Posted by admin on May 27, 2009
Gorbon sat under the shabby stone bridge, contemplating. The late sun had just set, and the world was settling into a calm, dark quiet. A large trout broke the surface a short distance upstream and the songs of frogs along the bank were rising with the clouds of mosquitoes. The troll sighed and frowned and looked up at the bridge. His wide, yellow eyes noticed the moss over the stones and the broken gate with the tumbled toll sign. The once white paint was chipped and worn where it was not covered with moss and lichens. The troll put a stumpy fist under his warty chin and slipped into misery. “No one uses my bridge anymore,” he sighed.
At length, when the stars were high in the summer sky, and the moonlight danced on the stream, Gorbon sat up straight and exclaimed, “I’ll get ‘em to visit me.” He fished around in the dark for a moment, until he caught a slimy treat, and then, with a wink at the dark he clambered his way out of the ravine.
To the east lay a wide field of wheat set on gentle slopes. To the west was the dark forest where the woodsmen went to labor. “I’ll find the way the woodsmen use,” thought the troll as he turned north along the river, following close to the forest. A mile or two was all he traveled when he found another bridge. In the dark he heard a ruckus louder than the frogs, so terrible it shook the ground. A mighty nose snoring beneath the bridge. Undaunted, Gorbon went ahead, until he saw the fiend, a squat green troll with a mangy mane asleep beneath the bridge.
The gate on top was clean and neat, and the stones were painted bright. The roadway up was paved and even. A high railing had been set along the bridge to keep the travelers safe. “Isn’t that sweet,” growled Gorbon to himself, as he set about his work.
In the dead of night, until the light of dawn, Gorbon labored on his bridge. He scraped the moss and mended the gate while the stars twinkled in the cloudless sky. But the next morning no one came to his bridge. Angrily, Gorbon spat and growled at the lazy stream. “I’ll show ‘em yet,” he cried, and that night once more he went upstream.
The nose continued to sleep an easy sleep, but now Gorbon turned mean. With the stealth of a master thief, he crept to the enemy bridge, and one by one he moved the stones. At the base of the bridge with his mighty arms, Gorbon undermined the foundations. At last, with a shout of glee, the bridge began to tumble. The nose awoke with a start, but too late, as the bridge toppled over him. Gorbon giggled to himself as he tore down the gate, and broke the paving stones. And then he wandered home.
In the early dawn, a steady clop, clop was heard on the roadway overhead. Gorbon awoke with a start, and rubbed the sleep from he bleary eyes. “Who is it that disturbs me sleep he called, on this misty morning?”
The woodsman stopped his cart, and stared about in fright. “I am but a simple woodsman,” he said, “and meant no harm. I come to cut a living for myself in the woods beyond.”
“Simple or not, the toll is for all. A penny to cross, or I’ll eat your bones.”
“A penny,” said the woodsman, “I’ve but half that much, and must get to the woods to live.”
“The toll is fair,” replied the troll, “and will be justly used.”
Sadly the woodsman turned away, and the clop was heard fading in the distance. Gorbon giggled to himself in the water under the bridge. The day was cool, and the muddy banks seemed merrier than they had been in years. “Torment is gladness to my heart,” he laughed, “and the woodsmen will soon pay tribute to me!”
Not an hour passed when more carts clopped their way along the newly paved road to the troll’s painted gate.
“Who is it that disturbs my peace,” growled Gorbon angrily.
“We are but simple woodsmen,” came the shaky reply, “come to seek a living in the woods on the other side.”
“A penny each wagon,” said Gorbon, “and you shall see the other shore. Or I’ll eat your bones and cook your skins for my dinner.”
“We’ll pay, we’ll pay,” the woodsmen cried, “don’t eat us yet.”
Gorbon laughed aloud on the muddy banks below, and giggled as he lifted the lever to open the gate. The clink of cons hit the box, and Gorbon frolicked in the water. All that day Gorbon laughed, and as the woodsmen came, or the hunters on their proud horses, he growled and snarled, and made them all drop in their copper penny. When night came he washed the bridge and mended the stones, and locked the gate tight.
Then under the bridge in the dank shadows he slept, more peacefully than he had slept in years, and dreamed of new torments for his visitors. In his sleep he giggled, and snickered out loud. The frogs became annoyed with his sounds, and moved their songs to other parts. The fish and the night birds took their homes to quieter ground, and left the troll alone. Gorbon paid no head to them; glad he had scared them too.
Each day the woodsmen came, and each day the toll they paid, and if they argued, Gorbon laughed and growled, and scared them away. For a week or so, Gorbon was happy and content. Then one night as he slept, he heard a scrape and a laugh. He woke in time to see the last stone pulled, and the bridge came tumbling down. He heard a raspy, nasal voice, “now, thief, that’ll teach you to meddle with my things.” The raspy laugh disappeared, and Gorbon was covered in rubble.
The woodsmen came in the early dawn, as Gorbon crawled from ruin. “We’ll pay no toll,” they cried, “to a master who cannot keep his own.” And in the dim gray morning they steered their carts to the north.
