He embraced Chertron warmly, the fighter clapping him firmly on the back. "I feel your anguish, my friend, but envy you nonetheless. I do not like the look of this fortress, but I understand Captain Grundel's need for knowledge. If he failed to deem it important for the good of Trencit, then he would not choose such a path. Be well, and I'll see you before the morrow's duskfall."
Sarion strongly gripped the man's shoulder. "Trust your hunting instincts, Chertron. You are gifted above the others in this way. Rely on your senses. What others miss, you can see. Be careful."
Chertron walked away, and Sarion couldn't shake the feeling of imminent disaster. Forlern came near, fingering the hilt of one of his long knifes. "Although you remain here, I know your heart will be in the valley with the rest of us. I wish you were coming, Sarion." His voice was a whisper. "I fear entering that foul place without you by my side." He hesitated. "I don't think we will be returning."
Sarion's eyes stung at the bluntness and resignation in the man's words. "Have faith in your comrades, Forlern. Trust yourself. You can face anything and survive. Tell me you believe in yourself."
The warrior lifted his head.
"I do, but I'm only one man against the horrors of a strange land, another world, even. I'd hoped to return to my old rank, but the ache in my chest tells me otherwise. Farewell, Sarion. It's not your fate to fall down there also." He pointed to the castle, the incredible structure nearly invisible in the shrinking light. "Greater things await you. You can help save Trencit. Be safe, and if we don't return, tell the king how well we fought the perils of Grammore...and not to take our sacrifice lightly."
Forlern walked away, and Sarion was crushed by the man's demeanor. Forlern felt the same as he did, that some unspeakable terror awaited them below. Why did not Grundel recognize it? What action could he possibly take to stop the captain? But he was not to be dissuaded from his decision, and had already made it clear.
The captain gestured for Sarion to approach as he stood beneath a large, oval-shaped boulder. "I want you to keep this safe." He pulled out the rod. "Take it back to King Gregor if I don't return, along with this package." He handed Sarion a small, tightly-wrapped pouch.
"What is this?"
"A journal, my observations as we traveled throughout Grammore. The king will find it extremely important. It cannot be lost, do you understand?"
Sarion nodded.
"I know you disagree with my decision, but it can't be any other way. The risk is terrible, and I've left the chance for one of us to escape in case something happens down there. You'll know what to do. Your actions have shown us all that Trencit has much to hope for, with men like you fighting for the kingdom. Please do not be too harsh at my judgment. I dislike such choices, and brave men have died because of them already."
"And what do you think to find in the fortress?" asked Sarion quietly.
Grundel's eyes looked unfocused. "It may prove to be an ancient stronghold of some forgotten race -- perhaps men even lived here at one time. It might also be a nesting ground for whatever is responsible for the raids upon our borders. We shall see."
Sarion hesitated before speaking. "Captain -- take care. I will wait as long as necessary for your return. Do not take any additional risks. If it's occupied, flee before your presence is revealed. You don't have to go in there."
Grundel gently shook his head. "But I do. The king would expect such a choice from me." He smiled, gripping Sarion's hand. "You are indeed much more than an ordinary farmer, my friend. You are what every man in Trencit strives to be. We will meet again tomorrow. And if we're late -- I command you to leave."
The fighters waved sadly to their comrade, and picked their way slowly down the side of the valley. The vale slumbered below, eager to embrace the brave company of warriors. Sarion watched the last man disappear, the hunkering shoulders of Rundin, who turned about for one last look at him before vanishing.
He sat down on a flat rock, his throat dry and his heart numb.
Gone. The fighters were gone.
Overwhelmed with bitter emotions, a single unwanted tear slowly rolled down his cheek. He was now alone in Grammore. The immense boundaries of the Lowlands crushed him where he sat, pushing him towards the brink of despair and frustration.
Sarion felt as if the warriors were already lost to him.
