Icrick then went back about his maps, leaving Khrum standing there, rattled by the notion of what might have actually happened. Still, that Icrick had some nerve, showin’ me up like that, was his thinking.
“Maybe I’ll shtand a little closer ta yourself next time I let out a screech! Bloody high n’ mighty...” he muttered brazenly.
Unwise to Khrum’s remark, Icrick toddled on.
Up through the tunnel they went, where they found a gaunt path aside the left-hand wall. It was piercingly loud in there, with the rapids gushing by in a violent rage. Quite a stretch too, that tunnel. The end was but a diminutive point of light far in the distance. But they marched on, in single file, and with little concern. What was the worst that could happen, after all?
About five minutes went by when William noticed a peculiar stench in the air. It was stale and mouldy, but it seemed to only bother him, from what he could first tell, because the others proceeded on without a care in the world. It was on account of, I suppose, them being more familiar with Lythiann and all of its other oddities.
All of a sudden, Khrum said, “My nose is killin’ me! Itchyin’ like hell it is. An’ that pong! WOOO! Do any o’ ye get it...no?”
“Yes! As a matter of fact, I get it too,” said Icrick sourly. “I wasn’t sure if it was either of ye, so I just kept it to myself.”
“Yeah, I smell it too, whatever is it,” William added, pinching his nose.
In peering up, they then saw how the shadows of the craggy roof were alive with squeaking, dangling vampire bats. They must have been keeping in out of the daylight until nighttime fell.
“Bats!” William squeaked. “Vampire bats and all!”
You may wonder how he knew that these were vampire bats and not any other breed of bat. The lad could recognise them quite easily, in fact, by their stumpy noses, as his neighbour, Mrs. O’Loughlan, had one in a cage in her living room back home...strange though that may seem. Bernie’s husband, Jack, brought it back for her from Argentina one Christmas as a joke. Funnily enough, she adored it, thus, she kept it. Her house was full of weird bits and pieces from around the world, including an attic full of ancient weaponry from the east, which William was truly fascinated by, but was never allowed touch.
What they were smelling in that passage were the squat dunes of guano which had mounded up into slanting piles against the tunnel wall. At first, they didn’t pay them any attention, presuming they were just heaps of dust and debris; but they were wrong. What a grotesque sight it was, let alone haunting, what with all of those swinging, jerky bodies gazing down upon them.
“Oh! What ugly, ugly creatures,” whispered Icrick, cringing.
“I hear these things shtick ta your hair if you’re not careful,” Khrum murmured, genuinely trying to dispense some practical information.
“Oh, shut up, Khrum!” snapped the Grogoch.
“What?” Khrum barked. “Who wiped their crack on your facecloth this mornin’? Constantly complainin’, ya are! Like some aul’ biddy.”
“Oh, ya right! Like you weren’t suggesting that they’d be straight after me because I’m coated in fur,” Icrick said accusingly.
“Ara, for God’s sake!” sighed Khrum. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Will you two ever stop giving out!” William arbitrated. “They won’t stick to anybody’s hair. Besides, they’re probably just as frightened of us. So let’s just get through this tunnel and be done with it.”
Without warning, another rock collapsed from the cliffs outside, and William whipped around to see what was happening. By doing so, the other two encountered something that brought them to a fearful scream.
“BAT!” they shouted together.
Lo and behold, clutching to William’s pack was a foul vampire bat who was slowly clawing his way up to the lad’s neck for a nip. As well as that, their cries had roused such upset amongst the rest of those nightly critters that they all broke loose from the ceiling and swooped towards them in a black cloud.
“Get moving!” William cried, and they snapped into a sprint.
Bats were hurtling and spinning about their heads, forcing them to crouch in their getaway. All they could do was cover they heads and scamper as fast as they could, for turning around wasn’t an option, as that would mean running against the onslaught. Nor could they jump into the river, because they had no idea where it would carry them. That’s if it didn’t kill them first. Onwards they so dashed, crying out and swishing their arms about in a frenzy.