Gorbon looked on the wreck of his home and snarled at the sky. His broken bones felt sore inside his body, so he found a cool pool in the shadows beneath the stones and nursed his anger. Gorbon waited, and rested for three days while his bones mended. His mind was busy planning a fitting revenge. “That old nose will pay,” he grumbled, and the men will mock me no more.”
In the cool of the night, Gorbon built up his bridge again. He labored carefully, and kept a watch for any enemy who might try to stop his work. Deep in his memory he sought the learning of his youth and all the craft of the ancients was poured out into the bridge. At long last, when summer was failing, the bridge stood tall and strong. Gorbon paved the road, and raised a new gate, and waited for the woodsmen to come.
The dawn brought no one. Gorbon waited, plotting carefully. “The nose has them,” he grumbled, and slept the rest of the day.
That night he stole his way along the woods to where the nose was hid. The enemy bridge stood tall, though less tall than it once did. The gate was broken, and moss grew where the paint once was. Gorbon looked with surprise on the scene, and approached cautiously. The frogs and night birds sang heedless of the troll, and nowhere could the nose be found.
“Nose or no nose, the bridge must go,” hissed Gorbon angrily. Gorbon knew that he must hurry, for already the night was getting old. He heaved at the rickety stones, and clawed through the mortar. At first the stone resisted, but soon the foundations fell. The gate toppled last, and Gorbon slipped silently back to his home.
The morning dawned, and soon thereafter the wagons came. One by one Gorbon stopped them, “a penny, or I’ll munch your bones,” he growled.
“You’ll munch nothing, troll, and soon you’ll see that it’s better to leave simple men alone. We’ll pay today, but tomorrow you had better be gone.”
Gorbon laughed loud and long at the frightened men. With a growl he sent them on their way. “Tomorrow I’ll be waiting,” he scoffed, “and tomorrow you will also pay.”
He watched and waited all through the night ready for any enemy. No one came. With the sun, the woodsmen returned. Their frightened faces told the tale, and Gorbon collected his penny from each. Giggling he found a cool shadow beneath the bridge and fell asleep. Gorbon kept one eye half open, though, and both ears cocked for danger.
The afternoon brought a clatter to the bridge, and Gorbon started awake. “Who is it that stomps on my roof,” he growled, “and ruins my daily rest?”
“’Tis I,” rang a proud voice from above, “Sir Derrol, come to avenge thy wrongs to the simple woodsmen.”
“Go away, human, before I eat your bones,” snarled Gorbon, “I’ve no time to waste on you. It is a penny to use this bridge, now pay or go away.”
“I will not go until you take down your gate,” said Sir Derrol.
Finally Gorbon clambered his way from beneath the bridge, squinting in the sunlight. “I gave you warning,” he said, “now I’ll eat your bones.”
Sir Derrol waited on his charger, with his lance and sword ready. Gorbon licked his lips, and cracked the knuckles in his fingers.
“Your large nosed friend was as discourteous as yourself,” said Sir Derrol, “but I’m sure you’ll give me no more trouble.”
The knight charged, and Gorbon leapt out of range of the lance. With lightning speed, and granite arms, he grabbed the horse’s hindquarter, and threw him to the ground. Sir Derrol came away unscathed, and drew his sword. The knight moved quickly, and his sword bit into Gorbon’s leather hide. Undaunted, the troll continued the attack.
“Yield, troll,” Sir Derrol cried, “and I’ll spare you and your bridge.”
Gorbon hesitated, but he caught the pant in the knight’s voice, and noticed the slowing of his blows. “I am no nose,” he growled, as he leapt one last time, and Sir Derrol fell.
In the morning, the woodsmen came, and found the troll laboring at the gate, removing the last stains of the battle. “A penny from each wagon,” he growled, “to cross my land and abuse my labor.” The woodsmen looked about in fear, but at last they paid. Over time they grew used to the growling troll, until they came to expect his angry voice in the morning. Never again did Gorbon wander from his happy bridge or let it fall into disrepair.
THE END
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Posted by admin on April 29, 2009
“The horde is not mindless,” said my master abruptly. “Each creature within the writhing mass can think and act, and each bears deadly weapons. Like men, they have fears and desires. They can be manipulated as easily as the kings of your land.”
“I’ve never know a king,” I replied. Pasav chuckled to himself.
“Of course not.” He paused, looking amused as he walked. “I have known too many.” Again he laughed, “and each one a bigger fool than the first.”
Pasav delighted in confusing me. We were far from any land I had ever known before. Day after day we rode through forests and over hills. We rested some days, and some days we did not. “Why don’t we take the plain roads,” I once asked.
“Because there is nothing of interest for us there,” was the reply.
The old man spoke in riddles or spouted legends. But his food was plentiful and easy enough to cook. Despite his strange ways and lofty manner, I like the old man. He was as kind as he was mysterious, and his discipline came only when necessary.
Truly I did lose interest in the affairs of the villages we passed. My own home in Craverton faded into a distant memory, where my withered mother’s face looked out on the dusty streets, waiting for a change that would never come. Pasav taught me to hold my spear, and to ride tall in the saddle. When we camped, he handed me a practice sword, and bade me learn to use it properly. Aged though he was, Pasav moved faster than a cat, and I found myself gently bruised by his hard teaching.