***
The company of six moved with great care down the sides of the valley, trying to keep their movements quiet and measured. The descent was uneventful as they scrambled over loose rocks and scrub brushes, the lack of trees not going unnoticed beneath Grundel's watchful eye. The mist grew thicker as they went lower, and increasingly gloomy as the day faded into late afternoon. Grundel realized they would need to light their lanterns at some point, but not until they gained the inside of the fortress.
The men were spread out in a position of fighting readiness, the reliable Chertron taking the lead, Forlern behind him, Grundel following, flanked by Cerestin and Areck, and a nervous Rundin bringing up the rear guard. Though unspoken, the warriors all felt the missing presence of Sarion as a physical and mental blow, their spirits disheartened by the absence of their comrade and friend. But they were still a strong fighting unit, and it would have been difficult to find half a dozen men in the entire land of Trencit who could challenge their skills of field and sword.
Piles of stone lay about in scattered heaps, several mounds protruding from the ground, extending upwards several feet in conical shapes like miniature volcanoes. The landscape was desolate, void of any life, animal and insect alike. Grundel hoped that it would prove to be empty of predators as well, considering the lack of game. He also understood that he was placing a considerable amount of trust in good fortune, and it was a disturbing thought. He had always relied on his skills of combat and preparedness, strategies well-laid out and adhered to. Grammore was an unpredictable enemy, impossible to judge, fatal to underestimate. He didn't want to be guilty of such miscalculation down here.
The first sign of trouble appeared as they reached the bottom of the valley. Chertron paused for a moment, whispering back to Forlern, who pointed to something on the ground just ahead. A pile of bones lay broken in a small ditch, the remains of some unknown creature, several times larger than a man. The captain lowered himself, examining the skeleton. "Hmm, looks like a recent victim, but it's hard to say."
"Victim of what, though?" Forlern peered into the haze. "The area appears deserted, but I wouldn't trust that notion."
"And we won't," added Grundel. "Keep your weapons raised at all times, and no more talking. Use the code, and stay alert for anything unusual. Move." The men continued, trying to walk soundlessly across the blasted vale. They had lost sight of the fortress after descending, but Grundel knew they would soon reach it.
When they finally did, it came upon them quite unexpectedly, looming menacingly from out of the mist. Chertron crouched down and the others followed his lead, the captain creeping forward. From the ridge above, they could not appreciate the full immensity of the structure. Concrete walls climbed above their heads, shooting upwards until disappearing into the thickening fog. Barred windows stared outward, forlorn and watchful. The ramparts were unadorned, lacking pennants or other emblems which could have displayed any identity as to who had built the incredible fortress.
The keep was a colossal achievement in architecture, power, and grandeur. A living memorial to its long-lost builders, standing tall and proud in defiance of weather and time. Built to withstand any assault, capable of housing armies along with any populated citizens, it was an incredible sight, and the men could only marvel as to its appearance if the cumbersome mist were not present to quench the full enormity of its magnitude.
The walls were empty, and Grundel half-expected to see phantoms patrolling the catwalks, restlessly guarding against mortal trespassers. It was a lurid thought. He strained his vision, looking for the main gate, but couldn't see it. The captain motioned to his right and the men shuffled alon
g, trying to keep a respectful distance from the citadel. The feeling of dread and awe washed over the entire company, and each were affected in their own way. Trencit was home to many formidable castles, but the sight of this structure in the middle of the accursed Lowlands had a devastating effect upon their moral fabric. They felt effectless and insignificant. Its very existence threatened to extinguish their lives.
They stayed within the cover of the fog bank, glimpses of the castle coming back into view at times and causing them to retreat further. The fighters kept on like this for long moments, all the while the day continuing to fade, the long arms of night claiming the valley as its own. The fortress seemed to go on without end, and Grundel soon began to wonder if indeed there existed any gate, or visible entrance at all. When they ultimately reached the front of the castle, Chertron's face appeared from ahead, his features twisted into an expression of bewilderment. The captain moved forward with him, the men scattering in each direction.
