‘They are indeed a sight to humble the soul, and shrivel a man’s loins,’ the old man remarked. ‘These falls are situated halfway down the length of the river Woe, that cuts through the Ash’harad like a quicksilver blade. And these falls are in large part why nothing beyond them is truly known by the wider world. To try to navigate the river beyond them means certain death for any man.’
‘None have tried?’ asked Sigourd.
‘Certainly many have tried, but I couldn’t name one that lived to talk of it. Mankind frequently underestimates the ferocity of the All-mother at his peril.’
The old man allowed the awestruck pair to continue to study the falls for a few moments longer, for such a sight requires time to absorb by mortal men, and its appreciation should never be rushed.
Finally, he flicked the reigns with a motion of his wrists, spurring the horses into movement.
‘Come, we still have a fair way to travel before we reach Klay’s homestead.’
With that, the little cart pushed on along the river Woe, that fed the mighty Hammer Of The Gods, before their path took them up and away from the river. Higher and higher into the frigid peaks of the Ash’harad they climbed.
Many hours later, the trio arrived at a narrow channel of carved steps that twisted up and away around the side of the cliff face. The old man had declared that they would leave the cart and horses here, tethered to a spar of rock that jutted from the pathway like a broken bone through flesh, and proceed on foot up the stone stairway. Brodus Klay’s fastness was to be found at the top of these steps. Hidden away from curious travelers and vengeful acquaintances alike.
Together the trio ascended the stairway, its ancient surface slick with black ice, treacherous to all save the overcautious.
The stairway led them onwards and up for many hours more, and several times they had to stop to make rest so that Sigourd and Jonn Grumble might catch their breath in the unbearably thin air. They had lit torches of firewood that they’d saved from the sparsely forested steppes of the mountains, and these they used to light their way through the encroaching dark of pre-night.
‘Eh old timer, how is it that you seem so unperturbed by these foul conditions?’ asked Jonn Grumble on one such occasion. ‘My bloody lungs are fit to bursting, and here you are rambling away like it’s a mid spring morning.’
The old man smiled, and there was just the hint of a twinkle in his eye, ‘A big strong thing like you isn’t complaining is he? Oh, for shame wild man. But don’t feel too terrible, I’ve lived in these parts since before you were around to suckle at your mother’s teet. These conditions are no bother to me.’
And so onwards they climbed for another hour or more, until finally Sigourd caught sight of what surely must be the entrance to a great cave, an ancient archway carved into the very surface of the stone just as the steps had been. It was nearly night by the time they reached this place, the sun had dipped almost completely from sight beneath the distant horizon, and the chill wind seemed to howl and gather even more boisterously around this lonely place.
Strange hieroglyphs and markings had been etched into the stone about the archway, and they made Sigourd uncomfortable to look upon. The archway itself was little more than the opening of some great fissure in the side of the mountain, and beyond that portal lay only impenetrable gloom.
The old man threw back his hood, exposing himself to the biting winds which pulled at his papery skin. It came as some surprise to Sigourd that that skin did not simply peel from the head of the old man in great flaps as the wind tugged this way and that. There was an almost feverish aspect to the old man as he traced his hand along those hieroglyphs before bowing his head to the rock as if in silent communion with the mountain itself.
‘What do these symbols mean?’ said Sigourd, indicating the strange markings about the archway. The old man looked up suddenly, as if emerging from a deep reverie. ‘These markings are of an ancient design, of a language belonging to a people long since turned to dust,’ he said. ‘They are a warning, against those who would trespass into situations they have no true grasp of. Words to live by eh?’
‘Why would Klay choose to hide himself away in a place like this, so far from anything?’ asked Sigourd, his puzzlement at this strange location and the odd markings growing steadily into a sense of unease.
‘Even great warriors grow weary of the day to day squabbling a of his fellows,’ replied the old man. As he spoke, the little nightingale swooped down to alight upon Sigourd’s shoulder. It chirruped insistently in Sigourd’s ear, but it was Jonn Grumble who voiced what seemed apparent, ‘It appears our little friend is a touch agitated at the prospect of entering that cave. Can’t say I blame him neither.’
