‘You’re a romantic and a scholar,' said Rogan.
‘Aye, I’m not just an ugly face. I’m talented too. And bred of high nobility. Well, for a dwarf that is,’ shrugged Dopiaza.
‘You're a treasure. Unassuming, yet very deep,’ said Rogan.
‘Is that a compliment?’ asked Dopiaza looking puzzled.
‘No. It’s a great compliment. I almost want to give you the Firestar back,’ Rogan admitted, smiling genially.
Dopiaza reached into his vest again and pulled out a dagger.
Rogan took a step backwards, looking down at the glinting blade.
‘Don’t worry bowman, the first cut is always the deepest,’ said Dopiaza, fixing his gaze.
Rogan took another step backward. A confused look crossed his face.
Dopiaza skimmed the blade quickly near Rogan’s heart and kidneys and smiled with a gleam in his eyes. ‘Talented I am. Unassuming I may be. But there's nothing I can’t do with the trunk of a tree!’ he rhymed swinging around. He cut a large square section of bark from the tree behind him. Then with the speed of thought he chipped and chiselled and the meat of the bark flew everywhere. He scored the bark deeply, adding final touches and handed it to Rogan.
Rogan's face was a picture of disbelief as he looked down upon himself, embedded in the tree bark. The portrait was subtle, yet distinctive. Dopiaza laughed heartily, chewing merrily on a bag-full of wild onions and chives. The aroma was delicious.
‘How many talents do you have?’ asked Rogan.
‘We’ll never really know, will we, because I keep discovering more,’ said Dopiaza putting the blade away.
The distant rumble of thunder drummed out overhead, ceasing their conversation, and both looked to the heavens as a deluge of rain soaked them instantly. A web of lightning flashed illuminating the whole sky and landscape, and a salty breeze blew in from the Negean Sea to their south. Both watched the downpour for a minute or more, holding their grinning faces up to the rain. Then the storm passed as suddenly as it had come and the sun shone in a bright blue sky.
‘How strange is that?’ said Dopiaza.
‘Now that’s exactly what I love about life,’ said Rogan. ‘The unpredictability. You can’t tell from one moment to the next what’s going to happen to you. We try to be at one with nature and nature has its own ideas and fries us alive with lightning – or drops a roof on our heads in a freak storm.’
‘Then I’m like nature,’ said Dopiaza thoughtfully fingering his beard. ‘Sometimes I want to drop something very heavy on Ofash’s thick skull.’
‘You don’t really mean that,’ said Rogan. ‘He saved your life. And if you weren’t grateful, his likeness wouldn’t be on this engraving in such great detail.’
For a heartbeat Dopiaza stood stock-still, looking ashamed. ‘No, no. I’m getting used to him,’ he grinned. ‘But he’s a cold, harsh man with an air of arrogance that doesn’t sit well with me. It bothers him that I exist. Not the other way around, and that’s the honest truth bowman. He can’t stand the fact that I’m smarter than him, even though I’m only a tenth his size.’
Rogan patted Dopiaza’s shoulder. ‘There’s many a good tune played on a small harp,’ he said affectionately. He placed his longbow back over his shoulder, strode toward the white stallion and leapt up onto its back. Clutching the reigns tightly he pulled back on them, digging his heels firmly into the horse’s loins and it took off in a mile eating gallop. ‘We’ll meet again one day very soon, little warrior – you can count on it!’ he shouted waving goodbye.
Swiftly he left Dopiaza behind, angling the stallion northward in the direction of
the enchanted City of Fragrald, with its murderous and monstrous reputation for being
the spawning grounds of the merciless giant hunter-killers known as The Shadow-
Warriors.
Chapter 18
Two hundred leagues to the north-west of the Negean Sea it was hot, dry and cloudy as Rogan, with a terrible weariness entered the ancient monolithic City of Fragrald, stealthily by night, unaware of the awesome nameless terror following him in the shadows. A giant hunter-killer shadow-warrior, able to blend unseen into any type of terrain had completely fooled him into believing that he wasn’t being tracked. Its ability to camouflage itself made it appear as if there was only a shadowy flickering haze in the distance, which led Rogan to believe he was seeing nothing more than a trick of the light every now and again. A mirage.
