sorcerous glyphs gave him knowledge enough to discern the meanings of a number of glyphs in the room; one for making water boil, one for melting snow at the entrance to the cavern, another it seemed was for making bread lukewarm when it was too hot to be eaten. All complicated glyphs, but used for such simplistic, childish things. He had no love for magics like these.

  He looked back down into the darker, deeper parts of the cavern, where the light from the floating motes of sorcery couldn’t reach. It was where the sound of flapping cloth was coming from, though Ziusudra couldn’t make out any real shapes in the darkness. He gripped the handle of his sword tightly, pulling it slowly from its sheath and pointing the gleaming red blade toward the darkness.

  There’s no one here to kill. The sword said, shimmering as it spoke. Ziusudra shivered as the sword’s words pierced into his skull, making their way into his brain through his skin rather than his ears.

  “I know that.” Ziusudra said, responding to the blade’s words.

  Everyone we wanted to kill died on the mountain. Who will entertain us now?

  “Silence, sword. You are a blade and nothing else.” Zuisudra hissed. “A tool. You will obey me.”

  “An expert craftsman doesn’t blame his tools for disobedience, does he?” A thin, stretched voice said from the entrance to the cavern. “And a Blade of Destruction is no mere tool, is it?

  Ziusudra whipped around to face the source of this newfound voice, and stared wide-eyed as the man he’d been seeking floated just in front of him, carrying the corpse of a well-armored knight. The king’s vision went blurry as his eyes tried to focus on what seemed to be a simple purplish-blue cloak in the shape of a man, though the darkness beneath the cloth resembled the nighttime sky more than any man he’d ever seen. It was as if there was nobody there, as if it were wind that kept the ragged cloak afloat, though the darkness seemed to possess substance enough to carry the heaviest of men. He shook himself out of his confusion and brought the sword back up in front of him, trembling in the presence of this dark Sorcerer.

  “Ziusudra the Third, son of Ziusudra the Second, who, in turn, is son of Ziusudra the First. You bring me such grand sacrifices.” The Sorcerer said, floating across the stone flooring of the cavern and placing the knight at the base of a large stalagmite covered in glyphs and talismans. “They are appreciated.”

  “I bring you more than sacrifices.” Ziusudra said, smiling nervously. He reached into his satchel and pulled out a small, fist-sized jar. It shook as he held it in his grasp, golden-yellow light swirling like a whirlpool inside the glass as if it were trying to escape. The Sorcerer’s empty cloak turned to face the king, the jar immediately capturing his attention. “A dragon soul. Three dragon souls. I hear you take them for boons.”

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  A slow, hushed cackle escaped from the inside of The Sorcerer’s cloak, his dark, shadowy fingers extending outward to caress the glass of the jar. Ziusudra shied away from The Sorcerer’s touch.

  “I give my boons in exchange for promises, Ziusudra, King of Jhiulias. The dragon souls are merely… fuel for the fire of the Old Song. They ensure that promises are kept.” The Sorcerer pointed down at the sword in Zuisudra’s hands, causing it to float out of his grasp and into the air in front of The Sorcerer. He rubbed his hands along the smooth, red edge, fixing any nicks or scrapes that found their way into the sword. The blade seemed to almost take pleasure from the action. “I gave your grandfather one such blessing, nearly fifty years ago. I see he has passed it down to you.”

  Ziusudra glanced at the blade, now suspended in the air, then down at the dragon souls kept within the jar. He could almost see their jagged maws nipping back and forth at each other, their razor-sharp claws digging into the glass in an attempt to escape. Ziusudra swallowed hard.

  “But what blessings could a king ask of a paltry sorcerer like me? Surely you are content with what you have?” The Sorcerer said, holding in a chuckle as he said the words aloud.

  “I want you to kill all other kings, and their heirs, and any others who would dare make a claim to any throne. Except for me, of course.” Ziusudra said. “And I want their kingdoms and subjects and wives transferred into my ownership. It should be easy enough.”

  The Sorcerer laughed uproariously, the cloth billowing out around his abyssal form with every sound that left the confines of his cloak. “You would ask nothing more than to be king of the world!”

  “Is it so wrong?” Ziusudra said, holding the glowing jar forward. “I have brought you more dragon souls than any king in history. I should only deserve to sit at the top of the world.”

  “You, Ziusudra, King of Jhiulias, Son of Ziusudra, are misinformed.” The Sorcerer spun the blade in the air, balancing the tip of it on his pinky finger. “I am a sorcerer. Which means I am bound by the laws of the Old Song.”

  “And?” Ziusudra asked, growing increasingly impatient.

  “And, this means that I cannot kill. At least, not directly. Your grandfather came to these peaks asking for me to slay his enemies, and I told him the same thing. So instead I forged for him twin Blades of Destruction, so that he might slay his own enemies. Sorcerers cannot take life with their magic, nor can they create it anew.”

  “But why?” Ziusudra asked, desperation in his voice.

  “Such are the laws of the Old Song. Many sorcerers spend their entire lives seeking to circumvent the rule, and many sorcerers find themselves undone by the laws they break. I have chosen to abide by them.” The Sorcerer glanced once more down at the swirling lights inside the jar. “But three dragon souls is no meager sum. For you, Ziusudra, I can do much better than I did for your grandfather.”

