In The Shadow Of The Beast

by Harlan H Howard

  CHAPTER 12

  In the mouth of madness...

  The old man had fallen silent since his discourse on the subject of Brodus Klay, and Sigourd had felt too stunned by the revelation of his mother’s involvement to press him further. So many questions raced through his head; what had been the nature of the beast? Why had Sigourd never been made aware of such turbulent happenings within his own household? Did his father know of the incident? So many questions.

  The pair made their descent further into the heart of the mountain, and Sigourd became aware of small creatures, picked out in the dim glow of the firelight, that raced along the walls and underfoot. They were no more than four or five inches in length, with many sets of undulating legs that carried them along like a caterpillar might ambulate. Their pale, translucent exoskeletons glowed infernally in the gloom, mandible parts at their fore chittered at they raced past, footfalls fore the careful footfalls of the two intruders into this strange subterranean habitat.

  Soon enough the tunnel opened out into a large chamber, the rock walls of which climbed steeply up around Sigourd on all sides as they glistened wetly before him. He peered into the gloom so that he might make out any other details of the space they now stood in. The sound of his boots on the rock echoed hollowly off the walls. Sigourd estimated that the cavernous space they now stood in must match in size the great throne room of his father’s palace.

  And then his eyes fixed on something directly ahead of him. It had been there all along, waiting in the near total darkness for his attention. A space in the rock wall where the feeble illumination from the guttering torch was barely able to penetrate, a fissure in the face of the cavern that must have stood some thirty or forty meters high and at least several across. That impenetrable black crevice loomed before Sigourd, and the sudden knowledge of it filled him with a terrible foreboding. He felt as if the abyssal fault was staring back into him as he stared into it. The air around him suddenly felt very close.

  ‘We go through,’ said the old man matter of factly.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Sigourd, ‘I had a feeling you might say that.’

  Without further delay the old man moved up to the fissure, stopped before it so that he might stare into its depths.

  ‘What is it you see, elder?’ asked Sigourd.

  ‘I see a resolution,’ replied the old man, and promptly stepped into the fissure. In an instant he had disappeared totally from sight. The old man had not simply stepped through the fissure, he had stepped into the suffocating darkness within and evaporated from sight in the blink of an eye.

  Sigourd stood there for many moments before that yawning gap in the rock. What magic was this?

  ‘Step through young master Sigourd!’ came the old man’s voice suddenly, echoing around the chamber as if he were everywhere at once.

  Slowly, the echoing died away, and all that was left to hear was the gentle fizz and crackle of the torch clutched in Sigourd’s hand, his knuckles white around the haft.

  It was no good to stand here idly while the object of his journey into this mountain lay waiting on the other side, Sigourd decided. Breathing deeply to steel his nerves, he stepped into the giant fissure and...

  Slip sliding down through the tunnel of rock, Jonn staggered several times as his foot caught a spar of granite or his toes kicked against a divot in the floor of the tunnel. He made his way as quickly as he dared, knowing that every second that ticked by was another second that brought Sigourd closer to the danger Jonn Grumble now knew him to be in.

  Dripping stalactites flashed by as he rushed past them, splashing through puddles of viscous melt water, the flickering light from his torch casting shadow upon the walls of the tunnel that danced and jittered.

  He wasn’t entirely sure that he was even moving in the right direction. He had passed the point at which he’d turned back many minutes ago, and had already come across two or three tributary tunnels that split from the body of the main passage.

  He had paused at the first, peering into the impenetrable dark of those smaller tunnels, straining to hear for the voice of his friend or any other, but seeing nothing and hearing only the hollow breath of the wind through this benighted place. The next two tunnels Jonn Grumble had decided he would pass by without pause, preferring to take a chance on the possibility that the pair had continued along the primary tunnel as he hoped they had.

  On and on he ran, Jonn’s foot falls ringing in his ears as the sound pinged off the walls that crowded in malevolently around him.

