“Who goes there?” demanded he, urging to put on his brave voice, though its tremble wasn’t fooling anyone. “Who g-goes there, I says? Are you deaf? Thick? Show yourself!”
A most disturbing sound escaped from a bush to his right. It wailed as a cat would cry, then secreted a wet snort, as a bulldog licking its lips. That alone fabricated an image far beyond the desires of our cowardly Crosco.
It was so startling, and so unfamiliar, and so weird, that he stuttered, “I m-m-meant not to call you thick! Sorry! O-O-Or deaf for that m-m-matter. I am sure you can h-h-hear just fine. And that you h-h-have a smashing personality, too!”
He took a look into the bushes, eyes half-shut as he tried to make out what was in there. Suddenly, there it was, looking straight out at him. A small, black face with two great, curling horns.
Crosco let out some shriek when he saw those horns, instantly mistaking it for a certain someone. Someone whom he’d no desire to meet there, or ever again, for that matter. Then, upon taking a swift secondary glance in better light, he could tell that it wasn’t who he thought after all, but a wild sheep. A silly wild ram who was just as scared of Crosco, as Crosco was of him.
Chuckling to himself at his utter foolishness, the Dullahan’s fear quickly lightened to the dreams of a tasty meal and a full belly. There was nothing quite like a bit of smoked mutton from Bròf, after all, according to him.
“Why you little rascal!” he whispered with a giddy grin, tightening his grip on the axe.
“Hush now, lad,” he politely muttered, as he crept towards the now-cowering sheep. “I shall not hurt you, little fellow. Just want to give you a niiice scratch behind the ear is all.”
The ram was at a loss as to whether he should scarper or freeze, so he ended up backing up further with that same idiotic expression on his face. After all, sheep aren’t the cleverest of God’s creatures.
“No need to fear, little sheepy, for I am your friend.” Crosco uttered, salivating, now but two feet away from his dinner. “Best friends for life, you and I. What shall we do first, good chum? Have an ale? Play horseshoes? Or, perhaps, enjoy some DINNER?”
Without realising it, he stepped on an old branch and a sharp snap rang out amongst the hills. He winced. He’d lost his meal for sure now.
But Crosco had never known such luck, when, by the flying sparks of the Wisp, an entire flock sprang out from hiding. They were jumping all over the place, trying to find a way out. Had they not been so flustered, they probably would have used the water race to escape him in jig-time. But thanks to their downright brainlessness, they wound up doing laps of the pool instead, which worked out perfectly fine for the Dullahan. All he had to do was reach out and grab one, but which?
Ifcus was laying there watching the excitement with his ears up. However, he soon grew bored of it, so he went back to resting. He’d have had nothing to gain from it anyway, vegetarian that he was.
“Ha-ha! Come here!” Crosco laughed, bounding after the sheep. “Come here to me, and I shall fry you up! Smoked! Roasted! Boiled! It all sounds so tasty to me. Even raw would do the trick right now.”
Crosco then put sights on one fat sheep who was noticeably slow. A chubby chappy who, after finding a gap in the trees, was quietly making his way for it. Fatter than the others, maybe, but definitely wilier.
The Dullahan ran for him, and laughed, “Oh, no you don’t,” when, all of a sudden, a massive shadow exploded from the darkness, scattering the sheep with its grating screech.
Valstarius. This woke Ifcus like nothing else.
“OH NO!” Crosco screamed, and The Body tumbled backwards into the pool.
All the while The Will O’ the Wisp was ensnared within the wrath of Valstarius’ eyes as he trudged towards him with his mighty steps, bullying Crosco backwards with heaving snorts.
“You dare deceive me?” he sneered, in his wicked voice. “I let you live, and you dare deceive me?”
With a strike so savage, he then hacked down upon Crosco with his axe so that The Body had no choice but to block it. Both axes clashed so hard, that it chipped Crosco’s axe bit.
“I-I-I am sorry, m-my master.” replied The Head, behind the grating steel. “I shouldn’t have l-l-left! I p-p-promise I will never do it again. Please! Give me one more ch-ch-chance.”
The centaur, refusing to listen, snarled over further strikes, “And you helped the boy. Insolent fool!”
