‘I am the Blackhawk known as Baltar of Gimlii; son of Blackfriar.’ he replied, proudly.
The newcomer smiled amiably. ‘Then this is what you have come in search of,’ he said removing the Firestar from about his neck. He held up in front of him.
Baltar didn’t care for the look of the stranger. And to his horror, the gate slammed shut behind him with an echoing clank, creating a flurry of dust and cobwebs that rained down from the rafters. He swung about, watching a rusty iron bolt seal the gate as if by an unseen hand. Abu snarled viciously.
‘Not good,’ whispered Baltar to the tiger. ‘We’re trapped.’ He gripped the hilt of his sword. With the gate shut he was a lifetime and a world away from everything he knew. Fear shone in his eyes.
The other grinned. ‘Stop panicking. You’re safe for the moment.’
Uneasily Baltar relinquished his grip on the sword. ‘The Firestar. What must I do to get it?’ he asked.
The grin disappeared from the newcomers face. He stepped forward, placing a hand on Baltar’s shoulder. ‘Answer a riddle. Simple. And the riddle is: what can a blind man can see… a deaf man hear… but if a hungry man eats it, he will die?’
Baltar looked puzzled. He knew nothing of riddles. He pursed his lips. ‘But… but…’ he protested, his voice trailing away.
‘You must answer before that candle burns out,’ said the other, pointing his finger at a brightly lit table. ‘Answer correctly and the doors will open. You can then leave with the Firestar. Answer incorrectly and suffer the consequences!’
Suddenly, thunder rumbled in the heavens, startling both Baltar and Abu. Lightning flashed through the high windows and rain lashed down outside the great gate. There was another flash… flash… flash… of lightning and the stranger faded into the darkness between the flashes and was gone. Baltar studied the quandary, mulling it over in his mind, trying to make sense of it. And unbeknown to him, out of sight, the grains of sand within an hourglass began to flow, controlling a mechanism that was gradually tilting a huge vat of molten metal. Hidden by the bats in the roof space, it would soon pour down upon their heads. Even if he did manage to answer the riddle, Baltar and Abu had mere moments to live.
Chapter 11
It was early morning and a bright blue sky hung over the solemn, almost barren hills of Kaban. Clouds wandered aimlessly through the warm air, but there was the threat of a storm sweeping in on the breeze from the Mermadon Sea, and Ofash – a giant of a warrior with a short temper – wasn’t surprised when it began to rain heavily. He angled his journey towards a derelict bridge with extreme caution, knowing only too well that this was very dangerous countryside. A few years earlier, he had passed through the same region on his way to a competition of strength, and almost met his demise by way of nothing larger than a hobgoblin.
On approaching the bridge he immediately noticed its poor state of repair, and thought how perilous it would be to try to cross it, particularly for a man of his giant stature and great weight. He stopped short at the entry point, staring with incredulity at two colossal weight-bearing pylons that dwarfed his massive frame, and considered the likelihood of its collapse if he crossed. After considering all options, he hesitantly placed one foot onto the bridge, and then the other as he became more confident that it would withstand his great bulk. He began to cross.
It was an immense bridge spanning over half a mile, and its rope handrails were almost worn through. Below him was a long drop, straight down into a raging lava flow and he was terrified, gripped by fear. To make matters worse it was raining, making the wooden slats beneath his feet extremely slippery. He counted every footstep as he went, and slowly but surely edged further forward, clinging onto the handrails for dear life. He trembled, praying quietly to the man-gods. He would rather face the deadly Cyclopia than be crossing the bridge, but it was the only route through the hills to Findor Tower, his first objective. Heights frightened him. However, it was something that he would never admit to, even though an eternity prevailed.
Time passed very slowly and he wasn’t even halfway across the bridge. Thunder rumbled somewhere overhead and he clung to the rough handrail so hard that his hands began to bleed. More time passed very slowly. At the mid-way point he stopped for a short break and took stock of his progress. His hands were shaking like a leaf and his heart pounding like a hammer. He just wanted to get off the bridge as quick as possible.
A strong wind blew in from the north-west and the bridge began to swing, shake and shudder. He clung on for dear life, thinking that it would collapse. Luckily, it was a sturdily built bridge, even though it was very old and full of rot.