  The other side of the fissure was a vast chamber of volcanic rock, the product of some gargantuan bubble of molten lava that had swollen to impossible proportions. Swelling within the heart of the mountain the bubble had solidified, hardening into the natural cavern Sigourd now found himself standing in.

  The chamber was of such epic dimensions that the waters of the river Woe had run in to collect in its base, forming a lake hundreds of meters across and untold fathoms deep.

  That lake glowed with an unnatural sickly pallor that recalled to Sigourd’s memory the image of the chittering vermin that had skittered across the walls of the tunnel that led them to this place.

  As he stared into the depths of that body of water, a peculiar feeling of discomfort began to grow within him. It was the same feeling as when Sigourd had looked upon the strange runes that hung above the entrance to the tunnel.

  ‘This is a place of great power,’ said the old man, his eyes fixed upon the waters as they lapped gently at the rocks near his feet. There was something unnerving about the elder’s manner Sigourd decided, some change that had come over him since they’d entered the tunnel.

  ‘There is where we shall meet Brodus Klay,’ continued the old man, pointing to a spot near the center of the great lake, where clouds like shadows seemed to part slowly allowing Sigourd a glimpse of something that had remained hidden up to now.

  Sitting on a small atoll in the centre of the lake, carved from the jet black glass of the molten rock, a gargantuan human skull leered at Sigourd from across the sickly waters. It had the air of some keep, or small fortification, designed in a fashion that was intended to impress and unnerve.

  ‘Brodus Klay lives there?’ asked Sigourd, his voice a low whisper in this quiet place. ‘How are we supposed to cross over?’

  The old man smiled ruefully, and bent down to pick up a small chip of the molten rock near his feet. He casually tossed the fragment into the waters, and Sigourd watched as the ripples radiated outward, before slowly dissipating amongst the murk.

  He watched pensively for a few moments, expecting something to happen, and when nothing did he turned to the old man who stood quite calmly, his hand clutched around his twisted wooden staff, staring out at the lake in a most genial manner.

  ‘I don’t understand--’ Sigourd began, when the sound of something slapping the water from the shadows on the other side of the lake drew his attention. He turned to see what had made the sound, and squinting into the distance, began to see something emerge from the darkness of the far side of the lake. At first Sigourd could not clearly make out the thing that approached, for it appeared to be made of shadows, thin tendrils of mist wreathing its form as it sailed closer and closer. Gradually, the shape of a man coalesced before Sigourd’s eyes. A man standing atop the back of some monstrous creature, a dragon of ancient myth. Sigourd’s heart skipped a beat in his chest as his eyes struggled to process what they were seeing. But no, not a dragon at all, merely the affectation of one of those fearsome creatures from the sagas. What the man stood upon was actually a boat of quite fantastic design. Intricately caved, large enough to accommodate three or four people at once, it possessed the curving neck and snarling fanged maw of a dragon to the fore, and a barbed tale of wicked appearance to the aft that curled up and over the deck. To starboard and port, furled wings sat pinned snugly to the sides of the craft. Twin rubies the size of small plums and set into what were intended to be the eyes of the dragon boat, glittered in t
he eerie light of the quiet waters.

  For his part, the man standing inside that strange craft was no less impressive, yet only more morbidly so. Draped and coweled in a long cloak and deep hood that hid his face under a veil of total shadow, the figure pulled morosely at a single oar attached to the aft of the boat, which he must surely use to navigate the waters of the lake. Like nearly everything else Sigourd had seen since encountering the fissure in the rock wall, that figure filled Sigourd with an instinctive disquiet.

  ‘The boatman will ferry us across the lake,’ announced the old man. As the dragon sailed into the shallows, he began to wade out to meet the boat, clambering clumsily aboard as Sigourd moved to render assistance before he too climbed reluctantly into the craft.

  Once they were seated within, the boatman pushed off from the shore, and ere long they were moving at a casual pace across the still waters.

