In The Shadow Of The Beast (18 page)

‘
The bird belonged to
Isolde,’ said Sigourd, a sorrowful timbre entering his voice. ‘He
keeps our course to her true. He is something of a guide if you can
believe it?’

The old man smiled brightly, ‘I can believe
almost anything of so colorful a band as you three.’

Sigourd rose and made his way over to where
the old man was standing, and when he spoke there was a thread of
unease in his voice. ‘What can you tell me of the Eastern Fringes?
Are they truly as terrible as I have heard?’

Jonn Grumble had stopped picking at the
fruit and was now listening intently to what the old man’s response
would be. All trace of the cheerful optimism seemed to drain from
him, and his tone was now as dark as the shadows under his
eyes.

‘
If there was a place,’
began the old man, ‘that could mirror the darkness in men’s hearts,
then the Eastern Fringes would be it. I have seen many a thing in
my time, but I must caution you that nothing in my experience
compares to the madness that lies beyond the Ash’harad.’

The old man paused then, and looked into
Sigourd’s eyes before speaking again, as if he possessed the
ability to see the truth of Sigourd’s desires, or even his very
soul. ‘Is she worth that danger?’ he asked pointedly.

‘
She is worth it a thousand
times over,’ replied Sigourd without hesitation. The old man nodded
at this, seemingly satisfied that the young lord possessed the
strength of his convictions. He turned to Jonn Grumble then, ‘and
what of you wild man. Why do you journey into this
peril?’

Jonn Grumble looked to Sigourd, then back at
the old man before spitting the seed of a plum onto the ground. His
response was reassuringly frank; ‘cause the young fella saved me
bacon, didn’t he.’

Interlude...

It is faster than he, there is no hope of
being able to out-run the shadow at his back, the cloying stink of
its hot breath all around him now, filling his nostrils.

Sigourd hasn’t the speed or the strength in
his legs to prolong the chase. There is but one recourse open to
him, a noble son of the city of Corrinth Vardis, of the realm of
Atos. There was only ever one recourse. Sigourd will turn and
fight.

He will face this nameless monstrosity and
whatever horrors it has been set loose to visit upon him. Surely
death can be the only conclusion to such a drastic course. A
tortuous, brutal death. His limbs rent from his body and his face
torn like yards of ruined silk, fluttering on the hollow breath of
the ancient forest.

If that is his lot, then Sigourd will accept
it willingly, bravely, as is the duty of a highborn son of his
cast. He accepts this truth despite the hammering of the heart in
his chest, beating a booming rhythm in his ears to match the
thunderous churning of the sky above. He will accept this death
despite the knowledge that he will never see his beloved Isolde
again. He will not wither, he will master the fear...

...and suddenly he turns, his bright blade
in his hand, flashing before him as the shadow looms.

Sigourd will master the fear!

He dives upon that shadow, pounces like an
animal driven to distraction, bringing the thing beneath him to the
ground. He fumbles in furious desperation with the cloak that
covers the shadow, struggling to reveal his nameless pursuer.

‘
Who are you!?’ Sigourd
screams into the face of darkness, an instant before he rips the
hood back to reveal...the snarling fanged maw of a wolf, its golden
eyes glittering with a beastly light that transfixes Sigourd. He is
powerless to resist those golden eyes, even as that razor filled
maw, dripping hungrily with saliva, opens wide to devour
him...

Sigourd awoke with a start, a silent scream
buried deep in his throat. He struggles with the wolf thing,
struggles until he realizes that he has woken from another
nightmare, and that he is lying safely beneath the small plum
tree.

Instead of looking into the gold eyes of a
bloodthirsty predator, he sees the old man kneeling beside him,
where he has shaken Sigourd gently to wakefulness. His rheumy old
eyes regard Sigourd kindly and with a measure of understanding as
he speaks, ‘It’s only a dream lad. You’re quite safe.’

Sigourd sits up, looking about himself
wearily so that he might confirm that indeed all is still well.
After a moment, embarrassment settles upon Sigourd. What whimpering
and groaning must the old man have been privy too as Sigourd
slumbered fitfully.

