That island around the mountain was much bigger than it appeared to be at first, but only because it was dwarfed by the mountain. Ice Mountain looked to be within a day's march on day one, but it wasn't. By day two, it hadn't moved any closer. Day three, still the same. The journey had been a slaving one, one without food and with only very little drink. The Wandman's pushiness at first was doubled as soon as Windston mentioned how different he had looked at the Twin Mountain Pass.

  “Different? How do you mean?” the Wandman had asked.

  White hair, white beard, straight posture.

  “That wasn't me,” the Wandman said, blinking, confused. His eyes went wide. “What did I do there? Tell me!”

  The boys told him what he had done and the Wandman turned a shade lighter in the face before hustling them to their feet and rushing them on.

  By day, by night, by day again, and by night, they jogged. No sleep. No eating. Just a few sips of murky water here and there, water squeezed from moss that, like the sea here, couldn't freeze. It was ice cold, so much so that it burned going in; it froze each breath out. It left a horrendously long-lasting taste in the mouth of intense mint if mint wasn't sweet or good. But it did quench their thirst a little, at least enough to keep them alive and running.

  “Onward!” the Wandman would say. “March!” he'd cry. Or “Mush!” He held in his hand an energy whip at times, yellow like their cuffs. And he liked to spray them with sparks even still that burned and bit at the skin.

  Frem had collapsed twice. Each time, he was given a drink and rushed on again.

  Windston hadn’t buckled but his shoulders hurt from the bindings. His arms were bound not exactly at the wrists, but higher up his forearms, leaving his shoulder blades nearly pinched all day.

  “Someday,” Frem had said to the Wandman, “I'm going to kill you.”

  Windston thought that wasn't true at all; he thought for sure he would.

  The Wandman ignored their threats. He wasn't doing much running. He liked to levitate in a lotus, or sometimes even standing. He could do that and keep pace with the boys. But it was odd; whenever he did that, it felt as though they dragged him by invisible tethers – and they surely did.

  By the fourth non-stop night, they reached the foot of the mountain. There, finally, after so much toil they felt they would die, the Wandman loosened their bonds and put them to work digging into the frozen ground beneath the moss. They dug for an hour as he shaped what mud they pulled up into a hut with his staff. Windston watched the colors of energy scoop here and flatten there, pack and layer and build. The hut was formed into a perfect dome, and yet the Wandman hadn't physically touched it once.

  All three were exhausted by the time the hut was built. A fire burned at its center beneath a vent. There, finally, they all slept – even the Wandman. His mind drifted like the boys', and he let it do so because, tomorrow, they would start the climb.

  This was no ordinary climb. The climb up Ice Mountain is steeper than most, trail-less, and cold. The rock and ice about it are hard and slick; without either spiked feet or super strength, there is no defeating it. But they had more than super strength; they had that, and the magic the Wandman conducted through his staff.

  That morning, after a breakfast of bacon provided by the Wandman, they did begin their climb.

  The mountain sloped at a slippery angle at first, and then there was a steep climb straight up.

  The boys were no longer bound now either but were each followed instead by a zapping light that hovered just behind their heads. If they slowed or strayed in ways the Wandman didn't approve, they were zapped. The zap neither hurt or stung, but it did stun, and so much so that they felt they would fall. This typically wouldn't bother Frem, or anyone of his kind, but, despite the night's rest, he was fatigued beyond belief, and couldn't be sure he could save himself from a fall he feared would result in his death. The ground below wasn't all squishy islands of spongy fungus in gel, but hard dirt packed with ice and covered in an unusual moss; and Frem wasn't Windston.

  Windston wasn't even thinking about escaping anymore at this point, even in hypotheticals. He was more obsessed with each bit of energetic light flash Frem or the Wandman made as they did this or that. Last night, as he slept, he played with a single ball of energy that he ran up and down each limb and throughout what were energy centers in what to him seemed to be a distinctly different body from his physical body. The centers were stimulated by this ball, and that stimulation filled Windston with energy. The energy movement also triggered out of body moments during which his energy arms or legs would break free from their physical counterparts and rise weightlessly. More incredible to him even than that, though, was when he tried to make that energy ball physical and found that he could. Rather than something abstract that floated through and gave the illusion of stimulating his nerves, something bright and physical, like Frem's explosive balls of light, hovered over him, and he stared at it curiously, changed its shape, and even let it penetrate the skin of his hand to see what it felt like; it gave resistance to his hand not unlike a magnet, and then, once inside, refused to leave.

