So he returned to the trees to find a handful of straight, well-balanced limbs between four and five feet long—and one which was seven feet long and much thicker. Satisfied he had found what he needed, he set out at a jog toward the circling bird and he arrived at a ledge overlooking a small stream. At the bottom of the stream was the bird he had seen, picking the final scraps of meat from a rotten carcass of some kind—a six-legged deer, perhaps.
The carcass was too far gone to be of any use to Nikomedes, but the bird looked to be nearly four feet long from its beak to the base of its tail, with a wingspan twice that. It was a vulture and its meat was therefore not only unappetizing, it would likely make him sick for a few days if he at it—but he had no intention of eating the bird.
He lowered himself out of sight and selected the first of his shorter sticks, which he spun over in his hands. Taking out one of the stone shards he had collected from his first shelter, he quietly began to sharpen the thick end into a spear tip.
Nikomedes repeated the process with one other makeshift javelin—two casts was the most he could expect before the bird took to the air—stealing glances over the ridge to confirm that his quarry was still there.
When he was finished, he gripped the first javelin lightly in his hand and stood to his full height, drawing the missile back as he did so. Without hesitation he hurled the missile toward the vulture, but the javelin twisted in midair and nearly missed the giant bird.
But he did manage to take it in the wing, and it immediately began to call out in anger as he drew his second javelin and sighted in. The vulture’s wings flapped violently, spinning its body around on the ground as the javelin’s weight upset the creature’s balance.
The second javelin landed true, skewering the bird in the back and Nikomedes nodded to himself in satisfaction as he made his way down to the creek bed to finish the job.
Later that evening he was well into the snowline, with the carcass of the huge carrion eater slung across his back. He had washed the carcass in the creek, and was careful to keep it from touching his cooked rodent while he climbed, adjusting the two remaining rodent carcasses to dangle in front of his chest instead of across his back.
He knew that to make shelter was a dangerous proposition with the carcass of the bird, but he had not seen any sign that his quarry stalked this area of the mountain, so he set up inside the cave and devoured the other two rodents, having worked up quite the appetite during the long day’s climb.
Without a fire for warmth, he nestled into a small overhanging shelf of rock for another night—this time sleeping far more lightly than he had done from the safety of the tree branches.
Nikomedes set out before the sun rose the next morning, and continued his march up the slopes of the mountain. He scanned the terrain as he went, and when he found a stream he made his way to it and surveyed the area with a critical eye.
The stream ran down the gentle slope of the mountain until arriving at a nearly vertical cliff of rock at least thirty meters tall, where it became a waterfall. Nikomedes was surprised to see running water of any kind this far up the mountain, but he would not waste his good fortune—predators frequent the places their prey take water, so this stream would serve as the site of his trap as well as his own watering hole.
He tested the water and was satisfied with its purity, seeing nothing upstream which would suggest it had been contaminated, so he scanned the area for loose boulders. When he found what he was looking for, he set about the task of finishing his preparations before nightfall.
As the sun set, Nikomedes made his way to the small, flat spot twenty meters back from the waterfall. His perch was located in front of a small, narrow crack in the rock which would be large enough for him to fall back into, should he need to do so—but he needed to be close to the deadly drop in order for his plan to work.
He gripped his stone-headed spear in one hand, and thumbed the jagged piece of rock which he had tucked into his belt. Its shape and size made it an adequate knife, and he had spent the last few minutes sharpening its edge by breaking away bits of stone until it was nearly as sharp as a metal blade.
Nikomedes looked to the stream, into which he had hung the rodent-skin pouch with the entrails so as to allow its putrid contents to foul the water as it ran down the mountainside. The bird’s carcass was positioned in front of him, near the mouth of his fallback spot, and he had taken the liberty of gutting the foul-smelling creature in the hope of increasing his chances at attracting his quarry before the carcass froze solid.