More time passed very slowly and he managed to get within a hundred feet of the far side of the bridge, where two more giant load-bearing pylons marked the bridges end. Nailed above his head was a sign saying: HOLD FAST AND NEVER FEAR, BUT PAY THE TOLL BEFORE LEAVING HERE… OR ELSE! It was written in blue-blood.
He scanned the bridge from end to end but could see no one, or any evidence that someone was responsible for the upkeep of the bridge – never mind the collecting of a toll. He strode smartly forward, ignoring the sign on his way to leaving the bridge and became aware of a dull voice from somewhere below him. There was mumbling, chanting and the whispered words ‘Three hundred and five’, coming from somewhere beneath. A pause. Then it was repeated over and over. He stopped and listened. He heard a short impish chuckle and dropped to his knees. ‘Who are you?’ he bellowed.
There was silence and another mischievous chuckle. Then the squeaky voice began again. It was infuriating. 'Are you a troll, hobgoblin or an elf?' shouted Ofash. 'Because if it’s a toll you want, ask for it. Otherwise I'll be forced to come and bite off your infuriating head.’ He had no idea he was being watched and studied through a crack in the boards.
Suddenly, there was a loud rasping sound and his nostrils and throat filled with a vile pungent odour. In fact, it was so vile that it made his eyes water. There was another devilish chuckle. ‘That’s the last straw,’ he barked, punching his clenched fist through one of the slats, smashing it to pieces. A feverish laugh echoed from below.
His patience at an end, he put his eye to the fist sized hole to see if he could gaze upon the annoying culprit. Scanning the wooden framework his eye finally hit upon a small, round, rosy face with large pointy ears, jet black eyes and a bulbous, misshapen nose. ‘Great man-gods.’ he boomed in surprise. ‘What in the name of Loden is..?’
A sharp, black, bony finger poked swiftly through the hole, hitting him in the eye. ‘Aaaahh.’ he roared. His eye reddened and swelled to almost twice its normal size, blurring vision. Laughter echoed over the hillside.
Ofash cursed and screamed, ‘I’ll kill you when I get my hands on you, I swear it!’ The counting began all over again. But now the voice announced, ‘Three hundred and six.’ More mad laughter echoed around the hills and the strange words,
‘Dumb, dumb, I pokey dumb male,
Yimminy, yimminy, bimminy bop,
Caught warrior out who stands on top.
Bridge made of wood and not of bricks,
This year alone, poke three hundred and six.
Yimminy, yimminy, bimminy bop,
Warrior be gone who stands on top.
Toll paid in full. Free to go.’
The troll disappeared in a wisp of white smoke, leaving the warrior feeling very foolish. Rolling to his knees, he climbed to his feet, his eye throbbing, his vision blurred. He marched swiftly off in the direction of the distant hills and he wasn’t too sure whether he was entirely alone. Suddenly, the undergrowth behind him rustled hugely. Something growled. Then, as the Oracles voice drifted into his mind, an enormous mouth opened up in the ground – swallowing him whole with a rich burp.
Chapter 12
It was early morning, the sun newly risen. Rogan darted through the mist, hovering above the forest floor, swinging his head back, first one way and then the other, to make sure the three giant boars chasing him were no cl
oser than when he had begun his long run. The air was thick with the scent of pine and cedar and the forest tracks covered with tiny russet cones and needles. They hissed like the fall of rain as his feet passed over them.
Every now and again he stopped fleetingly, grunting loudly to let the boars know exactly where he was. He had done the Boar-Run once a year, every year since the age of fourteen. It was his way of testing his fitness. Now, at the ripe old age of thirty-four years he was still as fit and agile as he ever was.
He ran like the wind. And with every stride he took he ran faster and faster, easily hurdling over every obstacle. ‘Catch me if you can,’ he yelped as the adrenaline rush kicked in. Faster he ran. And faster still. Until his lungs began to burn. He did somersaults and cartwheels up over low hanging branches and dived headlong across wide gullies, under which small streams flowed pleasantly. The warm morning sun filtered like fingers of gold through the filigree of branches above his head.
