He could have hidden back within the cave, but he could not bring himself to step toward it, his muscle and sinew screaming in fear of moving toward the fires below in even the smallest of increments.

Luckily the closest thing to the mouth of the cave was an altar upon which sacrifices to Xaxis were made. He hurried over to it, hiding and skulking behind it as he looked around with wide, wild eyes. The altar was laden with all manner of things, from fruits to beasts. Things going to rot and waste. And thanks to that the first thing he realized was that he was starving … famished from who knew how long without food. But to steal from the altar might mean an insult to the god it was meant for, so he touched nothing there, not wishing to incite any further wrath from the gods. Especially not Xaxis. He was to be working covertly for his goddess’s interests. He could not draw attention to himself until it was time to begin to war in her name.

But she had given him no army. She expected him to find one on his own. It had taken years for him to build the forces he had once used to march across the world. But what of those lands he had once defeated? Would they still be his to command? How long had it been since he had been locked away?

No. He could not hope that any of them would know who he was. None but perhaps … home. Perhaps where he had once sat as warlord and master they would know who he was. But it did not follow that they would accept him. And he was a very long way from the massive walls of Toren, his home. It would take travel across a desert, a lush living valley, and an ocean before he could get there.

It felt strange to use the term home. His home for so long had been that fiery cavern. His home had been a pair of chains.

That was when he looked down at his arms.

Free. Free. His skin, raw and ragged as it was, pale, damp and weak it might be, but it was in the open air for the first time since … well … since. Naked in the cooler air after being in the scalding heat he was shivering so hard his teeth clacked like heavy sticks knocking together.

There was no one nearby. That did not surprise him. The entrance was located well above the sprawl of the city. Xaxis was not the sort of god one wanted to spend too much time on or get too close to. He was worshipped out of fear. He was worshipped whenever someone died, the idea being that he could be convinced to turn a blind eye to the departed, allowing them to bypass the eight hells and be risen up to the heavens where they would reside in the house of brightness and glory. He was worshipped by those who dealt in death, who thrived in the causing of it, the needing of it. He had been considered to be a worshipper of death because he had dealt in war. And in war there was always death. But in truth it had been Weysa, the goddess of conflict, who had earned his devotion, and that was probably why she had come to him and none of his other brothers. They were all warriors, but in their own way. Garreth had not even been a part of his forces, preferring to take on quests of honor. Maxum was a gold-sword. Selling his sword for gold and going wherever the money was best, whether the cause was good or bad. And yet, Maxum had his own set of morals, his own limitations, his own rules.

That left Jaykun. Jaykun had been his right arm, his first lieutenant. His successor, had it come to that. But it never had. They had taken on the folly of finding immortality, in spite of all the riches and glories they already had in the world.

Riches. Yes, he thought with sudden elation. He had hidden caches of wealth all over the Red Continent. All he need do was get to one of them, hoping above all that they had not been discovered. He could buy an army if he had those monies. Or at least he could start to buy one. The one thing he had learned in his days as a warlord was that war was an expensive undertaking. Tactics and planning were all well and good, but without the funds to support ones troops, the effort would come to a standstill.

But one step at a time. He needed clothes. And then a horse. With a horse and some proper provisioning he could cross the Syken Desert and see if one of his largest caches were still intact.

He looked around and found some thick shrubbery to the side of the folly, the opening to hell. He grabbed his sword and the armor and dragged it all behind a bush, hiding it well. The weight of it was light, but it was still cumbersome. He hid it as best he could, looking around furtively to make certain none were watching. But set so far from the town he was alone.

Once he was free of encumbrance he crept toward the city. A piece of fruit had rolled down the hill, presumably from the offerings above, and he snatched it up greedily. He ripped through the thick skin, shoving his entire face into the sweet pulpy heart of it. He devoured it as he moved, but it was gone all too quickly. He threw the skins aside and wiped his face.

It was daylight, late afternoon, by the position of the blue sun. It was told that the sun burned blue because that was the hottest part of the flame … although the songs of the gods said that the sun was the blue of the eyes of Atemna, the mortal woman who captured Lothas’s heart, the heart of the god of day and night. The moon and sun were his to command, bringing day and night, and he had the power to change the color of the sun in remembrance of his love.

Of course, Atemna met a tragic end when Diathus, Lothis’s wife and the goddess of land and oceans, drowned the girl in a fit of jealousy.

It wasn’t the first story of mortals suffering because of the tumultuous whims of the gods. But he would know that better than anyone. He wondered if he and his brothers were now one of the songs of the gods. A cautionary tale for those who reached too high.

The worst part of the city was closest to the folly. After all, who wanted to live nearest to hell? The children that ran in the muddied streets wore tatters and rags, the stench of poor sewage reeked heavy on the air, and the noise was very overwhelming the closer he got to it. The stench was harsh in his singed nostrils, but welcome after years of smelling nothing but soot and crisping flesh. He had crept well into the edge of the mess of it without anyone taking notice of his lack of clothing. They had stronger worries, these impoverished people, and no doubt he wasn’t the first naked beggar they had ever seen.

But he would not beg. No. Not that he was above it. He was not above anything anymore. But beggars would be cast down on, would earn nothing but negative attention. Especially one like him who looked so vulnerable on sight. Begging would not get him what he needed.

Thievery would.

The first order was some kind of clothing. He snuck down a back alley and immediately he could see clothing lines had been drawn up high between the buildings. But they were a good two stories up.