by Brian Murray
“I will have my best men made available,” responded the captain.
“Send out scouts and trackers, they should be able to find him.”
“As you command, sir.”
***
The Dark One decided to keep his army hungry, ready for the battle at Kal-Pharina. He deliberately marched north of Sandall, avoiding the township. He wanted his army keen and knew that their yearning for blood would make them fight harder. He had decided his Dread would feast only after the conquest, when he would feed, and suck the life from the Children of the Light. Deep inside his helm, he smiled at the thought.
The Dread reached the Southern Pass at night and due to a recent rock fall, all of the Caynians dismounted, to protect their horses’ massive hooves from being shredded. The Dark One, together with Malice, Fury and Chaos, also dismounted and walked their horses through the wide gorge. The silvery moonlight reflected off the gorge sides, bathing the army in eerie, glittering green light, while the constant crunching from the horses’ hooves on the glass-like rock echoed up and down the pass. The Talon Hunters and Shadows carefully picked their way through, after the Caynians’ horses had crushed most of the rock, though sharp shards remained.
Soon, the pass was behind the Dark One. With a golden sunrise backdrop, the arid plains of the Steppes opened out before him, like a tanned sea, rippling as a breeze shifted sand. The Caynians mounted their horses and started riding through the desert. Dust and sand plumed all around the Dread like a coming storm, relentlessly continuing their march east to the white city—a storm with murderous intent.
***
At night, the axe-wielders and the five friends slowly made their way towards Moranton, and the unknown. Marching in the oppressive absolute blackness was gruelling, but they had not lost any of the men and this pleased Zane. During the day, the men could not help noticing the change in the environment. The bland grey scenery had changed further; the landscape had darkened, becoming more menacing. The sky had also darkened; it was now almost black, like night, with black clouds floating and billowing. Lightning often forked across the clouds, illuminating their menacing shape, and booming thunder shook, rumbling on for several long heartbeats. Surprisingly, there was still a distinction between day and night. The days were gloomy but the men could see in a dull light. However, the nights were still pitch black.
Under foot, the soil hardened, and deepened in tone. All around the men, the place changed—changed for the worse. Evil had corrupted and disfigured the land, and the air thickened with a strange moisture. The temperature of both day and night got hotter as they closed in on their target. Whispering started amongst the axe-wielders as they noticed the change and felt a dread welling inside.
Moranton, the Black Mountain of the Damned, now dominated the skyline. The black mountain reeked of death and oozed vileness. As the men drew closer to the mountain, they could feel the foulness emitted from it settle around them, shrouding them in an invisible cloak of hate. They still had a couple of days before reaching the mountain and had not decided what they would do once they reached the base. As the company approached, a couple of the axe-wielders screamed and ran from the colossal structure. Pure evil thickened the air, and had these men been weaker they would have been defenceless—facing instant madness. Most of the men stood firm, with grim eyes locked onto the mass of black rock.
***
A Dar-Phadrin clansman named Qazoo, waited east of the Southern Pass. The clan chieftain had sent him there to watch for invaders. His clan lived close to the mountains and they were paid by the Chosen to monitor the pass; receiving cattle, horses, and goats as payment, which for the clan were more useful than coin. Qazoo had been on patrol when the black-armoured soldiers travelled through the pass weeks earlier. At that time he had taken no action, as they were headed west, away from the Steppes. Only later, when his clan received news of the battle at Kal-Pharina did they, like most clans, celebrate the return of the Chosen.
Qazoo had been picked to be a scout because of his keen eyesight. Today, he sat on a small hill and watched in awe as the sun clawed its way above the horizon to start another day. The clansman had lived in the Steppes all his life, but still woke early every morning to watch the sunrise. Something about the rose-coloured sky, the pink to orange clouds, made the clansman feel alive, and this morning was no different. The clansman watched the sun continue its ascent, his eyes used to the bright light from living all his life on the plains. He sighed deeply and returned his attention to the Southern Pass to the west.
He reached for his pack and pulled clear a chunk of spicy meat. He bit and chewed, slowly savouring the juices. He smiled. His wife had seasoned and dried the meat; she was the best in the clan at preparing it. Closing his eyes, he pictured her smile, her full lips. A twinge of arousal warmed him as the image of her naked body filled his mind. He opened his eyes, sighed, and looked again towards the Southern Pass, rubbing his groin. Then Qazoo squinted, surprised at what he saw, and slowly rose to his feet, his arousal instantly forgotten.
Dust rose from the exit of the pass. Could it be a storm, he thought. He gazed around, but there were no other signs of a dust storm coming. There was very little breeze, and it was not warm enough. Qazoo realized something must be coming towards him. He scrambled up a higher hill and stared at the dust that swirled and darkened. Whatever lifted the dust was getting closer. Then he noticed shimmering black shapes ahead of the rising dust.
That was it—a large group of men had marched through the pass and were now heading towards him, heading east. From the size of the dust cloud, he decided it must be a massive army. Qazoo turned and skidded down the other side of the hill to where his Steppe pony waited. He mounted his pony, rode it around the hill, and took one last look at the force marching closer. He could not make out any shapes, but decided not to wait to see what they looked like. He wheeled his pony and galloped away from the marching army, dust and sand rising from his mount’s pounding hooves.
