by Eli Steele
It had been less of a nightmare, but was an unwelcome intrusion in his mind nonetheless. A river ablaze, blue flames mysteriously feeding on water. On one bank, an army unwilling to brave a crossing. On the other, a small group of pursued, guarded by the inferno.
And a face. A face that was strangely familiar. And yet, I can’t place him…
He lay in bed, still smelling the blaze.
Wait, something’s not right...
He arose; the smell of smoke grew stronger.
Shit!
Stepping into his pants, he padded over to the door. Cautiously, Rowan cracked it and peeked out. A figure moved through the shadows. The light from a sconced candle glinted on steel.
Who the hell is that?
He pushed the door shut and retreated to a darkened corner. Grabbing his boots and belt, he squeezed his eyes shut.
The darkest night, the deepest winter. Rowan imagined the blackest black that he could muster. His mind carried him back to the olde growth forest, where he had battled the mage through the eyes of the old man. Suddenly, he was there again, but this time he was alone. Turning the torch upside down, he plunged it into the snow. It sizzled and hissed, before turning cold.
An icy draft swirled through the room as the door opened. Rowan gritted his teeth to keep them from chattering. Somewhere in the dark, a figure slunk through the room.
With one hand on the wall and the other cradling his boots, Rowan crept towards the door. An arm’s length away, something brushed his shoulder.
The ruse is up...
Dropping the boots, he gripped the hilt. A calming wave rushed over him. The blade sung its quiet steel song as he pulled it from its sheath. Leaping from the blackness, he lunged at the presence.
But it sidestepped him, and countered with its own blade.
Rowan parried the blow and recoiled back into the dark. Together, they blindly moved about the room in a grim dance; wordless, silent, waiting for the other’s move.
Sensing a sudden movement, he ducked low. Steel clanged against stone. Letting the sword lead, he drove it in the direction of the sound.
The blade found soft flesh. Placing a hand on the pommel, Rowan pushed through the resistance. A gasp followed a sucking sound, and then a low moan. Placing a bare foot on his adversary, Rowan unsheathed his sword from the rib cage. Hot blood dribbled over the hilt and spattered on his hand.
On the ground, the figure gurgled and convulsed. Stepping over the body, Rowan’s foot landed in a slick pool of blood and slid out from underneath him. Grimacing, he landed hard on his side. Rowan lay on his back and cursed and groped blindly for his boots. Finding them, he pulled them over his feet and stood again. Back on his feet, the smoke was thicker still. Reclaiming the dark, he faded out the room.
At the end of the hall, a hooded figure rounded the corner, gripping daggers in both hands.
Rowan froze.
You’re the same bastards from Hadan’s Square, the ones that were after the old man...
The area was dark, though not as complete as the bedroom. Flattened against the wall and motionless, Rowan peered through the shadows and studied the assassin.
Confident, and measured in his movements, and dressed in black, the man searched each room as he came to them. When the assassin stepped into a small study, Rowan crept past. All the while, the smoke grew thicker. Bringing his hand to his mouth, he muffled a cough.
The cold stone floor grew warmer as he neared the stairs leading up to the main floor. At their base, he peered up before recoiling. Flames climbed the heavy wooden columns and licked the rafters. Chancing a second glance, his heart sank.
Leave now and live, or go back for Brayden and you’ll both die...
Rowan closed his eyes and paused for a long moment. It wasn’t a hard decision, but the thought of signing his own death warrant was sobering. Turning back, he hurried towards Brayden’s chambers.
He stopped at the entrance to the old priest’s room. The door was ajar. Retrieving the blade, he pushed the door open and peered inside.
Brayden lay in a pool of red, gasping for air.
“Father!”
Plunging the sword into its sheath, he rushed to the old priest’s side. A deep gash in his stomach pumped blood. Brayden clutched Rowan’s arm with a shaky hand.
“My son... there’s so much...”
“You’re not dying.”
The priest coughed.
Focus...
