Chapter 4. Nepal, 1928. The wind that swept across the jagged hills was bitterly cold,

but to the ragged young man who approached the Kuti, it seemed like a blessing. He had just crossed

the Annapurna Ridge, one of the highest and most foreboding places on earth to reach this spot,

nestled as it was in the bosom of a tiny valley. He tried very hard not to think about the fact that he would have to cross it again to get out.

He pulled the thin air deep into his lungs as he gazed at the mountaintops around him.

He had been told that Anapurna meant goddess of the harvests. He could only imagine

they had been named by those who dwelt far below, to whom the spring thaw would bring precious new

life, not by those that eeked out such an existence as was possible in this desolation. And yet still it

seemed to him to be the most beautiful place that ever was or ever could be.

The young man who stumbled on towards the mud hut was like most who walked this path on a great quest.

Unlike most, this valley was not the end of that quest, but merely a step upon a long journey.

He was tall and taught, muscular and lean, few that had been

born into the life of leisure and privilege to which he had could ever have summoned

the will to cross that mountain pass. For a man is shaped by the forces around him. Those

born into great wealth are rarely gifted with the drive to do more than spend that wealth

on their own luxury or vanity.

Those whom fate is shielded from all fear or pain are seldom able to see it in others.

But as is so often the case, when an exception rears its head, it cannot help but run to

the opposite extreme.

August Fenwick's quest came from a burning need for

justice, justice for those who could never know the comfort or security that he had always enjoyed,

protection for those who could not protect themselves, and redemption for the Fenwick

...