All of a sudden, a shiny black bat slapped directly onto Icrick’s face like a wet rag and adhered, squeaking and batting its wings.
“It’s on my face!” he yelled, with a muffled shriek. “Get it off!”
With the Grogoch first in line, he was impairing the rest of their progress, for he’d stopped in his tracks in a struggle to peel the bat from his face.
“Go, Icrick! Will ya run!” cried the leprechaun, with bats bouncing all about his head.
“I can’t! Get it off! Get it off me!” screamed the Grogoch.
“Ara, for cryin’ out loud,” growled Khrum, springing onto Icrick’s back.
Bravely, with one savage butt of his forehead, Khrum nutted the bat in the snout, forcing it to release its grip and flap away.
“Now! Go, will ya!” he ordered, taking settle upon the Grogoch’s shoulder.
Forth they ran, with such speed that they never would have dreamt possible.
Quickly and thankfully they soon made it safely to tunnel’s end, with William at the rear, still wrestling that last bat from his backpack. Sunlight exploded onto their faces when they found the outer world, and a ghastly trail of shrieking bats soared up into the blue, making way for the nearby shade of the old fir trees. It was a lucky escape for our heroes, and they were only too delighted to be out of that filthy place.
After their little adventure in that sordid, terror-filled passage, they came to a calmer part of the river whereby they could cross over. On the opposing side, the bank rolled up to a higher knoll, which soon returned them to level ground. There they discovered the ancient moors afore their chosen path. Mikloc’s Moors, they were known as, so named after Mikloc Maheyrin. An eccentric old hermit, once a respected ‘Artisan’ of Lythiann’s east, whose own tale, I am sorry to say, has no bearing upon ours at hand. Although, perhaps you will learn of him on some other occasion, when the lights are dim and all desires for moving tales have been long since put to their beds. For the legend of old Mikloc was neither a happy nor an inspiring fable.
While upon those moors, they noticed that the weather was indeed holding up nicely. The skies remained reasonably overcast, yet they were nonetheless seething with friendly, cotton clouds, which drifted by peacefully in all manner of shapes and sizes. Walking along beneath them, William was as happy as could be. Well...as happy as the whole situation would allow him to be, at least. Chewing upon a long stalk of grass, he absorbed the view of the countryside. He might as well have been going for a quiet summer ramble back home, for all the difference there was. That is, until he came to notice the more obscure patterns of Lythiann’s geography.
At one stage, the clouds dispelled, and the sun began beating down very heavily. The wind was growing lighter too, so they decided to rest in the shade of the trees for a spell. William sat there for a good long while; watching, thinking, minding his own business, when he noticed that one of the tree roots, by which he sat, had lots of swirling engravings on it. They crawled all the way up, around the very trunk, and even into the branches. Yes, that’s right. They were exactly the same designs as in the Grollo. Nor were they just on this tree alone, they were on all the trees. Every single one he took a moment to examine. Every one of them had those markings, yet they were very faint in the grain. Many of the rocks and boulders had them, too.
Apart from that—though as intriguing as those markings were to him—yet another feature came to William’s attention. The mountains. Not all, but some of them, had a very pecu
liar shape about them, he felt. There was something very irregular, yet very beautiful about their formations; being all pointy, and narrow, and capped with snow. They gave the distinct impression of thin shards of stone, like that of spearheads wrought from flint. But there were only ever one or two of these karstic peaks in the midst of the regular ranges. Even so, both breeds grew strong and tall, emerging from clusters of the forests spread beneath.
Those ever-arising surprises of the Lythiann world were something for William to be constantly in awe of, and that’s no mistake. Now and then, the birds sang and butterflies danced by. It was truly divine. William wished that the entire journey would be like this. Quiet, peaceful, untroubled. But you will find out before the end that not all the things we wish for wind up coming true.
