Ogre's Passing

by Paul Melniczek

  He drifted off despite his concern for both the warriors and his own security, and he had no choice but to trust in the animals, using their abilities to warn him of any approaching threats. His dreams were terrible, a growing anxiety weighing heavily upon him, preventing deeper or relaxed sleep to come. A cloud of doom hovered over him, insubstantial except within his fears, but stronger while beneath the cloaks of slumber.

  Sarion awoke with a start, his eyes adjusting to the small flare of his lantern several feet away, dawn still in its infancy, struggling to crack the darkness. The horses appeared relaxed, most of them laying on the ground, although one was standing along the larger cluster of stones which faced the forest. It was his own steed, and he jumped in surprise as he saw a slim figure standing there, caressing the animal's head.

  Immediately he held his sword high, springing to his feet and taking a defensive posture. How had he been tricked?

  "Fear not, I mean you no harm."

  Sarion gasped. It was a woman!

  But no ordinary woman by any means, instead the most stunning creature he'd ever seen before.

  She was slender and looked fairly young, perhaps close to his own age. She stepped closer, the horse nuzzling her with its head. Dressed in a tunic of brown, she seemed to have emerged from the heart of the forest itself. Her eyes glazed with a burning intensity, emerald ice glittering deep within the incredible orbs. Upon her long auburn tresses lay a circlet of flowers like a primeval crown. Her skin was darker than his own, flawless and smooth.

  "Who are you? And why are you here, in the middle of the Lowlands?" Sarion asked. He wasn't afraid, but felt instead curious, almost in awe.

  She smiled, and Sarion hesitated, lowering his weapon a notch.

  "I could ask the same of you. My name would be Alayian in your tongue."

  Confusion clouded Sarion's mind, and he knew that this was no common girl in the wilderness of Grammore. She was something very special, and different.

  "My name is Sarion, from Trencit."

  "I knew that much already." She approached Sarion, and he was enthralled by her beauty and manner. "Wonderful creatures, from your land. There are no native horses in Grammore..."

  "You live here then? In these woods?" Sarion shook his head in wonder. Alayian laughed, the sound gentle and mirthful, like a spring shower dancing upon a meadow of grass.

  "You are so surprised? Did you think the Lowlands are filled only with wicked beasts? There are many others dwelling here, although few would reveal themselves by choice. And many would not consider you a friend, regardless of your actions or intentions."

  "And what are you? I've never seen a woman -- such as yourself." Sarion stammered, searching for the proper words.

  "But tell me," she continued. "Where are your companions? I see the horses, and heard whisperings of your company passing through the Sedge Wood. Where are they now?"

  Sarion frowned. He pointed towards the valley, steeped within the darkness and crawling mist. "We're on a quest, and they search the citadel which lies below."

  Alayian's face darkened. "There is great evil and peril down there. Why would any venture inside?"

  Sarion felt claws of anguish gripping his chest, and he tightened the grip on the pommel of his sword. "What is down there that you know of?"

  "Only death and despair. Their need must have been desperate to enter that dread valley." She paused. "I can read the torment in your face -- you wished to go also, or persuaded them not to, and were denied?"

  "Yes." He grated the words, his frustration and concern raging inside. "It was not my choice for either. A great leader of Trencit has led them, in search of answers. Our borders are being raided, and we entered the Lowlands in pursuit of an ogre. I was commanded to remain behind, and leave for my own lands if they failed to return."

  Her face softened in sadness. "That is terrible. Your leader has led them to their deaths then."

  Sarion felt as if his body was encased in fire, so tense that he was ready to shriek. "What is the danger -- I must leave now to help them!"

  "No," she whispered. "A great evil seeps like a poison across the Lowlands, and beyond."

  "What is the nature of this evil?" Sarion moved forward, staring into her incredible eyes. "You must tell me what it is, so I can fight it."

  "You cannot go down there!" she insisted. "I do not know his origin, the one who wrecks havoc upon Grammore, but his is a power of blackness, trying to enslave the inhabitants, forcing dominion over them for his own needs."