“I never aided the boy.” Crosco denied, fighting to stand, but stumbling every time. “I swear I w-w-would tell you if I had! I only ever aided you, my m-m-master.”
“Liar!” the hybrid growled. “I saw you there that night with the blind man. That so-called warlock. I saw you heading for his precious Lán Chúrdal. But I was two steps ahead of you even then. Avoiding a fruitless pursuit through his jungle, I travelled instead to the far east to seek out the prophet. There I could investigate your group’s business. And they told me all about your little intentions. I already had an idea of who the child was. But this proved it.”
(This got our William thinking again, but he said nothing of it.)
“I immediately reported it back to my master. This meant postponing my hunt for you, but I eventually found some rooks who conveyed my message for me. That delay was a small price to pay for my master’s respect. So, chances are, horseman, your dear friend is already dead. Eaten by a fiery beast!”
These tidings hit our Crosco harder that you might think, but he wasn’t about to rest all his beliefs on ‘chances are…’ nor the word of a deceiver such as Valstarius, for that matter. He needed to find out for himself. No doubt, Valstarius also wanted to follow up on the boy’s death, so he could confirm it for his master, if ever asked.
“Hear me!” Crosco pleaded, retreating further and further. “I promise you, we will leave and you will never hear from us again. I swear it! We shall vanish from these lands and do what we must to avoid any further conflict. Helping the boy, it was a m-m-mistake. A mistake for which I am sorry.”
“Leave?” roared Valstarius, still enraged, but amused. “Why on earth would I want you to leave, when I’ve spent the last nine dusks hunting you down? I’d recognise your stink anywhere. I want your head on a stake after what you’ve pulled. Not grant you freedom of exile!”
But there was also an advantage to Crosco’s little proposition.
Thus, to The Head’s surprise, the hybrid lowered his weapon and proposed, “On second thought, should you tell me now, horseman, which direction the boy was supposed to be headed, then maybe I will consider your request.”
It was anyone’s guess whether or not he would uphold his side of the bargain if Crosco complied, whatever of the crooked deals he’d struck in the past. Ifcus and The Body were also conscious of this; such that, they were both filled with dread and despair. For it would be only befitting for The Head, selfish as he was, to save his own hide by telling his enemy exactly what he needed to know.
Suddenly, “I am afraid I cannot do that,” Crosco refused, who was just as surprised as anyone.
“Let that be it,” growled Valstarius, who then snapped a limb from a passing tree, slashed it to a point, and said, “Your stinking head on a stick it is!”
“Wait!” Crosco tried bargaining again, waving his hands in surrender. “Just wait! We will leave and that’ll be the end of us. God as my witness. Jewels?! How about some jewels?! Will that do?! I-I-I can get some! I swear I can.”
“You really think I will let this lie for treasure?” Valstarius snapped as he rushed for him. “You actually believe that? Fool! Try to bargain with me! Remember your place, horseman.”
He wasn’t backing down. Quite the contrary. He was speeding up.
“Back away! Back away!” Crosco muttered to The Body, though he did not obey at first.
He wanted to stand his ground for once. But in the end, he always obeyed The Head.
“Back away, this instant…then turn and walk away…slowly!” he ordered more sternly, so The Body grudgi
ngly resigned.
“First you shall perish,” Valstarius snarled, as he closed in on him, “and then the boy! If he’s not dead already!”
Crosco kept his back turned, and kept on walking. He prayed that the centaur might possess enough nobility to not attack a man from behind. But this was Valstarius. A villain. One of the worst. Who knew what he was capable of?
Crosco scrunched his eyes. He was sure that his skull was about to be stoved-in at any given second.
Then, “What is this?” he heard Valstarius snigger. “The cripple trying to defend his coward of a master? How pathetic!”
Crosco stopped in his tracks. Something inside of him already knew what was happening without him having to look.
The Body set his Head down upon a pillow of bull reeds, out of the way. He then took a breath just short of a sigh, then turned to see Ifcus, blocking the hybrid’s way; his neck craned low as usual. Only this time he appeared…different. The centaur’s threat to his friends, it seemed, had pushed Ifcus’ patience a bridge too far. Crosco saw his rage, nor would he dare dispute a manner so dour.