  And now, in the morning after, he seemed to have been able to catch sight of another world, for everything everyone and everything did could be seen as propelled by that invisible energy. He also learned that he could shut it off, that energetic sight, simply by willing it; all he had to do was wish more to see only the physical, and so he did.

  Just as he was thinking that a giant block of snow broke loose from above them and nearly crushed the Wandman. He let out a yell and leaped to his right. With a yelp, he lifted his wand and watched it become a long, silver sword just as another block of snow crashed down on him.

  Windston and Frem looked back at him, eyes wide, and saw when the snow cleared that he was gripping into the side of the mountain with his fingers, and that both swords had fallen.

  Immediately, Frem rained hell on him. He blasted and blasted and blasted with his right hand. Windston didn't hesitate either, but his intention wasn't violent yet; he let go of the wall of icy rock and plummeted first past, and then with, the Wandman.

  The swords fell fast, but the Wandman fell faster. He fell faster, and then, with a word, summoned his sword and it leaped up to his hand.

  Just then, another block of snow crashed down, this time right on top of him. He let out a loud wail and the snow burst, but not long before he crashed belly first onto the hard ground.

  Windston fell just to his left, rolled and grabbed his own sword.

  There, he stood, aiming his sword at the Wandman, who lay deep in a heap of snow, still, not even breathing, but rather letting out a long, slow, gurgling groan.

  Windston remained fixed even as Frem landed beside him, and then, suddenly, as if triggered by a moment of desperation, he lunged forward and let his sword plunge into the Wandman's back.

  There was no blood, but rather a bright burst of power, perhaps electricity, that ran first upward and all around them and then into Windston's sword.

  There was a moment during which, like before, Windston stood across an arc of energy in an eternal field of whiteness. Across from him stood the Wandman, his eyes bright with fury and wrath. He pulled, and tugged, and Windston felt his life leaving him. And then, with a jerk, Windston pulled back, and the Wandman screamed as he was sucked into the ray of energy. All the energy brightened and rushed into Windston's hands, and then he saw nothing, felt nothing, and was nothing for a brief period.

  There, in the dirt and snow, he crashed backward, his sword flying and plunging into the dirt as he lay there motionless, eyes wide and unblinking. The Wandman's body was gone; there was only his sword there, and the imprint his body and limbs made in the snow.

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  Frem snatched the sword and there he stood, heaving in and out in a panic, holding the sword of the Wandman, whose crystal at the hilt flickered with electricity. He stood there and gasped, staring down at his friend, who looked to be dead.

  “Windston?” he said, touching him with his shoe, which sizzled and burned.

  He lit his hands aglow and touched Windston's shoulder, but even his own energy didn't protect him from Windston's, and his hands were burned.

  “Windston!” he yelled at the top of his lungs, but Windston didn't move.

  And then there was a call, a hullo from way off south to his left. He looked that way and, to his dismay and disbelief, saw the original Wandman, tall and proud, his hair and beard white as snow.

  Frem's heart sank but he steadied himself with the sword and leaned tall against it. Like that, he waited, always watching Windston out of his peripheral in hopes that he might stir.

  He did not, and, when the Wandman got to him, he rolled Windston to his side.

  “Who are you?” Frem demanded.

  The Wandman glanced at the sword in Frem’s hand, said. “What became of the man who wielded that sword?”

  “He's dead,” Frem said.

  “Dead,” he said. “Or vanished?”

  “Both,” Frem said, shrugging.

  “He was called Omandin.” He paused, drew in a deep breath, closed his eyes and shook his head. “He was an evil man of evil deeds, but still; one hopes for eventual change, even within cold and ancient hearts.”

  With his own wand he used a magic power to draw the sword from Frem. It hung before him in the air, and then so did his wand.

  What Frem didn't see was that that man was not taking the energy, but the memory, from the sword that was the Wandman's wand. He took it into his own wand and let out a sigh.

