It was slow going as the adventurers approached the feet of the colossi on the slick surface of the old Imperial road. The sun was just past its apex, and this close to the huge statue of the legendary swordswoman, Arden, her shadow encompassed them entirely. This close to the basin at the foot of the falls, the noise was all-consuming, and the torrential downpour fell on the right side of Arden’s kneeling form, wreathing her in mist. Her helmed head partially shadowed her face, and the water stains streaked across her downturned face looked just like tears.

  Whoever had carved this statue depicted her kneeling on her right knee, and her right hand held a broadsword point down while her left hand extended outward, palm up. From this perspective, it seemed almost as if she was looking down at her outstretched palm, as if she was looking at something held in it. The entire carving loomed a thousand feet above the valley floor, carved out of the very rock of the cliff face. Despite the constant pummeling of the falls on her right side, her carving remained completely intact, though the water had encouraged the growth of dense moss and vines.

  Vargr eyed some of the longer strands of vine that hung down from the statue with great interest. Osric peered into the deeper shadows behind the statue, searching to see if there was any evidence of a way behind the statue itself. Though the carving was high relief, the back of it was connected to the cliff—until Arden’s nape, where her forward lean created a gap between her statue and the cliff. Squinting and craning their necks, they could see there was a cavity there.

  Many gestures were exchanged between the party with middling success. Gorend pointed at the vines, then at Vargr. Shaking his head furiously, he drew his finger across his throat in a slashing motion and mimicked falling to his death; this final pantomime seemed at last to dissuade the Wiskin from attempting to climb the vines, much to the amusement of Avaricios and Osric. There appeared to be no causeway behind the falls, and any attempt to climb behind them meant facing a treacherous climb across slippery rock—and below, nothing but a long fall. None needed more than a glance into the swirling waters at the foot of the falls to know that falling in would mean nothing short of certain death. The wild waters of Swift River ran out of this pool all the way past Gosterwick, with no easily located places to ford its mighty current and wide berth, effectively blocking them from accessing the broken stairway on the west side of the falls. From their current vantage point, they saw no other means to ascend than the long switchback ramp that zigzagged up the cliff, up, fifteen-hundred-feet to the top of the plateau, where the ruined city of Arden Vul stood silent as a sentinel, awaiting their arrival.

  Vargr waved his arms to get his companions’ attention and pointed at the second switchback in the path above. He then pointed at Arden’s palm, indicating that they should be able to see her palm from that vantage; indeed, it seemed that the second switchback would bring them very close to her left shoulder, close enough, even, to reach out and touch the colossus. Osric raked his fingers through his black beard as he nodded slowly, a smile spreading on his face. One did not become a mage without acquiring a certain insatiable curiosity for the world, an addiction to the acquisition of knowledge. Avaricios and Gorend both stared in dismay at the wet, smooth rock of the path upward. From where they were standing, it seemed the path was no more than six feet wide; six feet between them and a long, long way down. Both visibly paled by several shades. Nonetheless, the path forward was clear. The adventurers set to the task.

  Vargr led the party with confidence—more confidence, perhaps, than was warranted, as far as the rest were concerned. It had been Gorend’s idea that the four of them be tied together, forming an odd sort of caterpillar as they inched their way along the slippery, sloping path up the cliff. It had been once sheathed in flagstones, but those had mostly broken and eroded with time. It made for dangerously uneven footing for the climbers. The higher up they moved, the narrower the six foot wide path seemed to become. Periodically, Vargr would look back over his shoulder at them as he uncoiled more rope and pounded pitons into the ground with the back of his handaxe, tethering off the rope at intervals. The look on his face was disturbing, and his eyes were wild with a strange glee.

  “He is sick,” the dwarf said.

  “That may be,” Avaricios returned, “but he is also the one leading us.”

  “And what does that say about us?” said Osric grimly.

  The other two had no answer.

  Vargr, for his turn, happily pounded in another piton, bellowing a traditional work song from the mountains of Wiskinga, singing in his native tongue as he set to his work with giddy determination. They trudged on.