  "And the fortress?"

  "An ancient stronghold from centuries past. This usurper, which we call only the Dark Mage, attempts to instill life into the creations of the dead giants which once ruled Grammore. He is searching and securing all their abandoned dwellings, fortifying them with horrible beings, fierce and deadly, of the living and dead alike. If your friends entered into this citadel, then they walked into a trap."

  Sarion hurried over to his pack of supplies, mind racing, his blood cold. "I must make haste. Can you stay here and watch the horses, or are you also in danger?"

  Alayian hesitated. "I am in no danger, but my powers are of concealment -- not combat. You must not go below. I can lead you safely to your own lands."

  "I can't. Not without my friends." Sarion reached out, gently touching her hand. "You've helped me enough already, and I wish no harm to befall you."

  "The Grammore Lowlands are my home. You are a stranger here. I am aware of the dangers. But you must not go down there. The Dark Mage has claimed the old strongholds as his own, setting in place dreadful guardians. My people have knowledge of this, and avoid the accursed places, but have no power to affect them. Please." She gazed into his eyes, holding him briefly under her sway. "Do not go."

  "But I must. Good-bye, Alayian. I will return." Sarion spun around, hastening towards the side of the valley.

  Alayian watched him disappear, a tear rolling down her cheek. "Humans are so foolish -- and brave. Sarion..."

  She knelt to the ground, staring into the night.

  ***

  Chertron stiffened, examining the intricately carved doors before them. It looked like it had once held something of importance, and still might. He glanced over his shoulder to Grundel, who nodded. "This looks to be an archive chamber of some sort. Most of the building has been gutted, whether by the hand of war or calculated act by the original occupants, who can say. We've found little so far, maybe this will be different."

  The company had scoured the upper chambers of the building, probing the cavernous rooms and corridors, finding them empty except for dust and broken furniture. The citadel was a vast tomb, silent and ominous. The warriors had felt uncomfortable the entire time in which they foraged throughout the structure, and there had been no sign of danger. But the captain knew that time was slipping, and he hoped to discover something of importance soon within the great hall, the central building of the fortress. His frustration and anxiety continued to grow.

  The men spread out, Forlern remaining near the doorway, vigilant against any possible pursuit, Grundel, Rundin, and Chertron moving deeper into the huge room. An enormous stone table lay in the center of the chamber, and Grundel perceived it to have once been a meeting place, housing the large inhabitants. Their lanterns failed to breach the recesses of the vaulted ceiling, shadows quenching the light, obscuring the lofty heights. Along the walls were square niches, each of them indented into the sides of the chamber, and the captain moved to investigate.

  Shelves were fixed into the walls, deep and wide. Iron torch racks were set above a single stone table, the fixtures once serving as lighting for the compartment. It appeared to have been a crude library, but there was no sign of any records or tomes. Everything had been removed. The captain continued searching each section, but the result was the same. The chamber was now empty, although it at one time had been heavily used in the capacity of record storing.

  He smacked one hand against his leg. The search was getting the
m nowhere, and he felt increasingly nervous about the whole expedition. He'd entered with an expectation of bringing to light questions which needed answering, instead finding an abandoned stronghold of a forgotten race, desolate and brooding.

  "Captain Grundel."

  He swung around, looking over at Chertron's lantern which he man held aloft from the opposite side of the room. He walked towards the fighter, shaking his head at his own inability to discover anything useful. "I've found nothing over here, it's all been taken away. Yourself?"

  Chertron was stooped down, looking at the floor. "Yes, but not what we were expecting."

  "What is it?" The captain leaned over to him, squinting in the half-light.

  "Tracks. Someone has been inside here, fairly recently. I should have been watching more closely, but didn't think of it inside this building. Activity, footprints. They appear man-sized too."

  Grundel whispered. "Men, in here? But who, and why? The more we seek, the less we seem to know. And if they were in here recently, their purpose is certainly not in our better interest. It's time we left this place. Come on."