Standing, he raced to the adjoining room. A moment later, he returned with a small chest. He opened it and said, “What do I need? Tell me what I need!”
“The green... poultice...” Brayden rasped.
Ripping back the priest’s shirt, the thief pressed the poultice against the wound. Brayden gritted his teeth and groaned. Retrieving a long dressing, Rowan sat the priest upright and wrapped his stomach.
“Let’s go,” the thief said.
“I can’t...”
“I’ll carry you through this damn inferno if I have to-“
“That won’t be necessary,” a voice replied.
Snapping his head around, Rowan saw two assassins standing at the door.
“Just give us the sword and we’ll leave.”
“Like you left Orick?”
The assassin clicked his tongue and stepped forward. Suddenly, he was flung backwards out the door. Colliding with the second man, they smashed into stone wall beyond. The door to the room slammed shut, its timber bar falling into place.
Holding the wound, Brayden groaned and coughed. “Oh, that hurt...”
“What in the actual hell just happened here?”
“Help me up...”
“No, wait! You mean to tell me-“
Brayden’s eyes were glassy and weak. “Ro, please... if we don’t leave now...”
The door shuddered as a body crashed against it.
Draping the priest’s arm around his shoulder, Rowan stood. “Wait,” he said, “where’re we going?”
“The side room... under the rug...”
Together, they hobbled across the room. Rowan yanked back the rug, revealing a hidden door. Opening it, stairs descended into the sewers.
“Secret stairways, magery! Who in the Four Kingdoms are you!”
“I’m the same man I’ve always been. Now, help me down...”
The foul stench of the city’s bowels accosted them. Rowan retched. Brayden’s dressing had blossomed red.
“You’re losing too much blood. I’ll have to carry you.” Lifting him up, Rowan asked, “Where-“
“Straight ahead, two lefts and a right... you’ll see stairs... Cecile. I can’t...”
“Shhh... Save your strength. I’ll get you to Cecile, I promise.”
Chapter 9
Griffon Alexander
Uhnan’akk Winter Camp
Braeridge Mountains
Griffon lay on his back under a pile of furs and stared at the top of the tent. His head throbbed. The aroma of reheated stew and fresh-baked bread wafted in.
“Do you feel as bad as me?” Ezra moaned.
“Most likely.”
“That soured wine is the devil’s piss.”
“With a hint of oak.”
“...and blood orange.”
Griffon chuckled.
Their tent flap tore open. In walked Kren. He studied them as they lay in their feeble states. In a tone only half-tinged with sarcasm, he quipped, “And all of the Unhnan’akk saw your weakness, and they mourned for it.”
They groaned in reply.
“Get up, retch over the cliff if you must, and eat. Once you’ve finished, join us in the cave, Eleksandr. Ezra Tenderfoot, you may not join us, but you have free rein of the camp.”
Rolling on his side, Ezra muttered, “Tenderfoot?”
“Would you prefer Retchbelly?”
“Tenderfoot is fine...”
* * * * *
Having follo
wed Kren’s suggestion of emptying his stomach before filling it, Griffon felt much better. His footsteps echoed deep into the mountain’s throat. He wondered how much farther the cave delved.
Entering the chief’s throne room, he found both Krens.
“Have you bested the young wine’s wrath?” the Younger asked.
Young wine? I’d hate to try the old…
Taking a seat, Griffon replied, “Not without bowing to the cliffs.”
Kren the Younger chuckled. “Wise is the stranger that takes the counsel of natives.”
“It is said,” the chief added.
“It is said,” Kren the Younger repeated.
Griffon sat in silence for an awkward moment. He studied them studying him. After some time, he asked, “So, you called me, and I’m here. What would you show me?”
“You hear well enough, but you don’t listen,” Kren the Elder said.
The Younger nodded in agreement.
“There is nothing that we can show you, Eleksandr. But, you will see soon enough. It will not be easy for you, though. The mountain’s wisdom is only earned, never given. And only you may earn it.”