After the fourth day of their arrival, their course had gotten a little worse. Into what seemed like unknown parts they strayed. Even Icrick was getting to the point where he would go off alone to consult his maps. On one instance, they even caught him reading a map upside down; granted he was trying his best. Things started to feel a bit more sinister. A bit more unwelcoming. Sunshine visited less frequently and the more outlandish animals seemed to frolic all the more; snotterbugs, tree pixies, snap sparrows. Yet, for the most part, they all of them remained in hiding.
Mustiness filled the air, and the trees grew barer and more twisted. Past the west they’d wandered; left it behind, and were now travelling south by Icrick’s guidance to a place that brought uneasiness to their resolve. They were beyond the borders of Scalàn Fweè, now heading through a region known as Nà Fìun. Dealings of this county were best left untold ever since the banishment from Drevol, for creatures lurked abroad that even the mightiest feared.
Dusk was falling when they happened upon a road. An old road. A wild-looking road. After some nervous debate, Icrick suggested that they take it. It didn’t, after all, appear so menacing during the light. But Icrick was quite regretful for bringing them that way once night came. Spiteful clouds loomed before the nightly moon, bringing an even ghostlier tone to the road by which they had to travel. It was a skinny, muddy trail, cutting through a dismal, wicked forest. The grassy banks that strayed into the secrets of the trees on either side were dreadfully overgrown and eerily withered. Old was that forest, of both ash and oak, with its jagged branches dangling like talons over the path, and its ragged knots forming terrifying faces as though moaning and screaming, and trying to reach out. Owls hooted from the unknown, and flocks of ravens—regulars to the dark—cackled as the three stole unnervingly by. Occasionally, they spotted a set of eyes or two, blinking out at them from within the forest, then quickly disappearing back into the shadows before they could guess to whom or what they belonged. How horridly unwelcoming that place felt. It was so intimidating that they were huddled in closely as they shuffled grudgingly along the path, constantly glancing about, sometimes getting startled by mysteriously unfavourable mutterings.
Hiding in his hood, William asked, “Are you sure this is the right way?”
This chilling place was truly having an ill effect on him and, the further they pressed, the more he was beginning to wonder if he would ever see the daylight again. Not that there was any obvious threat, mind you. It was merely a paranoid sensation which continued to engorge itself the more he dwelt on it.
“Yes, yes! I’m quite sure, William,” replied Icrick, trying to seem fine. “I remember this path being a very charming hike during the daytime.”
As it happens, the Grogoch did actually know of this place, though he didn’t appear too convincing, as it had obviously changed significantly since he’d been there last.
Suddenly, a mist began prowling in from the forest floor, lingering upon their path; sparsely at first, but soon it grew thick. Then, up ahead, beyond this daunting miasma, they saw a grand archway of ageless stonework. Upon each pillar were two flaring torches, and the whole structure was entwined with ivy of a brawny stem and wilted vines. When they got nearer they saw a gargoyle’s head leering down at them from the centre of the arch. It was that of a demon horse with flaring nostrils and lethal fangs.
“Oooh, I dunno, lads!” said Khrum, who was up on Icrick’s shoulder and feeling rather unsettled. “I’ve been ‘round these parts too, remember. An’ I don’t recall comin’ across a path like this one. I say we turn back...find another route.”
At the thought of that refreshing concept, William halted, and was quite inclined to agree.
“I am the guide!” said Icrick, trying his best to appear conservative. “And I can assure you that this is the right direction. I remember there being only one true trail that led from Scalàn Fweè to Ná Fiun, and this is it. In fact, it’s the only clear road that isn’t encumbered by mountains which will take us to the tower! We could risk our hides by venturing into the deeper wilds where so many have gotten lost in the past. Personally, I think that that would be a stupid idea. But I am just the guide...so what would I know?”
With that, Khrum and Icrick fell into an inevitable quarrel about who was right and who was wrong. In a vain attempt to arbitrate the situation again, William was on the verge of stepping in when something abruptly caught his ear.
