The Improbable Adventures of Scar and Potbelly: Ice Terraces of Crystal Crag

by Brian S. Pratt

  “Ready?”

  “No, but go ahead.”

  “I’ll open the door, you rush through and engage whatever is on the other side. I’ll follow and shut the door. Hopefully whatever that thing is, it can’t survive outside the chapel.”

  Scar nodded. “Go ahead.”

  Potbelly pulled the door open and Scar raced through. He followed, swung the door closed and turned to find three crossbows aimed at him, two at Scar.

  “Thank you,” Garrock said. “I was wondering how to get that door open. Now, lower your weapons.”

  For a brief moment, Potbelly contemplated attacking, but knew such a course of action would not succeed. He lowered his sword

  One of Garrock’s men came up behind him and took his sword; another relieved Scar of his.

  “You led us on a merry chase,” Garrock said, “but now it is over. I want the map and I want to know where the treasure is.”

  Scar’s face was one of defiance. Potbelly figured they were dead in any event and so kept still.

  “I’ll make this easy,” Garrock said. “Give me what I want or I shall visit such pain upon you the likes you have never known.”

  A moment passed in silence, then a second.

  “By the gods!” one of his men exclaimed, his eyes locked on the area behind Scar and Potbelly. “What is that?”

  The man who had taken Potbelly’s sword suddenly let out with a heart-wrenching wail. From the corner of his eye, Potbelly saw his sword fall to the ground. In that moment of startled horror experienced by Garrock’s men, he bent down and picked up his sword.

  “Now, Scar!” he shouted and launched himself at the crossbowmen. Scar followed a split-second later.

  Distracted by what was happening to the man behind Potbelly, they failed to realize their danger in time. Just before Potbelly and Scar reached them, they brought their crossbows to bear. Four shots went wide; the fifth grazed Potbelly’s arm leaving little more than a scratch.

  Two fell as Scar and Potbelly hit them. The others were bowled over.

  “Get them!” Garrock cried but his men were filled with terror by what was happening by the chapel door.

  Scar glanced back as he fled and saw the one being attacked having turned nearly gray. Swollen pocks covered his skin and the black mist had completely enveloped him. Scar thanked the gods that they had escaped that fate.

  Then the black mist drew the man back toward the chapel door.

  “This way,” Potbelly shouted.

  Scar watched as the man was drawn into the chapel through the now opened door before turning back and following Potbelly.

  Garrock’s men shook the spell of horror generated by the black mist. He yelled and pummeled them back to their senses.

  Potbelly headed deeper into the woods and soon Garrock and his men were out of sight.

  “How’s the hand?”

  “Better,” Scar replied. “It’s tingling now, kind of like after you lay on it wrong for a bit.”

  “Good.”

  Garrock could be heard shouting to his men, directing them after the pair.

  “We’ve got to find a spot to make our stand,” Potbelly said.

  Above them loomed Crystal Crag. “Up there,” Scar said. “Has to be a cave. Even a rock face we could put our backs to would be better than out in the open.”

  Potbelly nodded and they headed up the slope.

  They hadn’t gone twenty feet before the first crossbow bolt hit whizzed past his head.

  Garrock’s men were in pursuit.

  “Faster!” he cried.

  In order to increase their speed, they began working their way laterally along the slope. The snow was deep and it hindered their progress, but it also impeded Garrock’s. They pushed on looking for any place where they could improve the odds against them.

  Bolts intermittently flew their way, none with any accuracy. Glancing back revealed Garrock and his men slugging it out through the snow, still a ways down the mountainside.

  On the mountain above, a massive shelf of ice extended outward, hanging from it were daggers of ice some well over fifty feet in length and wide as a man.

  “If we can make it there,” Scar said, “we might have a chance.”

  Potbelly eyed the way the slope increased dramatically before reaching the ice terrace. In several places it rose almost vertically. “I don’t know how we’d get there.”

  “Come on,” Scar urged. “We can do it.” Taking the lead, he headed for the terrace.

