He pulled free his handkerchief and wiped his brow. He had worked up a good sweat and his back was covered in perspiration. He knew better than to dawdle. The longer he took, the more likely he was to catch a chill from the crisp spring air.
The whole reason for the journey was to check the ropes, tighten the lines and make sure that no rot had formed over the winter. He could ill-afford having a line snap while taking a load of wagons and goods across the treacherous ravine.
Haagen had prepared the ropes for winter by wiping them down with resin he made from pines and tar. It provided a degree of protection from the elements and since he started doing this, he found that his ropes lasted for several seasons.
When he first started, he had to replace the guide ropes every year, a very costly endeavor. He had to travel south to Edu’bar on the edge of the I’jean Sea and bring the huge spools of rope back by wagon. He would lose several weeks in travel, not to mention the pocket of silver pieces it cost.
Haagen found the forked lever he had made to tighten the rope. It was the size of a man’s arm in diameter, twice as long as a man was tall and had a deep ‘y’ shape at one end. He leaned it against the upright support pole in the notches he had carved and attached the smaller thumb sized cord to the main rope using a series of sheep bend knots, fully knowing that the more pressure he exerted on the knots, the tighter they would grip.
He opened the heavy canvas bag that hung from the lever and filled it with rocks that were neatly stacked next to the post. The weight of the rocks pulled the lever down and stretched the guide rope tight. Once the bag was filled, he added his own weight to the load and hung by his arms, bouncing up and down, working every last bit of slack out of the rope.
He lashed the lever down to a giant boulder to which he had wrapped a heavy rope with a loop and let loose. Once he was satisfied that the lever was firmly secure, he quickly untied the main rope at the base of the support pole, pulled it tight and lashed it back into place.
Pleased with the result, he pulled out the rocks from the bag one by one and released the lever. The guide rope stretched across the gorge like a tight rope. There was no sway — even when the wind blew.
Haagen slung the canvas bag back over his shoulder and set the lever away, lashing it to the support post. He mounted the rope and quickly returned to the far side.
Haagen put his shirt and his leather vest on, lacing the front tight. A cool breeze had picked up and the sun hid behind clouds that were building in the peaks. Haagen knew that a spring storm was brewing. With luck, he would finish by dark, beat the storm, and be home with his wife and kids resting by the warm fire with a tankard of mead.
Nevertheless, if the storm came in fast, he would have to hunker down and wait it out. He had learned long ago that it was better to let the storm play out than to try to brave it trying to get home. His wife would understand. He had spent many nights out waiting for a big blow to pass.
He had his supplies, blankets, sword, knife, jerky, water skin, and his flint and steel. He knew of a small cave just up the road, hidden by the trees. It wasn’t deep, but it would provide a measure of protection from the icy cold and blowing snow.
He lashed on his sword and knife and packed his supplies neatly in a pile next to the raft. He looked up, trying to gauge the time by the angle of the sun, which was already mostly hidden by the incoming storm. He still had a few hours of work left to prepare the raft.
He walked over to the last of the three logs he had fashioned over the winter. He bent over and hefted the twenty foot log to his shoulder; first by lifting one end, and next, by working it over his shoulders, trying to find the balance point. The log weighed close to ten stones and his legs strained as he fought to control his balance.
He gripped the log tightly and cautiously moved toward the raft, a step at a time. The ground was still muddy and he fought to keep his footing as the mud slid under his boots. He groaned under the strain and was forced to crouch to lower his center of gravity. His back screamed under the weight of the hefty log. He shouted, focusing his strength as he let the log free. It dropped off his back, bounced on the ground and settled near the water. He stretched, twisting from side-to-side, working the knots out of his back.
He gazed at the log while giving himself a well-deserved rest. He placed his hands on his knees, bent over, gave the log a twist to turn it over so that the flat side was facing up, and dragged it the remaining distance to the shore. He pushed it into the freezing water and slid it into place, adjacent to the rear of the raft. He lowered his head and went straight to it, lashing the loose logs, checking the guide hook and the lashing hooks.
He worked steadily and methodically. He fed the cord under the log, five wraps in figure eights before tying the cord off and moving another two feet down the log and repeating the process. It just wouldn’t do for the logs to wobble. A merchant could lose a valuable load of goods and perhaps a horse could twist a leg in a crack. Haagen took pride in his work. His raft was known as the best ferry in the realms and he intended to keep it that way.
A howl in the distance caught his attention. He looked up grinning. Wolves, he thought to himself. It sounded as if they had found their prey. Ah, my friends, here is hoping you eat well tonight!
He pulled out another length of cord and continued lashing another log to the raft. Customers had complained last fall that the bigger wagons didn’t fit right. He remembered the discussions clearly and knew that they were right. He had spent the winter taking a saw and plane to three giant logs, getting them ready for the spring. First, he selected the logs, seasoning them, sawing them in half and planing them smooth. He smiled. The last log was almost in place.
He stood up and admired his work. The raft was a good three feet wider; each log was almost a foot across. He was pleased with his progress, and hopped off the raft to gather the last log, the one with the posts that would anchor to the railing he had built around the perimeter.