  Osric had suggested the walking staves. After hacking down a few sturdy branches, he, Gorend and Avaricios had each secured a strong stick to help them climb and keep their balance. This proved a prudent choice: as soon as they were about thirty feet from the ground the climb became truly terrifying, and they had no choice but to place their trust in the mad Wiskin as he led them onward with nothing but a short tether around their waists and a narrow causeway of slick, weather-worn stone beneath their boots. With one hand on the rope and one on their walking sticks, the three made their way slowly, step by shaking, tenuous step. The regular pink, pink, pink of the Wiskin hammering in pitons came from somewhere ahead, but the terrified climbers didn’t dare look up from their boots.

  Osric piped up, raising his voice over the constant sound of the falls. “It’s the strangest thing; between us, we’ve all heard tales of the Arden Vul—we’ve heard from countless supposed adventurers who claimed that they had returned from the expeditions to the ruined city. Presumably they’ve gone up this very same path. Does that strike anyone as, how shall I put it gently... Madness?”

  His open-ended question stood hanging in the air above all of their heads. It did indeed seem wrong, mad even to climb these switchbacks. But each of them looked inside themselves and found that, despite the long, almost certainly lethal road ahead, none of them had even the faintest inclination of turning back. This, too, it seemed, confirmed some deep truth about themselves, one that perhaps they would rather not face. Avaricios took a swig from a flask, and all lowered their heads once more and trudged on. One more step, one more step—ever forward, ever striving. No matter the cost.

  Vargr’s song carried over the spray of the waterfall to their ears and Gorend grunted. “Madness indeed.”

  Once, twice one of them nearly fell. Despite their careful movement and their walking staves, the broken flagstones failed them time and again and they would cry out, holding fast to their tether, lifting one another up. A few minutes to catch their breath, then grim nods all around, and onward. Then, at last, they came to a sort of landing and the climbers were able to look up at their progress and see their surroundings.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “All of that was just for one switchback?” Osric slumped against the wall. “Come on priest, I’m going to need a dram of that.” Avaricios passed his flask in solemn silence as he looked down at the path they had taken, and craned his neck to see the path that still remained ahead. Gorend sat on a stone, staring in mute dejection at the stone beneath his feet, drawing some comfort in its relative stability perhaps—or maybe just trying not to look at the edge, and the long, long fall beyond.

  Vargr was whistling merrily as he looped more rope around his shoulder. “Chin up, friends! Take your rest, then we forge on. No use burning daylight here.”

  By the time they made it to the second switchback, sweaty from the late afternoon sun and the humidity of the falls, the party staggered the last few steps to the landing and sat roughly, breathing hard. None wanted to look up at what remained of the road above them, but all knew they were no further than halfway up.

  As they stretched the knots out of their sore bodies, they took stock of their surroundings. Immediately facing them, staring darkly from where it crouched on the landing, was a twenty-foot wide entrance into the cliff side. It was not a natural cave; this had been built, carved out by intelligent hands centuries ago. While it was not adorned with marble like that inaccessible entrance on the western side of the falls, its plain, cut entrance was an inviting reprieve from the narrow causeway they’d been staggering up for the past few hours.

  Above, Arden’s helmed face loomed as ever, though they were much closer to her downturned face now, and her shoulder came very near to the landing they were resting on. As Vargr took a few steps closer to the edge of the landing he was able to lean over and see the upturned palm of her hand. While the others looked on, Vargr stood silently. A frown creased his brow.

  “What is it?” called Avaricios.

  “What’s in the hand?” Gorend barked.

  Vargr turned slowly, his expression unreadable. He looked at them for a moment, then shrugged.

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?” said Osric.

  “Nothing.” The Wiskin ran his fingers through his blonde mane and gazed at the statue beside them. He was staring at the swordswoman’s pauldron, and sweeping his gaze to her back. As they had seen from a distance below, their suspicions were confirmed: her statue was attached to the rock in a high relief from her boots up to her neck, where her forward-leaning pose separated her from the face of the cliff. There, in the narrow V between the nape of her neck and the cliff, a dense layer of vegetation grew, nourished by the constant misting of the falls beside them.

  “What is it, Vargr?” Osric asked, massaging his sore hands. “What are you thinking?”

  “I sense... something,” Vargr replied in a faraway tone. “There’s something here. I just can’t tell what it is yet.” The Wiskin was surveying the vegetation that grew across the statue, the vines that trailed down her helm, her breastplate.

