by Lee C Conley
‘You would spend the night in this place? The men would not be happy,’ said Arnulf.
‘I propose we leave now and make camp in the pass and return in the daylight.’
‘No. This will not take long. I will go now, get it done. I want to leave this place as much as the next man. We look, and then return to the lowlands as soon as possible. I have no desire to return here a second time, it feels cursed.’
‘You’re a stubborn fool, Arnulf. So be it, I will ready my warriors. Let’s get this done quickly and leave,’ said Fergus with a sigh.
‘Agreed,’ said Arnulf. He turned to Hafgan. ‘Haf, ready some men, those who are willing. The others will wait here for our return and guard Olad. Tell them it will not be long and to stay vigilant.’
Hafgan nodded and moved off to speak with the others. He returned shortly and said, ‘I will follow you, Lord Arnulf, and I have eight men ready.’
Arnulf surveyed the grim faces before him in the flickering torch light, good men. He nodded and turning to Fergus he said, ‘Let’s get this done.’
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The Ravine
The ravine looked perfect for an ambush. The sides were steep and high, inescapable from the road traversing through it. The ravine itself, cut through the terraces of cliffs, which rose from the surrounding pine forest, slicing the cliffs like lightning splitting the sky. It seemed to be the only route from the valley floor up into the high ground ahead without taking a substantial detour through dense forest.
Bjorn paused at the mouth of the ravine and surveyed the road ahead. He could not see far, only to the first bend before the road disappeared behind the facade of rock.
Bjorn ventured in, leading his horse by the reins. The hunter planned to stake out a suitable section of the ravine and await his pursuer, to confront him to whatever end. Bjorn was now tired of this unexplainable pursuit.
For the past two nights, since setting out from Pinedelve, his journey had been tracked. His footsteps haunted by the stalking Wildman. Each night as he made camp, Bjorn had spotted him. He crouched at a distance, peering through the undergrowth or from behind a tree, watching. Each time the hunter rose to challenge him, the Wildman would melt away into the forest without trace.
Bjorn had barely slept these past nights, unable to rest with that lurking menace so close, forcing him to remain awake in a watchful vigil. He had once or twice succumbed to his weary, heavy eyes and fallen asleep. This morning he awoke, to his dismay, to find signs that the Wildman had prowled through his camp as he had slept and had even rifled through his possessions. Nothing, however, was missing.
The road from Pinedelve had brought him deeper into the safety of Arnar, now a good distance from the borders. Yet still the Wildman pursued. Such gall, to walk so freely within the lands of Arnar. Perhaps he was indeed no stranger to these forests. Was he a local wanderer after all?
Bjorn was mounted, and although not pushing his horse hard, Bjorn was amazed at the pace and stamina of the man. The Wildman must have run tirelessly throughout each day. How else could he keep such a pace?
Bjorn had once again caught sight of him the previous day. As he stopped to rest and water his horse, he saw the running form hurtling along the road behind him. The Wildman skidded to a standstill upon catching sight of the hunter and squatted down into a crouch, watching intently. Bjorn had made a move towards the squatting figure and at that, the Wildman fled once more into the trees. The hunter searched for tracks and sign to follow but his pursuer had left little, disappearing into the undergrowth like a ghost.
Bjorn regarded the sheer rock face of the ravine now enclosing him. It was composed of a dark grainy rock that glistened wet and was streaked with tiny seams of some kind of mineral. Moss and small stringy plants grew from crevices wherever they could get a hold.
Running beside the track he walked upon, a tiny stream trickled over the stones. Bjorn marvelled at the countless years that tiny stream had been eating its way through the bedrock, the years taken to have carved itself a mighty legacy through the mountainside. How long had it taken to cut its way through, perhaps twenty-span of rock? He could not even guess. A testament, Bjorn thought, to the unbreakable will of the water spirit dwelling in the stream.