Towards dusk, Qazoo found a site for a cold camp, to rest his pony. He had been riding all day and his pony was labouring. He wiped his mount down and fixed a canvas nosebag around its ears for it to feed. Without lighting a fire, he sat down and ate some more of his spiced meat. Just then howling started. Qazoo leapt to his feet and peered out into the moon lit gloom. The howling continued. He had never heard such a noise on the Steppes. His pony started to neigh and Qazoo rushed to the disturbed animal to calm it. But the pony would not settle and yanked at its tethered reins. Qazoo took the grain sack from his pony, swiftly saddled it, then bolted off into the night. He did not look back as he galloped away. Behind him, the baying got louder and louder.
Soon, the tired pony slowed. The howling remained behind him, but the eerie sounds getting louder, nearer. Qazoo’s pony stopped, totally exhausted. Qazoo dismounted and readied his weapons. The howling was now all around the young clansman. Qazoo spun round, searching the gloom, his eyes ferreting left and right. He saw a cluster of tall dry shrubs. He dragged his pony over and tethered the animal to the brush. The clansman knelt down and waited. Howling came from the west, from the east, the north, and the south—he was surrounded.
In the hoary moonlight, Qazoo thought he saw large black shapes darting around. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the sounds.
Suddenly, the howling stopped. A hissing started. The low buzz grew louder, the sound spine-chilling. The clansman physically shivered as the sounds increased in intensity. The sound reached a crescendo, then . . . silence. He opened his eyes and peered around. Nothing—no movement, no sound, nothing. Qazoo sighed with relief. Unexpectedly, the brushes around him exploded with activity and boomed with noise. Qazoo did not have time to fire his crossbow. He did not have time to think of his wife. He did not even have time to scream—as Shadows of death devoured him.
CHAPTER 18
Deep within the mines of Moranton, a man dressed in threadbare clothes slept fitfully. The man had forgotten how long he had been
working in the mines, but it seemed a lifetime. With no change in the light, day and night merged into one long, monotonous twilight. The miners would either work or sleep—living in their eternal afterlife. Over time, within the mines, a man’s soul would waste away, due to the punishing work and the corruption in the air. The Keepers, guardians of the mines, were immune to the air, already corrupt beyond recognition as once men. The Dark One had used necromancy to create them from Wanderers on the Grey Path.
In the mines, a simple cut or graze would lead to a slow, agonising change for the inflicted, then quickening madness as the impurity caused wounds to fester and cuts to fill with foul, stinking yellow pus. Men also suffered from being buried under cave-ins or from vicious beatings given by the Keepers. That was the price of being captured by the Keepers on the Grey Path.
The young man moaned as he thought back over his life and the mistakes he had made. Many of them could not be rectified and now he wished he had not committed the atrocities in his past. This man had been given a chance to start redeeming himself, and he waited for his call.
The man opened his eyes and found himself in gardens that smelled of sweet roses and lavender. He smiled and gazed around, then knelt down and touched the green grass. He sensed a presence.
“It is time.”
“I’m ready,” replied the young man without looking up.
“I cannot hold this image long in this foul place,” said a sweet, musical voice. “The men you have to escort through the mines will be waiting outside the main tunnel shortly.”
“I’ll be there to meet them and I’ll guide them through,” promised the young man, running his fingers through the blades of grass.
“Some of the men will recognise you and you them. They will not trust you, but that is something you will have to overcome.”
The young man looked up for the first time, then slowly rose to stand before the Divine One. “Will I have to earn their trust?” he asked.
“You will have to.”
“I’ll not fail you, ma’am, and I will earn their trust, as this is my chance to start on the road to redemption.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Will my father learn of my deed?”
“I am sure he will find out if you are true to these men.”
“Then I’m ready.”
“Good,” said the Divine One, smiling. “You have to go back now.”
“Can I have a few more moments here, please?”
The Divine One’s image faded but her smile remained in the man’s mind, honest and true.
***
The young man woke up a few minutes later and gave thanks to the Divine One. He looked around in the dim torchlight and saw that no Keepers stood guard near him. Silently, he rose and was on his way. It would be dangerous to try and escape the mines but he now had an important quest, and would not fail. He made his way slowly to the main shaft and began climbing. His hands started to ache as he climbed farther and farther up, constantly shrouded in darkness. His arms burned and his fingers cramped. His feet slipped twice but the breathless young man held on grimly, daring his body to fail him.
Eventually, the man reached the upper tunnel complex. He smiled wryly and watched the Keepers milling about. He took pieces of cloth and wrapped both of his sore hands. For the first time in an age, the man could tell it was daytime. He would have to wait until dark before leaving the mines, then he had the task of finding the men he searched for. The young man felt a shiver of fear run through his body. The Divine One had told him he would recognise some of the travellers. This did not scare him; what scared him was being told they would recognise him. With these thoughts tumbling in his mind, the young man hid in a deep shadow, waiting for the time to pass.