The old man stepped toward the nightingale, reaching into a pouch under his cloak as he did so he produced a handful of seeds. The bird immediately skipped onto the outstretched hand of the old man and began to peck eagerly at the seeds.
‘It seems our friend was probably in need of a little sustenance before continuing,’ he said. He turned then to Jonn Grumble, that twinkle once more glittering in his eye, ‘You’re not afraid of a little darkness are you wild man? I’m sure you’ll do just fine down in the bowels of the mountain. Although there are no stars to light your way.’
Jonn Grumble stiffened at this jibe, flicked his wild hair out of his face before proclaiming proudly, ‘The day I can’t handle a jaunt into some poxy little hole in the ground is the day we discover the world to be round!’
The old man nodded as appreciation of Grumble’s bold statement. Turning sharply he shuffled into the mouth of the cave and was swallowed abruptly by the impenetrable gloom.
Sigourd and Jonn Grumble shared a brief glance before the voice of the old man came echoing up out of the darkness, ‘It would not do to linger on the mountainside while the sun dips out of sight!’
Sigourd steeled himself, and plunged forward into the cave mouth after the old man. Jonn Grumble hesitated a moment longer, casting a longing glance at the night sky overhead. The stars above glittered like roughly cut jewels cast against black silk. Gritting his teeth, the wild man too made the leap into the unknown, plunging headfirst into the black.
Inside the cave it was dank and wet, the walls glistening, cold and slick with seepage from the rivers that ran through this part of the mountain ranges. The cave itself was really more of a tunnel that branched left and right where offshoot tunnels were spaced irregularly along its length, and no doubt the whole network was the result of volcanic activity that had played itself out millennia hence.
Sigourd marveled at how well the old man seemed to know the terrain. He shuffled without hesitation over the slippery surface of the tunnel floor, where Sigourd and Jonn Grumble were both moving with far less confidence. Even by the poor light of their sputtering torches, Sigourd was not able to make out anything in particular detail until he was almost standing beside or on top of it.
‘You say a great warrior lives down here?’ asked Jonn Grumble from the rear of their line. ‘He must be a bit hard up if you ask me.’
‘Not enjoying yourself, eh wild man?’ said the old man, a touch of dark enjoyment entering his tone. ‘To one used to living his life out under the open skies, it must be unnerving down here in the center of the world. Perhaps you feel the darkness suffocating you slowly, or perhaps it’s the walls closing in from every angle. I would understand if you felt that the situation was more than you were capable of dealing with.’
Jonn Grumble scoffed a little too loudly, ever ready to put a brave face on any situation, ‘Nah not me you old crow. I’m enjoying the change of scenery if you must know.’
Sigourd could hear the bluster in his friends word’s. But there was also a current of unease coursing through Jonn’s voice as obvious as the River Woe. Jonn Grumble had made no effort to illustrate the extent of his claustrophobia, but it was plain enough to Sigourd, and no doubt to the old man also.
‘In that case,’ said the old man, �
��let us continue on. But be mindful of rock slides.’
‘Rockslides?’ croaked Jonn Grumble nervously.
‘Yes, they’re as common as the pox down here, and it wouldn’t do to get sealed in forever and a day because we were talking too loudly. Just think of it wild man, entombed in the heart of a mountain.’
Jonn Grumble gulped loudly, and cast an uneasy sideways glance at Sigourd. By the firelight, He could see that the wild man was sweating despite the unremitting chill in the air.
Sigourd considered himself a person empathetic to the needs of his fellows, and especially where it concerned friends who had been so faithful to him. He did not want to see Jonn Grumble suffer unduly when he, Sigourd, was perfectly capable of undertaking the journey into the mountain with only the assistance of the elder.
‘Perhaps you should wait here Jonn, by the entrance way. You would be able to guard us from attacks should they come from the cave mouth,’ said Sigourd.