Tired of words he didn’t understand, Griffon relented. “Just show me what I must do.”
Kren the Younger stood. From the far corner of the room, he retrieved a spear. Thrusting it at the lowlander, he said, “Leave your belt and blade.”
“Thanks, but-“
“This is the way, Eleksandr. There is no other. Take it.”
Unbuckling his belt, Griffon let it fall. He took the spear.
* * * * *
The slope was steep and unstable. Rubble gave way with every step. Thin, icy air complicated the ascent. Griffon’s morning headache returned. Still, the view was remarkable.
Winded and hungry, he scrambled up the mountain after Kren. The titan’s strides were twice his own and effortless. Strapped to his back were a pair of torches and the axes that had slain the Meronians. Blood still stained their edges.
That’s going to rust…
“What did you say?” Kren asked without looking back.
“Did I say that out loud?”
“That you did.”
“I’m sorry, this mountain is wearing me down. I can’t think straight.”
“Steel yourself, Eleksandr. You’ll need your wits soon enough.”
Griffon absorbed his words, but said nothing.
“So?”
“So, what?” Griffon replied.
“What did you say?”
“Oh. I was just thinking that you should clean what’s left of those Meronians off your axes, lest they rust.”
“Blood and iron…” the Uhnan’akk mused. “Each craves the other. Drawn together since the hills were small, there is no separating them. Everything that we desire destroys us, Eleksandr. So, I’ll allow my axes what they crave. And if it ends them, then so be it, but I expect they will outlast me yet.”
Surprised, Griffon replied, “That was profound, Kren…”
“The mountains gives much. Room to think is but one gift.”
Leaning on the spear, Griffon paused to catch his breath. The wildman glanced back, annoyed. Griffon raised a hand and said, “Just a moment, please.”
Kren sighed and found a seat on a nearby outcropping. Retrieving a dark loaf of fresh bread from his shoulder pack, he broke it in half and handed a hunk to Griffon. The lowlander struggled up the slope, took the bread, and sat next to the titan.
“Thanks,” Griffon said.
Tearing off a mouthful with his teeth, Kren said, “It is good, yes?”
“It is, but how do you have flour up here?”
The wildman chuckled. “How is it that one gets what they can’t make? Trade, fool.”
Griffon grinned. “Right. I just thought… never mind.”
“We barter with the farms a half-day’s ride from the base.”
“Barda?”
Kren nodded. “Your friend.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because I’ve watched you-“
“For three seasons…” Griffon interjected, “I remember. Why?”
“Because, we have watched the same things, and so I have seen you. The northmen are changing. I have watched them, and I’ve watched you watch them. You ride north twice every moon to scout their frontier cities. This army, it does not surprise neither of us, not truly.”
Griffon swallowed a mouthful of bread and chased it with a sip of wine from a skin. “I saw them learn to hate again, saw them become suspicious of outsiders. I heard the war drums, but I didn’t expect war. So, I guess you’re more astute...” Taking another drag from the skin, he added, “…I just don’t understand what’s causing this.”
“Who.”
“What?”
“Who,” Kren corrected.
Griffon remembered the wildman’s exchange with the Meronian. “The fiend?”
Kren nodded.
“Who is he?”
Kren shrugged. “I only know what the visions have shown me. He moves among their chiefs and sows strife.”
“What does he want?”
“Do you not hear me, lowlander? I know nothing.”
Griffon eyed Kren, but remained silent. He wasn’t used to being scolded. Thinking of the exchange in the stable with Ben, he regretted their words.
“But, we will know more soon,” the wildman added. And with that, he stood. Again, they ascended.
Several hours later, with the sun low in the sky, Kren hoisted Griffon onto a rocky precipice. Howling winds tore at their overcoats. Griffon leaned into the gust to avoid being swept off the mountain. Pulling himself up, the titan stood and grabbed Griffon by the collar. With measured steps, he cleaved the gales and pressed them towards the mouth of a nearby cave.