He had covered two miles, and still had two more to go as the three boars rammed through the thick bracken and gauze undergrowth, trying to pick up his scent. Snuffling and grunting they charged onward, butting everything in their path. Cloven hooves clawed great chunks of earth from the ground, leaving a trail of dust a hundred yards long as they tried to catch up with Rogan. Three sets of beady red eyes searched the broken bracken and falling leaves trying to pick up his trail.
Again he called out as he ran, ‘Sueweeeeee...’ He grunted two or three times, his hardened feet pummelling and pounding the winding track, which stopped abruptly, intersected by a small ravine. He jumped and glided across gracefully; landing on the other side in a forward roll, then sprang to his feet and carried on running.
Heartbeats later, the boars reached the ravine. The leading two sprang and cleared the ravine, but the third jumped prematurely and slammed into a wall of hard mud. A sharp branch punctured its heart, killing it instantly. Many paces ahead Rogan heard its dying squeals.
A further six gruelling minutes passed as he pounded a dusty, uphill trail, lined with ancient oaks. He was almost back at his starting point and the two remaining boars had gained little or no ground on him at all. He sniffed the cool morning air, not even breathing heavily. Many a time he had climbed tall trees, swinging around gingerly like a monkey for hours, building his athletic stamina.
Now he slowed his pace, the last four hundred yards being the most testing of all. He glanced back over his shoulder, sprinting towards his finish line and could see the boars ploughing through near waist high grass, heading his way. Both were running side-by-side, full pelt, with the same head of steam they had begun with. They were after his flesh.
With less than ten yards to go, Rogan still running pulled the longbow from over his shoulder. At a range of five yards he drew two arrows from his quiver, notching both to the bowstring betwixt his fingers. Crossing his imaginary finishing line he stopped, turned on his heel and took aim. He waited. Both boars came bounding at him snarling and slavering. He loosed the arrows.
Both steel tips struck their mark in the same instant, punching thought their skulls, killing them instantly. The two boars hit the ground hard and rolled through the grass, coming to rest at his feet. He breathed a sigh of relief and smiled to himself.
Now the sky was grey and angry and it began to pour with rain. Suddenly his uncanny sixth sense to danger alerted him.
‘Hello!’ said a small voice from behind.
He swung around, staring down at a small child. She was no older than six years, her cheeks rosy; her long hair curled and golden. She was wearing dainty sandals and a yellow dress, which bespoke a mother’s love and care. She was pale and worn and looked petrified, besides being soaked to the skin.
Rogan looked shocked. ‘What are you doing out here in the middle of this dark forest alone?’ he asked.
‘I'm lost!' she replied with a sigh.
‘Where's your mother and father?’ he quizzed.
She shook her head solemnly, forlornly. ‘Mother’s gone. I suppose I’ll see her again one day though. Father’s gone too.’
‘Gone, eh. Do you mean they died somehow?’ he asked.
She nodded and sobbed bitterly.
He put his arms about her shoulders in a heartfelt hug. She checked her sobs and raised her tear-stained face to his. ‘But, I’m not alone. I do have friends. Good friends.’
His brows lifted slightly. He stared at her. ‘Where are your friends now?’ he asked, his eyes searching the forest.
‘They’re coming,’ she said, pointing to the horizon.
‘When?’ he asked, a touch of sympathy in his voice
‘Now,’ she said, still pointing.
The rain stopped as suddenly as it had started and Rogan fixed his eyes firmly on the distant horizon. The angry grey sky had cleared, and in the blue vault of the heavens there appeared four little specks, silhouetted against the giant sun, which increased in size, moment by moment. And so rapidly did they approach that they resolved themselves into four elf-like shapes with wings. They circled overhead, then settled on a rock and held a short council among themselves. These are evidently extraordinary little people, he thought.
‘Welcome my friends,’ the girl announced. ‘I'd like you to introduce yourselves. They all bowed briefly and smiled.
‘I’m Julia, the All-Knowing,’ said one.
‘I’m Sama the Tree-Elf,’ said another.
‘I’m Jabna the Mystic,’ said a third.
‘And I'm Last the Fast,’ said the forth, in a deep resonating voice, ‘a Will -O’- The-Wisp.’
The girl smiled. ‘I'm Oliviana, and I'm a Mud Nymph.’
