Rogan stared down at the pitiful sight of Kira’s broken body slumped on the ice. His eyes were dark, haunted and filled with tears. With all the sadness in the world he drew a long lingering breath.
‘Ah, true blue-blood emotions,’ said Morbious smiling cruelly with murder in his heart, ‘the undoing of all your kind. Are you prepared to die today?’
Rogan’s eyes widened, his breath caught in his throat. His strong hands trembled. He knew he was no match for the deadly hunter-killer with a sword. Am I really going to die today, he wondered? His mind raced, thinking back to a time before his Quest had begun...
Chapter 3
One week earlier...
In any small hamlet, news travels fast, but in the highly populated, vastly prosperous southern territory of Delucia, it circulates with even greater speed – that of a grey goose-shaft. Highly skilled archers had used the longbow in this part of the world to spread the written word for countless ages, and these extraordinary bowmen could hit a particular marked tree stump at over two thousand feet with the wind strongly against them. A second archer would retrieve the arrow, firing it again, and so on and so forth, until the message had reached its final destination. It was a well-paid occupation for these couriers of the penned word.
Now, Rogan, a gifted master-bowman looked down the shaft of his arrow at a very different target. He was aiming at the dark braided hair of a beautiful young female, tied to a target tree at a distance of over three thousand feet. She was trembling and praying quietly, for this was her eighth month with child.
‘I can hardly see her, let alone her hair,’ he whispered kissing the bowstring betwixt his fingers for good luck.
This is an impossible shot, he thought as a strong wind blew in from the north-east, stirring the leaves of the trees. The cast of the day was dim with dark shadows gathering in pools over the fields, meadows, forests and lakes. Grimly thunder rumbled overhead. He held his breath, knowing he would have to hit the target dead centre to win the tournament outright and gain his prize: the opportunity to join five other highly skilled warriors who were about to embark on an impossible Quest that the man-gods had instigated.
Only a few brave warriors had ever survived the preceding tournaments leading up to the quest known as The Challenge, but every one hundred years without fail, great warriors of every kind and from every nation flocked in from all over the known world to try their hand. Rogan was just such a warrior – and one of the lucky ones. His hands trembling, he waited, restraining the arrow from a premature shot and a bead of sweat lingered on the end of his nose as he took aim. ‘Loden, be kind to the female,’ he said compensating for the strong crosswind.
Releasing the arrow it took flight, flying straight and true, whistling through the tall oaks and elms. One thousand feet. Two thousand feet. Three thousand feet. The carbon steel tip finally punched into its mark, slicing the young female’s hair in half. She fainted, collapsing to the forest floor the instant the arrow struck.
He could hardly believe he had made the shot successfully, but then, being a skilled bowyer his bow was unique – constructed of bonded elm and yew, he had effectively created an awesome version of the once primitive longbow – the favoured weapon of their world.
A loud cheer rang out from the many hundreds of onlookers and resounded throughout the whole clearing as five warriors dressed in black leather and carbon-steel chain-mail approached. Their faces were painted ghostly white, like screaming masks – a ceremonial symbol of respect to the man-gods. They patted him on the back.
‘Great shot. Never thought for one minute that it couldn’t be done,’ said Baltar, the dark skin of his awesomely muscled frame glistening with sweat in the bright morning sunlight. The giant shook the bowman’s hand, almost crushing it.
‘Lucky shot,’ sneered Ofash – a scarred giant of a male with bright cornflower blue eyes – thumbing his nose, his accent and long golden hair instantly identifying him with the Northern Vindaluvian lands.
‘Best shot I’ve ever seen,’ announced Kira, a beautiful raven-haired, dark eyed warrior also of the Northlands. She gazed into his eyes, openly, admiringly, and kissed him softly on the cheek.
He smiled, his face colouring red beneath the white paint. ‘It was the hardest shot I’ve ever had to make,’ he told her.
‘There’s more ways of winning than skinning a cat, and I must admit, I’ve never seen a shot like that,’ rhymed Dopiaza – a red eyed, red haired, pot-bellied dwarf of unknown origin – scratching his wispy moustache and beard. He fixed Rogan’s gaze, shaking his hand.