Jonn Grumble considered this for a moment, his aspect brightening somewhat. ‘Yes, that sounds a bit more like it. I’ll do a spot of rearguard action. Keep me old peepers peeled for any tricky sorts sneaking up on ya!’ he said.
‘We’d be mightily obliged,’ assured Sigourd.
The old man couldn’t help but chuckle to himself, ‘Ah, but we’ll miss your company down here in the dark!’ he said to Jonn Grumble. Scowling, the wild man turned to address Sigourd, ‘I’ll wait at the cave mouth. If you don’t return in the next couple of hours then I’m ruddy well coming back down after you!’
Sigourd nodded, smiling at his friend, who turned and began to trudge carefully back up the tunnel in the direction they’d come. Sigourd looked to the old man, ‘You seek to provoke him at every opportunity. Has he given you offense?’
The old man shrugged, ‘Oh no, I rather enjoy his roguish company as it happens. Reminds me of the fellows I used to consort with in my younger days.’
‘He’s a good man,’ continued Sigourd, ‘I’m honored to have him with me on this journey.’
‘Perhaps I have taken the wild man’s skin to be thicker than possibly it might be. I meant no harm.’ Sigourd smiled at the old man, placed a reassuring hand upon his shoulder, ‘I’m honored to have you both by my side.’
The further Sigourd and the old man pressed on, the more the surrounding tunnels seemed to glow with an eerie light. Sigourd was unable to determine its source other than to surmise that the light was emanating from the very rock itself.
Besides the strange glowing, they now encountered forests of dripping stalactites that hung low from the ceiling of the tunnel like the fangs of some giant carnivore. As Sigourd negotiated his way carefully around these he could not shake the uneasy feeling that he was truly in the mouth of madness, or perhaps the gullet of some titanic slumbering monster. The place was so strange, it both its location and it composition, Sigourd could not but wonder what would drive a man to make his way down here to settle.
‘How is it Brodus Klay came to make this place his home?’ he asked the old man. ‘It is a place that beggars belief. The strange symbols, the unnerving nature of these tunnels. What has led him down here?’
The old man didn’t look back as he picked his way between the stalactites with an ease that suggested he’d done so before and quite frequently at that.
‘Klay was not driven down here. He discovered this place, and chose to make it his residence. These caves were once a coven of warlocks. Many hundreds of years ago they infested these tunnels like termites might infest the foundations of a house, building and excavating to what ends I can only speculate. The magics they practiced here were great and powerful, and although the last of them died out over a century ago, the effects of their conjuring linger on. It is a place of great power for those that have the means to harness it.’
‘And Brodus Klay has been down here, trying to unlock their secrets?’ said Sigourd, unable to hide the note of alarm that rang in his tone.
‘It’s not just the warlocks magic that Brodus Klay is scrying for,’ said the old man, ‘these mountain ranges are not feared by mortal men without good reason. The Ash’harad is the seam in the join between two worlds. Everything west of these ranges is the world you understand. But on the other side is a world that remains untamed. Feared and shunned by the multitudes who do not dare try to understand what it is that shapes the Eastern Fringes. This mountain sits on the fault line between those two worlds, and at the sight of that intermix a man might gain some measure of the truth of this life, if only he has wit enough to know where to look.’
Sigourd could not suppress the shiver of unease that flashed down the length of his spine. As he looked into the eyes of the old man he could see a glittering excitement there that bordered on delirium...or madness.
‘Why is Brodus Klay out here, what business does a man of the soldierly orders have in this accursed place?’ he said.
The old man swallowed hard, a moments hesitation diminishing the gleam of mad delight in his eyes. ‘He was banished by his baron, over twenty years previously. Commanded to wander the wastes of the world because he made the mistake of performing as his duty bid. Because he saw too much!’
‘What was it that he saw?’ asked Sigourd.
‘Brodus Klay was there the night the Lady Veronique was attacked by a creature from the nightmares of madmen.’
