Soul's Reckoning (Broken Well Trilogy) by Sam Bowring

attract a god’s attention frivolously, and that last trip had been in his youth, on the simple business of seeing the wonder of the Morningbridge Peaks, days that seemed long ago now.
    ‘And they are,’ he muttered, as he huffed his way upwards.
    They were traversing a narrow stair, unevenly cut into red mountain rock. In the late afternoon the place was still torrid, the air wavering above parched stones. To their left gaped Morningbridge Valley, a deep bowl filled with sand, scorpions and skittering beetles. Ringing it on all sides were mountains like the one they climbed, reaching skywards with sharp-headed peaks, as if a giant crown had fallen from the heavens to be settled on by red dirt. Opposite them, across the valley, were the two tallest mountains, the Twin Sceptres, creating a deep V where they met. Beyond them was the Shallow Sea, and sunrise.
    Ahead, Battu soldiered on grimly. How he must hate being here, thought Fahren, in Kainordas’s most holy of places, not to mention its hottest .   .   . yet here he was. It grew harder each day to doubt the man’s resolve.
    ‘Do you enjoy this?’ said Battu, as if in response to his thoughts, waving a dark-sleeved hand in a sweeping gesture that encompassed everything they saw. ‘This stifling heat? Is it pleasurable to your kind?’
    ‘No,’ said Fahren. ‘Perhaps you will draw comfort from knowing that I think it’s much too hot.’
    Battu grunted, and slumped down on a rock by the side of the stair. He pulled off a boot with some difficulty, for sweat made it stick to his skin, and knocked out a pebble. Usually the man preferred to be barefoot, but Fahren had warned him not to come so here, where the ground could cook you from the feet up.
    ‘Come, Battu. We have almost reached the bridge.’
    Slowly, begrudgingly, Battu slid his boot back on.
    A little further up they came to a small plateau on the side of the mountain where the stair ended. At its edge the next mountainside loomed past but a stone’s throw away, though between was a drop of almost half a league. Overlooking the valley stood a pair of posts, from which rope was tied back to stakes in the ground – all of which proved, on closer inspection, to be carved from stone. It looked like the way onto a bridge, yet no bridge hung over the empty space.
    ‘This is it?’ said Battu, a touch of condemnation in his voice.
    ‘It is. Not what you expected?’
    ‘It’s a little on the modest side. But I suppose that is my own prejudice – I always expect the light to be garish, colourful .   .   . vulgar. To find the gateway to Arkus looking like this .   .   . well .   .   .’ He scowled. ‘It puts me in mind of my own throne room. Nothing fancy, just what’s needed.’
    ‘Do not fear,’ said Fahren. ‘When the bridge appears, nothing extra is needed to awe.’
    Battu’s scowl deepened.
    Afternoon began to relinquish its grasp, the harshness in the air losing its edge. Fahren was uneasy, for there was nothing to do but hunker down and wait for night to pass in each other’s company. He wondered if Arkus would be angry with him for bringing Battu to his doorstep – but then it was the god himself who had ordered a plan involving the use of a shadow mage. And here, of all places, Battu would surely not attempt anything nefarious. Maybe it was not Battu who worried him most greatly; maybe it was wondering if, at sunrise the next morning, Arkus would hear him at all.
    ‘So,’ said Battu, ‘we wait?’
    ‘Yes.’
    Each of them had a small pack, the bulk of their supplies having been left at the base of the stair with the horses. Some food and a bedroll was all that Fahren had brought, so it was not long before he was set up for the night. The roll was neither large nor plush, and did little to disguise the hardness of the stone beneath. Sitting on his own roll, Battu wasted no time in removing his boots, and setting them aside. They steamed faintly.
    ‘Are you going to insist upon