It was known such spirits shaped all of the vast wilderness through which men roamed. The spirits of trees displacing mighty stones with only their roots, stones that no man could lift alone. The spirits of rivers, which like this small trickling brook beside him, carved through the rock of great mountains. The gods of winter, waging an eternal war against the sun, sheathing the world in ice, and blanketing the lands with snow as for a time, they prevailed. But only for a time, as the Lords of Summer would soon return to reclaim the world. And so, the years each come to pass. Hart, the great god of the hunt, the great stag who is said to be uncatchable, in turn, ever pursued by mighty Varg and his wolves of war. All of these things, Bjorn knew, dwelt in balance, and had a great power over the lands of man.
Humbled by these thoughts he smiled and looked about him, he was indeed at his most content whilst amongst the primal majesty of the wilderness.
He felt like Hart himself at this moment, pursued and hunted, but he must also now be uncatchable, and to do this, it was to the cunning of Varg he would now look, to turn his pursuer into the hunted.
Bjorn the master huntsman, against him his quarry would not prove as elusive as the mighty Hart. No, not for Bjorn. The gods had always smiled upon him.
The hunter smiled but no longer in contemplative content. Now, his visage took on a widening smirk of a more cunning malice. His eyes sharp, the hungry eyes of a hunter. Bjorn would soon spring his trap.
The ravine turned a dogleg before running uphill straight for maybe a hundred or more paces. At its far end the ravine turned again out of sight. There had been rock slides, small piles of rocks lay here and there. The rock face enclosing him looked high and steep, climbable perhaps, but no quick escape could be made.
This place seemed suitable. His plan, to hide his horse from view around the bend ahead and conceal himself amongst the rock piles at the far end. To escape, his pursuer would have to come through him or turn and flee along a straight avenue, easily coverable with his bow. If the Wildman was fool enough to rush him, he would discover the hard way the hunter had some skill with an axe.
Bjorn checked the weapon hung at his belt. The bearded hand-axe, gifted to him in Pinedelve had a good weight. He then surveyed the avenue stretching out before him. Indeed, here he would make his stand.
Ensuring his horse was tethered securely and out of sight, he secreted himself behind a fair-sized boulder. He laid his bow out on the ground before him within easy reach. Then, he drove half a dozen of the black fletched arrows into the earth in a shallow crescent shape so they could be fired in quick succession if required.
Bjorn nodded, his preparations satisfactory. The hunter then settled back against the rocks with a water skin beside him to wait.
The hunters gaze was drawn by the light pattering sound of moccasin covered footfalls. The faint sound, echoed up the ravine towards him. A shadow loomed up the rock wall before a figure appeared. Bjorn sank low against the rocks, peering through a gap between two large stones.
The figure halted to carefully survey the stretch of ravine ahead. The Wildman. He carried what looked like a crude fire hardened spear. He was mostly naked except a filthy pelt around his waist. He had daubed strange markings on his skin with ash.
Bjorn watched motionless as the man’s eyes passed over his hiding place. He held his breath as the Wildman stared for a few long moments. The Wildman continued onwards. He seemed cautious, moving slowly at first, scanning the ridge above. Obviously satisfied nothing lurked overhead, the man sped up into a jog. He seemed to be searching the floor now as he went, searching for sign of his quarries passing.
The Wildman drew closer. Bjorn silently notched an arrow. Not once taking his eyes off the man as he moved near. The hu
nter’s heart pounded in his chest with anticipation. Closer now…closer. He had him.
Bjorn sprang up and levelled his bow at the Wildman. The man froze, his surprised expression turning to panic. He turned to flee but was again frozen still as an arrow thudded into the earth at his feet. The Wildman dropped his spear and slowly turned to face the hunter once more. Seeing another arrow notched and the bow string drawn, the arrow levelled straight at him this time. He raised his hands in a helpless plea as Bjorn stepped out and round the boulder. The man fell to his knees.
‘Why do you follow me, Wildman?’ demanded Bjorn.
The man babbled nonsense and made strange cooing sounds, his eyes wild and full of fear.