***
Platos tossed and turned in his bed. He had been sleeping fitfully for the past few nights. Each night, he had the same dream—always the same. He dreamt of beasts attacking the western side of the mound. The army of beasts camped to the west of the city, concentrating their attacks around the western gate. Each night in his dreams, the beasts breached the gate and streamed into the white city. Then the slaughter began.
Again, Platos woke with a start, bolting up into a sitting position. His wife, Erykah, stirred next to him, but he gently stroked her hair and she slept. The large blacksmith quietly rose from his bed and crept downstairs. Each night the same damn dream, he thought glumly. He sat in his darkened forge and sipped some cool water. He shook his head. What does it mean?
Platos lit a lantern and pulled out a plan of the city around the western gate. He unrolled the parchment and looked down at it, visualising the area. He instantly realised that the tight winding streets near the gate would cause problems if the gates were breached. Platos picked up a charcoal marker and began to cross off buildings. Once completed, he marked locations for crossbows to be placed on the edges of the open area around the gate. That’s it, he thought, I need to create a killing ground around the gate. He studied the plans again and grimaced. A lot of buildings would have to be levelled and he would need to start planning straight away. With a sigh and a shrug, Platos ambled back to his bedroom. Quietly, he got back into bed next to his sleeping wife. Almost instantly, he fell into a dreamless, restful slumber.
***
The axe-wielders and the five friends continued their journey towards Moranton at night. They were still about a day away from the mountain. The whole landscape had changed. The black skies were now filled with billowing red clouds, with lightning constantly flaring across the sky, and thunder boomed almost constantly overhead. The temperature rose and the air grew thick and muggy, yet still no rain fell. The nights were a comfortable temperature for the men to travel, but the days became as hot and unforgiving as the Phadrine Steppes. The land was punishing and unyielding, but warriors persisted on their trek. Now Moranton stood large in front of the men, blocking out everything else. They could not see beyond or either side of the colossal mountain of evil; the feature filled their vision.
Captain Jamie called a halt to their trek at dawn and the men rested. Zane and the others sat to one side of the soldiers and talked quietly amongst themselves.
“What’s the plan, Zane?” asked Thade.
“I’m not too sure,” said Zane, staring at the mountain. He felt himself being strangely drawn towards the mountain. The others felt the same sensation, but none of them voiced it.
“Do we go through, or go over?” Thade persisted.
“I think going over is out of the question. Look at the size of it.”
All of the men gazed up at the mountain. None could see the summit as it was hidden in deep crimson-coloured clouds, and there did not seem to be any paths leading up the slick black rock. To climb the mountain, they would need ropes, which they did not have. Furthermore, they could not guarantee that all the men would make it over.
“I think we’ll have to go through the mines,” concluded Zane solemnly.
The men settled down for the day, but sleep would not come easily for the young king. He moved into a sitting position and again stared at the black mountain.
“Can’t sleep, either?” asked Tanas, who sat up beside him.
“I feel something strange.”
“A pulling?”
“Yes, do you feel the same?” asked Zane, turning to face the warrior.
“Yes, something is drawing us to the mountain. The closer we get to it, the stronger the sensation.”
“Why is that?”
“You are getting closer to the part of your soul that has been captured,” Tanas suggested.
Zane just nodded. He lay back down and turned over so that he faced away from the mountain. The temperature was uncomfortably hot, but after a while Zane fell asleep and dreamt of Aurillia.
Tanas stayed awake and sat motionless, staring at the mountain, both awed and dismayed at the sight of it. He whispered something under his breath then, tying his scarf over his eyes for comfort, he too lay back down and soon
fell asleep.
***
The Chosen left his palace with General Gordonia. They had received a message from Platos that all of the catapults were now in place. The Chosen’s entourage made its way slowly to the master armourer’s forge during the early afternoon. It took longer to reach the forge as citizens bustled about completing their daily tasks. When they arrived, the Chosen saw Platos with the men from the Cross-sword clan, sitting outside drinking and laughing. The convoy pulled up to the forge and everyone stopped drinking and rose to their feet. When the Chosen stepped down from his carriage, everyone bowed low.
Platos stepped forward. “Your Highness, I am pleased to announce that all of the catapults have been erected and are in working order.”
“That’s good to hear, my friend.”
“I have kept the men from the Cross-sword clansmen here as they’re trained in using the weapons. If you agree, I would suggest that we commission the men to work the weapons.”
“I agree.”
“Good,” replied Platos, smiling. “Now I need to commandeer some wagons.”
“Wagons?” asked the Chosen.
“Another of my ideas, your Highness. I mean to have several of the crossbows mounted on the backs of wagons for ease of moving. The way I see it, the weapons can be used to stop breaches, but they need to be mobile.”
The Chosen nodded his approval and turned to General Gordonia. “Please arrange for the necessary equipment to be made available to Platos.”
“Yes, sire.”
“Any other news or requests?”
Platos smiled and scratched his chin. “Actually, yes.”
The Chosen looked at his master armourer inquisitively.
“I would like all of the houses and shops near the western gate cleared. I would like to create a killing ground with my crossbows, but these buildings are in the way.”
“Why there?” asked Gordonia, expressing the Chosen’s thoughts.