  The snow, even where the slope was quite vertical, remained thick. The first several hundred feet were relative easy. But once the slope slanted more severely to the vertical, it became much more treacherous.

  Handholds were buried beneath drifts and when they cleared them away, found them caked in ice. Time and again, hands slipped free and feet broke chunks of ice away costing them precious time.

  Below, Garrock gained rapidly as he and his men had yet to reach the steeper slope.

  Scar’s hands were frozen, his fingers nearly numb from the cold. Reaching for another handhold, he gripped the ice covered rock and then pulled himself up. Next he brought a foot up and after inserting it in a crevice, pushed up for another handhold.

  Snow dislodged and fell upon Potbelly which elicited a curse and a “Be more careful.”

  Scar glanced down at his friend, saw him shake the snow from his head and shoulders. “Sorry.”

  Foot by foot they climbed what was growing to be an incredibly steep slope. Sixty feet from the ice terrace, the lower ends of the massive icicles came within reach. Ignoring them, Scar concentrated on reaching the terrace.

  Setting his foot along an outcropping, he tested to see if it would take his weight. When it held, he pushed upward from it to reach his next handhold. But the outcropping shifted and he froze. His hand was still six inches away from a crevice he planned to grip. Pushing upward slowly, he felt the outcropping shift yet again.

  Noticing his friend had stopped, Potbelly asked, “What’s wrong?”

  “Loose rock.”

  A crossbow bolt struck and dislodged a pack of snow just above Scar’s head. It cascaded down upon him. Feeling the weight throw him off-balance, he reflexively put more pressure on the loose outcrop. It fell away and Scar cried out as he plummeted toward Potbelly.

  Seeing the impending impact, Potbelly planted his feet along a small shelf and with his left hand gripped the edge of a crevice. His right hand shot out and grabbed Scar as he fell past. The jolt of the added weight pulled his other hand from the ice-covered protrusion. Together, they tumbled down the mountainside.

  Hands fought for purchase as they fell but to no avail. When the grade of the mountain slope turned gentler, they slid along the snow effectively scraping it from the surface. Down the mountain in an ever growing avalanche rolled snow, rock, Scar and Potbelly. Tumbling end over end, they slammed in an explosion of snow and ice into Garrock and his men.

  When they finally came to rest, Potbelly was the first to get to his feet. Scar’s leg stuck out of the snow and Potbelly dug and pulled until he got his friend free.

  Garrock was still half buried and most of his men could not be seen though shortly arms broke through as they worked themselves free.

  “Come on,” Potbelly said as he pulled Scar the rest of the way from the snow.

  They took off across the mountainside; Garrock’s men scrambled from the snow and were soon in pursuit. Over and through the snow they ran. Potbelly kept the lead while Scar followed close behind.

  The tumble down the mountainside had aggravated his wounds and his chest burned like fire. His hands were raw from trying to stop his fall and the rest of his body felt bruised and battered.

  “We should just make a stand of it.”

  “Not yet,” Potbelly said, then he pointed to where several boulders stood like silent sentinels farther down the mountainside. “If we can make those, we’d be better off.”

  Scar nodded and they shot for them at fu
ll speed.

  Thirty feet from the boulders, the ground fell out from under their feet. Potbelly was dead center on top of the hidden opening and vanished from view. Scar tried to stop but the ice and snow slid out from under his feet and he hit the edge of the pit and toppled over. Flailing, he somehow managed to snag an exposed root and stopped his fall.

  “Potbelly,” he groaned. Looking down he saw his friend lying unconscious at the bottom of the pit, some twenty feet below. “Potbelly!” he didn’t move.

  “Well, well, well.”

  Garrock stood at the edge some six feet above Scar’s head. Two crossbows were aimed at Scar and eight more of Garrock’s men stood behind them.

  “You’ve caused me no end of trouble,” Garrock said.

  Scar gauged the chances of his landing safely at the bottom should he let go. He didn’t like his odds. The rubble-strewn bottom coupled with the how far he would fall said he probably wouldn’t make it unscathed.