“There is no softness in the blade,” he chuckled. Then he put his arm on my shoulder and held up my chin. “Pain is everywhere in the world. We all feel it. The sword is hard, but the healer’s hand is soft and strong, stronger than the mightiest steel.” Then he showed me how to tend the bruises with herbs found in the hills, and where to find blossoms that brought hope and comfort. Day after day the lessons continued, tirelessly. Each moment he opened my mind, and each moment I found that I knew less than I ever thought possible.
After three weeks’ journey, we reached the foothills of the Tarangorn Mountains, far to the north of my village. By now I rode comfortably in the saddle, and the practice sword felt as comfortable in my hand as the crumbs of bread I used to crave. The end of summer was upon us, and the weather turned each hour a little colder. Before me the peaks rose blue and then white. A chill wind crossed our path, and I shivered in the saddle.
“Where are we?” I asked.
“Nuriath, the ancient north realm,” responded Pasav. “No one lives here now.”
I looked about the barren hillsides all around us, and confirmed his assertion. “Where are we going?”
“A long time ago King Eirionoth built a fortress on the very edge of the mountains. He called it the Keep of the Black Crag. After our fall, the Horde overran the keep, and the kingdom fell into ruin. Many foul things lurk in the lower halls of the keep, but the upper portions are still well maintained. We will dwell there for some months this winter. I have a large store of provisions waiting there, and it is better housing than this open land. The Horde will move again this winter, and we must be prepared to meet them.”
I held my peace, although many questions still lay heavy on my mind. In another two weeks we came to the first of the mountains. In a narrow pass, high on the eastern face of the cliffs overlooking the valley sat a black fortress. Its dark spires stabbed into the sky like black spears pointing angrily at the gods. A narrow road cut into the face of the mountain and worked its way to the edge of the pass. The sunlight seemed to disappear into the shadows of the fortress, and no sound came from its dark windows.
“Once the keep was a fair place, full of laughter and feasting. Eirionoth was a powerful wizard in his time.” Pasav seemed lost in his deep memories as he spoke. “In those days the mountains were not as cold as you see them now. We worked many wonders in our seclusion from men, and they treated us with proper respect. Freely we shared with the kings all that we knew, indeed, the very foundations of the Keep of the Black Crag are imbued with mystical powers; and kings ruled from here freely. No army could ever assail it. In later days, though, its power failed. My brethren failed.” My master looked suddenly sad, and he stopped his horse and stared blankly at the castle above us.
“What happened?” I asked. “Did the Horde finally break down your defenses?”
Pasav half smirked and half sighed. “The more powerful of our order were able to summon servants from other spheres or to imbue dead things with life, or alter existing creatures so that they could learn intelligence. These servants were employed to build the keep, as well as to discover many new secrets. The gods blessed us as long as we were kind and gentle, and did not attempt to bring evil into the world. Some were tempted for greater power. The strongest of us, Niersath, summoned demons that taught him how to twist and torment the flesh of men and beasts. Together with some followers who also sought power, they created the creatures of the Horde. In the end, all of our creations turned against us. Our power failed, and their wills were made their own. The creatures overran all of the mountains. Most of my brethren were destroyed. Those who remained were summoned by the power of the gods to the Oracle deep in the mountains. We were charged with undoing what we had done. ‘You shall remain in this realms until all are destroyed’ they said. So we began to walk the earth in search of the Horde, attempting to undo our wrong. As long as even one of the creatures remains, the wizards do not age. But many of my brethren have been destroyed. I am the last of our order to continue, unless the rebel Niersath still lives. The horde has a power that I do not understand to continue to thrive. Each year thousands are destroyed, and each year their power grows.”
My master stopped speaking, and urged his horse up the narrow path towards the castle. I followed quietly, and watched the valley floor grow steadily further away. The roadway was broad enough for the two horses to walk side by side, but I chose to ride behind, as close to the mountain as possible. The pavement was black, and polished as if it had been laid just the day before. No fence or wall had been made to protect the edge, and the stone of the cliff face had been polished smooth as glass to the height of several men above the road. A chill wind beat against us from the north as we reached the top, and I pulled my cloak over my face. In the sky overhead, thick gray clouds gathered.
Pasav rode straight up to the castle gate, and finding it open, passed inside. I followed cautiously, but found no danger inside. “Shut the gate, Kyven,” he said. I dismounted, and began to labor with the enormous metal doors Pasav continued up towards the castle entrance itself, and soon disappeared inside. I managed to close the gate, and let down the bar to lock it shut before going inside of the castle myself.
My master had lit torches and built a small fire in a small room near the entrance. “There are many inhabitants of the castle now,” he warned quietly. “Most of them will not trouble us until we trouble them. They know that I use the upper portions of the castle, and are afraid to disturb me. Do not go down to any of the stories below for any reason.”
I nodded that I understood, and began taking out provisions to prepare a meal at the fire. “How long will we stay here?” I asked.