Just inside, shielded from the icy blasts, the wildman said, “From this point forward, you must go alone.”
“What awaits me?”
“It is different for every man. Whatever it is, do not doubt that it may kill you. The price of wisdom is often paid in blood.”
Tightening his grip on the spear, Griffon started in.
“Wait,” said Kren. Lighting a torch, he offered it to the lowlander. “Here.”
Nodding, Griffon took the flame. With the spear extended forward, he delved into the blackened maw. As the cavern curved inward, he looked back one final time. The wildman was preparing a campfire. Beyond, the winds wailed their banshee sonnet.
Down, and around, and back again, the shaft twisted. At times, the walls pressed in such that Griffon was certain he’d reached a dead end. Yet always, a path forward revealed itself.
Breathing black smoke, the torch flame wavered only with his movements. Dry and stale, the cave was void of airflow. Absent was the sounds of the tempest that swirled around the peaks.
Somewhere up ahead, a low moan echoed through the chamber. Steeling himself, Griffon planted his feet and laid the spear forward. With the torch he searched the black, but found nothing.
On one wall he noticed an ancient scene painted with blue woada. Several hunters chucked spears at a boar, larger than any he’d ever seen. By the light of the torch, he leaned in and studied the depiction. As he did, he saw a second scene off to the side. Turning, he watched as the flames revealed warriors falling before a hooded figure. A gnarled staff stretched outwards from him. Blue smoke curled around his feet. Behind him crept a solitary, axe-wielding hero. Griffon’s chest tightened. In his mind, he urged the hero forward.
The low moan from before returned. This time however, it was a deep growl. And much closer. Adrenaline surged through Griffon’s veins and trembled his hands. Spinning, he pointed the spear in the direction of the noise.
Heavy footfalls echoed towards him. With each step, Griffon adjusted his position. At the outer reaches of the torchlight, he saw a flash of movement. Following it with the tip of the spear, he focused his breathing
and pushed back the fear.
A great roar filled the chamber. Griffon’s ears rang. Spittle spattered his face. He recoiled.
A dark blur lunged at him. Sidestepping the charge, he felt wiry fur scrape against him. A pungent mix of hot breath and musk burned his nose. Griffon plunged the spear into the shadows but missed.
From his periphery, he glimpsed another flash of movement. Griffon ducked low, but he was too slow. A heavy paw slammed against his chest. Claws tore through his overcoat and rended his flesh. A feeling of weightlessness overtook him as he was batted across the room.
Crashing into the cavern wall, his bones crunched. The torch clattered on the ground a dozen feet away. Grimacing, he writhed on the floor. Again, the roar rattled his head, threatening to burst his ears. Fear consumed him.
On his hands and knees, he clambered towards the torch. Through the blackness, he heard nails scrape stone as they pushed off the ground. Closing his eyes, he sensed a surge of movement from the side. Planting the bottom of the spear against the base of the wall, Griffon angled it towards the threat.
Again a roar filled the room. Drawing from deep within, with trembling hands and beads of sweat pouring down his face, Griffon roared back in defiance.
Threatening to snap in half, the spear bowed inward. A great mass pressed in on Griffon. The booming growl was cut short, replaced by a gurgling snarl. Gripping the shaft, he fought to keep it from fracturing. Nostrils flared as labored breaths rolled over the lowlander’s face. Through the black, he could feel eyes studying him. With one last breath, the creature’s lungs expelled and the body slumped.
Grasping at tufts of matted fur, Griffon climbed over the heap. On the other side, he crawled to the torch and collapsed beside it. He lay in a daze for a time, afraid to move for waking the beast. Finally, he reclaimed the torch and stood.
Inching forward, he waved the flame across his fallen foe. It was a bear, a massive bear, twice as large as it should’ve been. Bony growths plated its back, before terminating at its shoulders. The same growths protected the side of its face and top of its head. Leaning in, Griffon saw the spear had punctured its chest, likely rupturing its heart.