Unsettled, he glanced back from time to time, but could see no one dogging his trail, so he felt reasonably safe. Yet, he still had a nagging feeling of disquiet and unrest that wouldn’t leave him. Why is that, he wondered? Nevertheless, deep down inside of him he knew there was something wrong but couldn’t put his finger on what it was. He’d noticed objects seemingly moving around of their own accord while he’d been camped, but put it down to a figment of his imagination due to his tiredness. After all, his journey had been long and hard.
Glancing back once more, he entered the colossal iron gates to the city, just as it turned to the witching hour. There was no one on the streets. But he did keep seeing the same haunting shadowy haze he’d noticed throughout his journey. He ignored it. Midnight was his favourite time. It was peaceful and cool after the fierce heat of the day, and the hustle and bustle of traders had gone, which meant he could travel unhindered by all those vying for his attention, trying to sell him something he didn’t want or need.
He hated peddlers. If he wanted or needed anything, he always knew exactly how and where to get it. Most peddlers these days are thieves, he thought, and should be whipped as vigorously and as often as possible.
He passed under the great gateway into Fragrald, lit only by brightly burning torches hanging in iron brackets from the high walls, and he was hypnotised by the stark beauty of the city. He laid his hand on the gate to make sure it was real because it was so huge. Bleak looking the city may be, he thought, but it's a sight to behold after crossing the dry, almost barren hillside for hours on end on this stallion’s back. His nostrils flared and he sniffed the cool air and could smell the most inviting aroma coming from somewhere not too far ahead. He dismounted.
Leading the stallion at no more than a sedate pace he peered into each doorway and alley, sniffing the air, trying to locate the wonderful aroma wafting his way. Carrying his longbow at his side, but always at the ready, he followed aroma for two or three hundred paces along an uneven cobblestone path. He halted at a flight of steps and gazed up at a roof overhung with turf. Then down at a half-open door, backlit from inside.
He sniffed the air again. The wonderful smell seemed to be coming from the dwelling in front of him now. His nostrils flared and his mouth watered as he climbed the ten steps up to the door. It was ajar. His belly rumbled and growled. He pushed it open and peered in. But the door slammed shut in his face and he teetered on the brink, before tumbling all the way down the stairs, bumping and thumping on each hard step. He landed in a crumpled heap, grunting and groaning, wondering what had happened.
Shaken but unhurt except for a few minor cuts and bruises, he shook his head and rubbed the large bump expanding rapidly beneath his braided hair. It soon grew to the size of a small egg. ‘Oh – that hurts,’ he said pushing himself to one knee. He picked up his bow and hauled himself upright.
Suddenly, he became aware of a sinister shadowy figure in the moonlight, further up the alleyway. He staggered awkwardly towards the strange flickering shape. And the closer he came to it, the more intrigued he was by what he thought he saw. He would have sworn that two red eyes were peering at him from out of thin air, blinking once in a while. He edged closer. Staring into the darkness. His gaze wandering though the shadows. Then an overwhelming feeling of danger burgeoned within him. He drew an arrow from his quiver, notching it to the bowstring betwixt his fingers.
Suddenly, a powerful unseen hand hauled him into the air. And unseen fingers clutched at his throat, choking him. Then he was thrown forcibly acr
oss the alleyway and crashed into a dry stone wall. He slid down to the hard ground, gasping for air. ‘Oh, this is turning out to be a very bad day,’ he whimpered. His eyes widened, watching in horror as the almost invisible hunter-killer stalking him approached, flickering like a candle in the wind.
There was an eerie silence. Then a deep guttural voice snarled at him. ‘Welcome Blackhawk, to the hunting grounds of the Shadow-Warriors. It was foolish of you to come here.’ The hunter-killer strode towards him flickering in and out of view like a shimmering heat haze. Finally, he loomed over Rogan, gripping his throat again, hauling him into the air. ‘I'm Morbious. And only the man-god Koki knew of my existence up until now. Before that our kind were merely thought of as myth by you and your kind. He is our master. We take our orders only from him. And we have been following each warrior's progress up until this very moment. Three of you are now dead. And not one of you suspected a thing.’