“We will stay through the winter. There are only a few passes through the mountains, but from here we can watch them all. In the ancient days, we built two other fortresses, greater than this to watch the other ways. Ardinan Tower and Castle Tirimbil are both still held by living kings. The Horde does not challenge those paths often anymore, for the warriors there are valiant and cunning. When you are ready, perhaps you will got to Ardinan Tower and train with the king’s guard.”
“I do not wish to be a warrior,” I replied. “I would rather be a cook.”
Pasav laughed, as merrily as I had ever heard him laugh. “Then you had best practice a great deal more.” He gestured at the fire, and the meal I was preparing. Rarely did anything I cook taste very good. Suddenly his manner changed, “but I am glad to hear your words. There is wisdom in them. Choose always not to want to be a warrior, even when you must take up a sword.”
“I had no trade before, though I was apprentice blacksmith for a while. What trade will I learn from you?”
“I also have no trade,” replied Pasav. “I am a wizard, a scholar, a thinker of great things.” He laughed out loud, “and mostly now I am an old man. You will learn no useful trade from me. I will teach you to be a warrior because I do not want you to be killed by the Horde. But I require an assistant for a time. You will know when you have learned enough, and then you will find your own way in this world.”
“Then I will learn to cook,” I replied. I finished preparing the meal, and we ate together in comfort. The dark castle was the first roof I had felt in several weeks, and I was glad for it.
“In the morning, we will find more comfortable quarters,” said Pasav, “but we will probably have to relocate some of the current inhabitants of the castle. With luck, we will have a few more weeks before the Horde tries to move south for the winter.”
The morning found the castle courtyard covered in a light layer of snow. There was no sign of any other creature beside us outside, and no sounds came from within. Pasav showed me around the ancient rooms and halls. He carried a set of keys, with which he opened several doors and showed me where he had stored provisions. The throne room was barren except for the ancient throne, and a few other chairs. The bedrooms were also empty. In a far corner of the castle, he showed me a locked door.
“The stairs beyond go down,” he said sharply, “do not go down them.”
The tower stairs and ramparts were free and clear, and from the highest towers the entire valley below for many miles was visible and open. Pasav had me put our gear in the bedrooms, and showed me where the kitchen was. After a tour and another lesson with the practice sword, Pasav took me to the north wall.
“From here we will see the approach of the enemy. The snow has come early, so we may expect them very soon. I hope that there will not be so many because of the losses they suffered in the summer, but we must try to destroy them all in this one pass. If any escape, then we will have to hunt them throughout the south all winter long.”
“Don’t they know that the pass will be guarded?” I asked.
“Of course, but they must chance it. Their numbers increase so rapidly that some of them must leave sometimes. In the winter, food is scarce for them, so they come south. We will stop them here. Come with me.”
I followed Pasav to the back of the castle, where the rampart met the mountain. A small path wound its way up the mountain, and eventually into the snow. The snow and ice grew deeper and more dangerous as we went, and several times I slipped. Eventually we reached a point where the path disappeared entirely. Pasav turned, and pointed to the valley below.
“I have more than food stored in the castle. When the Horde comes, we will let fall the snow into the valley, and they will be stopped. We will take turns watching. Your job will be to run up the path as quickly as possible, and wait for my signal. I will show you how to let the snowfall. Then you must hurry back to the castle. Whatever else happens, when the Horde comes, do not leave the ramparts, or go back inside the castle until I come for you.”
I was not sure that I understood everything the wizard wanted to explain, but I nodded my head. “I will let the snow fall, and wait for you on the ramparts. What will happen if the Horde gets into the castle?”
Pasav laughed openly. “That will not happen. But some creatures may come up from below, or out of the mountains when they hear the noise. Carry your spear, you should be able to protect yourself well enough while I am gone.”
We walked back down the mountain, and Pasav began to show me where his magical devices were stored, and how to use them. Each morning before any of my other duties, he made me run to the top of the path with a torch to light the fire that would let the snowfall. Again, before every meal, and sometimes during the day for no apparent reason Pasav would have me make the run. When I was not running up the mountain, I walked the ramparts, watching the valley and carrying my spear. Pasav spent nearly all of his time on the mountain with his boxes and barrels. Many times I carried supplies up for him, and still each day he made me practice with the sword.
After three weeks, the valley floor was also covered with a layer of snow, and the mountain path had become a trench through the ice. Finally, in the afternoon, I saw a black mass appear far north in the narrow valley. “Pasav,” I yelled, “Master, they are coming.”
The wizard joined me quickly on the rampart, and looked at what I saw. “Get your torch, and be off. Remember, do not light the fire until you get the signal.”
I had run the path so many times now that I needed no further instructions. I carried the torch quickly and without difficulty, and stood at the end of the path waiting. I couldn’t see much in the valley below, only a distant mass growing steadily larger. Eventually the mass disappeared beneath the shadows of the mountains, and I waited for the signal. My heart pounded, and I gripped the torch and my spear impatiently. After many minutes, a little ball of fire shot up into the sky, Pasav’s signal. I knelt, and used the torch to light the fire. When it began to burn steadily, I turned and made my way quickly down the path.
