Like most old sayings, it wasn’t literally correct, but it contained a grain of truth. There were a dozen roads leading south, either passing through tunnels that pierced the edge of the city’s crater or switchbacking over the top, but after descending into the foothills they all joined to become the Republic Road. This highway ran through the Splinter Kingdoms of Meltrock and Drail before finally reaching Obstadt, the great entrepôt of the northern Republic. Merchant combines like the Moorcats had made their fortune running caravans along the route, putting up with plaguespawn attacks and the taxes of the Splinter Kings to bring the salvage of Deepfire—and the cheap goods of its manufactories—back to the Republic.

Going north, on the other hand, there truly was only one road. The Hunter’s Gap was a notch in the wall of the crater, where part of the mountain the Chosen weapon had blown apart had collapsed into a narrow valley, creating a broad slope of melted, misshapen boulders and bits of twisted glass. Scavengers had cut a crude stairway through the debris, descending from the crater’s edge into the valley of the Brink. The tiny river led into the network of valleys and passes that were the only practical way to move around the Shattered Peaks.

Standing at the top of the Gap, wind viciously cold against his face in spite of a thick knit muffler, Gyre looked out at the serried ranks of snowcapped mountains and felt his heart sinking. He told himself they didn’t have far to go, all things considered—Kit’s ill-fated delve toward the Tomb had started on the flank of a mountain called Snowspear, which he figured they could reach in less than a week.

“Having second thoughts?” Kit said cheerfully, coming up behind him.

“Just contemplating freezing my balls off,” Gyre muttered.

“I suppose I’ve got one up on you there,” Kit said. “Come on. It’s not much warmer down in the valley, but at least we might get eaten by plaguespawn!”

She pushed past him, trooping down the uneven stone steps that ran back and forth through the scree of broken rock. Kit’s slight figure was swathed in so much cloth and leather it was a wonder she could move, with fur-lined trousers and a jacket on top of several other layers, her blue hair concealed under a leather cap, and a wool muffler like Gyre’s over her face.

He’d had to provide gear for both of them, naturally, since Kit’s funds had disappeared with her ghoul allies. Fortunately, Gyre had a few stashes of thalers for emergencies, and cleaning them out had been just about enough to cover what they needed for their expedition. Between food, tent, bedding, and a selection of useful alchemicals, Gyre’s pack was bulging, and Kit’s was scarcely lighter.