  “I want the map.”

  Scar glanced up to Garrock. “Ain’t going to happen.”

  “I don’t think you are in any position to refuse.” He signaled to his men who rolled several large stones to the lip of the pit. “I want the map, or we drop these on your friend down there.”

  “You’ll kill us anyway.”

  “If I can’t have both, I would rather have the treasure than your lives. I give you my word that if you give me the map, I will not kill you this day. I swear this on the dark soul of Coryntia, Dark Lady of the Underworld.”

  Scar hesitated and Garrock signaled one of his men who rolled the large stone over the lip.

  “No!”

  The rock plummeted and shattered on the stone bottom not two feet from where Potbelly lay. Stone shards peppered the unconscious pit fighter.

  “Now, am I to have the map, or shall I order my men to drop more? I promise you, they will not all miss.”

  Scar wracked his mind for a way out. But when Garrock signaled for two of his men to roll stones toward the pit, he shouted, “Wait!”

  Garrock waved for his men to stop.

  Scar’s feet searched for purchase along the pit’s side, finally settling upon a small lip. Then maintaining his grip on the root with one hand, removed his backpack and pulled out the sections of the map with his other.

  “Get it,” Garrock said and one of his men laid down and extended his hand down to Scar.

  Scar’s gaze could have killed Garrock and his men if it had such power. He held up the sections of the map and the man took it who then handed it to Garrock.

  Garrock opened them and scanned them for a moment, then nodded. “We’re almost there.” He glanced up at the mountain then back to Scar. “Can’t have you following us.”

  “But you gave your word!”

  “So I did and I will not order you killed.” Then he grinned. “However, should my men take it upon themselves to end your miserable existence in order to curry my favor, well, that is on them, not me.” Turning about, he walked from the pit.

  His men began rolling the stones toward the edge.

  “Damn,” Scar cursed. Seeing no choice, he let go of the root and fell. He hit the ground hard, felt something pull in his left leg. The first boulder smashed to the ground next to him; stone shards nicked his arms and face.

  He scrambled to Potbelly as another stone hit the bottom. His left leg hurt badly from the fall but pushed through the pain and reached his friend’s side.

  “Potbelly!” he shouted but Potbelly failed to respond.

  A crossbow bolt ricocheted off the floor not six inches from Potbelly’s head.

  Scar didn’t know if his friend was alive or dead, nor did he have the time to figure it out. Looking up, he saw more stones being rolled to the edge. Grabbing Potbelly, he dragged him through the rubble toward the side of the pit. There it bowed outward and formed a cavity wherein they would be shielded from the deadly projectiles.

  Once within the cavity, the rain of missiles ceased. Scar checked Potbelly, found he still breathed, then leaned out and looked up. Garrock’s men were no longer visible. Were they gone? Or were they just out of sight waiting for them to try and escape so they could finish them off. Unsure, Scar kept in the cavity and made Potbelly as comfortable as he could.

  -17-

  Night had fallen and darkness filled the pit by the time Potbelly came around.

  Scar had his head cradled in his lap. “How are you?”

  “Sore,” he replied groggily. “What happened?”

  “You fell into a pit.”

  “I fell…?” he began, then memory returned. “Garrock?”

  “Gone.”

  “Did you kill him?”

  Scar shook his head though it was too dark for Potbelly to see. “No. He took the map and is probably hauling away the treasure as we speak.”

  Potbelly sat up and groaned in the process. His side hurt badly; a couple of ribs were bruised if not broken. And from the way his hip ached, there should be a bruise the size of his Gamma’s homecakes during Festival.

  “You let him take it?”

  “I did not let him take it,” Scar replied. “It was either the map or your life. As miserable as you make me sometimes, I’m used to having you around. Besides, once we return to Castin, I’ll need your help in killing him and everyone who owes him allegiance. Once he’s dead, we can retrieve the treasure then. And didn’t Matlin say that there was more treasure up there than you and I could ever hope to haul away?”

  “That he did.”