I reached the ramparts of the castle, and Pasav had already left. Below us, in the valley, the Horde approached. The mass of dark, beastly bodies moved quickly, yet quietly over the snow-laden ground, kicking up gusts of white powder as it went. High above, in the mountain, nothing stirred for a long time. I began to fear that the fire had gone out, when suddenly a resounding explosion shook the mountain and the castle. Almost instantly, the Horde stopped moving forward. Several animalistic voices cried out as the mountain began to drop vast amounts of snow over them. Across the valley, the echo shook the other mountain, and it too began to cast its wrath down upon the Horde. I fell to the ground, covering my ears, and hoped beyond hope that the castle would remain on its perch on the cliff.
After several minutes of rumbling and terror, the mountain stopped moving. I picked myself up, and ran down the rampart into the courtyard, “Pasav,” I called, “Master, where are you?” No one answered. I reached the castle entrance, when his words of warning returned to my mind, but too late. A large creature, like a dog, though slavering and covered with hard scales leaped out of the darkness. I raised my spear, and tried to jump out of the way. The beast knocked me over, and I crashed to the ground. Before I could react, it was on top of me. With the shaft of the spear I was able to protect myself from its angry fangs, but my strength was no match for its fierce wrath.
Suddenly the beast faltered. It turned its head, and I saw Pasav bring down his great sword. The beast died and I rolled from beneath the corpse. “To the rampart,” he said in a stern, commanding voice. I did not hesitate, but flew to the top of the stairs. In the courtyard below, I heard the sounds of battle as Pasav faced the creatures that were fleeing the castle.
I looked out over the castle wall, and for as far as I could see; the valley was filled with deep snow, and the twisted bodies of dead creatures. Black and broken, they littered the horizon. My arms and face were cut where I had been attacked, but I did not feel the sting. Suddenly a hand was on my shoulder, and I heard Pasav’s voice, “we have stopped them again, for a time, but our work is not yet done. Help me clear the courtyard, and then we can rest.”
THE END
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Posted by admin on April 1, 2009
Anneke pulled the boat as far up onto the beach as she could before she grabbed the small bag of food and continued on. The sun was moving steadily towards noon overhead. A cool sea breeze blew the smell of salt all around, and the sand felt warm beneath her toes. The beach ended abruptly in a high wall of jagged cliffs about fifty meters from the waterline. A few meters away, Anneke spotted another boat, also beached. Anneke went to the boat, hoping to find some sign of her betrothed. The boat was empty, except for rigging, but footprints were still plain in the sand leading towards the cliffs.
Clutching her small bag of provisions, Anneke followed the trail of footprints towards the cliffs. The base of the cliffs was jagged, and steep. The cold stone felt sharp and menacing, and she followed the footprints for nearly an hour before a suitable pathway was found through the rocks. An ancient gate was broken at the opening of the path. Its iron bars had been rusted completely by the briny air. The path itself had once been paved with polished stones, and set about with flowers. Now the flowers had turned to tangled weeds, and everywhere the stones were broken and tumbled. The way narrowed where vines had encroached from tall trees that now grew on either side of the path. Birds and monkeys chattered back and forth in the morning, but Anneke paid them little mind.
Two days ago Siamul had crossed to the island in anger at her father. “You have no worth to take my daughter to wife,” her father had said in anger. Siamul replied that he would provide greater treasure than any in the village, and had disappeared. Only by questioning Siamul’s closest friends had Anneke been able to learn where he went, and what his intentions were. Priamos Island contained the treasures of the ancient kings. Heroes once lived here, who strove with the gods, and won for themselves power and wealth beyond any man. But the same legends warned that the sons of the kings fell into displeasure with the gods, and tried to cheat them. Fierce beasts were unleashed on the island, and the treasures were cursed to any that sought to wrest them from their hiding places.
“Siamul,” called Anneke, as she neared the top of the cliffs. “Siamul, where are you?”
The only reply was the chattering of the monkeys in the jungle.
The path ended abruptly at the top of the cliffs. Another broken, rusty gate lay near the end of the path, and a wide stone courtyard opened before a once beautiful palace. Through a break in the trees, Anneke was able to look out over the edge of the cliffs, down on the beach and sea below. In the distance, she could barely perceive the dim line of her home shore. Quickly she turned away from the sea and headed across the courtyard.
The courtyard was dotted with life-like stone statues, each in a different pose. Most wore a surprised expression, some seemed afraid, while others seemed casually walking from place to place. Many of the statues were overgrown with vines now, so that the sculptor’s art could hardly be discerned. Some had fallen and broken. Anneke stopped at the palace stairs, and sat down for a moment. At her feet was a statue of a palace guard. He had tumbled over, and his head lay shattered on the stairs. His sword was rusted completely through, but his spear remained unbroken at her feet. From her bag she ate a quick lunch, and quenched her thirst from a water skin at her side.
“Siamul,” she called without hope. Her voice echoed across the courtyard, and rang mute on the palace. The jungle paused a moment, as if to listen, and then the chatter of birds and insects resumed. A small monkey approached and picked up the crumbs she had dropped, but Anneke did not like the look of the animal. Its fur was falling out, and its hide showed through, flaky and scabbed. With a start, she picked up the spear, and chased the creature away.
“Siamul,” she called again, and then to herself, “if I find you, you’ll wish I hadn’t.”
