Nathelion grimaced unhappily. “That’s...rather unfortunate.” Skull was not used to the Hills either as far as he knew, yet he did not believe the destrier would be daunted by one of the felines. “But the mountain lions do not attack, surely?”
Conrad shrugged. “Usually not. But sometimes, prey becomes scarce, and their hunger makes them dangerous. Even a smaller lion can slay a man rather easily when it jumps down from one of the cliffs above. It’s a bad death, but often quick. A group is less likely to be seen as easy prey.” The knight chuckled, as if he had just thought of something funny. “Of course, there are exceptions. I remember Unlucky Dunn. Poor bastard got attacked right out of the blue while riding in a group of twenty armed knights and talking to his friend right next to him. Suddenly, it seemed one of the gray ghosts had decided that he was good for eating, and it landed on him, making all the horses rear, and the men almost didn’t realize what was happening. When they did, Unlucky Dunn was faceless and dead, and his horse was badly clawed as well. They killed the mountain screamer, of course. Big one, too, though it had grown scrawny.”
Gods, I’m going to get some bloody sore neck from looking up at these cliffs, Nathelion thought.
“Then there is the odd cave bear, of course, though you won’t see them too often,” Conrad continued. “Still, they can be terrifying in these passages, and there have been times when we’ve lost whole bands of scouts to them. We know that it’s the bears when the corpses are torn mostly to pieces.”
“Really?” Nathelion took his eyes from the cliffs. “And where are these cave bears found?”
The knight grunted. “There are caves everywhere in the Hills, dark and wet, and you never know what lives in them. Some are said to lead into whole labyrinths of passages beneath the ground, with plenty of holes out to the open — allowing the beasts to appear anywhere, really. When the horses catch the scent of a cave bear, though, chances are they won’t let you stay. There is no larger predator on land than the cave bear, and when roused to anger, they are the most ferocious as well. Trust me on that. I have seen them. Their fur is very thick, though, and the barbarians are mad enough to hunt them for it. Some of the caves here have plenty of human bones in them, if you’d care to have a look.”
Nathelion could safely say that he didn’t. He watched the deep shadows among the rocks, though, warily scanning for caves. I don’t think I’ll get much sleep these weeks. They had just started out, and he was already on edge. Damn it if not every shadow seemed a cave now!
“Cave bears, eh?” Molgrimin sat so low on his yilval mount that Nathelion hadn’t noticed him, and Meriehse danced so lightly over the stones that she hardly made a sound. The golden steed seemed right at home in the rocky terrain. “A cave bear would be a great beast to slay, wouldn’t ye say? I’ve hunted plenty of bears in my days, but never this kind. Almost wish I had my rifle.” The dwarf scratched his beard, whose long braids fell past his knees. “Aye, had I had my rifle, then I’d make a pretty necklace of teeth.”
Nathelion frowned. “Your rifle?”
Behind him, the bard laughed loudly, assuring him that he’d made a mistake by asking the question. “I guess that I should not be surprised over the fact that you’ve never been to Kast-Harnax, but surely, excuses for ignorance can only take you so far.”
“It is a weapon of sorts,” Molgrimin explained, “much like a crossbow, only with a bit more punch to it. Doesn’t matter, though. I haven’t got it, and I ain’t like to fetch it.”
“It uses their fire-powder.” Arisfae wouldn’t let it go. “Something that spares them the effort of chiseling out their mountain halls with hatchets. The moinguir are a bit too few for that, so better to be crafty, no? Or perhaps you thought they dug for their gems like moles.”
Molgrimin chuckled. “We are rather crafty; I won’t deny it. Keeps the tall folk wondering, though. The thunder of the mountains. Do we command the thunder?” The moinguir smiled secretively. “Perhaps, in a way. Perhaps.”
Nathelion didn’t know what to make of it. Thunder of the mountains? Fire-powder? It meant nothing to him, though he’d be damned if he’d open his mouth to reveal his ignorance again — not when the bard was hovering after them on his palfrey.