  Sigourd shifted discreetly so that he might see the face of the man that steered the craft. But try as he might he could make out not the slightest hint of features beneath the heavy hood that covered the boatman’s head. Indeed, there appeared to be nothing more than shadow filling that space. No less alarming were the solid wrought iron chains that Sigourd noted, tethering the boatman by his wrist to the same post which supported the oar at which he tugged. They clinked and chinked softly along with the sound of the oar slicing the the water.

  ‘The penalty for engendering Brodus Klay’s wrath,’ said the old man from behind Sigourd, having taken note of where his younger companions eyes were lingering.

  ‘Brodus Klay is a gaoler as well as a warrior?’ asked Sigourd.

  ‘He is many things to many people,’ said the old man.

  ‘What did this person do to warrant captivity?’

  The old man studied Sigourd, his small dark eyes, no longer rheumy with cataracts, caught the light of the lake just so. ‘He was a wanderer who made his way into places that he had no business knowing. Trouble yourself no further with it.’

  Sigourd leaned back, looking once more upon the shadowed recess of the boatman’s hood, and he realized that what had given him such a sense of disquiet upon seeing this figure emerge from the mists upon the lake, was the aura of forlorn hopelessness that hung about the boatman like a cloud.

  Ahead of them, the great skull keep loomed larger and larger. Its polished volcanic surface warping the light around it, strange patterns of swirling illumination that danced upon that surface like dervishes. The huge eye sockets of the skull, easily large enough to dwarf the boat in which they now traveled, were as fathomless as the shadows under the boatman’s hood.

  The boat crunched into the soft sand of the atoll, and Sigourd hopped down into the shallows so that he might assist the old man in climbing down. He was astonished by the frigidity of the water as it seeped through his breeches, it all but took his breath away. On the other side of the lake the water had been cool, but not nearly as icy as the waters around the skull keep. It was as if the skull were the source of the cold, which seeped from it into the waters hereabouts, bitter tendrils emanating ever outwards.

  The old man stepped carefully into the waters, but made no comment about the sudden variance of temperature, impossible as it was to ignore. Sigourd continued to help him through the shallows, and together they trudged onto the narrow shore of the atoll. The sand here was all black, as dark as the surface of the gleaming skull and presumably composed of the same volcanic glass, only ground powder fine.

  ‘This way lad,’ said the old man cheerfully, and began to stride toward the mouth of the skull, the ‘teeth’ of which were composed of several interlocking iron grilles in the manner of some giant portcullis.

  Reaching the gate, the old man pushed it open, the ironwork scraping softly as it ploughed through the black sand beneath it.

  Sigourd followed him into that grinning skull, and was surprised to find that the walls within, tall and broad, glowed infernally in the same way as the exterior of the skull. It perturbed Sigourd greatly that he could not determine any source of illumination that would be causing the odd emanations of light.

  Sigourd was loathe to use the term ‘magic’, for he had not fallen so far into superstitious thinking as might a common serf of his kingdom when faced with the unusual nature of these surroundings, but he could not deny that there was something at play here in this place that defied any logical explanation. And just as Sigourd had surmised, the interior of the Skull was damnably cold. Sigourd reached out a hand to touch the faintly glowing wall of the corridor, and as his fingers caressed the surface they burned with the intensity of the cold he felt. He pulled his hand away quickly, and drew his cloak about himself to stave of the chill.

  It occurred to Sigourd that there were no seams or joins in the wall where an ordinary structure might carry them. He could see no brick or strut or connective element within. It was as if the interior of the skull had been carved, like a sculptor might pare away the unnecessary excess from a block of marble, or in this case ice, to reveal the hidden form within the material.

  A stairwell led them up, up, up for what seemed like far longer than would be possible given what Sigourd had seen of the size of the skull.

  Finally, the ascent leveled out onto a narrow landing, at the end of which stood an open portal where a cold light flickered and jumped. Sigourd followed the old man across the landing and through that portal, into a room that again should have been too large to fit within the dimensions that the skull provided. It was a source of great consternation to Sigourd that the mathematics of this strange place seemed to be warped beyond what should have been. The room itself was conical, the ceiling tapering to a fine point like a dunce’s cap, some thirty or so feet above Sigourd’s head, and this in itself was a denial of even the shape of the skull as seen from the outside.