Ifcus was sick and tired of it. Of everything. Of not being able to stand up for himself and more.
“Move your dusty bones from my path, or I’ll teach you a lesson you won’t hobble away from!” the Centaur ordered.
Finding strength of all strength, and with all the belief in his heart, Ifcus rose up his head to meet his enemy, eye-to-eye. He poised himself tall and proud, like a true stallion, and faced Valstarius down with a threatening snort.
Valstarius, hiding his fear, grunted, “Humph! At least you have some backbone. Which is more than I can say for your rider. Bold, indeed! Yet what is bravery without brawn.”
He wound back his fist, then swung out like a hammer, smashing Ifcus across the face. It sent the horse sideways, for it was some blow, though it wasn’t enough to break his spirits.
The steed reared high over the centaur, dwarfing him. What a magnificent sight it was. The hybrid backed away from the tremendous beast shadowing over him. His glossy coat captured, like fireworks at midnight, all the colours of the Wisp, as his flowing mane flagged majestically in the wind. Ifcus neighed with such passion only to launch his hooves into the centaur’s teeth, knocking right out of touch. Such a feat was unheard of, for Valstarius to get hit. What’s more, he was not impressed. It was downright insulting. First to be foiled by Redmun, and now this. He was so vexed that he barrelled at Ifcus, head-on, with a water-frothing rage. But Valstarius’ path was blocked again, this time by flowing raven robes. Nobody dared hit Ifcus. Nobody. And so it was The Body’s turn.
Crosco twisted his fists so tightly around his axe hilt that the leather creaked, as if throttling the neck of Valstarius himself.
Like shadows cast by lamplight upon the most sinister of faces, and with a grin so grim, The Head leered, “Know your place, Faun.”
Faun. Of all the names for the hybrid to be called, Faun was the worst. The most delicate animal of all, proved the greatest insult of all, and this made him even angrier.
Upon those daring words, and with The Head acting as his eyes, The Body swiped his battle-axe at the centaur with everything he had. Valstarius swiped back, so that the Wisp exploded behind them as if applauding the brawl. The great battle of the Dullahan’s time had begun.
Back and forth, forth and back, they wrangled, hard, during which time great orbs of flame mimicked their blows, and were sprouting up into the air around them, creating dangerous and equally thrilling umbrellas of bright sparks.
Both opponents were true masters of their axes. With flawless movement they fought. Under the exploding lights, the battle possessed all the fluidity of crashing whitecaps, eddying in and around one another to strike from better angles. An unforgiving feud, yet no punches were thrown, nor were any kicks traded. This was all about the honour of weaponry, to which both warriors were fully faithful. It was more about who owned the true right to be the best and, rest assured, it was a fight to behold.
It flowed like a brutal dance, full of anger and a lust for spilt blood. If their axe heads locked, they’d ram the butt into the other’s ribs or face. Crosco had the advantage here, with no face to target, whilst his ribs were shielded behind thick iron. The hybrid had met his match, but he struck with such savagery that he was denting the armour like lead.
Once too nervous to cheer, but now ecstatic of the possibilities, The Head hailed, “Get him! Get him, Crosco! I mean me! Um…you! Bah, whatever your name is, go get that billy-goat ninny!”
This he said out of great intent, but it ended up working against him. Valstarius heard him rooting for himself, which helped him to understand that, without his Head, Crosco’s axe-wielding half may not be able to see anything.
Breaking free of the battle, he charged at him through the water, spinning his weapon about his head and squealing like the animal he was. The Head could but panic and wail. He never felt so helpless.
“Help me!” he cried, defencelessly. “Some help, please!”
It was no good. The Body was too far behind to catch up, though he pursued anyway, his axe flailing alike.
‘Twas then, from the shadows of nowhere, that two bucking hooves knocked him up into the air and into the line of Crosco’s lethal swing. ‘Round and ‘round his head spun before landing, splush, into the shallow pool beside his own severed torso. Calmness fused into a flattening of the Wisp, so all that softened the silence was the trickling of the pool whose scarlet flow washed away downstream towards Bròf.