He looked down at his ankle and saw the single vine he had wrapped around his leg, and nodded to himself. Satisfied his preparations were complete, he rocked back on his haunches and awaited the beast’s arrival.
Hours passed and Nikomedes had neither heard nor smelled his prey. The nearly full moon was high in the dark, cloudy sky. It seemed to Nikomedes as though the moon itself was mildly interested in his activities, occasionally peeking through the blanket of clouds to check in on his progress.
He continued to wait until he was certain that midnight had passed, when he caught a draft of wind carrying an unfamiliar scent and his body tensed as he knew the moment had arrived. Scanning the area, his eyes came upon a dark silhouette on the opposite side of the stream. As the moonlight peeked through the clouds above, Nikomedes saw a pair of green orbs flash into being in the middle of the shadowy shape, and he felt a thrill of anticipation.
The huge cat’s eyes fixed on him until the moonlight was once again obscured by the passing clouds, and Nikomedes strained his eyes to keep track of his quarry. He quickly picked it up a few meters from its previous position as it padded silently toward the rodent entrails in the stream.
Nikomedes wrapped his fingers around the shaft of the javelin at his feet as the huge cat approached the lure of entrails which dangled in the stream. When it had nearly reached the sack of guts, Nikomedes saw its head cock in his direction and he knew it had spotted the vulture’s carcass.
The cat shifted course, and Nikomedes watched from concealment as the cat neared the corpse of the bird. Just before it reached the bird—and the snare connected to a rock dangling over the edge of the cliff, which would have taken the cat to its death on the rocks below—Nikomedes saw its head swivel about haltingly, as though it suspected that not all was as it appeared. It was then that the cat’s eyes locked onto him, and he felt his breath catch briefly in his throat.
Knowing the cat to be a clever hunter, Nikomedes took a step back—and a step toward his fallback position in the narrow, rocky passage at his back.
The huge cat, whose body was illuminated in a stream of short-lived moonlight, lowered its head and fixed its unblinking eyes on Nikomedes, and only then could he appreciate the great cat’s physique. He had expected to see something akin to a large mountain lion, but this creature’s dimensions were much heavier and well-muscled—far more muscular than any cat he had ever seen or heard of.
It weighed at least as much as he did, and probably closer to twenty five stone if he was honest. Such a beast could tear an unarmored man to pieces in seconds, and Nikomedes was keenly aware that at the moment he was very much unarmored.
The cat, now completely ignoring the vulture’s carcass—and Nikomedes’ snare—shifted its weight and took a slow, silent step toward his position, and Nikomedes knew he needed to reach the crack in the rocks if he was to survive.
In a quick, fluid motion, he drew the javelin at his feet up and hurled it at the giant cat, scoring a grazing hit to the creature’s rear haunch. Without hesitation he turned and sprinted the five steps to his sanctuary, hearing the great cat snarl behind him as he did so.
He leapt into the blind, rocky passage and took up his spear as he rolled to his back, bringing the weapon up to receive the lunging cat, who was mere feet from him when his eyes refocused on it in the darkness.
The cat was too nimble, and had clearly anticipated some kind of trap as it twisted mid-air, bringing its front paws
to push off the left wall of the passageway and avoid the spear altogether. It bared its five inch long teeth, which flashed viciously in the moonlight as it prepared to feast on a freshly killed corpse rather than the carrion it had come for.
But Nikomedes, too, had anticipated that not all would proceed according to plan. So he gave a quick tug on the small line attached to his ankle and braced himself as the second boulder he had dangled over the edge of the cliff was released from its precarious perch, and its dropping weight whisked his body underneath the great cat’s.
The beast swiped at him with its front claws as his slid across the cold, damp rock beneath it, but failed to strike him as his body was moving too quickly and unexpectedly. Improbably, the cat managed to rake him with its rear claws as it spun its body around to pursue what it clearly thought to be its next meal.
He felt the left side of his chest flare with pain, and his hip struck a jagged rock as the boulder pulled him free of the small, rocky alley from which the cat was preparing to spring in pursuit.