‘I suspected. But dismissed it out of hand,’ said Rogan, hardly able to breathe.
Morbious flung him brutally against the ally wall and he collapsed in an unconscious state. ‘Luckily for you, Blackhawk, you haven’t outlived your usefulness just yet,’ he snarled laughing madly. And as the laughter echoed and faded, his vague outline vanished silently into the shadows.
Much later, Rogan came back to his senses remembering the feel of those cold iron fingers gripping his throat. His strong face trembled and he blinked hard, shrugging off the thought. He climbed to his feet unsteadily, wishing that he had more lives than one to give for his quest.
Now in the east it was gradually whitening, and he could see for quite some distance in the cold grey light. The City of Fragrald, almost empty and forlorn towered over him in great spires and granite walls with empty windows. It had an ill-omened look, which harmonized with its stark, black beauty and feel of great tragedy. The Shadow-Warriors had obviously arrived a long time ago, besieged the city and sacked it, leaving it empty and desolate except for the hunting parties dwelling outside the great walls. All were killers without a conscience.
Rogan picked up his bow and marched off, angling his journey on a course that led across grounds scarred and intersected with trenches and pits, scattered dirt heaps and ill-grown shrubs. And on reaching a boundary wall he stopped where two great walls joined in a corner. He looked around and listened. The air was still. He clambered up and dropped over the other side Then he became aware of a faint rumbling sound.
Eerily the ground beneath him began to tremble and vibrate. He knelt down, placing his ear to the ground. The sound was coming from somewhere directly below him.
He pulled the dagger from inside his boot and began scratching around a large cobble, carefully teasing the soil to one side. Then, little by little, he began to uncover strange symbols scored into the stone. And the more he scratched, the more symbols he discovered, until it became quite clear that the entire stone was some sort of ancient tablet from a lost age. Is this the entrance to a burial chamber or tomb. And if it is, are the symbols some kind of warning, he thought?
He stood up and stamped on it two or three times. It sounded hollow, but didn't yield. Then he tapped it three times with the hilt of the dagger. It had a most magical effect. Suddenly a strong wind blew in from nowhere, stirring the leaves of the trees. And instantly the air around him had an icy chill to it. Now he was exhaling frosted breath. Then the symbols changed before his eyes into his own written language, which read: The way is unbarred and the gateway open.
Without any warning, the ancient tablet began to tremble and shake, and then it ground aside noisily, making dreadful scraping sounds like fingernails on slate. He blinked hard, staring down into a gaping hole full of cobwebs and centuries of dust. He edged away warily, drawing an arrow from his quiver. Notching it to the bowstring, he aimed it down into the hole. A fear of the unknown ripped through his soul like a sharp knife.
There was a long eerie silence. He stared down the shaft of his arrow into the darkness. His lungs were tight. Burning. Pressing up into his throat. Finally, he breathed.
A flaming head shot up out of the hole, wailing and screaming like a banshee, scaring him half to death. ‘Oh, no…’ he gasped.
The thing disappeared back down the hole. Rogan took a deep breath and waited. He was sweating, his heart beating fast. Leaning forward, he circled the hole. He craned his neck, trying to get a better look inside. Suddenly, a powerful unseen hand shot out, gripping his booted foot, and it dragged him kicking and screaming down into the darkness. Then the stone scraped noisily back across the ground, covering the hole.
Rogan’s screams filled the dawn air as he fell through the gloom. Then the invisible fingers released their grip on him and he came to a sudden jarring halt. His quiver was caught on a twisted tree root. And there was a long drop beneath him. He groaned wearily and hung in the dim light, shaking like a leaf in the wind, but he was unhurt. For a moment he hung there, twisting and turning, trying to release himself. But he was having no success. He thought about cutting the braided harness of his quiver. However, he had no idea how far he would have to fall.