He had removed this log and added the new logs into the middle. He hadn’t particularly wanted to have to craft a new railing, boring the holes into the logs for the tapered posts would have been slow tedious work. The old railing was still in good shape. He set the angular corner brace in place on each end and lashed them tight. All he needed was to lengthen the rope between the posts at the gate and he’d be done for the day.
He heard another howl. It was closer now, almost too close for comfort and it didn’t sound right. He couldn’t quite place why it felt wrong, it just did. It made the goose skin on the back of his neck stand. Wolves didn’t usually venture this close to people, although there had been times in the past that a stray traveler found himself or herself under attack, but that was usually in the dead of winter when food was scarce.
Haagen knew wolves hunted in packs of three to five, but larger packs were not unheard of. He removed the latch covering his sword and made sure it was free from the sheath. It was always best to be prepared, although he was confident that he could handle a few wolves, after all, he had the raft. If things became dicey, he could just slip out into the river and wait it out.
He stood and scanned the horizon; didn’t see anything, but hopped off the raft and grabbed his spear — just in case. While he was back on soil, he checked the reins of his horse and patted her on the nose. She pawed at the ground, happy at his touch, but Haagen could sense that she was nervous. Her ears were perked and she was sniffing at the air.
He didn’t want to put her at risk and loosened the rein so that she could pull away if spooked. She was a battle horse, trained to kick and buck. He didn’t fear for her not being able to get free if need be. She’d come back when things calmed down—she always did. They had history together. They had seen battle, plowed fields, dragged logs and rode like the wind across grain-filled fields.
Satisfied, he jumped back to the raft with his spear. He set it in the corner, just an arm’s length away. He heard his horse whiney and saw her rear back, pulling the reins free.
She turned and galloped away, kicking up her rear legs. Haagen had spun to see what the commotion was and saw two wolves charging down the hill, one clearly in the lead by fifty paces.
He pulled his sword free and grabbed his spear before he anchored his feet in a wide stance making sure his balance was right.
His jaw dropped. He had never seen wolves this immense before and they moved quicker than he had ever seen wolves move. He didn’t have but a few seconds before they were upon him.
The first attacked, launching itself high from the shore. Haagen crouched down and wedged the spear against the raft, catching the wolf in the center of its chest as it landed. It shattered the shaft of the spear and landed on him hard, before bouncing over the edge.
“Damn it all,” he yelled.
The force sent him to his back and knocked the breath out of him. Haagen barely managed to hold to the haft of his broken spear as the fast-flowing water took the beast to its watery grave.
The second wolf halted on the shore, bared its teeth and growled menacingly. Haagen grunted and shook his head clear and waved his worthless weapon threateningly in front of the beast.
He knew that this wasn’t a normal wolf. The head was too bulky and the front legs were too long. The beast growled and snarled as it showed him its yellow and blood-red eyes. He pushed himself to a knee and stood slowly. He caught a glimpse of another of the beasts charging down the hill from his peripheral vision.
Haagen had never known beasts such as these. They were too fast to be wolves, and too aggressive. He swore that they moved together in an organized fashion. He crept slowly across the deck and released the cord that held the raft tight to the shore. He transferred the sword to his right hand, grabbed the guide rope with his left, and pulled it, easing the raft from the shore. He pulled the rope again and the raft moved farther out into the rushing water.
All he needed was another five or six feet, ten feet from shore should be sufficient. He pulled the guide rope again. As he was distracted with the rope, the nearest of the beasts jumped, landing half on, half off the raft. Haagen was caught by surprise; he had not expected the beast to be able to leap the distance.
He turned to squarely meet the beast, but was too slow and the wolf that was not a wolf had already gained its feet. It jumped at Haagen, knocking him over as it sunk its teeth into his leg, cutting straight through the heavy leather britches he wore. Searing pain shot up his leg causing him to bare his teeth and cry out in pain. He shoved his sword deep into the wolf’s neck and twisted hard.
The beast still clung to his leg, shaking its head from side-to-side, ripping deep into his flesh. Haagen clawed at his knife sheath, trying to gain access to the blade. He felt the well-worn leather shaft in the palm of his hand and yanked it free, sliding it across the beast’s throat. He felt the blade dig deep and heard the wolf yip as its throat was laid open.
He pushed himself up, reversed his grip, plunged his knife deep into the beast’s brain through its eye socket and felt the jaws relax. He used his hands to pry the beast’s mouth open, releasing his leg. He staggered, favoring his injured leg for a couple steps, reaching for one of the posts. He grabbed it in a white-knuckled hand and used his good leg to kick the beast to the side where it lay still.
He reached down, pulled the leather back from his leg and examined the wound. The wound was deep, but not critical, although he would have another fine story and scar to show the ladies. His leg was bleeding freely and he pulled a length of cord free from his pocket and bound the wound to slow the bleeding.
He tried to push himself to his feet, but his leg wouldn’t hold his weight. He rolled to his side and yanked the sword free just as the last beast cleared the shore. Haagen fell back and plunged his sword into the chest of the beast as it landed on top of him. The beast clawed at his vest with monstrous claws, ripping clean through the heavy vest and raking Haagen’s chest. He felt the claws shred his skin and dig deeply into his exposed chest. He screamed in agony.