Angrily she mounted the palace steps, and passed through the rotted entrance. Inside, the palace looked much the way it had from outside. Vines and ferns covered everything from floor to ceiling, or at least what remained of the ceiling. Shattered stones and rotted woodwork were scattered across the floor, and the sun shined steadily through the roof. Many birds had formed habitations indoors, and they raised a warning cry as Anneke entered. “Siamul,” she called. Her voice echoed in the decaying chamber, and clattered through the palace halls. She waited, but no response came. In the distance, she thought she heard the sound of something falling, like a dish, but it was faint. She clutched the spear a little tighter for reassurance, and looked for another exit.
Across from the main entrance lay an arched doorway leading into a dim hall. Rotted doors hung at either end of the chamber, but they looked as if they had not been disturbed in ages. If Siamul had come here, then he would have taken the archway. Anneke used her spear to brush the vines aside, and went through the arch. Here, as in other places, the ceiling was mostly gone. The stones were cracked, and vines grew down the walls, but the sounds of the jungle were quieter in the hall than they had been outside. She could see no trail, or signs that anyone else had come this way, but she hurried along anyway. The passage went only a short distance before it branched. An opening appeared at her right where a tall door had once stood. Anneke looked through the door, but found only a small wrecked room. A group of birds chattered noisily inside. She continued down the hall. More doorways opened to either side, but none of them appealed to her. At three spots, branches appeared in the passage, but Anneke did not like the look of them, and continued on until she reached the throne room.
Past a pair of wide, rotted doors opened a large room, nearly as large as the courtyard. On the far side waited a high throne. Three steps led up to the throne, and two tall pillars reached up to the ceiling on either side. Bits of rotted furniture lay scattered about, and the tile beneath her feet was cracked in many places. Anneke went to the throne. The dirt had recently been scraped from the seat, and some of the vines were torn away, but otherwise there were no signs of Siamul. Suddenly, she heard a scraping sound behind her. Anneke turned and raised the spear defensively, but saw only the scabby monkey. The animal had followed her through the palace, looking for crumbs. Anneke chased the monkey out into the passage, and then stopped to consider her own course.
All of the legends told of vast treasuries built deep under the palace. The kings had delved and created wondrous forges where gold and silver were molded into intricate shapes. Anneke decided to look for a stairway down. In the distance she thought she heard a scream, as if someone had fallen. “Siamul,” she cried, “is that you?” Her voice echoed a little in the stone hallways, but was not answered.
To her left the passage branched, and faded into darkness. She followed the branch, looking for stairs, or signs that someone had been there recently. Eventually the passage ended in a dark stairway, going down below the palace. Anneke had no real light, but she followed the stairs down, and let her eyes adjust to the darkness. Holes appeared at intervals through the ceiling, and there was enough light to find her way. “Siamul,” she called, “where are you?” The echoes faded and she moved on.
Below the palace, the passage twisted into a maze of corridors. Anneke wandered without direction for some time in the darkness. Rooms opened before here without doors, and closed again behind her. Each one appeared empty, but in the dark she could not tell what lay at her feet. Sometimes she stumbled over rubble in the dark, and heard the scrape of something on the ground. In the distance, she heard an echo of something else moving, but she could not tell what it was. “Siamul,” she called. Her voice echoed, but no one replied. Something crashed to the ground ahead, and shattered. Anneke jumped back, but then grasped the spear, and stepped in the direction of the noise. Her pace quickened, and her heart pounded inside her chest.
Something else scraped the ground. Anneke turned another corner and called, “Siamul, is that you?”
When she heard no reply, Anneke continued forward. She kept moving in the darkness for several more minutes, but she moved carefully now. The sound of another creature in the darkness did not comfort her, and her fear over Siamul was growing with each step. Her throat was a little sore from shouting, and the thick, dusty air. Anneke paused to take a drink of water from the skin at her side. Suddenly a loud rumbling shook the passage, and Anneke backed into the wall, and pressed against the stone. A rush of air blew past her, and the passage filled with a cloud of dust. Anneke began to cough and choke on the dust, and tried to find a way out. She moved as quickly as she could through the passage.
She had not gone far when the rays of the sun began to shine through the cloud of dust. She heard the sound of someone gasping for breath ahead. “Siamul,” she called, “is that you?”
“I am here,” came the hoarse reply.
Anneke ran forward, and found Siamul nursing a gash in his arm.
“I am alright,” he said when he saw her. “The passage collapsed. I think there was some sort of mechanism that I tripped.”
Anneke poured water into the cut, and bound it with strips of her food bag. “Let’s go back,” she said.
Siamul stood up, and replied, “I don’t think there is any treasure here anymore, and if there were, we will never find it like this.”
The cave-in had blocked the passage ahead, and the hole in the ceiling was too high for them to reach. Siamul turned and led Anneke back down the passage. The dust was settling now, and they could breathe easier in the darkness. In the half-light, they could not recall all of the turns of the ancient maze, and quickly lost track of the stairs out. Finally they stopped to rest and catch their breath. In the darkness, they heard distant scraping sounds, and a crash of something falling.
“We are not alone,” said Anneke.