It sounded like a snort, eerily emitting from the fog up ahead. Hastily, he put his hand over the Grogoch’s mouth and a finger over the leprechaun’s face, and listened again. Hauntingly the mist crept frightfully closer, as though evil powers of vile souls recently departed were returning for one last night of trifling torment. Leering down deviously upon them was the clouded moon, and an unbearable quietness suddenly governed the way.
“Did you hear that, just now?” William whispered.
(The other two shook their heads.)
“You sure?”
(The other two shook their heads.)
Suddenly, up ahead, the mist began to break, and William stepped back with sheer and utter terror by what he saw. A silhouetted figure grew from behind its misty veil. It was freakishly large, and it looked powerful.
“Something’s coming!” he whispered fearfully. “Hide!”
Covertly they rushed to the side of the road where there was a large boulder and some bushes. As quietly as possible, they slipped in behind them and peeped out. That’s when the shape strode from the fog and William gasped at its presence. It was a giant of a man. Eight feet tall, if not more, he would have guessed; clad entirely in jet-black armour and a heavy, tattered cloak with a broad collar. By his side he was walking a grand stallion, as black as night, and with eyes as fierce as death. Above all else, its most chilling feature had yet to be revealed. For, in the rider’s hand, set out high before him like a lantern, was a head...his very own head...a glowing, green head. How heart-kneading it sounded; hearing it moaning and groaning with such misery. No terror of bats or sentinels bore so deep a fear as that which they were suffering at that moment.
This manner of creature, both man and horse as a whole, was branded ‘the Dullahan’—the headless horseman of the ancient west. His wrinkled face was the pigment of terminal sickness, sallow and green; with eyes pinched and black as coal. His face glowed out the brighter through the intensity of his emotions.
“Who gooooooes there?” he moaned in a quivering tone, yet it sounded quite highborn and powerful.
Through the denseness of the miasma, his utterance sounded horrific.
“Who gooooooes there?” he demanded a second time, as the horse kicked the dust and snorted.
Although the animal was quite a splendid beast, he was also very threatening to William and the other two, with his head stooped as though on the hunt. Also, it seemed his right foreleg had been severed and replaced with a wooden peg, thereby adding even more bite to his chilling appearance.
Not a peep did they make, whilst observing him from behind the rock. They shivered and shook, and glimpsed at each other intensely, but they did not dare budge the tiniest fraction. The Dullahan probed the area one last time, then turned into the mist and strode away. T
he others waited, too afraid to stick their heads out for a gander to check if he was really gone.
“Take a look,” whispered a voice
“No! You take a look,” said another.
“Why should I?”
“I think he should take a look,” they said, whispering louder as the argument progressed.
All of a sudden, there was a piercing crack just shy of their heads. Startled by this, they all tumbled into the muck, backing themselves away from whatever it was. During his fall, poor Icrick hurt his ankle and was now yelping like a dog. Sure enough, there was the Dullahan, with his massive, black axe having carved right into the boulder like a pumpkin.
“GO BACK!” William shouted to the others as he scrambled up to retreat, but poor Icrick was stalling due to his foot.
William couldn’t very well run off without him, now could he? So he lifted the Grogoch on his back while Khrum jumped onto Icrick’s shoulder.
William piggybacked as fast as he could. Icrick’s legs were otherwise running on the wind, as if it would somehow propel William further. Panic-stricken, the leprechaun turned ‘round only to see that ugly brute walking briskly after them, with powerful steps and its bright-green Head calling after them.
“How dare you use my path!” he bellowed. “Now you must suffer me, the traveller’s bane.”
Without thinking, William glanced around to see what was happening. As he did, it robbed him of his direction, making him sway considerably off course...though he did not realise.
“LOOK OUT!” squawked Icrick.
Suddenly, William rammed his face right into a passing branch, and they all came crashing down like a house of cards. The Dullahan was gaining, but the lad acted quickly. Picking up a stone, he flung it into the air like a bullet. His technique was flawless, and the speed was just right. It whizzed straight for the Dullahan, cracking him square on the nose.
The Other of One - Book One: The Lythiann Chronicles Page 19