Nikomedes felt his foot momentarily wrench to the side, and there was a twang just before a pile of large rocks he had stacked near the top of the alley came crashing down on top of the cat.
He watched with great satisfaction as his body came to a stop and the cat was crushed from above with the many tons of rocks he had laboriously stacked during the day in much the same fashion he had used to kill the kraken.
The line wrapped around his foot went slack as the attached boulder crashed to the bottom of the cliff below. He had been careful to dangle it only as far as he would need to be pulled clear of the rocky inlet, and just as he had planned, he was still several meters from the cliff’s edge.
Nikomedes quickly pulled the makeshift, stone knife from his belt and slashed at the line, severing it with the second swipe. Refocusing on the cat, he took the spear in his hands and approached the crippled beast cautiously; an animal as large and powerful as this one was dangerous for at least as long as it drew breath—which the cat most certainly still did.
He held his spear before him as he crept toward the wounded beast, whose body was still pinned beneath several of the larger, jagged boulders he had wrestled into position during the waning hours of the day. Nikomedes’ father had always taught him that battles were won with preparation, and it was a lesson he had taken to heart at a very young age.
The cat looked up at him as it was clearly dying, the light in its eyes almost visibly flickering, but the huge creature refused to leave the world of Men so easily. Its body spasmed as it fought to free itself from beneath the wedge-shaped boulder pressing down on its back, but Nikomedes could see that its rear legs no longer functioned and it bled profusely from the many gashes his trap had inflicted.
He would have preferred the creature fall into his first snare, as its death would have been quicker when it fell fifty meters to the jagged rocks below, but he would take victory wherever he could find it. With a final moment of respectful silence for the animal, Nikomedes plunged his crude spear’s head into its eye.
The cat’s body shuddered violently for several seconds before going limp, and the last of its breath rattled out of its body in a slow, almost peaceful sigh.
Knowing that the battle was likely to attract attention if any other cats were in the area, Nikomedes set about the task of skinning the animal so he could return to Blue Fang Pass.
Chapter VI: A Gilded Cage
Nikomedes trudged his way up the winding, narrow road which led to the blue, stone fortress standing astride the mountain valley. The fortress had been built at the narrowest point between the incredible, nearly vertical slopes of the twin peaks to either side. The fortress was two hundred meters from gatehouse to gatehouse, a third as deep and a half dozen stories tall from the base to the battlements.
The western gate was closed as he approached with the brown and grey cat’s hide slung over his shoulder. He had not fashioned it into a cloak as the others had done, and as he approached he saw the gate swing slowly open, revealing Kratos standing on the other side with his arms folded across his chest.
Nikomedes approached and cast the hide to the ground in front of the warlord without taking his eyes off the massive, burly man. They stood there for a few moments before Kratos’ eyes wandered to the hide.
“A big one, then,” he remarked casually. “And quickly as well…you’ve made a few enemies who were betting against you returning at all.”
Nikomedes shrugged indifferently. “Have I satisfied your requirements for entry?” he asked evenly.
Kratos looked back down to the cat’s hide and nodded slowly nodded. “Aye, it’s a good kill. It will make a fine cloak for you.”
Nikomedes shook his head stiffly. “I am not one of you, Kratos,” he said in a low, hard voice. “I am here as your prisoner, and I will satisfy my debt to you…but I am not one of you.”
Kratos’ eyebrows lowered thunderously and he took a step forward but Nikomedes stood his ground. The huge warlord’s fists clenched at his sides as he looked down at Nikomedes, but the moment passed and Kratos turned. “Perhaps you’re right,” Kratos allowed as he began to march back toward the interior of the fortress, “but perhaps you’re not.”
“Thirty eight,” Nikomedes called after Kratos, who froze in his tracks and turned slowly to face the younger man.
“What did you say?” Kratos asked with a mixture of amusement and warning in his voice.