  “You’re going to climb it, aren’t you?” Osric said, a wry smile on his lips as he puffed on his pipe. Where he had produced it from or when he had lit it, none knew, but little puffs of smoke plumed out from him in a merry cloud as he sat with his boots kicked up on a stone.

  Vargr said nothing, but Gorend sighed. “I think he is.”

  The Wiskin turned back to face them and smiled, a length of rope already in his hands. Shouting to be heard above the falls, he asked: “So, who is going to give me a hand?”

  There were plenty of handholds in the chinks of Arden’s armor. Hammering in pitons and carefully running his rope, Vargr slowly made his way up the statue. Despite all of his precautions, and despite his trained aptitude as a climber, he was acutely aware that there was quite a significant chance of a fall. True, his companions were holding the end of his line ready to heave him back if he fell, but it would take no more than a fraction of an instant for him to be bashed against the rocks, and for his companions to haul up the limp body of a dead man. These were thoughts he kept pushed to the back of his mind, and he hooked his arm through his line and pounded in another piton.

  His goal was to make it to the nape of Arden’s neck. He climbed already in the shadow of her great helmed head that rose above him. The narrow V behind her neck was lush with vegetation, and as he climbed he was able to find purchase on some of the hanging vines that spilled over from this area. Before he knew it he was at her pauldron and repelling down into the jungle below.

  His boots sank deep into the greenery and as he dropped he found himself plunged neck-deep in dense, dripping foliage. From somewhere below, he faintly heard Osric’s voice call out: “Watch out for snakes!”

  Before he could respond, Vargr heard the air rent with a powerful, dreadful cry from somewhere far above him. The three companions waiting on the landing heard it as well, and all looked up to see a vast shadow blot out the sun. Some massive, flying beast beat its wings and buffeted them, its emerald scales glinting in the light. Even from a distance, all could see its powerfully muscled, serpentine form as it flew from its perch in the western part of the plateau and winged past them, and another deafening roar tore through the sky. The dragon did not appear to see them as it began circling lackadaisically in the sky, and there was a long, agonizing moment of paralysis as the party gaped up at it in awe.

  “Fuck this,” Gorend shouted, “I’m going in the cave.”

  Osric and Avaricios hesitated only a moment longer before they rushed into the cave after the dwarf. Luckily, the rope was long enough that they could take shelter from the dragon but still be ready to yank Vargr back, if needed.

  The chamber they entered was small. The ceiling was eight feet high, and as the humans’ eyes adjusted to the darkness they saw it had been carved out of neatly-shaped rock, although it was completely unadorned with any decoration. It was empty of furnishings of any kind, but in the center there was a low fire pit, and a pile of firewood neatly stacked against one wall.

  Gorend, who had already given the room a cursory once-over, spoke to the men. “Seems to be some kind of watch post. Maybe there’s nothing here, but I will search for any secret passages.” He began prodding the walls with the butt of his handaxe, testing to see if there were any hollow panels, his dwarven eyes scanning the stonework for irregularities.

  Avaricios peered around the edge of the opening, trying to see where the dragon was. Osric was still holding the rope tethered to Vargr, and he gave two hard tugs, trying to signal to the Wiskin of danger, to return quickly.

  Deep in the foliage behind the statue of Arden, Vargr did feel the tugs. However, he had no intention of returning just yet. While the dragon wheeled in the sky and roared once more above them, Vargr had felt something bump up against his boot as he treaded carefully through the underbrush. His tunnel vision seemed to overtake him as he sank into the jungle of vines, feeling his way through the vegetation. Something was down here, something solid. When his fingers at last closed around it, it felt cold to the touch, cold and smooth. As Vargr lifted the object carefully out of the foliage, the dragon’s scream tore through the sky one final time before it wheeled off over the plateau, beating its powerful wings as it returned to whatever lair it had come from.

  Vargr tugged the object free of the last vines that clung to it and raised it up. It was surprisingly heavy and he needed both hands to hold it aloft. There was only the narrowest shaft of sunlight that reached this shadowed place at this time of day, and the light caught the smooth metal rod in his hand beautifully, sending golden reflections shimmering across the wet rock of the cliff around him. His eyes widened as he beheld the treasure he had found: it was a rod of pure, brilliant gold.