The beast’s jaws snapped at his stomach, but couldn’t find flesh. Haagen pounded the beast mercilessly with his massive hands, causing the beast’s head to snap from side-to-side.
“Die! Die, damn you!” he growled.
The wolf’s eyes rolled into the sockets and its tongue hung to the side. He heard the beast’s skull crack with each blow and yet the beast continued its attack, raking its claws across his exposed midsection.
“Why won’t you die?”
Haagen was frantic. He couldn’t understand why the beast didn’t stop. He plunged his knife into the beast repeatedly as it howled and bit.
He used his free hand to try to force the jaws back while he stabbed. The beast twisted away and Haagen lost his grip on his knife.
He felt a little light-headed and shook his head to clear his thoughts. He raised his fist high and brought it down with all his might, shattering the wolf’s skull, causing its brains to squirt out from its eyes.
The beast finally went limp. Haagen was breathing hoarsely. He was out of breath and trembling. His stomach was laid open with deep gashes and he was bleeding profusely. He tried to push the beast off, but he was too weak to do so. He let his head fall to the raft and rested.
He stared up into the sky and felt the first few snowflakes hit his face. He rested for a few minutes before he pushed himself to an elbow, worked his way to the corner post and leaned against it in a sitting position. The beast was still partially on top of his good leg. He just couldn’t commandeer enough strength to shove it off his injured leg, which had stiffened and was without feeling. He tried to free himself several times before he was finally forced to rest again.
Each time he moved, he could feel his wounds ripping open further. He looked down at his blood-soaked vest, pulled back the tattered leather and examined his injuries, which were worse than he had initially thought. He had two rows of four deep gashes and he could see bone, the lowest wound had cut into his gut and his intestines bulged through the gap. He stuffed them back in place with his fingers and held the gash tight.
He grabbed the necklace his wife had made him in his strong hands and thought about her, picturing her soft smile, feeling the touch of her skin and remembering the way the sun danced on her hair the day he had met her at the fair in Toulereau. He would miss her and hoped she could find happiness without him.
“Forgive me my love,” he moaned as he said a quiet prayer to AEgis. “I’m afraid that I must desert you.”
The snow fell. He felt its icy touch, numbing him and taking away the pain of his wounds. His breath was raspy now, coming in fits of coughs as his lungs filled with blood, causing him to cough and spit up blood. The color drained from his face; a strong rugged face that had seen years of battles and strife.
His beard was crusted with ice by the time his eyes glazed over, losing their focus. It was so beautiful. He was so cold that he couldn’t feel his legs. He felt his heart slow, thump … thump … thump. His last thoughts were of his wife and kids.
“I-I-I have … always … loved … yo …,” he whispered as a tear trailed down the jagged scar on his cheek.
With that last breath, his head fell forward; Haagen — the man of iron died.
His horse stood on the shore, whinnying for its friend, pawing at the dirt. The evening air was still.
Duvall
Duvall reflected on her predicament. She was trapped in a bal’achar. Trapped! Well, her essence was trapped. A single moment’s carelessness and inattention to detail had allowed her to be caught, snared like a rabbit chased down a hunter’s path. Although that wasn’t exactly true, it summed up her circumstance.
She looked out from the small nondescript crystal, mounted in an ancient silver bracelet that held her captive; it had been both her salvation and her prison. She stared at her slumped body sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of a carefully crafted containment ring that had a single small flaw. She easily saw the thin crack in the marble tile that had broken the ring and a
llowed the demon to escape. It was obvious, now.
She knew not from where the crack came. She had laid the marble floor herself and it had been flawless. She routinely inspected it. She had summoned many demons and foul souls to her room and drawn many containment rings. She didn’t understand why this time, she had not checked. However, even more curious was why the crack was there in the first place.
All that was left of her former self was sitting there on the floor, decomposing. Her crumpled, mummified form was facing away from her a bit, but she could see the gray-brown wrinkled skin of her cheek, the hollowed-out eye sockets and the patchwork hair. Her fine silken dress, decorated with ribbon and hand-stitched lacework, had decayed as well. Time had ravaged the beauty that she was. Where once she was the envy of the sorceresses in the Keep, turning the heads of all she met, royalty included, she now appeared more like a wraith, terrifying and decayed. Even her rings of power were hanging loosely from her bony fingers attached to desiccated hands and bony arms. In addition, her chest, well, her once ample bosom was now sunken and deformed, only barely holding her mother’s locket.
There should have been nothing left of her by now, but the strong magic of the room prevented all manner of insect and such from entering. Her body was desiccated, but the flies and maggots had not feasted.
Still, Duvall felt fortunate that she had escaped. If not for the bal’achar sitting on her desk, she surely would have been sucked down into the lower planes by the powerful demigod, or been incinerated in the ensuing battle. Things could be worse, she supposed. She could have been made into a slave, or worse, made to do hideous things to her fellow mages by the dark mages. She would have shuddered if that were physically possible.
The Legacy of the Ten: Book 01 - Eyes of the Keep Page 9