They huddled behind a cluster of rocks, edging towards the castle walls, the massive structure only a distance of several dozen yards from their vantage spot. Chertron pointed. They had found the gate, though as with everything else within the Lowlands, it was not what they'd expected.
Four battlements protruded outwards, each of them immense and unbreachable. It would take the largest siege tower in Trencit to be able to make an attempt upon the seemingly impregnable fortress, thought Grundel. A wide opening, square-shaped and ringed by smooth stone, opened outwards. It was like the maw of a monstrous beast, soaring countless feet into the air. The original gate which once had enclosed the citadel was no longer functional, huge pieces of iron laying bent and rusted on the ground, the chains which served to lower it hanging loose and useless. Two stone guardians sided the gate, massive and ornately carved in the shape of creatures which defied imagination, the heads squid-like with muscular bodies, clawed arms folded over their enormous chests.
Inside the entrance could be seen only blackness, ominous and silent. Grundel squeezed the haft of his sword, nodding to Chertron. The fighter dropped back, gathering the other warriors for the coming assault. They formed a tight group, and Grundel gestured to Forlern and Areck, sending them back and beyond the old causeway which led to the fortress. A road sprawled forth from the teeth of the gate, plunging through the depths of the valley and disappearing in the hazy air. The two men would cross the path, and meet up with them at the gate. There was no sign of movement or recent activity, but Grundel wasn't going to be lured into complacency.
After waiting several minutes for the men to fall into position, the remaining fighters led by Chertron, cautiously approached the entrance. The closer they came, the more amazed they were at the sheer size of the structure and the fantastic architecture. At either side of the gate the pair of stone figures loomed fearfully, skillfully crafted by the hands of ancient, unknown masons. Grundel looked upon them with awe, knowing that the hand of man had no part in their conception.
The men stood beneath the very walls of the gate, joined now by Forlern and Areck. Halting before the entrance, they stared upwards uneasily, knowing that it was impossible to pass inside unnoticed if the guard towers were occupied. Scores of windows were set within the stone walls, each too high to be reached by shaft or arrow, but wide enough for the launching of volleys down upon the heads of intruders. Chertron gazed at the statues, shaking his head in wonderment. Grundel motioned the men forward and they scattered, taking up fighting positions, two to each side, himself, Chertron, and Rundin going down the middle.
Evening had arrived, and it would prove impossible for them to advance without the use of their lamps. When they were beneath the gate itself, Grundel paused, signaling for them to bring out their lanterns. The small lights cast lurid shadows on the walls and they pressed onward, taking careful steps, alert to any traps, listening for noise. Nothing suspicious materialized, and shortly they passed inside the incredible castle, feeling as if they had stepped into another world.
***
Sarion sat at the lip of the vale, disheartened and confused.
He felt more alone now than he'd ever felt in his entire life. The Grammore Lowlands, he thought. So much of his life with its bitter memories revolved around this enigmatic and dangerous country, home to the vanquished Glefins, the murderers of his closest kinsmen, the final resting place for many of his past comrades -- the durable soldiers of the Western Watch, and now more recently, the brave warriors led by Captain Grundel. Tarral and Kalen among them. Good men, worthy men.
Lost.
How long would it be until their families learned of their fate? Would they ever? There was no sure way of knowing if he would emerge from the Lowlands unscathed, or any of the others. And what had befallen them? They should be within the citadel by now, he mused. And Captain Grundel had commanded him to stay behind. That action in itself convinced Sarion that the captain knew more than he led them to believe -- he also sensed something might happen down there. What knowledge did Grundel possess, keeping to himself? There was more, certainly. Perhaps he suspected something about this castle, and didn't want to tell the others. Could he have known of its existence even?
Sarion frowned at the notion. If Grundel already was aware of the fortress, then he also knew what possible dangers it concealed. His decision to enter had been a swift one, his mind immediately made up. And there had been no hesitation in keeping Sarion behind, waiting at the lip of the valley.