He reached up into his quiver. Taking out a single arrow he released it, counting the seconds as it fell. There was a dull thud after only four seconds. He reasoned that the drop was about forty feet. And because there was a dull thud, rather than a hard bang, it meant the ground beneath him was relatively soft. At least that's what he hoped. Unfortunately, he knew he was going to have to take a chance or hang there forever. He reached down and pulled the dagger from his boot, sucked in a deep breath and cut the braid. Again he fell screaming through the darkness. Moments later, he plummeted into something soft and spongy. It smelt and felt like rotting flesh. Then he went hurtling down a spillway of ice through a colossal cavern.
The spillway twisted and turned, went up, down and around sharp corners and seemed endless. But the further down he went, the faster he slid and the lighter it became. Suddenly a soul deadening laughter filled the cold air. Now he could see the corpses of many hero-warriors entombed in ice, and although they were centuries old, they appeared freshly frozen that day.
Then, after what seemed to be an endless journey through a winter wonderland, he shot off the spillway and smashed through a wall of ice. A moment later he came to a sudden jarring halt. Then his quiver cannoned into the back of his head. Might as well add insult to injury, he thought. His eyes rolled back and forth like loose marbles. Finally, he sprang to his feet in horror, realising that his ride had been on a smelly rotting corpse. He cringed, feeling like he’d swallowed a mouthful of maggots.
Swinging around quickly he realised he was teetering on the edge of an icy chasm, staring down into the darkness. What dread force has ripped away the rock to create such a vast hole, he wondered? His mouth was bone dry, his heart racing. And not a sound disturbed the graveyard silence, except for the constant dripping of water from the melting ice.
He stared down at the melting ice bridge in front of him. It was like a fallen chimney that narrowed to a bottleneck as it went. Then, his eyes widened, focusing on a throne with a bright blue jewel sparkling at its centre. But it was on the other side of the chasm. He stood paralysed with fear at the edge of the precipice, and then stared out across the thirty-foot span of walkway. Vast chunks of ice cascaded down the walls from above and echoed as they smashed into other chunks of rock and ice. He trembled at the thought of crossing the bridge and prayed to the man-gods, but he wanted that Firestar more than anything he had ever yearned for.
He placed one foot onto the bridge. Then the other. And he shuffled forward with his arms out at his sides, inching closer and closer to the throne, always teetering on the brink of oblivion. He suppressed a groan as his foot slipped, time and again, but he righted himself and carried on, feeling sick to his stomach.
When he was halfway across, the cavern rumbled and groaned, shedding more vast chunks of ice, and he found it harder to move forward as the bridge shook violently beneath him
. Carefully choosing every footstep he approached the other side as the cavern groaned and echoed again. He was now no more than ten paces away from the throne, edging forward.
Suddenly there was the sound of more shattering ice from above. And a fist-sized piece hit him full in the face, sending him sprawling into the darkness. His arms were waving like a windmill. He made a desperate grab for the edge of the chasm with his fingertips and made it. But now his feet were hanging in space above an endless drop.
Another chunk of ice the size of a small boulder smashed the bridge to pieces. It disappeared, swallowed by the yawning blackness. He glanced back over his shoulder just in time to see the pieces vanish. He groaned, his fingers slipping. This can’t be my time to die, not here, not now, he thought. Terrified, he clung on for dear life. But one by one his fingers slipped. Suddenly he was hanging by one hand. With nowhere to go but down.
Finally his strength failed. His frozen fingers slipped for a split second. He let go and began to fall. Dark circles ringed his eyes and a rejection of death flashed in them. ‘No!’ he wailed like a child in the night. And the whole grotto echoed to the sound of his voice.
Is this the way it's supposed to end? Is this really my destiny, he thought? Could the man-gods really be so cruel?
Chapter 19
A hand flashed out of the darkness, gripping his hand tightly. He stopped falling. His heart was pounding in his chest like a hammer.
‘Hello lover,’ announced a silky voice.
Rogan couldn't see the face beneath the hood. But he knew it was Kira.
She whimpered and groaned, clinging on to him for all she was worth. ‘Give me your other hand,’ she said reaching down.
The Blackhawks Impossible Quest Page 19
