by Tim Flanagan
There was a slight movement.
The three men worked in rhythm together, rocking forward and back, picking up momentum, the stone shifting a little more each time. With one large push the stone hung onto the edge like it was fastened with glue but then the weight of it slowly took it over, landing on the ground with a thunderous bang. The three men fell backwards now they had nothing to push their backs against. King Bayard fell against another rock that had been shattered into shards as sharp of knives. It cut through the cloth that covered his leg and slashed deep into the flesh of his thigh leaving a deep open wound that quickly filled with blood. The king called out in pain and quickly grabbed at his wounded leg.
It took the strength of Edgar and three of the king’s horsemen to carry the king off the rock, his body was heavy and solid and lay him on the forest floor.
Ralphina lifted the flaps of cloth that had been torn on the rock and were already sodden with blood. The gash beneath was deep. The king was beginning to look pale from the loss of blood and strands of hair stuck to the damp skin of his face as he began to sweat from the shock.
‘Give me your belt,’ Ralphina instructed one of the horsemen who looked confused. Another understood what Ralphina intended to do and quickly unhooked his. Ralphina tightly bound the belt around the king’s hip and gradually the bleeding began to slow. The king’s breathing had become shallow and rapid.
‘Do you know the Sangre de Drago tree?' she asked the horseman that had given her the belt but who now looked confused over what she was asking. ‘The Dragon’s Blood tree?’ she tried again. This time he nodded. ‘I need some leaves and bark. If your king continues to bleed, he will die. Find the tree and find it fast.’
The rider mounted his horse, then sprang off into the forest.
Ralphina turned her attention back to King Bayard. She pressed her hand down onto the wound on his leg, trying to stop any further bleeding. The king screamed out in pain. One of the horsemen came forward to his defence, but Edgar stood in front of him, blocking his way.
‘She is gifted in healing. For the sake of your king’s life, let her do her work,’ Edgar said gently to him. The horseman stayed where he was but watched very carefully what Ralphina was doing, fearing that she was causing his king more pain.
‘Get some water from one of the pools,’ Ralphina instructed Scarlet. Scarlet took a canteen from the saddle of one of the horses and made her way to the base of the mountain. She remembered passing a number of crystal clear pools that had been filled with rain that drained off the mountain. She quickly found one and plunged the canteen deep into the cold water. It filled rapidly, bubbles shot out of the neck of the canteen as the inside was consumed by the water. Once the bubbles slowed, Scarlet pulled the canteen out of the water, her hand numb from the cold, and ran back to the king.
Ralphina quickly took the canteen from Scarlet, soaked a cloth with it and placed it gently on the king’s forehead. She then poured a little into his mouth.
Joe had been sat watching wearily from the soft grass which made for a more comfortable seat than the saddle on top of the horse. He began to think of another possible way to get into the Rocks of Goran. He stood up and pulled a thick glossy leaf from the nearest tree then walked over to the now shaking body of the king. He bent down and placed his hand into the sticky pool of blood that had collected under the king’s leg then cupped the leaf beneath the trail of blood that flowed from the wound, collecting some of the thick blood inside the hollow of the leaf.
‘Joe what are you doing?’ asked Scarlet confused by his actions.
‘King Bayard said the dore could only be opened by the submission of blood,’ Joe said out loud as if everyone should understand what he was talking about, but no one else did. He took the leaf of blood over to the nearest piece of mountain wall that was not obstructed by fallen stone and dipped his finger into the blood then began drawing an archway onto the bare rock. The red blood smeared and dribbled down from the uneven lines. Joe stood back as if admiring his artwork then returned back to the wall and placed a smaller circle within the arch.
The thunderous hooves of a horse announced the return of the horseman who had been searching for the Dragon’s Blood tree. He leapt effortlessly from the saddle as soon as he drew near to Ralphina and handed her the bark and leaf of the tree she had asked for. Joe turned and watched as she stripped the bark into smaller frayed pieces and placed them onto the wound in Kind Bayard’s thigh. She then wrapped the leaves over the top and tied another belt directly over the wound. The king screamed with agony and twisted about on the floor until the pain became numb again.
Joe turned back to his painting on the stone and pulled the Silver Bough out from inside his belt. He remembered that King Bayard had said that a dore was a gateway between kingdoms and the Silver Bough had already opened a gateway between his world and the faerie world so it might possibly open a gateway here too. He raised the Silver Bough to his lips, his fingers still sticky with the king’s blood, and blew into the mouth piece. At first there was no sound except for the screams of pain from the king as Ralphina tightened the belt around his leg.
Joe closed his eyes and blew once again. This time all background noises vanished inside a vacuum. There was no bird song, no trees rustling, and silence from the mouths of the others even though they were mouthing words to each other. Then from inside the lack of noise a harmony of voices started approaching from a distance. He opened his eyes and saw that the line of blood that marked out the shape of the door on the wall was beginning to shimmer like liquid metal. The chorus of voices were now closer and he could distinguish the different pitches of singing and chanting and even see the pale outlines of ghostly figures approaching him. Joe continued to blow into the Silver Bough. Each white transparent figure then walked directly through the mountain wall where the doorway was drawn one at a time, each one making the door more real and separate to the mountain. By the time the last one had gone through, the door appeared carved and detailed as if it was the entrance to a royal palace. Even the door handle he had drawn on was now part of the most intricate and magical door he could ever have imagined. As the Silver Bough left his lips the sounds of the animals, trees and people slowly came back into his hearing and the heavenly voices that had sung the sweet song became a rapidly fading memory in his mind like a story from a dream.