  ‘How is this possible?’ asked Sigourd, the wonderment in his tone sparking a smile upon the old man’s face, ‘I told you master Sigourd, this place is a repository of ancient magics. The usual rules which bind the world do not apply here.’

  At the centre of the large room, there was a fire pit in which blue flames burned dazzlingly, the light of the fire cast against the shimmering walls of the conical room, and Sigourd knew without doubt that the strange fire was the source of the intense cold that pervaded the atoll. The temperature in the room was so low that Sigourd’s breath steamed the air before him, coming out in steady puffs of mist that bloomed and dissipated like ethereal spirits from another place.

  As Sigourd looked upon the cold blue of the fire, flickering like butterflies trapped in a glass bell, he once more became aware of the disquieting feeling that had insinuated itself into his mind since his arrival at the tunnel entrance. An almost instinctive thing warning of a danger as yet revealed.

  The only other objects in the room were a solitary work bench, and a steaming kettle with two steel cups by its side. The old man had moved over to the bench, and was busying himself with the preparation of what seemed to be hot tea, pouring a measure of the clear liquid into each cup before returning to Sigourd’s side and holding out one of the cups.

  ‘Go ahead,’ he said, ‘it’s always so damn cold in here.’

  Sigourd took the cup, sniffed at the contents but did not immediately drink.

  ‘Where is Brodus Klay?’ asked Sigourd.

  ‘He will be along presently,’ replied the old man, who had now moved over to the strange blue fire, and stood there thoughtfully sipping at the tea in his hand, ‘If it’s one thing you’d think to get used to living in these accursed ranges,’ he continued, ‘it would be the bloody cold. But I never can get truly comfortable.’

  As the old man spoke, Sigourd could indeed feel the chill creeping in stealthily to numb his bones, his mind then turning to the cup of hot tea in his hands without conscious thought. He dipped his head to sip the contents of the cup, and was pleasantly surprised to find that the tea was subtly sweet, and incredibly warming as it made its way past his lips. />
  ‘Did I ever mention that I was a man of the west, like yourself?’ asked the old man.

  ‘I don’t believe that you did,’ said Sigourd.

  ‘Yes, I’d dearly love to return to my home. To walk in the fields of Atos as I did when I was a young fellow.’

  ‘Why did you come all the way out here?’ asked Sigourd, realizing that despite the length of their travels he really knew next to nothing about the person before him.

  A strange look crossed the face of the old man just then, like the the shadow of a cloud passing over the sun, there and gone in an instant.

  ‘Tell me of your dreams Sigourd,’ said the old man.

  The request came from nowhere, and caught Sigourd off guard. Suddenly the air in the chamber felt incredibly close, and Sigourd felt pinpricks of sweat break out on his back despite the chill in the air.

  ‘What do you see when you close your eyes, boy?’ pressed the old man, ‘Is it a blood moon hanging low in a sky swirling with dark clouds? Do you hear the cry of the wolf thrumming in your blood as it rushes like a river?’

  Sigourd’s eyes went wide, how could the old man possibly know the content of his dreams? Had he spoken aloud of them while asleep, so that another might be privy to the secret madness of his troubled slumbering?

  Slowly, cautiously Sigourd lowered the cup, ‘What trickery is this?’ he said, fixing the old man with a hard stare. Yet even as he spoke, Sigourd could suddenly feel his focus waning, his legs began to tremble beneath him as if they were burdened by the weight of heavy armor, and the sweat on his back grew into a frost which coated him entirely beneath his leather tunic.

  ‘I have seen many turbulent things in you Sigourd Fellhammer,’ said the old man. His voice had taken on a malevolence Sigourd would not have previously thought possible, and the mad light of the lake was in his eyes once more. Sigourd could barely keep from his face the surprise at hearing his full name upon the lips of the old man, who arched an eyebrow in recognition of Sigourd’s surprise.