Nikomedes gestured to the hide on the ground. “I owe you thirty eight kills now; this was the first of my debt.”
Kratos’ jaw clenched and his eyes flared with anger, but before Nikomedes could process the shift in his demeanor, the huge man threw his head back and laughter burst from him that echoed throughout the fortress’s interior. Nikomedes saw a few of the men stationed within the keep tense at their warlord’s sudden outburst.
When his roaring laughter had subsided he nodded as a broad smile filled his features. “Aye, thirty eight it is,” he agreed. “I think we should see about your accommodations.”
The gate led directly to the interior of the keep, which was sparse and filled with men of every stripe. Nikomedes saw representatives from most of the regions, whose distinctive features were easily identifiable to him. He saw that the majority were northerners like Kratos and Felix, but there were people from the coast, the south, and even a few from his native Argos and their rival state of Lyconesia.
There appeared to be two different groups of men: those who wore their cat-skin cloaks, and those who did not. The cat-skins were clearly the higher rank, possessing finer weapons and armor as well as a generally superior physical bearing. The others were younger or, in a few cases, older than the elites.
Kratos led Nikomedes down a flight of narrow, spiral stairs to what Nikomedes presumed was the lowest level of the fortress. Nikomedes knew he was their prisoner, and had already accepted that he would spend the majority of his time in a cell of some kind. His preconceptions were validated when Kratos swung open the heavy, iron-bound door at the bottom of the stairwell to reveal a long, narrow hallway with iron gates to either side.
Behind those metal bars were haggard, bedraggled men who Nikomedes suspected were criminals of some sort. Those nearest the door looked up at him with expressions ranging from bitter anger to abject pleading. Kratos paid them no mind as he walked down the hallway, and Nikomedes followed the towering warlord as they approached the end of the hall, at which was a large wooden, iron-bound door with a viewing grate at chest height.
Kratos took a key from his belt and unlocked the door before swinging it open. He stepped aside and gestured for Nikomedes to approach, which the younger man did.
When he had reached the doorway, Nikomedes saw a cube-shaped room with slick, stone walls. The room itself was larger than he had expected it to be, and would have been unremarkable save for the face that the rightward wall was missing. Where it should have been was an open ledge which overlooked the valley, and Nikomedes
made his way into the cell to look out over the edge.
“This cell is reserved for special prisoners,” Kratos explained as he followed the younger man inside the cell. “If a man’s crime is too grave to be atoned for and he has earned the respect of his peers, then he is brought here. It is rarely occupied for long…”
Nikomedes looked out over the snowy valley as he approached the ledge. He looked down and saw a fall of what looked to be two hundred meters, and he understood why the cell would not be occupied for long. Either the biting cold would end the prisoner’s stay—along with his life—or he would take matters into his own hands and finish the task before nature’s cruelty had the chance to do so.
It was a despicable way to end one’s life, and Nikomedes knew he would never take his own life. The life of a man was sacred, and it should be used to maximum effect before it is extinguished. To destroy one’s self was to go against the word of Men and that was both heretical and dishonorable.
“A coward’s death,” Nikomedes grumbled as he turned to Kratos.
“A few have left this room and survived,” Kratos shrugged indifferently. “But it is a choice one must make for himself—and that choice is at the very heart of all we hold dear in this place.”
Nikomedes arched an eyebrow. “The choice to die?” he asked incredulously. “It is a foolish choice under any circumstance.”
Kratos approached the ledge as well and folded his massive, scarred arms across his chest as the wind blew his long, blond hair around his equally scarred face. “The choice is not to die, Nikomedes; the choice is what to live for. If a man finds nothing when he comes to this place, then he has failed completely and does not deserve to draw his next breath. However, if he finds something worth living for then he can make the climb,” he gestured down the wall and Nikomedes saw narrow foot and handholds notched into the wall which he had not noticed. “A man’s fate should always be in his own hands.”
The Forge of Men Page 9