The Stair Of Time (Book 2) by William Woodward Page B

the way, so be it.  Better out in the wilds of the world than cowering in that damn bed.  Mark me on that one, boys. And mark me good!”
     
    The lore pertaining to The Lost City maintains, in rather categorical language, that its precise position changes from day to day, which means, the precise distance between Rogar Keep and The Lost City changes from day to day, which means, there was no way for them to know exactly how long it would take them to get there.  That being said, should they choose to make an educated guess based on past descriptions, their own experiences, and the latest cartography, somewhere between two to five days seemed likely.
    Fortunately, a s they’d assumed must be the case all those months ago, the opening they’d crawled through was not the only way in.  Not too far off the main pass through the Onarris, there was, according to the maps loaned to them by Ashel, another entrance, a bigger, double-doored kind of entrance with stone pillars carved deep into the side of the mountain, broad steps leading down, welcoming anyone with the wisdom to see and the will to climb.
    After all the years of searching, i t was a wonder nobody had found it.  Generations of historians had tried and failed, scouring the area for the smallest of clues, determined to unearth at least a piece or two of one of the most baffling puzzles this world had ever known.  A big double-doored kind of entrance like that should be fairly noticeable.  But then those doing the scouring probably didn’t have a map, and almost certainly hadn’t taken into account little things like magic, nature, and providence.
    The stable boy eyed them warily as they mounted their horses and spurred them east, setting out at a full gallop—for no other reason, as far as he could tell, than to show off, kicking up enough dust to make everyone in their wake shout and point.  It wasn’t every day that he saw three men ride off as they had, weighted down with enough supplies to last through the next winter, armed with enough weapons to win the next war.  Talk would come of it—he’d make sure.

 
     
    A Peculiar Campsite
     
     
     
    They had ridden most of the day, climbing ever higher into the mountains, the hard-packed trail welcoming them with open, albeit icy arms.  The thinning air and dropping temperature combined to give their surroundings a hushed, ethereal feel.  They had the sense that they were ascending into another world.  Here, anything seemed possible, the line separating reality from fancy beginning to blur, its borders teeming with all manner of strange and wondrous things. 
    The peaks of the Onnaris, due to their altitude and geographic position, remained snow clad year round.  This, of course, was of little concern to Andaris and company, for they were headed between said peaks, not over.  Light snow and a biting wind was the worst with which they would contend, nothing too troubling, or so Gramps assured them. 
    Soon after entering the high country, they began searching for a flat area to make camp.  Once located, they pitched their tents and gathered stones for a fire.  “Stay away from them gold ones with the red swirls,” warned Gramps.  Or, as Andaris was beginning to think of him, “The Great Woods sage.”  The man seemed to know everything about everything—out here, anyway.
    Andaris dropped the armload of stones he’d been carrying and began his search anew . Naturally , the gold ones with the red swirls were the most plentiful, and the perfect size, too.  Andaris refrained from asking why, knowing that the explanation was forthcoming. 
    Gaven’s wry smile widened as Gramps began to speak.  “I knew a fellah who done blowed himself up with them rocks.  You see…they explode when they get too hot.  A fire ring indeed!”  Gramps wheezed with laughter, a fit which soon deteriorated into coughing.  He held up his hand to allay any concern.  “A ring of grenadoes with short fuses, I call