‘
I apologize if I woke you,
elder,’ said Sigourd, thankful that the fire had died enough to
preclude the chance of anyone seeing his cheeks flushing red as
they surely must be. ‘Perhaps it was something I ate!?’ said
Sigourd meekly.

‘
Perhaps,’ said the old man
kindly. ‘Either way, lay your head to rest once more. I’ll continue
to keep watch a little while longer.’

Sigourd nodded, and slowly laid his head
back against the cool ground. It was not long before his eyes grew
heavy and sleep came to Sigourd once more.

Sitting in the fading light of the fire’s
dying embers, the old man continued to watch over Sigourd, studying
the lad with those rheumy old eyes.

CHAPTER 11

Hammer of the
gods...

The driving snow of the mountains was
relentless. Whipped up by the howling winds which beat against the
faces of the travelers and pulled at their clothes. Sigourd drew
his cloak tighter around him to try to shield himself from the
penetrating cold. It was the fifth day of their travels since
arriving at the steppes of the mountain ranges, and they had,
according to the old man, been making good progress. To Sigourd, it
felt as though their ascent was painfully slow. Since leaving
behind the fertile greens of the valley below, the terrain had
become ever more treacherous. The snow and barren rock that had
steadily crept in to replace the verdant land was proving very
difficult to traverse. Several times they had had to scramble for
cover as rock slides and other hazards had assailed them. The
mountain pass along which the old man was leading them was little
more than a foot path, barely wide enough to accommodate the width
of the cart in some places. Yet he seemed confident of his
understanding of the mountains and how best to navigate them, and
so Sigourd had left the matter entirely to him.

Up here amongst the high peaks of the
Ash’harad, the air was so thin that breathing became something of a
labored chore for both Sigourd and Jonn Grumble, who were finding
it increasingly difficult to draw breath. On the other hand, the
old man and his horses seemed utterly unperturbed by the difficult
conditions. He steered the cart cheerfully along, and would take
every opportunity to point out landmarks of historical note or
which had some fantastical tale attached to them. Indeed, he
possessed an abundance of stories that seemed to spill from him at
the slightest provocation. He told tall tales of high adventure,
where heroes vanquished villainous characters and honor and loyalty
were tested. He told tales of loves lost and friendships torn
asunder, and all of the tales seemed to impart some moral code or
value that was written deep into the subtext.

Sigourd had met fellows like the elder
before, who plied their trade over lands far and wide, entertaining
and educating wherever they went.

For his part, Sigourd enjoyed the tales,
finding them to be a welcome distraction from the troubles that
nagged at him. The longer they traveled with him, the more the old
man began to grow on Sigourd. He had a fatherly wisdom and a kindly
manner. Yet there was a quick wit and an unprepossessing frankness
that Sigourd had not encountered in many individuals, the only
other of late being his companion Jonn Grumble. Perhaps that was
where the developing friction between the two lay, Jonn Grumble and
the old man were in reality very similar.

‘
What’s that noise?’ asked
Jonn suddenly, bringing Sigourd out of his reverie. He was sitting
ahead of Sigourd, huddled against the biting winds with his head
down. Sigourd had assumed he’d been fast asleep. He strained to
hear any noise other than the howling of the wind amongst the peaks
and the steady creaking of the cart’s old frame.

‘
I hear nothing,’ said
Sigourd, and was happy to think no more on it when suddenly it he
heard something too. A great crashing, booming coming distantly
from out of the swirling snows, the sound growing a little louder
with each passing moment.

‘
Elder!’ Sigourd called
out, ‘what is that sound?’

‘
What else,’ said Jonn
Grumble glumly, ‘it can only be trouble.’

The old man turned slowly in his seat at the
front of the cart to look at the pair huddled behind him, he smiled
briefly before turning his eyes back to the road ahead, ‘It is one
of the wonders of this realm. A sight to stir the blood.’