He walked up to the doorway in the rock and put his hand on it, tracing the pattern with his fingers. He gripped the door handle and pushed against the stone. The door moved against the thick wall of the mountain, sliding with the grating sound of stone against stone. He hadn’t heard Edgar walk up behind him so was surprised to see his firm hand help push against the door and open it wider.
By now everyone else had seen what Joe had done. Edgar rushed back to the king and the other horsemen.
‘Help me put him on his horse,’ he said desperately to the other horsemen, ‘we’re going into the mountain.’ With some difficulty and causing the king further pain, they managed to lift him into the saddle of one of the other horses. His body slumped forward heavily against the horse’s thick muscular neck. They followed Edgar as he led the procession through the door and into the mountain.
23. The Rocks of Goran
The tunnel of stone through the mountain wall was cold and dark, but ahead of them Joe could see a glow of light and the sound of activity. The doorway magically closed behind them with a soft grating sound followed by a thud as it sealed itself back into the mountain rock. Joe wondered if it would remain carved in the side of the mountain forever or if it would disappear as the blood outline got washed away by the rain. Without the Silver Bough, no one would be able to open the blood doorway except Joe anyway.
As they led the horses out of the corridor, they entered a massive stone chamber. It stretched up towards the top of the mountain with many corridors, doorways and stair cases criss-crossing above their heads. The floor beneath their feet was made of tiles, each coloured and intricately p
laced to form beautiful patterns which lay perfectly flat and even. They realised that this kingdom inside the mountain was much more than just a network of caves. The chamber they stood in was carved as if it were a magnificent palace; there were walkways at different heights around the walls linking rooms together. Decorative stone pillars supported the grand ceilings which were carved and painted and studded with so many sparkling lights it was almost like looking at a starry night sky during the day. Joe had no idea how the light was being created and he didn’t have long to wonder as his attention was quickly drawn to a group of people approaching them.
They had human features that almost appeared childlike because of the fairness of their skin, which was pale and seemed to sparkle like the stars in the ceiling. The whole group looked identical to each other, their hair was the same shade of silver and the same white gown hung from the shoulders to touch the floor. The only one that appeared to be different was the leader of the group. Her white gown was trimmed with silver thread and slit down the middle to her belly button and actually gathered on the floor around her feet. Her hair was also different to the others; instead of silver, hers was jet black and hung down in perfectly straight lines over her shoulders.
Every thing was so clean and perfect inside the mountain, it made Joe feel guilty that he hadn’t washed properly for so long so he quickly tried to wipe some of the blood from his hands onto his trousers. The black haired lady addressed Edgar as if he were an old friend.
‘Welcome, knight of King Arthur,’ she said with a gentle smile. ‘It is good to see you have finally made it to us. I am Anjela, Steward of Goran. King Conroy the Enlightened sends his apologies but he is deep in discussions with the other leaders of the rebellion. He sent me on his behalf to welcome you to our home, although your arrival is later than expected and not by one of our more traditional dores.’ She lifted up her hand and reached for the reins of the horse that carried King Bayard then beckoned to some of the other members of the group that had accompanied her to tend to the others. Several of the mountain people removed themselves from the group and led the horses through an archway with the rest of the horsemen following.
'Where is the third child that came with you?' Anjela said.
'We were attacked by a donestre and he was swept away by the river,' replied Ralphina.
Anjela knelt down and affectionately scratched behind one of Raelyn's ears. She had no fear of the wolf and Raelyn actually seemed to be enjoying the attention, leaning his head into her legs like a puppy.
'Food and drink is available for you before you join the council. Please follow me.'
Anjela turned her body round and started to walk effortlessly across the floor. Her gown gave the impression that she was floating weightlessly above the ground. With the twinkling lights in every ceiling they walked beneath, it was almost like they were stepping into a new world, one where there was an overwhelming feeling of contentment and peace. Tall stone pillars seemed to stretch as far as he could see or support sections of the mountain above that were inhabited. The bases of the pillars where so huge that they blocked the view beyond, but they tapered and thinned as they reached upwards. The walls around them were not like rocks at all, but perfectly smooth and soft to the touch. Joe knew they must have been made from the stone of the mountain by the lines and colours that threaded through them, but to his touch he imagined it was as soft as silk. They passed tranquil open areas where Goranean people sat around water fonts drinking or talking to each other.