“Probably just the monkeys playing,” replied Siamul, but he remained unconvinced. “I think the stairs are further to our left. If we take the next left turn, and follow a straight line, we should come there quickly.” Anneke nodded her agreement, but both remained doubtful.
After another minute of rest, they pushed on. They passed several more chambers, but no passages opened to their left. The air became noticeably warmer after a short time, and the holes in the ceiling disappeared. The darkness became more complete as they moved on. Anneke took Siamul’s hand, and they moved through another doorway. Ahead, they could see a vague red glow, and the heat intensified. Siamul clutched the spear, and they moved towards the light.
After a time, they came to a wide chamber. In the center of the chamber an enormous beast slept quietly amid shallow pools of bubbling mud. The beast looked like an enormous cat, and slept curled like a kitten, its tail lashing about calmly. The tail splashed sometimes in the mud, and sometimes batted a stone across the chamber. When the creature stretched, its enormous claws scraped the walls of the chamber. The giant cat rolled over, and as it did, a tunnel was visible on the other side. Cool air swept into the room, and both Siamul and Anneke sensed that it lead to the outside.
“Now we know what destroyed the kings,” whispered Siamul. “If there are anymore of those things living here, then the palace would have been emptied in minutes. Let’s try to cross and get out of the tunnel.”
Flat stones appeared in the mud in places, and together they picked a path. Siamul went first. The must was not deep, although it steamed and bubbled. They were very careful not to slip into the puddles. As the beast turned in its sleep, Anneke noticed that it was not entirely covered in fur. Patches of hair had fallen out in many places, and a scaly hide was visible underneath. The creature’s claws were as long as her hand, and the ground shook when it moved. Finally, they neared the tunnel and the exit.
The tunnel was not long, and a fresh breeze blew softly over them. Moonlight glimmered over the treetops just meters away. Siamul reached the tunnel entrance, and turned to help Anneke through. Anneke stepped across, and took a few steps towards the exit. Siamul did not follow. She turned around, and found Siamul kneeling at the edge of the mud pots.
“What are you doing,” she whispered. Siamul did not answer, so she turned and crept quietly back to him. Siamul was looking at a glint of gold that was just visible at the edge of the mud.
“There is the treasure,” he breathed. He glanced quickly up at the beast and then back down at the gold. Slowly he put his finger to the surface of the mud, and groped for the gold. Quickly he jerked back the finger, and stifled a gasp. “It’s hot,” he said lamely.
“Let’s go,” whispered Anneke, and she stood up.
The creature stretched and clawed in its sleep, but did not wake. Siamul had not moved. Anneke was about to grab him when he took a deep breath, and plunged his hand into the mud. His face twisted in pain, but he triumphantly brought up a golden platter. His hand was red and swollen, but he managed to stifle his cry. Anneke pulled him to his feet, and they moved towards the exit.
The tunnel opened into the side of the cliff. A narrow path streamed down the edge to the beach. In the bright moonlight, they could see their boats not far away. As they stepped onto the path, they heard a loud scraping above them, and a noise of the beast waking. Anneke flew down the path, ignoring the danger of falling. Siamul kept close behind her. The path stopped abruptly two meters above the beach, and Anneke balked. Above them, the beast emerged from the tunnel. It let out a terrifying roar, and began climbing down the face of the cliff. The jagged stones had no effect on its thick hide. Anneke screamed, and jumped to the beach. She hit the ground and rolled, but got up again and ran towards the boats. After a few steps, she realized that Siamul had not followed. Above her, still on the path, Siamul turned to face the creature. The beast clung from its claws to the rocks, and approached her betrothed.
“Jump Siamul,” she called, but he did not respond.
Siamul raised the golden platter in defiance, and cried, “its mine.” His voice had taken a hysterical tone that was totally foreign to his nature. The beast fixed its eyes on him, and Siamul still waved the platter. Abruptly the beast’s eyes glowed a fiery red, and Siamul was covered in an eerie light. His flesh turned gray, and his body froze where it had been. Siamul became another statue, like the broken soldier in the courtyard. The beast deftly flicked the platter from his hands with a claw, and caught it on its tongue. Anneke did not wait for it to pursue. She turned and fled back to the boats, and rowed with all her strength towards the village. High above her on the cliff, the beast slipped with its treasure back into its lair.
THE END
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Posted by admin on January 5, 2009
The Cleansing of Darnuth Keep is a fantasy novel describing the adventures of Colter Halfspear as he becomes a man and an initiate of magical powers.
True to his word, Pascalli led us to the base of a high cliff overlooking the sprawling mountains. All around us snow glistened in the sunlight and a chill wind bit at our ears and noses. A wide cave opened into the side of the mountain and disappeared into blank darkness beyond.
As we rode into the cave, the sunlight began to disappear and the footing became dangerous for our horses. We dismounted and Pascalli instructed me to light a lantern he had brought along for just this purpose. “We won’t need it long, but the light is better than that of a torch. Mind your feet now.”
We trudged into the blackness. I had never before ventured underground, or explored any cave. Truly the depths of the earth hold many great mysteries, but finding them requires both courage and skill. Fear gripped my throat as I guessed at the shadows and echoes just out of sight.