“Regardless, hopefully, we will find one of the bears here,” Arisfae said in a rather bored tone. “When I hear the name ‘Savage Hills,’ I expect a bit of savagery. Or did they wish emphasis on the ‘Hills’ bit? Gods, it almost seems like it.” The bard looked about at the dark mounds as if judging them lacking. “If any of you spot a cave bear, make sure to toss a stone at it.”
“Are you an utter dimwit?” Nathelion asked, fearing from the man’s tone that he might actually attempt some such folly. “If you follow us because you want to find danger, I’d rather you go by yourself. Actually, I prefer that anyway.”
“Already going jittery, are we?” the singer asked. “So much for your mighty transformation. Why come to the Hills if not for danger?”
“We are passing through,” Nathelion stated firmly. “Feel free to stay, though.”
The bard sighed at him. “Your cowardice is disrupting my creative process. I seek the epic here.”
“Yet when you find it, your creative process will no doubt be swiftly forgotten, bard.” Conrad gave a derisive snort. “You don’t write poetry when you’re in front of a cave bear.”
“Well, not right in front of it, perhaps. But at a certain distance. Obviously, I can’t be the one to face it. That would just be a...”
“Disaster,” Nathelion finished for him.
“No doubt,” Conrad agreed with a chuckle, and the singer went wonderfully silent. “We shall try to make it to the Razor Heights before nightfall,” the knight said more loudly. “The farther into the Hills we come, the greater the peril, but the Razor Heights usually offer good shelter — from winds and watchers both.”
As they rode through the passages, Nathelion imagined that their environment was growing ever more sinister by the minute, though that might just have been the combination of Conrad’s grim stories and the setting sun. Oddly shaped rocks became strange beasts in the darkness. It didn’t seem to help that he always realized that it was a stone that scared him, or a shadow, or a gust of wind. He seemed ever capable of finding countless new threats.
Suddenly, a deep howl rose in the distance, alone and echoing. “What is that?” he asked at once. They all stopped to listen. Nathelion had heard plenty of wolf howls in Widowswood, enough to know that this wasn’t one.
Conrad was silent a long while, even after the sound faded. “I don’t know,” he then said simply before riding on.
Nathelion didn’t like that. He noticed that the man kept a good eye on their surroundings as well. Perhaps that was merely common sense in the Hills, yet the stiff expression on Sir Conrad’s face suggested that there was something more to it.
“Ye know what this reminds me of?” Molgrimin asked. “It reminds me of the time when I was hunting for a werewolf...”
“You’ll have to tell me about it some other time,” Nathelion said. He was far too unnerved to allow himself to be distracted now. Besides, there was something else he wanted to ask the moinguir. “Will you not tell me, Molgrimin, what it was that made you pick up the adventurer’s life? What made you leave Kast-Harnax?”
When he brought the subject up, Molgrimin seemed to immediately grow quiet. “I can’t tell ye that, Nathan. It was a different time, a different Molgrimin. He is dead now, and there’s only me.” The moinguir pulled on Meriehse’s reins to slow down when they passed through a passage where only Skull would fit, and then he did not ride up to Nathelion’s side again.
Gods, what has happened to him? Nathelion thought. An exile. But why would he have been exiled? Molgrimin’s suddenly grim expression made his hackles rise, and the question came to him, full of apprehension.
Molgrimin, what is your crime?
28
The Darkest Caverns
Molgrimin had oft
en heard that Rurhav and the Savage Hills were grim places, yet no place was without shadow for him. He carried a taint in his heart that made the greenest summer meadow foul, and even among his friends, he remained alone. Thoughts of the past were like a cloud that blotted out the sun.
In such darkness did he ride now, after Nathan had inquired of his past. The blademaster did not understand what he fled from. Nor what longing he tried to bury deep in his heart. He wanted back. Back to Kast-Harnax, his home, where he had grown up in the mountains with their high forests and valleys grazed by the yilval herds, where he had played as a child with mechanical toys, and where he’d learned to use the hammer and the forge as a youth. And where he had been promised to Ingathain.
He remembered her still, even when years of shame lay between them. He needed hope — even with all the pain it brought him. He needed to attempt the impossible, for if he did not, then damnation would be his in a way even the hells could not invent.