The path that Anjela took them on wound higher and higher inside the mountain. Occasionally they would walk up narrow staircases that were exposed on both sides to a drop below, saved only by the carved banisters that looked like vines and ivy winding their way in and out of stone uprights, painted to look like the real thing. A central staircase twisted round and round on itself for a long time before they arrived at a large wall. Within the wall were carvings and drawings that seemed to shimmer magically and at times, even appeared to move. Pictures of soldiers fighting, builders constructing, women feeding babies and children at play filled the giant wall. Wherever Joe looked he saw a different part of a story revealing itself, but when he looked back that image had gone, moved somewhere else on the wall, to be replaced by a different scene. Scarlet had also noticed the magical images and Anjela had a warm smile on her lips, content with the happiness and wonder that she saw on Joe and Scarlet’s faces. Apart from the moving images, the wall was perfectly smooth. It stretched high above them and was framed by the rough rock of the mountain wall either side. There was a vein of silver that crept through the rock and stretched into the high wall, splitting the stone like a fork of lightening. In front of them were a pair of huge stone doors, only recognisable by the faint glow of the outline and by the guards that stood rigidly either side. The guards were clothed in the purest of white and silver armour that any of them had ever seen. Each guard held a thick silver pole which was also glittering and shimmering like the wall they stood before. The thin lined drawings on their poles twisted and moved upwards and blended gracefully with the thinly hammered axe head that hooked backward like a large scythe, mirrored on the opposite side of the pole by a smaller hook and a lethal point at the end. On their breastplates the majestic image of the Phoenix stood out from the metal, the symbol of rebirth from ashes and the sign of the Goraneans since their kind had first started tunnelling inside the mountain.
The guards seemed to recognise Anjela and automatically pushed open the two huge doors. The silvery outlines became clearer as the doors swung into a huge hall. Except for another two guards at the far end, who were guarding another similar door, the only other people in the room were two white robed Goraneans placing plates and food onto a long wooden table that stretched the length of the hall. It was being laid out for a banquet with silver goblets and elegant pitchers full of wines. Platters of meat and bowls of fruit were piled down the centre of the table, separated by larger dishes with pies and whole roasted meats. Thin tall backed chairs were positioned along each side of the table, with a single larger carver at the far end of the table. For now, the chairs were empty. From beyond the second set of doors, loud voices could be heard, almost shouting at each other in argument. The doors opened and the guards stood to attention. From a further chamber a tall man with straight black hair strode out arguing with a shorter bearded man on his left. The tall man's long white gown stretched out for some distance behind him separating the group of people behind him into two, everyone respectfully avoiding treading on the train of material. On his chest the phoenix symbol was stitched in a silver thread that caught the light as he moved, whilst on his head, a simple crown of pure silver was woven into his hair.
‘We must put out a call to The Outcasts,’ said the shorter man on the left.
‘I have no faith with the outlaws,’ said the tall man. ‘Our armies may be down in numbers without them, but I will not put the lives of our soldiers at risk by those that will turn at the first sign of danger.’
‘But we need every soldier who will fight alongside us,’ insisted the shorter man.
‘The king is right,’ said a green clothed lady on the right of the taller man. ‘The Outcasts are cowards and thieves, more likely to steal your sword and your water from your bag while you sleep, than they are to fight in your name.’
‘This is madness! You are foolish to think we can win a war when we are so heavily outnumbered. Even now there are reports of thousands of fire elves preparing to move along the
Shadow Road and join the armies at the gate of the Twisted Tower. I ask you once again your grace; send a call to The Outcasts.’ King Conroy of the Goraneans stopped walking forward and faced the other man, looking intently down his slim nose.
‘No,’ he said simply. ‘If The Outcasts join us, you move ahead without my support and without my men. You will be swapping highly trained and armoured Goranean soldiers for the skills of beggars, thieves and slaves, with weapons made of nothing more tha
n wood and stone.’
He then left the other man where he was standing and walked towards the banquet table and the large wooden carver that was being pulled out for him by one of the serving men that had been preparing the table.
‘Come, all this talk of war makes me hungry. Everyone, put our plans and disagreements aside and take a seat and eat,’ he gestured towards the chairs along the side of the table. He then noticed that his steward, Anjela, was standing at the far end of the table with four strangers. As the other chairs filled with many different types of men and creatures, he beckoned her to his side with a simple nod of his head. Edgar and the others stayed at the entrance to the hall, exchanging curious looks with the other people around the table. Old alliances of Huntsmen and Caniards, free horsemen and ground dwellers, all whispered together, forming deals between themselves and plans of action. A dwarf stood on a chair so that he could reach the food laid out in front of him. A chair was removed at a place setting half way down the table so that a centaur could position himself alongside the other guests and fill his plate with fruit.
The green clothed lady that had spoken in support of the king was still standing to the right of the tall Goranean but her eyes were fixed uncomfortably on Edgar and the children, as if attempting to read their thoughts and study every small detail of them. The lady was called Flora, a Sorceress who was also known by the name Mother of Nature. She wore fine green clothing with a brown tan leather bodice that pushed her breasts upwards. Her neck and shoulders were bare except for the soft brown curls of hair that hung down from her head to rest happily on her soft pale skin. Her green eyes shone beneath the curls of hair and held Edgar’s curious gaze. Across one of her shoulders hung a square green cloth bag which rested against her hip. In her right hand was an old wooden stick that twisted like an ancient root desperate to find water through dry stony earth. The top of the magical staff was split into two prongs like thorned branches of a rose bush.