Sigourd struggled to keep his surprise in check. The mention of his mother’s name was something he’d not bargained on, but he did not wish to allow his surprise to betray any element his identity to the old man. He had intentionally given only the barest of details concerning his immediate objective. For all the old man’s kindly ways, Sigourd had felt that discretion concerning his lineage would serve him better than if he were to reveal his true identity.
The old man continued, ‘On a wretched night a creature spawned in the Eastern Fringes, what you might call a werewolf, broke into The Baron’s residence and found its way to the chambers of the Lady. Who knew what designs the creature had, but his attack was interrupted by the arrival of a serving girl, and a guardsman of the house. The guardsman was Brodus Klay.’
The old man was staring off into the darkness of the tunnels, his eyes unfocused, his manner almost trance-like as he recalled to Sigourd the events of that long ago night.
‘Brodus Klay’s timely arrival ensured that the beast was driven off. For his dutiful service, he was stripped of his rank, and then summarily posted here to these frozen wastes. Bidden by his liege lord to hunt others like the beast he’d saved the lady from until the end of his days.’
‘Why?’ asked Sigourd.
‘It was Brodus Klay’s duty to guard the chambers of the lady that cursed night. Somehow the creature had slipped past him and made good its attempt to accost the Lady Veronique.’
There was an undeniable note of bitterness in the tone of the old man, and Sigourd was certain there was some other element to the story that he was not being made privy too.
‘What happened to the beast?’ Sigourd asked.
The old man looked up suddenly, fixing Sigourd with a hard stare, ‘The creature was captured and slain.’
Sigourd swallowed hard, the news of these critical events that had transpired within his family before he was even born was a hard fact to absorb. But he did his best to show no outward sign of his troubled thoughts. Sigourd looked up, noting that the old man seemed to be studying him, searching for some hidden thing that he could only guess at.
‘It’s as well that the beast was slain,’ said Sigourd, ‘justice was done.’
The old man laughed hollowly, all sign of his usual mirth totally absent. ‘It was The Baron’s justice to send away a faithful subject who had saved the life of his sister. But Brodus Klay has not been idle all these long years. He’s been hunting those monsters ever since, and learning many secret sorceries out here in these lonely mountains to aid him in his struggle. He has unlocked the secrets of the ancients, and has been able to scry into the
past and the future. He has found the hidden path, upon which few mortal men have dared to tread. He is a thousand times more than once he was...’
Jonn Grumble emerged into the starlit night and breathed deeply of the crisp mountain air. He filled his lungs to bursting, so relieved was he to be out of those wretched tunnels. Of course he’d been loathe to admit that he’d been quietly losing his mind down there in the dark. The old man had been right damn him, Jonn could feel the walls closing in, and the ceiling and the floor pressing in on him too. He felt bad about leaving Sigourd down there, but in all honesty he’d be of far more use up here keeping an eye on things. Hopefully Sigourd would have a quick chat with this Brodus Klay fella, who sounded to Jonn Grumble like a bit of a bloody ponce anyway, and they could wrap up quick and move out of these ruddy freezing mountains. Jonn Grumble could handle a harsh winter, but the air up here was like daggers it was so intensely frigid. It hurt just to breathe when the snow and the wind was driving hard.
Fortunately, he’d emerged into a relatively calm evening, and decided to avail himself of some of the juicy little plums he’d stowed in his pack for a bit of a nibble when the situation presented itself. Sitting down upon a large and relatively flat boulder, wincing at the intense cold as it gripped his backside, Jonn Grumble began to unfurl his knapsack.
It was there that he saw the nightingale, lying dead at his feet. The bird lay amongst a scattering of the innocent looking seeds that the old man had been feeding to it.
A feeling not unlike the razor sharp ice winds that whipped about the peaks stirred deep within Jonn Grumble’s gut, and without another thought he jumped up from that boulder and once more made his way with all haste into the darkness of the cave mouth. This time, his claustrophobia was not even a whisper of a thought in his head as he disappeared into the unknown.
In The Shadow Of The Beast Page 14