Finally, an exceptionally tall, silver haired, distinguished looking warrior with bright green eyes stepped forward, slapping him hard on the back, very nearly knocking him over. ‘Well done. Could hardly see the target, never mind the poor female,’ admitted Vinn, a philandering, seven feet four inches tall pearl diver and self-confessed mercenary.
Rogan grimaced and winced, clenching his teeth. ‘Not so hard Vinn! You’ve nearly caved my lungs in!’
‘Tomorrow you might regret making that magnificent shot,’ said Kira, ‘for at first light we begin our quest for real.’
‘I know,’ replied Rogan gazing up to the heavens, ‘no blue-blood has ever completed it and lived to tell the tale.’
Ofash pushed his way through them all, arrogantly folding his mightily muscled arms across his barrel chest. ‘But there’s never been a warrior like me amongst them before,’ he said with a sneer.
‘True,’ said Dopiaza nodding. ‘There have been no bullies, nor braggarts with your size of head. But there have been lots of them wiser! And all of them are dead!’
Ofash’s colossal shadow suddenly loomed over the dwarf. He stared spitefully at him. ‘Cross me at your own peril,’ he said the light of madness in his eyes. ‘You might be glad of my company one day very soon – little male.’
Dopiaza sniffed, staring icily at him, shaking his head stiffly; eyes rolling back in his head looking worn with pain and weak from their prolonged arguing. ‘I doubt it. I’d rather have the company of a real jackass than that of a fool. I don’t suffer fools gladly. Well, not as a rule,’ he rhymed edging away, walking off with a gaping smile, revealing his all-too-perfect teeth.
‘Shut up dwarf. Or I’ll squeeze you into a shape two sizes smaller than you already are… you… you pipsqueak of a male,’ flared Ofash.
The childish banter went on and on for a quite a while, back and forth, and Dopiaza’s razor sharp wit and wicked wordplay frustrated Ofash to the brink of murder. But eventually the day drew to a close. And while they were busy still arguing, Rogan built a camp-fire in the glade where the archery tournament had taken place. A lucky omen, he thought. He knew they would need all the luck they could muster come daybreak.
Under a starry, triple moonlit sky their camp-fire blazed and all of them laughed and joked with the tension having receded as each had made it through to the final stage of the quest. It was now the point of no return. However, none of them truly realised what they were up against. But come the morning sun, they would soon find out.
That night the hungry warriors ate roast venison, cooked in spices with black pepper and freshly baked honey-cornbread, which looked and smelt delicious. All of them swilled large amounts of wine from leather canteens until their bellies were full to bursting, and they talked continually for hours, always aware of the most haunting sounds coming from the heart of the forest. Dogs barked. Wolves howled. And silver mist swirled in murky trailers shrouding them as night fell further across the land.
Discussing their final plans, all agreed that Rogan would be their team leader up until the moment when they had to go their separate ways. All trusted him implicitly because he had proved himself to be loyal, dependable and honourable, a warrior who would gladly give his own life to save any of one of theirs – a commendable custom amongst their own kind.
As the hour grew late and the camp-fire raged, creating a yellowy hue in the surrounding sky, Rogan laid bare hi
s plan to travel down the Ttyx instead of making his way overland. It was a bold plan and a dangerous one – the Ttyx being the river of the dead and the ethereal doorway to the dark domain known as the Netherworld. Only the ghostly ferryman, Charbonei, a bad tempered old boatman carrying the dead for a fee has lawful title from the man-gods to negotiate its dangerous and dubious channels, he warned the others as they began to bed down for the night by the brightly burning fire. It sparkled, crackled, kept them warm and comfortable and held wild dogs at bay, shimmering like a beacon for miles around in the cooling twilight. And every hour on the hour, Rogan added more kindling to the blaze to make sure the fire stayed alive.
We will travel down the Ttyx. It will be far less tedious and time consuming – the two major factors in the whole scheme of things. Time in particular has to be the major consideration, thought Rogan.