‘Not so bold now, are you?’ said Bjorn, ‘Will you not answer me?’
The Wildman made no reply but continued his pitiful cooing.
‘Can you answer me?’ muttered Bjorn under his breath.
‘Listen, Wildman, and listen well. Follow me no longer or I will kill you…’
Still no reply from the grovelling figure knelt before him.
‘Speak damn you,’ roared the hunter.
The Wildman shrank back in fear but made no move to leave.
The hunter stood, arrow notched, for a long moment, watching the Wildman scrabble in the dirt before him. The pain in his shoulder was becoming intense. The wound would prevent him from holding the bow drawn for much longer.
Bjorn became uncertain. Was he to kill this wretched creature? The man had become a pest, but could he really justify killing the man? He had in truth not caused the hunter any harm. But would the Wildman return and exact vengeance upon him if he let him go? Or was this show of force and cunning enough to rid the hunter of the menace for good?
Unsure of what to do, Bjorn just stood there. It did not seem the Wildman would reply or that he even understood what was being said to him. He just babbled on, it was no language Bjorn knew, just noises. No, Bjorn could not kill him. There was no honour in it.
The hunter lowered his bow and gestured the Wildman off to one side. The man cautiously moved on all fours. Bjorn kicked the spear away from the Wildman and motioned him back off down the ravine with his bow. The Wildman bobbed his head and slowly climbed to his feet, making a strange hooting.
‘Go on, go,’ said Bjorn pointing out of the ravine. ‘But trouble me no more, Wildman.’
The Wildman backed away slowly, still strangely bobbing his head, and then he turned and fled.
Bjorn watched him disappear round the bend heading for the mouth of the ravine. He waited to make sure the Wildman had truly gone, and then collected his things and returned to his horse.
The hunter rode on leaving the ravine and his encounter with the Wildman far behind him. The land opened up as he rode but was still dominated largely by forest. Large clearings and meadows became more frequent between the stretches of pine forest.
He rode past a farmstead nestled in amongst one such clearing. He rode on, not desiring to stop. He passed others, until Bjorn came upon a lone tavern at a crossroad amongst a sparsely treed wood, its windows and entrance leaking a warm inviting glow and the sounds of revelry. The main building was circular with a low conical roof and had a clutter of smaller outbuildings and a stable. It appeared to have been built around the boles of several trees, their branches carefully encompassed into the roof. It struck the hunter as a very wide, large building to be out here in the middle of nowhere.
Perhaps not so desolate a region as the hunter had first thought, for it seemed the crossroad was well travelled and the tavern certainly didn’t lack the clientele judging by the noise floating off through the wood. It seemed the land was becoming more populated. Although he didn’t recognise this place from his travels, Bjorn was fairly sure his destination, Old Stones, should not be much further. A few days at most.
He rode on past, leaving the tavern behind him, searching for a more secluded place to camp the night. After all, he didn’t need to stop yet, and he had ample provisions and water. And besides, he felt much more at ease alone in the wilds anyway.
The hunter soon came across a suitable place, a hollow beneath the crest of a wooded hill overlooking the road.
He would sleep under the stars this night.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
A Hall of Giants
Arnulf followed the cart track which led from the marquee compound in the direction of the the strange hill. The track wound through vistas produced by husks of decaying masonry, and wove around the fallen and crumbled edifices of another age. They reached the slopes of an ancient mound crowned with what appeared to be huge dark monoliths.
The hound took the lead, padding between the wheel ruts of the track. The beast seemed to know where he was going. Arnulf looked up at the strange stones ringing the summit and followed.
The warriors trailed behind him in silence, scanning their flanks with wary eyes. The tale of the sudden attack on their lords had spread quickly amongst the warriors. Each expecting another ambush at any moment, but none came.
The track ran between two of the great stones. The ruddy torchlight flickered shadows across the smooth surface of the great sentinel stones.