He looked into the vale, unable to see the fortress anymore. Sarion tried not to think of the warriors ending their journey here, but he couldn't shake the feeling of imminent disaster. He already missed their quiet companionship, Grundel's unflinching but level-headed confidence, Chertron's friendly demeanor, Rundin's gruff mannerisms, and Forlern's eagerness, his taste for adventure. Forlern...yes, he certainly missed him as well, but their last conversation had been a grim one. The change in Forlern's mindset had been drastic, greatly upsetting to Sarion. The fighter's words haunted his mind, his prediction that the company would not be returning. All the men had felt foreboding about the ominous castle, but still it had not stopped Grundel from entering. What did the man know, or at least suspect? He was an elite member of King Gregor's inner circle, a Captain of the Home Guard. No warrior of Trencit could refuse an order from someone of Grundel's ranking, or would question it. But Sarion had tried anyway.
And been denied.
He kicked his boot in frustration, sending tiny pebbles rolling along the uneven ground. The strange rod was secure, tightly packed within the folds of his riding cloak. Sarion gazed down at the packet at his feet, entrusted to him by Grundel in the chance they failed to return. What did it contain -- maps and a diary, perhaps?
Answers, maybe?
Curiosity brimmed inside of him as he waited there. He looked around, checking on the horses which were tied in a loose circle, standing above a patch of grass. The animals were highly trained, born and bred for battle. Even more so, they also acted to supplement their rider's abilities. Their senses of smell and hearing were acute, and the beasts would act in agitation if something approached. They had shown such on the journey through the Lowlands, and Sarion knew that he would have to rely on their attentiveness as he rested.
He planned on sleeping among them, letting them serve as his night watch. Sarion didn't relish the notion of being alone in Grammore, but he had no other choice. It was a great concern, but not any greater than the thought of the fighters stranded in the forsaken stronghold below, threatened by a nameless enemy.
And the packet -- Grundel had not said he shouldn't look within, only that the king needed to receive it intact. Feeling a twinge of guilt, he picked up the pouch, weighing it in his hand. All he had done for the captain, leading them into the Lowlands, fighting alongside the warriors, perhaps saving them all on more than one occasion -- but he wasn't looking for recognition, only answers to his own questions. He deserved at the very least to have some answers, whether Grund
el was willing to tell him or not…
Sarion opened the pouch, squinting in the dim light. He reached for his own lantern, the glare illuminating a small area. He didn't want to risk casting more light than was necessary. Untying the leather bindings, Sarion sat down, then gently laid the contents on the rock, examining what he found inside. He paged through a small journal, the pages neatly inscribed in the captain's firm script. Careful attention had been paid to the slightest detail, he realized, browsing the pages. It was a log of their journey, starting from before they had even met Sarion. He quickly skimmed through, noting how Grundel had mentioned the flora and fauna of the Lowlands, missing nothing. Everything of possible benefit was there -- the terrible creatures, questions about their habits and environment, the extent of their threat, and additional notes. Flowers and plants, weather conditions and temperature fluctuations -- Grundel had been extremely precise.
Sarion was impressed. The man had given a written account, first hand knowledge of the dangers and terrain of Grammore. It was indeed an invaluable collection. He sighed, putting down the journal, and looking over the crude map of their quest as drawn by the captain, finished to where they now found themselves, at the lip of the mysterious valley. Various notes were scribbled down, references to events which had befallen them. The valley was noted, and there was a name following its placement -- Gorothagled, with a question mark after it.
A name ?
How had Grundel known of the fortress?
Sarion's eyes narrowed. The captain knew many things, or suspected them, it seemed. He felt a surge of anger welling inside. Grundel and the king knew of the existence of such a place. It all seemed to make sense now. Going after the ogre, the notion that raids on the borders of Trencit were somehow connected to a greater scheme, stretching far beyond a marauding predator terrorizing frontiersmen and trappers.
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