Rogan’s face assumed an expression of incredulity as he fixed his gaze on Last's short legs and arms, round hairy body, long neck and narrow face with those staring black eyes and floppy ears. Hideous, he thought. Last the Fast and the Hideous, his name should be.
‘Peas in a pod we all are,’ said Oliviana disturbing the bowman’s thoughts.
At that moment, a sharp frightening hiss ripped through the still air, lingering and dying into silence. Startled, birds of every kind and colour took to the air, blotting out the sun. Oliviana’s expression changed from an engaging smile to a look of dread. She peered over at her friends and then at Rogan. Once again she could see what the others couldn't; her bright eyes penetrating the very fabric of the forest. Now they were bleak, dark, haunted and despair washed the colour from her face.
‘What is it?’ asked Julia, flapping her delicate wings. ‘Are we in danger?’
‘It’s Zuel. He’s heading this way,’ she warned. ‘It’s best we go. Now!’
Rogan looked anxious. ‘Who or what is Zuel?’ he asked.
‘That’s something you really don’t want to know, for the answer is far more terrifying than you could ever imagine. It’s just best we leave this place quickly. And I do mean now. Or we’ll all be eaten alive,’ said Oliviana peering into the depths of the forest as more startled birds took to the air, stirring the leaves of the trees.
Mountains ringed the valley and heavy mist lay over everything. Desert and scrub-land lay to the east. Hills to the west. And more heavy woods to the north. Now they angled their journey south toward the centre of the valley, where green flatlands, fields and meadows awaited them.
Wordlessly they began their journey. And as the morning wore on and drifted into late afternoon, the mists seemed to thicken across the land. The cast of the day dimmed and shadows gathered in dark pools. Now there was a sullen feel to the air as if a storm might be approaching again and rain suddenly sheeted down, drenching them. The distant rumble of thunder drummed out and lightening flashed nearby, illuminating a great lake with an island at its centre. It was a sinister and ill-omened sight.
The Oracles voice drifted into Rogan’s mind. ‘It's time. The Quest is upon you,’ it announced. ‘The rewards for accepting is great, should you succeed. And the man-gods only ask that you embrace it with true faith and conform to its ru
les. Good luck warrior. You'll need it!’
Lightning illuminated the lake again, and there was a long boat with a curved prow and dragon’s head, low gunwales and a rudderless stern, beached upon the bank. Rogan turned to Oliviana with a flushed face, eyes flashing. ‘Dare I ask what lies on that island?’
‘None of us know for sure,’ she answered. ‘But it’s said there’s a palace at its heart.’
Rogan motioned and they climbed aboard. Oliviana moved to the forward seats, as did her friends. Rogan sat in the stern and they had just settled themselves in when the boat seemed to come alive and move. It launched free of the bank and slipped quietly into the water. He gazed about curiously, for there was no source of propulsion.
Oliviana smiled, nodding her owlish face. ‘The boat is alive and knows the way to the island,’ she said as it sped swiftly across the dark waters, leaving a white swale in its wake. Rogan relaxed and his thoughts were of wizardry, for the boat surely had a mind of its own. It was an exciting experience, skimming across the lake, but it didn’t last long. It did however; last long enough for him to get a good look at the island. A dark forbidding place it was.
Suddenly the boat slowed as it approached a small jetty, and it came to a smooth stop. They all disembarked. Rogan gazed into the distance, noticing dark towers and battlements, circled watchfully by bats. Then they all marched forward, eyes shifting nervously from side to side. He hurried ahead, forcing the pace, eager to see what awaited them, and had it not been for the dark cast of the day that seemed to permeate everything, he would have been cheerful. Things aren't always, what they seem, he thought.
Now, the strange band wound their way up a long, winding, shingle track that led toward a mountainous rock with a smooth sheer face that shone like white coral. Upon it, someone or something had painted a huge black and white figure. It seemed to be the portrait of an ancient, winged serpent with blood dripping from needle-like teeth. Rogan stopped dead in his tracks. The others did likewise. They stared wide-eyed at the painting and then down at the bleached bones littering the area. The blood of many creatures was splashed on the rock face too.
The Blackhawks Impossible Quest Page 13