  “So when morning comes, we find our way out of here, then find the treasure and take what we can. There should still be some left even after Garrock and his men are through. Then we return to Castin and kill that demon damned bastard.”

  When morning came, Potbelly ached all over. It was determined that his ribs hadn’t cracked, only severely bruised.

  Scar wasn’t doing that great either, but the need for revenge gave him strength. His chest, though better, still complained when he stood; his leg hurt as well but other than a slight limp it would be fine. In the light of dawn, he inspected the walls of the pit. His first go-round revealed nothing, nor did his second. It wasn’t until Potbelly rolled over on his side and glanced up that a crevice was spotted.

  Eight feet off the floor, it was narrow and extended into darkness.

  Positioning boulders that Garrock’s men had tried to kill them with beneath the opening, Scar climbed up to it.

  “Can’t see much,” he said.

  “There’s only one torch left,” Potbelly said.

  Scar glanced down to him, “We don’t have a choice.”

  Nodding, Potbelly took his flint and steel and ignited their final torch. He came to his feet with a groan, then walked over and handed it to Scar.

  Its light revealed a narrow passage chocked with roots and spider webs. Scar believed there would be enough room for them to pass. He turned to Potbelly. “You stay here. I’ll see where it leads.”

  Tossing the torch in first, he pulled himself up and into the passage. He reclaimed the torch and scooted forward on elbows and knees. As he pressed forward, the torch ignited the webs and smaller roots. They would flare for a moment then die out.

  Several minutes later, the passage ahead brightened and he knew freedom was at hand. But when he came to the end, it was blocked by a sheet of ice.

  Scar first tried pushing it out in the hopes it would be small and easily manipulated. It refused all efforts to budge. Next he pulled his knife and hacked away at the blockage. After the third strike, chips broke free. He knew it couldn’t be too thick since the sun’s light penetrated. Minutes passed and the crawlspace before him grew increasingly covered in ice chips. Finally, he struck and when he pulled back, felt a small inflow of air. Encouraged, he continued with great enthusiasm.

  Larger chunks fell away until finally enough had been cleared to allow his hand to reach through. Setting the knife aside, he gripped the edge of the hole in the ice and began p
ulling and tugging it back and forth.

  On the third round, he felt it move. Each tug and push afterward created even more play. Then on the tenth push, it gave way. Moving the ice block out of the way, he scooted forward to see where he had come out.

  Two large rocks leaned against each other above the opening. Scar squeezed through and came to stand on the side of the mountain. He stretched a moment after having been in such a confining space, then returned to the opening.

  “I’m through!” he hollered.

  “On my way,” came Potbelly’s response.

  While waiting for Potbelly to arrive, Scar scanned the mountainside for signs of Garrock or his men only to not find them. Then he eyed the sun and gauged its position versus the time of day.

  Grunting and curses announced Potbelly’s arrival. Scar went and helped his friend from the hole.

  “It looks like we are on the western slope.”

  Potbelly eyed him then glanced to the terraces looming far above them. “So the entrance is up there and around to the northern face?”

  Scar nodded. “And if the gods would favor us, Garrock too.”

  “Have they ever?”

  “No,” he replied with a chuckle. “But then, we never had much use for them either.” Slapping Potbelly lightly on the back, he said, “Come, today’s a good day for vengeance.”

  Shouldering their packs, they headed up the mountain. Despite the snow covering the ground, the climb at first wasn’t bad. They made steady time until the slope’s slant increased in severity and the going proved more challenging. Not long after that, they came to a channel worn through the snow by many feet.

  “Garrock,” Scar said.

  “Looks like it.”

  Scar examined the many footprints. “I make at least ten separate tracks, though since they walked in a line the count is probably more.” All headed up the mountain. None had come back down.

  “So, they are still up there.”

  “Unless they descended another way,” Scar replied.

  “We’ll find out when we get there.”

  They kept to the path forged by Garrock and his men. Having it already fairly trampled allowed them to move quickly. The path angled up as well as followed the mountainside around to the northern face.