Cedric nodded, turned his horse and rode down the line shouting orders.
“Doesn’t say much,” Men’ak grumbled as he rode off.
The first wagon reached the top of the mountain and began its treacherous descent toward the valley. Dra’kor could just barely see the outline of the rider he had sent off to the town. He would be there in a matter of minutes. Already a line of torches lined the top of the wall. They knew he was coming.
Worry was written across Dra’kor’s face. “Come on people. We have to keep moving.”
The wolves howled again, closer this time. One of the horses pulling a wagon that was filled beyond overflowing, reared, jerking the wagon precariously close to the edge of the trail. It took the driver jumping off the wagon to calm it; the rider pulled hard on the reins and stroked the horse, talking calmly in its ear, leading it past the steepest portion of the trail.
Dra’kor waited at the top of the hill as the wagons crested. They had made it half way. The rest was downhill. He cautioned the drivers to exercise care, more wagons were tipped going down a hill on a tight corner than were ever lost on level ground.
“Check your brakes!” he yelled.
Men’ak rode up next to Dra’kor. “What’ll we do if the wolven catch up to us.”
“We fight!” Dra’kor barked. “There are almost twenty of us. Some of the men look like they have training.”
Men’ak nodded. “I hope you are right.”
“Me too!”
Exposure
Once Bal’kor got off the extremely exposed face of the mountain, the terrain began to change rapidly; the talus slope had leveled off and was now descending at a more measured rate, and short scrub trees began to poke their blue-green heads through the deep fresh snow. Slowly, the landscape cluttered with small gnarled and twisted trees.
Now that he wasn’t as high up on the peak, the snow was getting softer too, causing his feet slip and slide. After a quick glance down at his makeshift boots, he came to the realization that too soon his feet would not only be cold, but very wet—a dangerous combination.
It wasn’t necessarily a good thing that the trail wasn’t as steep anymore, it forced him to purposefully step to get anywhere instead of gravity and his weight carrying him forward down the slope. Soon, his thighs and knees began to throb and buckle. He knew his calves were next.
Dusk approached and what little heat the sun provided, bleed away.
Bal’kor was still high enough that he spotted a stream in the distance, but couldn’t see its source. His mouth was cotton dry from the mountain air and he had a pounding headache. He hadn’t realized how thirsty he was, but now that he spied the water, he felt a keen yearning and licked his chapped lips. For several minutes he stood still, tracking the stream’s path with his eyes. It seemed to end abruptly at a small waterfall farther down the mountain.
The meandering thin, dark, ribbon, silhouetted against the white of the snow, drew him like a sugar-bee to pollen. He supposed its source was snow melting up one of the other surrounding peaks and that it had flowed under the ice until it found a way to the surface. Now, it had cut through the ice to bedrock and had warmed the ground adjacent enough that the dirt showed at the edges.
It took him another hour to reach the stream, which was wider than it had looked from above; it presented him with another of many unexpected challenges this day had offered. Bal’kor chuckled weakly to himself. He had to choose; either traverse it here, or hazard climbing down the steep, mist-soaked, cliff adjacent to the waterfall and cross it somewhere below. He had no preference at this time; he only knew that he needed to get to the other side to reach the forest that was just out of sight.
Bending down, Bal’kor formed his hand into a small cup and scooped a handful of icy cold water and took a small drink. The water was cold and felt good sliding down his parched throat. He took another sip, followed quickly by another. Bal’kor smirked, not having realized how thirsty he truly was—almost to the point of dehydration.
His shirt was dry; he hadn’t noticed whether he had been sweating—or not. The mountain air was thin and he had been traveling downhill; there was no perspiration to be had because it evaporated so quickly. But, he had been breathing hard and losing plenty through his respiration. Rather than running down his face and body and leaving telltale signs, it just wasn’t. After removing his pack and rummaged around, he found the wine skin. Even after rinsing it thoroughly several times, it still smelled of acrid vinegar. He filled it anyway and carefully returned it to the pack, knowing he would need more later.