  “Here,” he said as the sword hung lower, spinning slowly before Frem, as if on display. “Take it. This blade was named already as a staff, but I bid you rename it and wear it at your side.”

  Frem lowered his eyebrows and stared at the sword with narrowed eyes. He nodded next, and took it from the air, and held it out above his head; the crystal whined and glowed.

  “May it strengthen you where it failed my brother. That is a token of apology on his behalf from me.”

  “It should go to him,” Frem said, gesturing at Windston. “He's the one that killed him.”

  “Nay,” the Wandman said. “He has taken something greater for himself. Keep it. You will need it, and there are others I would keep it from.”

  Frem nodded and stared at Windston, who lay there still and without breathing in the snow.

  “When will he wake up?” Frem asked.

  “I don't know. But he will.” He began to walk away, toward the mountainside. There at its edge, he stared straight up it and started to rise.

  “Can't you help me wake him up?” Frem asked.

  The Wandman said nothing, nor did he turn and face him.

  “Hey, come back!” Frem yelled. “Come back, you jerk! Help me! Help me help him!”

  The Wandman ignored him. Frem watched him rise up and out of sight, disappearing in the same bit of mist they had almost reached, mist that seemed to hang around the lower portions of the mountain all week.

  Still staring at the mist, he spat. And then he grabbed Windston and carried him back to the hut, which was no more than a hundred paces west along the mountain.

  In the hut, he lit a fire and placed Windston on the other side of it. He lay opposite him, looking at the blade of the sword the Wandman had given him, and then the diamond.

  Honestly, he didn't care about it that much. Not now, not while he was alone with a more or less useless Windston – a useless Windston that was probably dead.

  He got up and checked Windston’s breathing. He still wasn't breathing, but his skin was warm, his cheeks were flushed, and his lips were bright red.

  “Weird,” he said.

  They were out of food. Even the frozen hay-hum frogs were gone and there didn't seem to be anything edible on the island.

  Wind howled outside.

  Still, maybe he should check the island, scope it out for anything edible.

  “Or maybe I should just get some friggin hay-hums,” he said aloud to himself. He could probably fly out that way and back in less than a day. He'd leave Windston some sort of indicator that he had gone, like… his bag – he wouldn't leave without that if he meant to leave for good.

  He wondered if Windston would be out now for as long as he was after he'd killed the Haathuud. Probably. Maybe longer.

  “What's the point of a sword if every time you use it it knocks you out?” he thought aloud. He swung his sword back and forth, side to side. It wasn't as long as Windston's – even the handle was shorter – but it was cool. Really cool. It was beautiful, and made weird noises when he swung it, and the diamond glowed brighter and brighter.

  “I wonder if it's magical. Probably.” But he didn't know, and he didn't know magic.

  He headed outside with it. There, he swung it some more, and yelled out magic words he'd heard growing up while aiming it this way or that.

  Nothing.

  He swung it and gave a command for it to shoot lightning bolts down from the heavens.

  Nothing happened. But when he lit his left hand aglow, the sword in his right glowed right after, and the glow in the left hand was gone. He tried it again, and the sword seemed to erupt in white light. He swung it, and the energy flung out through the top and exploded into a rock down the ways along the mountain; the rock burst into a million little stinging pieces of pebbles and sand.

  “Whoa,” he said.

  He tried again, this time with an even larger amount of energy; again, the sword sucked it up and shot it out magnified, the power multiplied.

  He lit his right hand, which held the sword, and his body glowed all over, and he felt lighter, and stronger.

  “Okay,” he said, nodding. “I think I'll keep it.” But what would he call it? “I don't know,” he said, swinging. “Butt stabber,” he said, and smiled. “No; the Buttcracker,” he said, chuckling. “I'll call you the Buttcracker. No one goes without a crack in the butt if I have anything to do with it!”

  What a horrible name, he thought, laughing. Shouldn't it be something like Dragon's Fang, or Ice Fang, or Silver Fang? “It should,” he said in all honesty. “And maybe on paper it will be,” he said. “I can tell whoever whatever I want, and it'll still, to me, be the Buttcracker.”

  That was true.

  “Buttcracker, me and you have some work to do.”