Fergus looked up in awe as he passed and laid a hand on the surface of one of the standing stones. He flinched back. The smooth cold stone felt full of watchful malice. He shuddered, and then looked both stones up and down once more, before continuing onwards.
A complex of ruins lay within the circle of great stones. The remains of walls and crude arches formed a network of crumbled corridors.
The hound looked around warily and sniffed at the ground. Arnulf watched as it left the cart track and made its way into one of the collapsed corridors.
Arnulf took a torch from one of his men and peered after the hound.
‘Your giant’s hall,’ said Arnulf as Fergus moved up beside him.
The two men stood a moment looking into the gloomy corridor. Then, Arnulf followed after the hound.
The shattered walls of the corridor gave way to open space at the summit of the hill. The bare earth underfoot, carpeted in places by patches of thin grass. The air had a thick fetid stench, the smell of death and decay.
The hound moved ahead still sniffing the floor. At the centre of the enclosed space, a stone slab emerged from the gloom. As Arnulf moved nearer, closely followed by the ever present Hafgan and the others, he could see it appeared to be some kind of ghastly altar.
Adorned with bones and strange glyphs, the altar stone had a dread feel emanating from it. Upon the altar sat several skulls, grinning through the gloom at Arnulf as he approached.
An ornate dagger lay upon the altar and was largely unsoiled, its twisted blade still polished. A small tattered journal rested beside it. Arnulf picked it up.
It was blood splattered. He leafed through the pages. It appeared to be field notes of some sort, an eclectic collection of notes and sketches. He saw rough sketches similar to those he found back in the marquee. Sketches of anatomy and body parts interspersed with passages of scrawled text.
He flipped to the most recent notes. More sketches of the body, but these were unnervingly covered in strange glyphs. He realised he had seen this firsthand, on the corpses left in valley. Some had similar glyphs carved into their flesh. Arnulf was left in no doubt, there was certainly some connection between the College’s work here and the dead they had encountered. He took the dagger and the journal and tucked them away into his cloak.
The ground beneath his feet seemed to crunch as he walked away from the altar. As his attention was drawn to the ground, he noticed it also felt sticky on his boots. Arnulf lowered his torch. The ground seemed to seethe with dark beetles. The tiny beasts were feasting upon a dried gore that plastered the ground about the altar. Arnulf stepped back with revulsion, only to crunch upon more of them as he did.
The warriors moved about the summit inspecting shadowed avenues and stonework at the edges of the enclosed space, few wished to venture too close t
o the terrible altar at its centre.
Hafgan called out and beckoned Arnulf over.
‘What is it, Haf?’
‘Listen, what is that?’
A low sound of hoarse moaning, rising to the occasional muffled snarl, could be heard from somewhere nearby. The strange sound seemed to be coming from outside the summit’s enclosure, through the ruins of stone.
‘It’s coming from over there,’ said Hafgan, pointing off into the darkness of a ruined corridor that led down the slope of the hill.
‘Let’s take a look but be careful, I don’t want any surprises.’
‘Aye, always, lord.’
They stood aghast in silence at the horror they now found before them. The pit appeared to be the source of the sound. It had been recently dug and had mostly steep sides. Its occupants clawed the mud, snarling up at them to no avail. They were trapped.
The hound cowered low to the ground behind them, whimpering and barking, it would not approach any closer. It was afraid. Even the hound knew, what was in that pit was terrifyingly unnatural.
Arnulf stood wrapped in his fur cloak, flanked by Hafgan and Fergus. The other chosen men stood around them. All eyes fixed on the pit before them.
The pit had been filled with the dead, a mass grave of mutilated corpses. Unnaturally, impossibly reanimated, brought back from Old Night’s cold embrace, but not alive. The occupants had been long dead. Indeed, some had limbs missing and trailed their stinking innards as they clawed their way through the wet mud, reaching towards the living observers above.
Arnulf’s thoughts took him back to the pictures within the great tome in the marquee. These wretched creatures, the subject of some dire experimentation, this the foul work of the College.