And perhaps there was a slight chance for him to rise from the dark pit that he had fallen into. The world was in a peril unlike any other, with the abyss itself encroaching upon its borders. Alwarul and Nathelion had shown him a path; would he then forsake it? Nay, that he would not. He would not, for he had nothing save the hope that they had provided. Nothing but the dream to again be who he was. Perhaps even his honor could be restored if he aided in the rescue of the world. Perhaps then he could return and find Ingathain waiting to forgive him without fear in her eyes. And perhaps his father would restore his name, make him again a being worthy of life, and look upon him no longer as the wild dog he’d become, but as a son.
He could never undo what he had done. But in his heart, he had sworn vengeance a thousand times and a thousand more upon Thalduywan for his deceptive ways. That empowered him even if it did not grant relief. The runemaster would no longer safely sit in his father’s halls when Molgrimin returned. But those were all dreams, faint hopes so distant that summoning them to his mind brought only grief and pain, and he rode like a shadow in the saddle while the shifting hills of Rurhav passed him by unnoticed, despite whatever perils they might hide.
He knew not how much time passed in that dark entrapment of the mind before they reached jagged peaks under which the knight had them dismount. “We sleep under those cliffs. Bring the horses closer and secure them well. You do not want them to bolt at the scent of some beast.”
Molgrimin need not listen to that. He let Meriehse walk where she would, and he sat down among rocks and pebbles beneath the wide overhang of the cliffs. The bard began to pluck a few notes on his harp that sounded as sad and hollow as their barren surroundings.
“Can we make a fire?” Nathelion asked, and the knight considered only a moment before giving consent.
“The winds should disperse the smoke swiftly enough, and the light won’t be seen over these cliffs, if anyone is even watching. We are still close to the Lion’s Pass. But just in case, don’t throw on any grass.”
The blademaster built the fire beneath the cliffs, and as it burned, the bard began to play cheerful tunes that rose through the passages. Sir Conrad glared at the man until he stopped, and then silence returned to the Hills. The knight seemed to be wary, gazing at the dark, mountainous forms under the drifting winds as if looking for something. Barbarians, no doubt, though he’d said himself that they were still close to the Lion’s Pass. The knight was cautious.
But regardless of the unease that seemed to be inspired by the solemn obscurity of Rurhav, their first day through the Hills had passed without...
“What is that?” It was Tim who saw it first, pointing at a large, winged shadow that crossed the darkened sky above the cliffs with frightful speed. At first, Molgrimin thought it was some kind of bird, but the body that those huge wings carried had a strange shape that made him think of other creatures entirely. He did not have time to consider it much longer before it disappeared behind a peak and was seen no more.
“It was an eagle,” Conrad said, and no one protested, though Molgrimin doubted if anyone believed that thing had been a bird. “The Hills are full of different raptors. You’ll often see them.” The knight, though, continued to look silently towards the spot where the thing had been.
Tim was wise, and he leaned in to ask the wizard. “Alwarul, do you know what it was?”
The wizard looked upon the squire with profound knowledge turning in his gray eyes, knowledge that seemed to give rise to both tension and unease. “Many strange things came into being once, in a war that saw spells used more than swords and arrows. In the remote places of the world, such creatures still remain.”
“In the Savage Hills?” the boy asked, and it was clear that he was frightened.
“In Rurhav, at least,” the wizard said. “The clansmen are more used to dealing with such beings than are the people in the kingdoms. Perhaps not for long, however. If the stories are true — and I have my reasons to credit them — then warped and aged things may yet come to visit the civilized world.”
“And these creatures, are they dangerous?” Molgrimin asked, thinking of the winged shadow.
“Many of them were formed from the foulest of magic, shaped as monsters that have long haunted the memory of mankind. Some were used in the War. Yes, they are dangerous.”
Arisfae smiled in a strange way upon hearing the dire tidings, perhaps feeling as eager to write a song as Molgrimin was to slay the monsters.
“What was this war?” Tim asked breathlessly.
“The Witchwar,” Alwarul began. “The Unholy War, the Struggle of the Fiends, many are the names that have been used for this conflict. Yet to my order, it is only the War, for we have had but one.”