  They walked back across the still chamber, anxious and weary. Forlern waited for them by the door, staring into the corridor.

  "What is it, Forlern? Something wrong?" The captain raised his weapon as he noticed Forlern's combative stance. The fighter waved a cautious finger, then shrugged.

  "Thought I heard something, but I'm not certain. This place gives rise to one's imagination. Shades walk the passages -- I can feel it. This is a vault of the dead."

  Grundel pressed him. "Nevertheless, your ears are sharp, and maybe you did indeed notice something. We must leave, our search has proven fruitless, and the night grows long. Maybe the dawn will bolster our hopes."

  They moved onwards down the hallway, their boots thudding dully on the hard, stone flooring. Past rotted shards of tapestries they went, chewed apart by moths centuries ago, broken urns and oddly-shaped furniture, massive and molded from hard mud. Large doorways loomed to either side, chambers which they had searched earlier and found to be empty. Some looked to be lodging chambers, fixed with curious furnishings, the legacy of the extinct beings which built the fortress. Viewing their dwellings did little to enlighten what they were like, or what their habits had been. Mysteries with no easy answer, and none seemed to be forthcoming. The men reached a huge balcony which overlooked the floor levels of the building, cascading above a staircase of steps hewn into the living bedrock. The structure appeared to be carved from a small hill of rock, crafted masterfully into a living and command quarters, geographically central within the main citadel. The fortress itself was vast, comparable in magnitude to some of Trencit's own cities, and its architecture and scale in height was astounding, making it a formidable defensive fortification, able to house tens of thousands.

  The captain believed it to be Gorothagled, an eastern stronghold as mentioned in the archives of Trencit. Unfortunately, little else was recorded, except that it had been a surviving fortress created by the lost race of giants which had once been dominant in the Grammore Lowlands. The significance of finding it was remarkable in itself, although the captain had failed to discover anything which benefited their present circumstance.

  The front doors waited below, and he debated on delving deeper into the structure and search the lower regions, although he wasn't sure there existed much below ground level. There were one or two staircases leading down, all the others ascending. Regardless, they had to alert the others guarding outside. They couldn't wait much longer, and he had given them orders to depart if they didn't return.

  Mind swirling in indecision, Grundel and the others headed for the entrance.

  ***

  Sarion moved swiftly down the gently sloping sides of the valley, careful of any misstep in the gloom. He held the lantern in one hand, his blade in the other, heading in the general direction of the fortress, which was invisible within the billowing clouds of low-hanging fog. The silence was profound and he heard his own breath, loud and penetrating in the quiet air of his surroundings. Sarion thought about the strange and lovely Alayian, waiting with the horses above. She was certainly an enigmatic figure, unlike any woman he'd ever laid eyes on. A girl of stunning beauty, soft spoken but strong of will, her eyes enchanting. He could not stop thinking about her, who she was. What she was.

  Sarion frowned, searching for the truth. He'd asked the question to her, but she hadn't answered to his satisfaction, only that she lived in Grammore, and there were others. He knew this could very well be true, as countless species of animals and other creatures were native to the Lowlands. But human types? And the Glefins were also unique -- and if their former captive was to be believed, possibly extinct. What had it told him? That they had been hunted by something, killing them off and it was the last of its kind?

  Sarion frowned. He hoped that part at least was true. The creatures had brutally raided the frontiers of Trencit years ago, and he himself led an expedition to thwart more such incursions, a journey which led them into the danger and chaos of Grammore's edge, where they fought a pitched battle with the crafty Glefins, slaying them to the last. Sarion recalled his own harrowing escapades on that fateful trip, when he was the youngest ever afforded such a high ranking in the Western Watch, and he set out with a party of fighters after months of clashes and killings.