Bal’kor trudged downstream, navigating the rocks, half buried in ice and mud, until he reached the waterfall. He peered cautiously over the edge. The water thundered as it emptied into the air, and a misty shroud lifted from whence the water crashed into the pool far below. The vapor billowed around him and quickly dampened his clothes.
Bal’kor cursed the gods! There wasn’t even a remote possibility that he could climb down. Frustrated, he turned uphill and slipped on the treacherously damp rocks, almost tumbling over the edge. Only some fancy spinning of arms and a desperate lunge saved him from a deadly tumble. He nervously chuckled to himself over the close call.
He slogged back upstream searching for a safer location to cross. Not finding one after twenty minutes, he reluctantly decided to cross where he was at; he could ill afford to waste any more precious daylight. The sun had already crossed well past the zenith, and the day was rapidly fading. Examination of the streamside brought a scowl to his face. Although it appeared fordable—he could see the bottom—it was running fast from the fresh melt off. He swore under his breath, knowing it would be frigid too!
Bal’kor leaned over and pushed his staff into the water…and was surprised when it slid in more than halfway before striking the bottom. He couldn’t just roll up his pants and wade across—the water would likely reach above his waist.
He quickly stripped, after begrudgingly deciding to carry his clothes above his head where they would not get wet. After bundling the clothes at the end of his spear, he held them high with one hand as he approached the steep stream-bank. The sharp skree dug deeply into the soft fleshy-part of his feet as he hobbled to the edge. By carefully placing his feet and not sliding them, he hoped to avoid serious damage.
The ice-cold wind whipped against his unprotected skin. The cold caused him to draw a deep stuttered breath and hold it.
“By the gods,” he moaned.
He tentatively stepped into the stream, searching for good footing and was quickly numbed to the bone. Bal’kor tightly gripped the spear in one hand and wildly waved the other, fighting to maintain his balance. The racing water quickly reached his thighs and forced him to his toes when it reached his crotch.
Unseen rocks dug into his feet. He feebly attempted to sense where he was placing his feet, but they were now too numb for him to feel either the rocks or the pain. The streambed was very uneven and he staggered and pitched, as the rocks shifted beneath his feet. The current pushed relentlessly against his upper body making it difficult for him to stand!
He felt himself toppling and in a desperate move, flung his pack and clothes as hard as he could to the far side. He watched as they arched upward and tumbled through the air. They landed, and bounced, mostly making it, with but an errant pant leg falling partially into the stream.
Bal’kor nearly hit his head on a sharp outcropping of rock as he slipped backwards. The icy water splashed up and he gasped in shock. His face slid under the water; he threw his arms outward, searching for something to grab as he felt himself being lifted by the current and flushed downstream. Fearing freezing to death, he struggled to regain his feet.
“Help,” he gurgled, yet he knew none would answer.
His head dipped below the surface a second time.
The quick current washed him downstream as his head bobbed up and down. The intermittent roar in his ears was a constant reminder that he was getting precariously close to
the treacherous falls! He panicked; the further downstream he was swept, the steeper and taller the walls on both sides of the stream grew. At this point, even if he managed to get free of the arctic water, he would still be faced with the near impossible task of scrambling up a sheer rock slope to dry land.
He grasped with his hands, but came up empty.
He reached for an outstretched limb, but the numbing cold had made him sluggish and he missed.
The swirling current spun him around and he lost his bearing.
Bal’kor slammed gut first into a submerged log, grunting loudly as he hit and got swept underneath; he felt the log grab his feet, pulling him under.
No time to take a breath!
His lungs burned, ready to explode.
Gasping, he sucked in water when he meant to be breathing in air. His arms flailed.
Rough branches ripped gashes into his shoulder, but he felt little pain. Just as Bal’kor was losing consciousness, his nearly limp body was dragged along another log and his head popped above water. Like a ragdoll, he draped himself over the limb, shaking and gasping as he choked out water. Using hands, numb and weak, he clawed at the branch of the fallen tree, feeling his way along. He climbed onto the large frosty-grey root-ball and slowly worked his way to shore—spent.