“Who did ye battle against?” Molgrimin asked curiously.
Alwarul looked at Nathan as if the blademaster shared his knowledge, and then he sighed. “Things that no longer exist, thank the powers.”
“Ye won, then?”
Alwarul smiled wearily at the question. “A shallow victory, but yes. We won and freed the world from that time’s greatest threat. I fear that we now stand before one more terrible still.”
Perhaps I wasn’t born in the wrong time, Molgrimin mused, feeling some hope.
“But if...if the abyss is really coming, how will you stop it?” Tim asked.
“You mustn’t concern yourself with these grim things, Tim. Trust in Nathelion. Hyahiera does.”
The boy gaped at the mention of the goddess, and he looked at the champion in a new light.
“Tim,” Sir Conrad called suddenly. “What are you sitting there chatting about? Come. And bring your sword. You have practice to see to.” The squire quickly obeyed, but his awe before Nathan was clear.
The bard was still smiling. “Molgrimin didn’t tell me that gods were involved,” Arisfae said cheerily. “I guess you are truly more than you seem, Nathelion, to draw Hyahiera’s eyes.”
“Aye, he is chosen by Hyahiera,” Molgrimin said to amend his earlier telling. And now ye can suspect it just by looking at him. The clothes truly made Nathan appear all that he was. The fierce and cunning warrior was there, the one that Molgrimin’s trained eyes had detected immediately.
“Is that so?” The bard grinned at Nathelion. “Tell me, Nathelion, how does it feel to carry such a burden on your shoulders?”
It seemed a wise question, but Nathan didn’t answer it. He almost looked angry. “Come on, Nathan, tell him,” Molgrimin said. “He’ll write our songs, so it’s good if he knows some things about ye.”
“Yes, Nathelion, tell me. I’ll have your name sung all over the realms,” the singer promised.
Nathan still seemed stiff, but then it must have been a difficult subject. “I feel that I was born for whatever comes to pass.”
“Well, that’s a rather uncommitting answer,” the bard said. “Alright, tell me this, then, Chosen One: how are you going to defeat the Queen Beyond?”
Again, Nathelion seemed reluctant to answer. “I shall vanquish her...
under the guidance of Hyahiera.”
The bard rolled his eyes. “My, aren’t you the dullard. Oh, but I have a more exciting question.” His grin grew thin and cunning. “If Alwarul or Molgrimin would ever want proof that you really are the Chosen One, what would you give them?”
The question made Molgrimin blink. What does he mean...? He looked uncertainly from Arisfae to Nathan, whose face had grown very tense. An answer came, but it was not any that Molgrimin had expected.
“Stop this,” Nathan almost growled, and the singer laughed merrily.
“Surely, the Chosen One must be able to withstand some pressure.”
“Bard, enough,” Alwarul cut in. “Your ignorance makes you look a fool to all here. There is no one partaking in your joke.”
“Isn’t there?” the bard asked, and he looked at Nathan. “Are you sure, wizard?”
Molgrimin didn’t understand anything of what was being said now. Joke? What have I missed? He didn’t tell any joke.
“Bard,” Alwarul said, chuckling, “I’m afraid that you are hopelessly confused. Nathelion is quite beyond your ken. You do not know who you are speaking to. He is the Chosen One, and he does know it. And I know it, too, for it was I who found him. Now, if Molgrimin had any doubt, I could confirm it with him.”
“Doubt of what?” Molgrimin asked, feeling very lost.
“Never mind, my moinguir friend,” Arisfae said, turning to him with a gesture dismissing the discussion. “We were just talking of the great quest. I expect to write many mighty songs.”
“Aye, that is good.” Molgrimin grinned. “The more songs, the better.” If his name were to be sung so that it was heard even in Kast-Harnax, then perhaps he would find his pardon. His feat must not pass unnoticed.
Alwarul seemed very somber when he turned to the bard. “Perhaps you hold yourself clever now, singer, but you will soon realize that you have been very blind.”
The Unchosen: Book One of The Queen Beyond Page 29