  The leader of the Glefins had stood alone against Sarion, who had watched his comrades fall prey to the horrors of the Lowlands. It appeared that the Glefins had suffered terrible misfortune, trespassing into the lair of a huge beast, one of the larger predators of Grammore, and forced to backtrack into the arms of the remaining Trencit fighters. The whole trek had been a nightmare, and Sarion barely escaped with his own life.

  He shuddered, trying to focus on his present task. He could ill afford any distractions -- not if he were to find the warriors, and keep himself prepared against any attack. Keep himself alive…Alone and in the shrouded vale he was extremely vulnerable, and he knew that a chance encounter with a deadly predator could spell the end of him.

  No, he must not dwell on his past journeys, or the mysterious Alayian. The captain and the warriors needed him. He still thought of him as Grundel, and would find it hard to call him otherwise until the truth was admitted.

  He crept onward. The early morning was like a living beast to Sarion, oppressive and cunning to his perception, concealing his hopes and fears beneath the cumbrous and damp mist. Time was meaningless to him as he hurried across the dismal landscape, tracking the men and listening for sounds at the same time. He knew that sight alone would not protect him in the valley, and he needed to rely on other senses. If anything dangerous lurked nearby, he would not see it until it was nearly upon him, and then it would be too late.

  Few men could have made the trek, struggling against the pervasive haze and the shrouded landscape. It was a monumental task, one that could make even the most stalwart and trained of fighters go either mad or desperate, succumbing to fear and hopelessness, but Sarion was above these things. And his companions had walked into a trap.

  A trap!

  The words stung him bitterly, and he gritted his teeth in anguish, wishing again that the captain had listened to him, or taken him along at the very least. No time for regrets, he chided himself. It was time for concentration and determination -- time for action. These he could deal with better, never being one to gnaw on the wounds of resentment or indecision. Alert to his environment, he took in the texture of his surroundings, noticing the blasted rocks, the protruding mounds, and kept his distance from them. He immediately didn't trust them. Sarion didn't know what had formed them, but his instincts told him they were potentially dangerous, and that was enough. Nothing threatening had materialized as of yet, but it was a meaningless and false hope to cling to, especially while in the Lowlands.

  Impatience ate away at him, a growing sense of danger which had been building steadily after the fighters left, and Sarion moved with ste
althy deliberateness, feline-quick and acute to anything abnormal. Daybreak approached in earnest when he finally breached the persistent gloom and came into view of the citadel, the huge structure looming menacingly before him like a titan awakened from oblivious slumber. He halted, crouching down as he surveyed the landscape.

  The men had angled away here, moving to their left. Searching for an entrance, of course, Sarion nodded to himself. He followed the fresh trail, making care to keep attentive for anything moving beneath the high walls. Several minutes later he emerged closer to the stronghold, coming within sight of the enormous gate and its silent watchers. He hesitated only for a moment, knowing now that the warriors had made it this far, and beyond. The tracks led directly into the fortress and he looked upon the mangled remains of the gate, the twisted and aged iron, now useless. What an incredible achievement, he thought. The citadel was terrible and wondrous in the same breath, ornately carved, and designed foremost with defensive capabilities in mind.

  He trotted along with weapon held ready, scanning the entrance for movement. The warriors were inside, and as of yet, he'd not seen any sign of danger. It seemed they'd entered unhindered, and he also noticed the spreading out again of their tracks, a move to enhance their flexibility and observation. Fanning into forward and side positions, the captain had followed all normal strategies scouting potential hazards. Sarion crept forward, standing within reach of the large statues, gazing on their hideous likeness.

  They were the giants -- he knew it beyond doubt. The legendary dwellers of Grammore, once a dominant race, and now another forgotten species. But their handiwork had survived the ages, intact and dreadful. The captain had realized the unique opportunity, one which he might never have a chance at again, and went searching for clues to elusive answers. And Sarion could not bring himself to feel total rebuke against the man. King Gregor entrusted his Champion to take any action he deemed fit in the protection of Trencit. But prices had been paid -- extremely high ones. The captain was a man placed in impossible circumstances, acting as eyes and swordsman for Trencit and the king.