The stream’s edge was steep here and his bare feet slid in the soft muddy soil as he tried to climb up out of the stream. He tried several times, each ending with frustration as he slid back to the water. The water was freezing to ice on his hair and his panting breathing left a thin trail of steam as he successfully staggered up the steep embankment on his fourth attempt. The bottoms of his feet were raw and left bloody footprints on the rocks, but because they were numb, he hardly noticed.
“C..c..cold,” he muttered as he rubbed his arms. “S..so c..cold!”
Bal’kor could hardly focus; his vision blurred, and he quaked uncontrollably. With blue lips and his teeth chattered uncontrollably, he stumbled along the stream bank like a crofter drunk, looking for his bundle of clothes. Vertigo spun him as the sky cocked off at an odd angle.
“C..c.clothes,” he mumbled when he spotted them, fell to his knees, collapsing in the mud.
“Find shelter…” the voice in his head said.
He clutched the precious clothing bundle to his chest. Bal’kor couldn’t undo the knot that held the clothes together, his fingers were stiff and unresponsive. Time was running out and unconsciousness was chasing him down. He pawed at the knot in vain and tugged at it using his teeth.
“Hurry,” his mother said.
“I…a..am,” he stuttered.
Like a wolf ravaging a carcass, he managed to pull the pants free, which provided enough slack for him to undo the knot. He wrung as much water out of the wet leg as he could manage and struggled to free his skin of water before he donned the dry clothes. Even though the left leg of the pants was wet to the thigh, he felt warmer the moment he slid them on.
The darkness of night was almost upon him. In short order, he would be forced to stop for the night, unable to see well enough to continue. He needed to find shelter... or die! The voice was right!
“M.m.must h…h.hurry,” he stuttered, echoing his mother’s command.
His teeth chattered wildly as he rubbed his muddy feet clean across the snow, leaving a trail of blood. He fell. Slipped the boots over his still muddy feet, and winced at how grievously scraped and bruised they were—and he knew with no uncertainty that they’d be very sore when they thawed out.
He pushed himself up using the spear for balance, and stomped—trying to return feeling to his feet; his feet burned and felt as if stabbed by pins and needles. The searing pain shot throughout his beaten body causing him to see stars. Bal’kor knew he had to get his blood flowing again!
He held on tightly to his spear with both hands and did several poorly executed deep knee-bends.
He fought for air.
His knees buckled and he collapsed, too fatigued to stand.
With bleary eyes, he starred at the ground before him, unable to bring himself to move.
“Move or die!” the voice in his head said, forcefully.
He half crawled, and half hobbled toward the sheltering woods off in the distance.
I’m going to die, he thought to himself.
With eyes glazed over with exhaustion, he scanned the near horizon, searching for a suitable place to rest. Spying a somewhat larger tree off to his left, he stumbled toward it.
Bal’kor barely made it to the scrub juniper, pulling himself across the snow on hands and knees the last few yards. He couldn’t go on; he crawled face-first into the tree’s shallow hollow, ignoring the prickling needles. Using weak arms and kicking leg, he tucked himself into a quivering ball under the twisted branches and tried to burrow under the dead red needles—even though they were cold and slightly damp.
The beast known as fatigue had won; Bal’kor succumbed and passed out.
The journey had been hard. The bottoms of Brock’s well-callused feet were battered and bruised…and the trip over the near peaks had proved to take longer than he had remembered. There were no rutted, worn paths to guide his steps; it had been so long that the land had healed. He questioned every step and had been faced with false summits; trails that seemed to climb, but in the end, terminated at un-climbable cliffs or chasms.
He struggled to find his way, racing down many dead-ends, and cursing each. A man could waste weeks chasing phantoms trails. He didn’t have a week, let alone weeks.