The plans settled upon, they finally fell asleep, dreaming the whole night long of their coming adventures.
*
With the arrival of the morning sun, Rogan alongside the others had broken camp, deciding to take their chances on travelling down the Ttyx with everyone precariously balanced on a hastily put together makeshift raft, made of nothing more than thick bamboo, lashed together with creeping vine. Now their long journey had begun and the river would certainly be quicker than going overland on foot. Unfortunately, not one of them was quite ready for what they would encounter this day.
‘…Get to the oars.’ Kira forced her words through gritted teeth. ‘We’re all going to die if you don’t.’
‘Maybe we shouldn’t have come this way after all,’ said Rogan grabbing an oar. The ramshackle raft looked more like a mud hut, flattened by a large boulder.
‘Now what are we going to do?’ asked Ofash, drenched on all sides by gallons of white water. ‘The whirlpool is dragging us in and those toothpick oars won’t make that much difference.’
Kira was petrified, trembling and screaming. ‘Come on Dopiaza, you’re supposed to be good in situations like these. Think of something.’
‘If we manage to pull free of the whirlpool, we’ll probably all die going over the waterfall,’ announced Dopiaza. He coughed nervously clearing his throat. ‘A solution isn’t that easily come by in a situation like this. I calculate we’ve about a minute before the rafts demise. I think therefore we should leave it. I think it rather wise. Vinn, take one end of the rope and swim to the bank-side as quickly as you can, lash it around the nearest tree and we’ll leave to the last man.’
Vinn’s eyes shone with fear, his heart pounding like a hammer.
Ofash shook his fist. 'Damn, I hate him when he rambles on in rhyme. But he’s right; the rope is our only chance.’
Vinn glared at his companions and then stared wide-eyed, down into the blackness of the killer whirlpool sucking them in. ‘It’s like watching a gathering storm,’ he said, his voice a quiver. Terrified, he switched his gaze to the churning red waters of the rocky waterfall trying to pull them over, and the raw power of the river frightened him. He felt nauseous and recoiled from the edge of the raft in horror. Both the whirlpool and waterfall were sinister, forbidding sights that filled him with dread. ‘Why me?’ he asked, a tremor in his voice, a dark look on his face.
‘I thought that would be obvious,’ announced Rogan, hardly able to hear himself through the deafening roar of the water. ‘You’re the strongest swimmer. If you can make it to the bank-side with the rope, we all stand a chance of surviving.’
‘Oh, it’s…it’s not bad enough that I’ve got to contend with a whirlpool and a waterfall, but there are monsters and other evil creatures hiding out there in the swell that will eat me alive or swallow me whole,’ said Vinn.
‘That thought should make you swim even harder and faster,’ snapped Kira, helping Rogan steer the raft away from the centre of the whirlpool the best she could. Her dark eyes zoomed in on Vinn’s terrified face. ‘Only you can save us!’ she shouted trying to bolster his flagging courage.
He groaned. ‘My bad fortune.' Casting Kira a dark glance he hesitated before taking a firm hold of the rope. Then tying one end to the centre of the raft he dived into the swelling current with the other end and disappeared from view. Shadowy monsters on the far bank slid into the water, following him just beneath the surface.
Kira glared after him uneasily and then turned to Rogan. ‘Fingers crossed,’ she said feeling like a guilty child for her outburst.
‘Good luck my friend, the man-gods speed you and keep you safe,’ shouted Rogan. But it was too late, Vinn was gone.
The other warriors stood precariously balanced on the makeshift raft, staring down into the water, listening for any sound and watching for any movement, while doing whatever they could to keep afloat. It was a miracle the raft had held together this long they all thought, because it had been so hastily and poorly put together. Without real weight the surging current was close to capsizing it.
Seconds ticked by and there was no sign of Vinn. Seconds became a minute. Still there was nothing. An agonising two minutes ticked by. Three. Four. Even a fifth. Now they were all convinced that he was dead. Drowned by the extreme current of the whirlpool or crushed by the waterfall.
