For three days, Bors sought some kind of respite, some succor from the badlands, without luck. Water skins were emptied and discarded. The water harness, damaged in the fight, broke completely after a day. He left the ruins of the harness’s catcher on the thick, baked clay. It weighed him down, and it had no use for him. The last of the food had run out a day before the water. Still, Bors continued to walk north.

At night, the Eye of Jove burned in the sky, the twin spots of Deimos and Phobos giving a touch more illumination. Bors mused that he was near Moon Cross, the reason for the Sharpteeth raid on the Blue Hand. For his own tribe—so he’d been told by the last of his elders before they too perished from age and time—it was a time of reflection. He mused upon where he’d come from and how he ached when he settled down. There was nothing, no scrub, no tree, no water this far from where Olympus Mons had been. Did I make a mistake? Should I have returned to Gods’ Home? Tosh wouldn’t be there. What would it matter?

Settling heavily on the red-orange clay and dirt, he looked south. At first, he sought the huge shape of Olympus Mons after seeing it in the past with Tosh. He knew the mountain wasn’t there, that he held the soul of the mountain in his hands. He glanced down at the pitted and ancient-looking blade across his lap. That was the past. Before she left. Before the Mother of Mountains disappeared and came to Bors’s people in the form of the black iron sword that rested across his thighs.

It was the legend. The sword had been lost for generations. It was only through the Master that Bors came to possess the sword in the first place. For so long, he had only known of Olympus Mons as a myth, the legend of her as a sword. His hands rested on the cool metal as he bowed his head. “Soul of the Mother, what should I do?”

The image of the large mountain sprang to mind. Mother’s first form. He counted himself blessed to have actually seen it in the strange adventure with Tosh of Deimos. Bors tried not to dwell long on the former image of the mountain. Her new form grew a little heavier across his legs. The faces of Tessa and Nix, even Tosh, his brother, filled his mind instead. And how he had almost come to kill Tosh. It was a small argument after they had arrived back on Mars after the Master and his wife had sent them away. Tosh had gotten drunk and spoke ill of the Hidden Mountain tribe by accident. “How could anyone worship a mountain that doesn’t exist anymore?” Tosh had asked in the drunken quarrel. “It sounds like superstitious mumbo-jumbo.” The intoxicated Tosh looked at Bors and laughed. “And to think it is now some sword? Come, Bors, you can’t be that foolish?”

Bors knew Tosh was drunk, yet the bloodlust from the Soul of the Mother—one that Bors hadn’t fully realized was part of her gift—surged in Bors, making him draw the Soul of the Mother on Tosh. At first, Tosh only laughed at him. As Bors raged and threatened Tosh with the Soul of the Mother, the drunken merchant gave him a smirk while asking, “What? You’re going to cut me down in cold blood, brother?” There was a moment of hesitation from Bors, and Tosh’s smirk wavered. “Brother?” Tosh asked again.

That moment of pause caused the barbarian to shake himself from his rage. Bors dropped the point of his sword, disgusted by what he had almost done. Bors then gave Tosh a smile, laughing it off. “Never, my brother.” He took a large quaff of ale to hide the look of humiliation and fear on his face. The two retired to their shared room soon after. Bors didn’t sleep much that night, the Soul of the Mother staying in its sheath and away from him. Yet, he couldn’t be more than an arm span from it because of his connection.

The next morning, Bors suggested that the two should part for a year and a day.

“A Martian year, you mean?” Tosh asked, bemused by the idea.

“Yes,” Bors said.

“So, almost two Earth years?”

“Yes.” It is better this way, Tosh.

“Are you sure it is better this way, bearer?” Mother whispered in his ear, snapping Bors from his memories.

“Yes!” he screamed into the wind. He looked around, seeing no manifestation appear. It was simply her voice, goading him in his head. “Tosh is stronger than you know.”

“He is weak,” the voice of Mother said. “He holds you back.”

“No,” Bors shouted, not believing her.

“You will die out here. You are a fool. My powers can’t help you much longer. Your friend, Tosh”—the word came out as more of a curse—“can’t help you. Only I can help you, my bearer.” The voice was plaintive. “Begin your trip back to the south, and you’ll live.”

Bors took a deep breath to calm his mind and emotions. “No.”

“You will die.”

For a long moment, Bors studied the dark horizon and the myriad stars and the Eye of Jove that illuminated the Martian night sky. “Maybe . . . but until that time comes, be silent.”

“As you wish, bearer.” The weight of the sword doubled for a moment, crushing down on his knees, then returned to its normal weight in the blink of an eye.

Bors shook his head and continued to look over the barren ocean bed before pulling his cloak over himself, drifting off into a restless slumber.

He dreamed of his short adventures with Tosh of Deimos. Good dreams of the bizarre adventures they had. He hoped his brother was doing better, and he hoped Tessa was well.

When he dreamed of Tessa, the girl with the dragon serpent smiled at him. Then a form loomed from Tessa’s shadow. The shawled and hooded form of Mother appeared, driving the girl, her dragon, and Tosh away from Bors. “You’ll never know their fate . . . This foolishness will kill you—and me, my bearer.” The shawl-wrapped form of the Soul of the Mother wailed and screeched louder and louder with anguish, which awakened him finally.

Brushing the sleep and dust from his eyes, Bors stood and stretched. He yawned, needing sleep, yet he knew his sword would not allow him any more that night. Seeing the sun was still hours from rising, he gathered the meager possessions he retained and pressed on toward the pole of Mars.

He continued to walk until an eldritch force made him hesitate for a moment. Blinking away windswept sand from his eyes, Bors realized he’d fallen to the dead ocean floor, asleep. While walking, he’d fallen from exhaustion. Blinking open eyes gummed shut with wind and sand, he found himself staring at a stone plinth five feet in front of him. Atop it was a dark stone column of no stone native to Mars, broken by some ruinous form of destruction, giving it a shattered, ancient look. Standing, Bors felt sudden electricity in the air and heard a faint chant echoing in his head as he crept closer to the plinth and pillar. With a grunt, he pushed himself forward past the column and found another pillar, and another, and another. Each was the remnant of a column of some kind, and none were whole. Each one had been shattered by some kind of ancient rage. Some were destroyed near the top of their seven-foot span, others near the base. No two pillars were broken in the same way or were the same length. More than one was made of some kind of crystal. The crystal ones shimmered and sparkled with a throbbing light in time to the soft chant growing louder as he explored the ruins. A whisper came to him, yet when he tried to focus on it, it slipped away into a susurrus on the wind. Then Bors swore he heard a voice in the wind, speaking his name.

He stumbled around each of the pillars, still weak from lack of food and water. He found seven in all. Together they formed a crude circle thirty feet across. In the center was a black stone slab, ten feet square, made of something like black marble. There was something about it that felt wrong to Bors. Still, he moved closer. Soon, he came to the lip of the slab and studied the polished surface. It rose five feet out of the sands, yet Bors was sure there was more buried.

“Bors, we need your help,” a voice said again, much clearer than before.

Bors looked around, not seeing anything. His hand went to Mother, yet she was cold and heavy, dragging him down. Biting back a curse, he swept his eyes over the circle of pillars and the stone slab. “Where are you?” he shouted, one hand pulling out his small bone dagger, not wanting to draw Mother if he could help it. She felt more and more like a millstone upon his back.

“Come closer,” the voices said. “Stand on the slab.”