To this end, the Dullahan’s tale was over, leaving everyone enthralled, impressed, and quite frankly, speechless.
“A heartening report.” Redmun nodded. “Valstarius has ever been a bane of Lythiann, and it is high time someone taught him this lesson. A valiant and courageous deed that shan’t go uncelebrated. As for our own story, we have dawdled long enough, and must be off. Remember, the jungle inside that great tree is thick. And with the Holy Stair since razed from neglect, we have no other choice but to face it. Let us pray we have renewed strength enough to do so quickly. Beware, do not stray.”
The thoughts of having to set off again was a gruelling prospect. But they did so anyway. Khrum threw something of a fuss to begin with. Nobody knew why. Like he was upset by something Redmun had said. He soon calmed down, and waddled after them, leaving the Grogoch and William last to follow.
William approached Icrick and asked him on the down-low, “There’s a jungle in that tree?”
The Grogoch stood where he was. He stood strangely still, bar a slight inebriated sway. He too appeared distraught by the Erethaoí’s tidings.
“Icrick?” asked William again, aware that he was not himself.
Again he said nothing. The boy tried prodding him with a sort of stiff poke to see what would happen. After rocking slightly like a rickety old bust, the Grogoch came to. When he did, he did not appear too pleased.
“Afraid so…a jungle…” he answered, eyes darting worriedly.
“Why so nervous all of a sudden?” William frowned, as he observed him. “Didn’t you live here before? What could be in there that you haven’t already seen?”
“I lived there at a time, yes, but I never knew the celestial stairway was gone,” whimpered Icrick, fidgeting more and more with his fingers, like the stair’s absence could prove something fatal. “Most disturbing, I say. In fact, it is definitely not good, no! Not at all!”
He began to panic and wheeze.
“Icrick,” said the lad, fearing another fit, “you need to listen to me. Slow down. You’re going to get yourself all worked up again. Now breathe!”
Sucking in more wind than any party balloon could handle, Icrick stifled, “Deep breaths! Deep breaths!”
Seizing him by the arms, William explained to him, very carefully, “No, not like that. What you need to do is shut your eyes, take in a little breath, then exhale completely. And keep doing it: breathe in for a second…and then let it all out, slow-ly. De
ep breaths only get you more worked up. Ever notice how you always end up blowing out wind when you’re suddenly relieved about something?”
Icrick interjected with a bright-red scowl for having his flatulence broached at so vulnerable a time. Conversely, William heard himself saying it, and it was no surprise as to why the Grogoch had taken him up the wrong way.
Chuckling at his misinterpretation, the lad corrected, “I’m talking about people in general. Not just you! And, by ‘wind’, I mean ‘breath.’ You know, after we get a fright or something. Or after a narrow escape. It’s almost instinct to let out a long puff of relief…because it calms us down, you see. Try it.”
Icrick had nothing to lose, so he tried it. It actually worked really well. His heartbeat slowly relaxed; nor did his breathing rage into hyperventilation. Instead it lowered, and lessened, and loosened, almost to where he was having a little yawn for himself. William was otherwise hushing him down, saying, “Eaaasy… eaaasy…”
Then, once he looked level-headed enough to answer, the boy looked him in the eye and asked, “Now…I need you to tell me…what’s wrong with these stairs, Icrick? Should we be expecting trouble?”
Not fully out of his daze yet, the Grogoch replied, “Once haloed by a beautiful silvery field of light, the Holy Stair shielded passers-through from the outlying wilderness within. That dark jungle Redmun mentioned. Up, up it grows, well out of sight. So strong, so full. I’d say if you were to get lost in it then, chances are, you would never find your way back out again. Not with your life, at least. Dangerous animals dwell in those trees, feeding on others. And…if the stair is shattered…then so is our protection. And it’s a long climb to the top! But there may be no other way.”
“What kind o’ animals?” asked William, his nerves tightening.
Sapped of all sentiment, the Grogoch gloomily said, “There was this rhyme that the children used to sing. They’d skip up and down the stairs, singing it over and over again. Like a dare almost. Taunting those in the trees…”
The Other of One: Book Two Page 56