Suddenly he surfaced, arms in the air waving frantically, gasping for air while trying to fend off something in a death roll, jaws agape. He managed to pull his knife from its sheath, stabbing it to death. It disappeared beneath the waves. Breathlessly he hauled himself out of the water onto the bank-side, dragging the rope through the undergrowth behind him and he tied it securely around the nearest tree.
Terror-stricken, fear shining in their eyes, the warriors realised the raft was beginning to come apart. The enormous pounding it was taking from the hundreds of tonnes of water slamming against it was causing the rope lashings to separate.
‘Grab the rope and jump,’ shouted Rogan.
Seizing the rope, Kira leapt into the water and disappeared for a few moments, returning to the surface gasping for air moments later. Dopiaza sucked in his pot belly and dived for the rope next. Grabbing it, he held on while fighting the surge of the current as it tried to drag him under, and then clutching the rope with all his strength he began following Kira towards the riverbank, his gaunt face almost grey; his breathing heavy and laboured.
‘The pull of the river is immense,' Kira told Dopiaza. 'The whirlpool and waterfall are working against each other, and both pulling on the raft in opposite directions, as in a giant tug of war is undoubtedly what has saved us from certain death.'
He nodded in agreement, clutching his throat, gasping for air.
Baltar was next to dive headlong into the fizzing swell. ‘I hate water, but today’s not a good day to dieeee...’ he said, his voice a quiver.
Ofash followed him, leaving only Rogan clinging onto the raft with his nerves jangling, shouting for someone to rescue him. Kira waded up the steep bank completely exhausted and fell onto the muddy ground, staring back in horror at the raft. Rogan was distraught and frightened, clinging on desperately, while frantically trying to grab the rope without success. ‘Help! Help!’ he shouted.
The rope had been the saviour of the other warriors but it was beginning to shred rapidly. The bowman had no more than a few seconds before his lifeline would snap and the whirlpool would suck him down to his death.
On the far bank, Dopiaza climbed from the river followed closely by Baltar and Ofash. They were exhausted. Suddenly there was the sound of a loud twang as the rope began to fail. It was shredding more and more fibres by the heartbeat and the companions watched helplessly in silent horror. Kira scrambled to her feet. ‘Grab the rope or you’re going to die. There isn’t much time left.’
There was a loud crack from the bank and the rope gave way. Rogan seized it in a heartbeat, clinging to it, and he disappeared beneath the waves with very little air left in his lungs. Fear gripped him like a vice, knowing at this moment in time he was an island surrounded by death.
A scarred hand caught the
snapped rope in mid-flight and began pulling on it. Rogan floated to the surface almost immediately, thrashing and gasping for air as he held onto the rope while Ofash fought the raging river. Baltar waded into the water. 'Let me give you a hand, my friend,' he shouted, noticing that Ofash’s enormous strength was no match for the churning water. Together the two gigantic men dragged the bowman ashore
Rogan stood up, wobbled and collapsed unable to breathe. Dopiaza darted over to him and began massaging his heart as he gurgled, groaned and his face turned blue. Water seeped from the sides of his mouth as the dwarf fought desperately to save him. And just when he had given up all hope of reviving the bowman, his eyes sprang open. He vomited muddy water and a slimy slug he had choked on.
Dopiaza shuddered right down to his boots. ‘Ugh, I could have swallowed that,’ he said looking horrified. He stood on the slug causing it to explode in the mud.
Rogan coughed, vomiting more water; the colour returning to his face. Blinking hard he shook his head, trying to lose the dizziness swamping his mind. ‘I’m not dead then?’ he said.
‘We thought we’d lost you more than once today,’ announced Ofash hauling him back to his feet.
‘Don’t know what happened,’ admitted Rogan, rubbing his aching head. ‘The last thing I remember was the rope snapping. After that it all went black. I must have been knocked unconscious and clung onto the rope out of pure instinct.’
‘Well, at least we’re all alive,’ said Kira scanning the bizarre landscape from horizon to horizon. It made her feel ill at ease. She touched the weird looking plants surrounding her to make sure they were real.
The Blackhawks Impossible Quest Page 2