From the top of Humpback mountain, he stared down into the valley. He could identify the sentinels from where he stood, but not the Ring of the Ancients. The ring was hidden from view by the wide-spread boughs of the towering trees known as the Many Sisters. They stood majestically, ruling over all. And to the west, the mountain of the cave…Wizard’s Lair…stood tall and ominous, stretching into the clouds.
Brock could barely see the upper snow fields and the cave from his vantage point. Nothing moved, but then again, he hadn’t expected to see any movement. He was late.
He pulled his water skin free of his pack and took a long draw. His throat had been parched from the deep breathing required at this altitude and the cool liquid rejuvenated him. He was not accustomed to the thin air, not like his kin of the mountain clan.
Brock stuffed the water bag back into the pack, picked up his staff and started his descent into the valley carefully choosing his path on the rocky slope.
Ice Spires
As soon as they stepped through the gate, they were pummeled with sleet and buffeted by the howling wind. Ja’tar braced himself, shielded his eyes and looked to the north trying to remember where the caves were located. This path through the gates was like a slide. He had watched the rapid change of scenery as they slid through the magic to the gate.
The gate chimed loudly and the portal shimmered before it winked out of existence, leaving them standing in a waist-deep snow filled dais not more than a couple arm spans across.
Ja’tar felt the mental-link to Voltaire strengthen immediately as he stepped through the gate.
"I am here!" Ja'tar shouted out in his mind as he pulled his cloak tight.
"You are not welcome," returned a familiar voice in a bellowing tone. "You violate the treaty!"
Ja’tar looked in the direction of the voice, staring off into the blinding snow toward the mountain range he knew was there. "I imagine not, yet...we must talk. I demand parlay."
"So talk," replied Voltaire curtly. "If you just wish to talk, there is no reason for you to come any closer. You should leave before the situation deteriorates."
Ja'tar snarled. "The situation has already deteriorated!"
"I warn you...it will not go well for you! There are factions that wish to leave the Spires. They will look on this as an opportunity to push their agenda."
"We will deal with the consequences."
Voltaire grunted and her nostrils flared. “We?”
"I have
more pressing issues than the petty grumblings of dragons," Ja'tar continued in all earnestness. "The Keep has been attacked by demons, many are dead and the realms are ripe with atrocities, plagues and creatures of the underworld."
Voltaire's ears laid down. "We are sorry to hear about your loss at the Keep, there are not that many of you wizards left that you can afford to lose many."
"What do you know of it?" Ja’tar spat, wishing he could take the venom back almost as soon as he replied.
Voltaire felt his emotions and let the outburst slide.
"We know that your own totems kill you off, one by one. We know that you have lost your way and the magic you cast is...trivial. I would be reluctant to call those of the Keep…wizards."
Ja'tar's eyes went wide. Ja’tar stammered. "H..h..how many do you know of that have for sure died?"
Voltaire was surprised at his question, but felt the sincerity through the bond. "Hundreds...we lost count centuries ago. Why do you ask?"
Ja'tar echoed, "hundreds... We…I…I did’t know—"
A shocked Voltaire could feel his sorrow and frowned, "You didn't know...?"
Ja’tar shook his head as tears filled his eyes, "The Keep was under a glamour, we could not use the old magic. I am still trying to sort out what is real and what is not. I had my suspicions about the totems...but..."
"I'm sorry," Voltaire said, with all sincerity. "We wish the Keep no ill."
Ja’tar felt a lump form in his throat, and he pushed it back. "I suspect that there are dark mages behind much of our trials."
"Yes, we know of the dark one. She has been in the mountains for decades. She mostly toys with the Lords and Kings. We are rather surprised that she has attacked you, or did you say it was demons?"
"Demons..." Ja'tar sputtered as his jaw dropped open. "You knew? S.s.she? What do you know?"
Voltaire couldn't help but smirk. "We know...much."
Ja’tar felt his face flush. "Who is this 'she' of whom you speak?"
Voltaire shrugged. "She has revealed no name; she is not recognized from the days of Ror."
The Legacy of the Ten: Book 03 - Darkhalla Page 17