Blood Mountain
The Prophecy #5
By John Stevenson
Copyright 2010 John Stevenson
Nicholas was hurriedly refilling the pack, this time he would take it and Marks. The extra clothes and food would be well used up in the mountains. He left the bow preferring the one from the Veldt, but he took the long handled blade, and axe.
He had found no wounds on Mark; other than the inside of his mouth was burnt and charred. His body had felt hot as if it contained a fire within.
Nicholas turned away from the campsite and looked at the rope bridge. Close up it looked even more flimsy than he had thought. There were actually two ropes underfoot with a narrow woven matting to step on. Two other unconnected ropes ran head high to either side. He decided to make two trips with all that he intended to take
It not only looked a little frightening, it was very unstable and he swung and swayed violently, though on the return he found the quicker he moved the less the bridge did.
As he stepped onto solid ground he faced the camp. It seemed logical that the smoke, or the glow from the fire had led his pursuers to this spot. On seeing Mark and the horse it would be assumed to be him.
The thing in the sky had not frightened, only puzzled him. He was used to seeing the great silver birds at a distance and assumed that was what one was like close up. It didn’t even seem to surprise him that what he had always believed were birds, carried men.
He wanted to bury Mark, but thought that the pretence it was he, would last longer if he did not. The thought filled him with guilt that this innocent man had died because of him. “May your god be with you friend? I pray that your spirit now released, finds the one that you love. Now rest in peace at her side for as your life’s work is done, mine has renewed purpose.” He turned away walked back to the rope for the second crossing. Once over Nicholas took a last look at the scene. “I do not know what I can do,” he said determinedly. “But I give my oath that if I can do anything; that my arm will be strengthened by your despair. My hand will now take the task of retribution for you and your lost love.” He cut the ropes off the bridge; chopped some small saplings and placed them at the start of the track, to cover it as best he could. Even in the dark it would not stand close scrutiny to a woodsman, but it may give extra time from those who would no doubt come to check on his death.
He turned and looked up. In the gathering darkness towered Blood Mountain.
Initially the track wound among the tree roots, and was in places extremely difficult to find, even with the light from the lantern. At those times Nick wondered if he should wait for light. At other times he found it clearly defined and pressed on. How it was packed down told him that the passage of many feet or paw, rather than the blow of a mattock had formed it.
To start with it was fairly level and easy going, but the further he went on the steeper it became. As it became fully dark he stumbled often, sometimes quite hard, causing grazes and cuts to his hands and knees. So much so did the surface degrade, that what had been the occasional sharp rock had now become the normal surface. Nicholas’ light footwear protected him from only the bluntest of rocks and he cursed his lack of foresight in abandoning the guard’s stout boots.
A while later there was a thin covering of snow and he knew he was close to the edge of the tree line. It looked fresh and crisp but not new. He had begun to think that the clouds could be clearing, and fancied he might have seen a star.
Certainly the forest was not as dense as it had once been; and it was also definitely colder. He began now to think that he should have kept the extra layer of clothing that the uniform supplied, but truthfully he was glad to be rid of it.
He came to an outcrop of rocks larger than those that had gone before. It was a struggle with the packs he carried, but he reached the top and saw the face was bathed in moonlight. He looked up; he was above the forest canopy. Both moons hung before a background of twinkling stars. He had never been so high before and marveled at the sight.
Below him the mist stretched like a blanket of homespun wool over the valley floor, silvery Gray in the light of both moons. Small hills broke the surface of this dream sea, as if islands floated in the clouds. He could see no lights from village or town making it seem as if he alone existed in the world
But reality was close at hand, where he could touch the face of the mountain it soared above out of sight. Hard as rock, cold as ice, and white with snow, on the other side unforgiving scree slope, if he stepped out past the edge it would be the end.
No matter how the raw stark beauty of the mountain inspired him, he knew he was cold, tired, but most of all he was hungry. He needed a safe place to stop, so he went on.
The track became well defined now, the mountain sharply thrusting up above him on his right, and falling away rapidly on his left. Within minutes the track became a ledge, barely two meters wide.
By the time he had climbed another hundred meters an opening appeared up in front, which proved to be a small, protected crevice. Its location was ideal. He could see quite a long way back down the track from inside.
Nick slumped to the floor and sat, propped up against the wall. He hungrily ate the last of the half cooked bread, while his mind once more wandered over the past events.
Marks talk of rebels and resistance made him think of his own experiences. Was Boramulla different from the places Mark had spoken of, or had he been too naive to see what was going on around him. He took a blanket from Marks pack and wrapped it about himself to keep out the cold. Of course people complained amongst themselves, about the taxes, and duties of grain paid up to the Marshal or Alderman; and on occasion of the bullying acts of the guard, or even thinly veiled accusations of corruption against the Alderman himself. Many things in life seemed unjust, but mostly that was just people grumbling; or so he had believed. He dug his hands deep into the blanket and held his head low. Surely his mother would have known; she was well versed in village affairs, aye and intrigue, but she molly-coddled him: his father always accused her of that. He smiled and the thoughts faded from his mind as sleep took him.
Nicholas was conscious of a strange tingling sensation in his toes. He was too tired to be concerned, but it would not stop. He fought the need to wake as people do, but eventually; reluctantly opened his eyes. His drowsy mind was greeted with what seemed to be the floor moving.
He blinked several times, casting off sleep; then his eyes focused, and his mind began to function. Realization brought a strange sight. In the pale moonlight he saw cockroaches, dozens if not hundreds of them, some as big as his fist, chewing on the soft leather of his shoes where it had ripped, his pack and blanket.
In shock and horror he jumped to his feet, throwing the blanket across the floor as he violently began shaking his arms legs in a disjointed dance. The creatures were everywhere, running over the blanket and packs: then in a moment, they were gone. It was as if it were a dream, except for the one that he had stood on when getting up.
Nicholas stood shivering in disgust; and it was some time before he was over his revulsion. He took his things back out onto the ledge and found a place bathed in moonlight. There he tipped out his packs to make sure none lurked inside muttering. 'I should not have slept so deeply. It was foolish'. As indeed it was, for when he looked down to where the path came up out of the mist he could see the dim flickering glow of torches through the canopy. They had been quicker than he had feared. He knew he must quickly go on.
Once out of the cave he quickened his steps, as much to distance himself from the crawling creatures, as to avoid capture. But he had to temper his increased pace, patches of ice glinted; and the ill wisdom of carrying so much began to show as the packs and weapons began to bump against his legs and make his back a
che. He found he was continually stopping to reposition the load.
He was half decided to discard something, and once more kneeling on the floor repositioning the burden when a shout rang in his ear. The obscene gruff voice told him there was a Veldt not far away.
They had sent a fast runner in front, and with another shout the creature ran forward. Nicholas had left the crossbow primed, but for safety’s sake with no arrow placed in its bolt hole. He quickly placed one in the slot, lifted the weapon, and fired.
By now the creature was only paces away and the force of the metal tipped arrow took the shaft straight through his body. The man stopped in his tracks, and looked down at the hole through his lower chest. Slowly he looked up and back at Nicholas. His face held a puzzled expression. Then he stumbled backwards and over the
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