“Relax, boy,” advised Iven. “You’re making enough noise to wake the entire mountain.”
I realized then that I had scuffed my feet something awful on the floor and that with each step I sent sand and small pebbles skidding out of sight. I quickly began to move more lightly and consciously tried to relax.
“Yes,” agreed Pascalli heartily. “Be careful with your horse. He is not used to this. Step where I step. The ceiling is going to slope down here very soon. There are also traps set in the floor so be careful where you go or we may all regret having chosen this path.”
I thought about reminding the wizard that I had not chosen any path in particular but thought better of it. Instead I concentrated on keeping my horse, which was apparently terrified of being underground, from bolting. After what I would estimate to be close to an hour Pascalli stopped and asked me to bring up the lantern closer. In front of us a passage sloped steeply down into the earth. To the right, a large stone painted with blue letters gave some warning that I could not decipher.
Pascalli spoke in a language I did not understand and a rumbling voice similar to Iven’s when he was angry answered him. I recognized our names given during the exchange but could gather nothing further. Then the voice disappeared and Pascalli said, “We are to wait here for a while. The guards need to verify that we are who we say we are. In any event I expect we should make ourselves comfortable.”
The Veldmen returned a few hours later to find us lounging on their doorstep. Each of them carried a short spear or halberd finely crafted with blades polished to perfection. About them their armor moved seamlessly and silently, a trick of their skill and mastery that mankind can only dream about. Their hair and beards varied in color from deepest red to fiery golden. The tallest of them stood a full head and a half shorter than me. Pascalli spoke on our behalf in their deep rumbling language and we followed them into their realm.
Fear and wonder stilled my heart as I followed the dark path into the mountain. The path led simple and straight, though I guessed they had built safeguards along the way. Though the tunnel did not turn, we often changed sides as we walked along the corridor, and our guides often paused to listen before continuing.
They brought us into their city, a bright cavern carved from living rock lit by cunning lanterns and mirrors. “My lord Vrashnil, I have come to pay what I owe in return for your services at the battle near Havensod,” said Pascalli.
“You come slowly, Black Wizard,” replied Vrashnil. His voice rang loudly through their city. He held obvious contempt and thinly veiled mistrust for Pascalli. “The race of men broke the world, and still we wait for you to put it back together again. You show little reason for us to trust you. Four cycles to Moalthor you promised. I say five. Much time has passed.”
“I offer ten from the boy,” replied Pascalli.
Vrashnil laughed a hollow laugh and smiled. “You bring us a gift. Do you betray him as you betrayed the darkunder? Will you leave him here while you wander the wide cold world or do you expect our welcome?”
“For Iven and myself I offer two cycles in exchange for food and comfort through the winter,” said Pascalli. “The boy travels with me of his own will. He can decide for himself how he feels about me.”
“Your payment is generous. Two cycles each,” agreed Vrashnil.
One of the guards took me by the arm and began to lead me away. Pascalli stopped him. “You’ve sold me as a slave,” I said. I felt the anger burning in my face.
“Yes and no,” replied Pascalli, as cheerful as a summer’s day. “Ten cycles works out to about a hundred days, more or less. They do not count time as you and I. The time will pass rapidly enough.”
“A slave is still a slave,” I said.
“You will be asked to work, but the work is no more difficult than what have already done. Iven and I will also work. Most likely you will be asked to assist one of the smiths. Pay attention. Keep your eyes open. There are things here that you cannot learn anywhere else. I did not sell you into slavery, so much as buy you an education I could not otherwise give you.”
The resentment in my heart did not die as they led me away. They took me to a large forge where several Veldmen labored. A stout fellow with a thick beard looked me over with disapproving eyes. He said something in their language, and by his tone I could tell he was not happy. The guards left us and I immediately began to discover the secrets of mastering any craft.
Torsith ruled his forge and those who worked and served there with infinite patience and painstaking care. The Veldmen do not measure time by the rising and setting of the sun, but rather by the sleeping and waking of a person. Each waking moment for the first twenty days or so, Torsith directed everything I did. He refused to speak my language, but he patiently explained the words of their tongue many times each day until I understood what he wanted. I gathered fuel for their fires, fetched tools, and watched as they crafted the most intricate works of metal and stone I had ever seen.
Precision clocks, the like of which are not found anywhere in the empire, sound the rising each morning. Each person, no matter their station performs their duties tirelessly. About twenty hours later the clock tells of the time to sleep, and all work stops. Every ten days, or cycle as they call it, the Veldmen rest from their labors and offer their rites to the god Moalthor from whom they received the gift of fire and the knowledge of the forge.
Despite Pascalli’s reassurances, I found the work far more difficult, especially at first, than anything I had ever done before. To the Veldmen, work is life. One lives to work. One joys in it, and receives fulfillment from it alone. A master smith may spend a hundred hours crafting a piece to perfection simply to melt it down again and start over just for the sheer joy of working. Rest and recreation have a time and place among the Veldmen, but the rites of Moalthor carefully regulate these diversions.
Copyright 2008 Kelly David Tolman
On to The Cleansing of Darnuth Keep Fantasy Novel Chapter Sixteen
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