  He left on that note. He leaped up into the air and flew south. He did this at full speed for over an hour, shooting blasts from the Buttcracker here and there as he went.

  Finally, he spotted a couple frogs down below. They were one on top of the other, in front of this ugly tree with a face. It looked to be sleeping, and he snatched the frogs up without waking it. There was no way he was risking another second with a talking tree in these parts.

  “I reckon I wouldn't even if I was lonely,” he said to himself, airborne again. He was headed west now, along the edge of the island. “I reckon I wouldn't if I was the last man on earth and there weren't no women nowhere.”

  He landed when he saw what looked like a squirming snake. It was one, and he chopped its head off with Buttcracker, took its tail.

  Later, he found another snake, and another couple of hay-hum frogs. These two weren't getting it on, they were just near each other.

  After two more snakes and another frog, this one really fat, he headed back to the mountain and hurried along its edge until he spotted the hut.

  Windston was in there sitting up in front of the fire. He wasn't alone; Bombo was there too, and he had a full bag of goodies, and none of it was reptile or amphibian.

  “Bombo,” Frem said. “How did I know you'd come back?”

  Bombo didn't say anything. He was wrapped up in a thick blanket made of bear skin, rocking back and forth in front of the fire, his hands warming just over it.

  “Well, as long as you brought beer,” Frem said.

  “No beer,” Bombo replied. “Beer is for grownups.”

  “We all just drank together the other night,” Frem whined.

  “Yes, on special occasion,” Bombo said. “This is not special. This is survival. For here, we have wine.”

  “Wine?” Frem asked, perking up.

  “Not the kind you get drunk with. This is the kind you spare. We only have little, and there is no good water for miles and miles.”

  Frem rolled his eyes. “Everything with you is bad news.”

  “Where'd you get that?” Windston asked, looking at Frem's sword.

  “Oh, this?” Frem said. “Nowhere. The Wandman. The other one – the one from the Twins. He's here.”

  “So there really are two, then,” Windston said.

  “There was. You sucked up the butthole one like you did the Haathuud, right in the tip of your sword.” He made a slurping sound. “Then you passed out like a big pussy. The other one showed up right after that. He told me a bunch of crap and then left. But before he did, he gave me this.” He was looking at it. “See?” he said, bending down and pointing out the diamond. “Recognize that?”

  Windston nodded.

  “Won't be shooting sparks at our asses anymore.”

  “Ass this, butt that,” Bombo said. “You need to eat soap, not beer.”

  “You don't eat beer,” Frem said. “For that matter, only weirdos like you would even think about eating soap.”

  “I'll take soup,” Windston said, putting more into his bowl.

  “Me too,” Frem said, but first, he threw his creepy crawlies outside. “What is it?”

  “Deer,” Bombo said. “I have lots of frozen deer meats.”

  “Good. I'm getting sick of all this creepy crap.”

  “Frogs?” Bombo asked.

  Windston made a face, pretended to gag. But he actually wasn't thinking much about frogs, or even food. He was groggy, but he was strong. Incredibly strong. And he saw energy completely now and kept seeing it and not seeing it back and forth at ease. Bombo was blue, Frem was blue, and so was he, in varying shades. And there, way up above, headed straight up the mountain, was a green person – the Wandman from the Twins. He was headed toward another power, another blue one, though this second one was much, much bigger.

  There was another power too, though it wasn't active. It was like an inverted power, and the only thing like it was the key in Frem's bag, which Windston could also see with his energy eyes; it was faint, but had a pulse, and it spun slowly. The other keys also had a pulse, but their pulses were not colored, and they barely pulsed at all.

  Finally, there was the tangerine. It was always near, like an orange hint that moved through and over other things. It'd be on the wind here, or along the rocks there. Sometimes, it was misty and dispersed. But it was always nearby. In fact, it was the first thing that woke him, right before Bombo peeked his head inside. It had been in the fire, bouncing around in the flames as if floating within and on them. It slept there in the fire during that time, a brief sleep to Windston but many hours to itself. It wasn't quite stuck in time is why, and it wasn't quite physical either. But it somewhat was, and all the way was at times. He wondered why, and what it was, and why it seemed to always be nearby.