  The Sorcerer produced a chisel from the depths of his cloak, sending it floating through the air as if the thing ignored gravity. He sent it in the direction of an empty section of the cavern, where no glyphs had yet been carved.

  “But think wisely about which blessing you wish for, Ziusudra. You lost fifteen loyal men on your journey to me, didn’t you? One dragon soul would be enough to bring them all back. I can do even this for you, or more, if you wish.”

  The Sorcerer cackled once more as the billowing cloth flared outward, enveloping the room in shifting purples and blues. Ziusudra stared down at the dragon souls in his hand. It had the power to bring back everyone he had lost, every man that had died on the ascent, maybe even the power to bring back the armies he had lost in his attempts to conquer the continent. Only one thought came to his mind.

  “Unkillable.” Ziusudra said, holding the jar outward toward The Sorcerer. “I want to reign unkillable. Forever. And I want the whole world under my heel.”

  “And of this you are certain?” The Sorcerer said, beginning to chisel a glyph into the wall. “A guarantee of this wish would take all three souls you’ve provided me. I can bring back your men. I can even bring back your honor, if you wish.”

  Ziusudra glared at the sorcerer. The mere mention of his lost honor left a bad taste in his mouth, it brought up memories he sought to bury long ago. Sorcerers. He hated the whole lot, always prying into other people’s business. But he needed this one.

  “I am certain.” Ziusudra said, allowing the dragon soul jar to float freely out of his grasp.

  The Sorcerer’s dark hands reached out toward the jar and uncapped it, sending the swirling golden lights shooting off in every direction. They illuminated every corner of the room as they streaked about, their gaping, toothy maws biting at every surface as they roared in agony. The darkness of the interior of The Sorcerer’s robes seemed to grow thicker and more viscous as he reached out, drawing in the light from the dragon souls as they squealed in anger and fury. Before long, The Sorcerer had consumed them completely, leaving only the empty jar floating in the air around him.

  “So be it, unkillable Ziusudra. For three souls and a promise, I bestow upon you three of my finest boons:

  “For as long as you know violence, for as long as you conquer the continent, you shall succeed in your endeavors. No king shall rise and prevail against you. You will sweep across battlefields as a storm sweeps across the land, you will crush throats as a child crushes ants. No Man Under the Sun shall slay you, so long as there is land left to conquer. By the Old Song, you shall prevail.” The chisel, still floating in the air, finished etching a glyph into the rock face. The newly carved glyph flashed a brief golden yellow as the first dragon soul was burned.

  Ziusudra grinned as he heard The Sorcerer’s decree spoken aloud.

  “In matters of peace, you shall reign as you see fit. Man, woman, child, and animal shall bend to your will, and no snakesman shall ever whisper falsehoods into your ear. No rebellion, no great coup, will ever befall you. By the Old Song, No Man Under the Sun shall slay you as you rule.” The second glyph was finished, flashing the same golden light as the first.

  Ziusudra’s face had broken out into a long, toothy smile as he stood prouder and prouder. Already he could feel the strength of the Old Song entering his body.

  “For as long as you are King, your life is tied to the throne. Till you give up the seat of power, No Man Under the Sun nor god in Heaven shall slay you or your line. Your name has been stricken from the record of the dead. By the Old Song, No Man Under the Sun shall slay you.” With the last decree spent, the final dragon soul was consumed and the final glyph was finished. The Sorcerer had spoken, and his word was now law. Ziusudra, it seemed, was unkillable.

  “And the promise?” Ziusudra started, his voice giddy with excitement. He could already imagine himself on the battlefield, sweeping across the land, blade in his grip, taking everything he ever wanted. “What is the promise you require of me?”

  “From you, immortal king Ziusudra, I require only one thing: if you are to ever die, all that you own, including your lands, your titles, your deeds, even your wife, will belong to me. Upon your death, King Ziusudra, all that you own will belong to The Sorcerer King of Aultitia.”

  Ziusudra stepped back, surprised. He furrowed his brow. “But… I am unkillable.”

  “So it seems.” The Sorcerer responded, a small chuckle escaping from the darkness.

  Ziusudra laughed, stepping forward and grabbing his blade from the air. “Perfect, then! When I am killed, you may own everything I have.”

  The Sorcerer grinned, white teeth glowing through the darkness under his hood. Ziusudra held his blade aloft for a moment, then sheathed it carefully. He looked toward The Sorcerer, whose grin had disappeared.

  “Well then, that is business conducted.” Ziusudra said, eager to test out his newfound immortality. He marched toward the opening of the cave, where the snow and wind still raged in the storm outside. He glanced down to his winter coat and clothing lying on the floor, the extra layers that had kept him alive during his ascent, and he chuckled. “Say, Sorcerer, can I die by my own hand?”

  The Sorcerer laughed. “You are a man under the Sun, are you not?”

  Ziusudra grinned. “Then choosing to go out in this weather will not kill me, will it?”

  “I suppose not.”

  Smiling ear to ear, Ziusudra stomped out into the freezing cold with only a thin shirt on his back and even thinner pants around his waist. The Sorcerer cackled loudly as the newly immortal king made his way down the mountain, leaping from the highest peaks to the lowest depths as he descended. No Man Under the Sun could slay Ziusudra, King of the World, and no man could stand against the unparalleled might of The Sorcerer’s promise.