Minutes passed by, and the crashing, booming
grew steadily louder until the sound now filled the narrow pass
through which they traveled. It became a deafening, echoing
crescendo, so loud that it drowned out the high pitched whining of
the winds entirely. Sigourd’s view of what might possibly be
causing the sound was blocked by the sheer rock faces to either
side. he had to wait until almost sundown before finally the cliff
face on one side dropped away entirely, revealing to Sigourd the
source of the incredible sound. What he saw took his breath
away.

Huron had never ventured so far into the
mountain ranges of the Ash’harad. He had heard the tales of fell
magics and woeful abominations that roamed the foothills and deeper
crevasses of this dreaded place, but he held no fear for such
fanciful nonsense. In his time he had heard more talk of goblins
and warlocks than he cared to remember, and none of it had ever
manifested before his eyes that he might have some basis to
foothold such fear. As far as he was concerned, there was nothing
in this world that could not be dealt with by a strong arm and a
sharp blade, and he had the will and means to wield both.

Indeed, he was most intrigued to learn where
this curious expedition might reach its conclusion. He was certain
that the trio were headed across the mountains and would eventually
descend into the Eastern Fringes, about which so little was known
that it was no wonder superstition pervaded every account of
them.

The only spirits troubling the knight thus
far were the wrathful ravages of the four winds, their bitter chill
seeming to penetrate his heavy war plate as if it were made of the
thinnest paper. He had had to dismount to save his horse from
expiring, the air in these parts had become so damnably thin. Even
his war hawk had remained somewhat subdued by the harsh elements.
No matter, he decided. He had been able to keep his quarry in sight
this whole while and would be damned if he was going to loose them
now because of a little frostbite.

As Huron trudged on through the snow covered
pass, his heavy booted feet crunching over the compact drifts that
blanketed everything, he became aware of an odd sound. Like thunder
rolling distantly. What, he wondered, had the gods of the elements
in store for him now.

Head down, leading his faithful battle steed
behind him, the nightmare knight pushed on into the maelstrom, and
the growing cacophony that hammered the steep walls of the pass
about his head.

The sight that greeted Sigourd and Jonn
Grumble gave their mouths cause to drop open in amazement. In all
his young life Sigourd had never dreamed he might lay eyes on
anything so terrifying or magnificent.

Before him, some three to four hundred
meters distant across a deep gorge that plummeted away dizzyingly,
was the source of the thunderous sound that had traveled with them
the last hour or so of their journey.

A mighty waterfall, the size and scope of
which beggared belief. Its raging waters the sound of the
unrelenting crescendo. The noise hammered out by the descent of
what seemed, for all intents and purposes, a vertical river.
Sigourd had to crane his neck to see the top of it, which even now
was obscured by the light of the midday sun burning through a haze
of moisture that loomed over the falls, vast and brooding, like a
pall of smoke hanging over a burning city.

‘
By the great All-mother,’
whispered Jonn Grumble.

‘
The Hammer Of The Gods,’
exclaimed Sigourd to no one in particular.

‘
Exactly so,’ said the old
man from behind them, a rueful smile upon his face, ‘I see you’ve
heard tell of them.’

‘
I’ve heard stories,’ said
Sigourd, unable to shake the tremor of awe from his voice. ‘But
never did my imagination allow me to envisage something
so...vast!’

‘
They are indeed a sight to
humble the soul, and shrivel a man’s loins,’ the old man remarked.
‘These falls are situated halfway down the length of the river Woe,
that cuts through the Ash’harad like a quicksilver blade. And these
falls are in large part why nothing beyond them is truly known by
the wider world. To try to navigate the river beyond them means
certain death for any man.’

‘
None have tried?’ asked
Sigourd.

‘
Certainly many have tried,
but I couldn’t name one that lived to talk of it. Mankind
frequently underestimates the ferocity of the All-mother at his
peril.’

The old man allowed the awestruck pair to
continue to study the falls for a few moments longer, for such a
sight requires time to absorb by mortal men, and its appreciation
should never be rushed.