by Tom Stacey
Darkness gave way to a ghostly radiance tinged with a blue-green haze. Loster rounded a corner and stopped suddenly. The narrow staircase he was on ended within a few steps, hugging the wall of a large round chamber, the centrepiece of which was a low altar of blackest stone, smooth and dished in the middle.
“It stinks in here,” said Barde, covering his face with his hand.
Loster realised then that he had been holding his breath. He drew in a slow breath and nearly gagged. The air was like a soup: thick with a sharp taste of bitter iron. There was no mistaking the stench of blood, old and brown but fetid nonetheless. As he approached the altar with his brother it became clear that the stone’s deep shade of black was actually a dark brown. Loster continued to breathe shallowly as he held his nose. He could taste the acrid tang at the back of his throat, a cloying, oily taste that made his gorge rise.
“What happened here, do you think?” asked Barde. Loster knelt and examined a pile of bones by his feet. A skull grinned back at him from its lair of human remains.
“People died,” he said.
A low growl of stone against stone echoed through the chamber, sending both boys scrambling behind the altar.
“What in gods’ name is that?” croaked Barde in a sharp whisper.
“Sssssh!" Loster grabbed his brother by his soiled tunic and dragged him across the room. A high and narrow doorway loomed towards them and they stumbled through it, running aimlessly into the dark. The boys took a short flight of stairs and rounded a bend, stumbling out on a ruined gallery that overlooked the altar room below. Loster crouched, hugging a waist high column slick with moss, and looked back towards the narrow stairs. Barde tripped over him and swore.
“What are you doing?! We have to keep going.” He plucked at Loster’s sleeve.
“Stop. I want to see!” Loster fought his brother’s hand away.
“We’re not supposed to be here. It could be anyone,” his voice was urgent. “Or anything!”
Loster grabbed his brother and clapped a hand over his mouth just as the sound of metallic footsteps echoed off the stone. The young adventurer bit his tongue to still any sounds he might make as he listened to the tinny shuffle of something very large and very heavy, making its way down the narrow stone stairway. Each step was spaced far apart as if it were only achieved by some great effort.
CLANG… CLANG… CLANG.
The noise grew ominously louder as its author got closer until every blast of noise felt like a physical blow.
CLANG… CLANG… CLANG.
Barde peeled his brother’s hand away, reassuring Loster with a glance that he would remain silent. The boys turned back to peer down at the altar, hovering between the urge to hide and the need to see.
The footsteps were right on top of them now, causing the very stone to shake underneath.
CLANG… CLANG… CLANG.
A handful of the mossy balustrade came away in Loster’s hand. He stared at it in terror, afraid that their hiding place would come crashing down around their ears. He wanted to run, to put all thought of stealthy observance out of his mind and flee headlong into the labyrinthine tunnels of this long-forgotten place of darkness. He looked over at his brother and stopped. Barde was staring down at the stairs that they had used to enter the altar room moments before, his face a picture of utter dread.
For it had arrived, the owner of those footsteps, and its reality was as terrible as the mind of a child could encompass.
A huge knight towering well over thrice the height of a normal man stood at the bottom of the stairs, scanning the room. Loster could see now why the tunnels had such high ceilings; what he had thought was merely design was in fact to admit the passage of this steel-clad guardian. Its armour was black as a raven’s wings and adorned with wicked spikes and sharp edges that looked like weapons themselves. The Guardian’s sword hung at its waist. It was a vast lump of tarnished iron, straight and sharp, with a blade as thick as a man’s waist. So heavy did it appear that it was a wonder even this subterranean monster could lift it. For the Guardian, though tall, was inhumanly thin, with limbs unnaturally long and narrow in relation to its great height.
Yet none of this was what caused Loster’s heart to beat in his chest like a caged animal. Armour was something that he saw all of the time in and around his father’s house. Some, like the plate of his family’s household guard, was plain and dull, yet every now and again a mercenary or tourney knight would pass through the village. Their armour could be many different colours and shapes, some beautiful and intricately engraved, others cruel-looking and designed to intimidate. Other than its sheer size, the armour worn by the Guardian was not anything abnormal. Its helm was another matter. It was a wall of sheer metal, like some great steel cliff, smooth and unmarked and pointed in the middle like the prow of a ship. That expanse was split by a thin visor that ran the whole way across it, giving the impression that the helm was two separate pieces. Above the visor, the helm ended in a jagged ridge of twisted metal that seemed at once both a crown and a set of horns, whilst below, the helm tapered to a sharp and triangular point.
The great head snapped to one side suddenly and a faint snuffling sound could be heard.
Out of the corner of his eye Loster caught Barde looking at him. The snuffling continued as the monstrous mirrored surface of the helm tracked across the room. It passed over the altar and its crusting of blood, it swept along the wall and the damaged tiles that had gathered on the floor. The Guardian ran its gaze underneath the gallery that held the two small boys and then, with a suddenness that clutched at the back of Loster’s throat, the giant creature stopped its search and went rigid.
The snuffling grew louder and more insistent.
Loster’s stomach dropped as he realised what was happening. It was smelling them! Sniffing them out like a hunting dog tracks a deer that has gone to ground.
Searing dread burnt the air in his lungs as he scrabbled backwards but it was too late. The Guardian’s head snapped up, that soulless black gaze reaching inside Loster’s head and squeezing his brain like overripe fruit. The boys screamed as one and hauled themselves to their feet, clutching at the scree and loose detritus until bloody finger nails and raw palms found enough purchase to drag themselves away.
A great thrumming noise tugged at the corner of Loster’s consciousness. He looked over his shoulder just in time to see that monstrous sword swung in a great overhead arc. It hit Barde in the centre of his skull, crushing his head down into his neck and then exploding out through his chest. Loster did not have time to close his mouth as he was blasted with a shower of blood, flesh, and gore.
A stinging pain flared below his right eye, causing him to wince. It was just the impetus he needed. Loster dragged himself away from the ruin that had been Barde and sprinted along the gallery through a high archway.
A great mailed hand dug steel fingers into the ancient stone near the rapidly spreading pool of blood. The Guardian climbed lithely up on the balcony and paused. It stared dispassionately down at Barde’s broken body and then looked in the direction of the fleeing child. The iron smell of blood stung the air and, for the first time in more than a thousand years, the altar began to glow.
Loster ran, tripping and falling several times but picking himself up and carrying on. There was no sound of pursuit, yet he was oblivious to all but the slap of his feet on the floor and the rasp of his own laboured breathing.
It was pitch black in the tunnels. Sweat, blood, and tears coated his face and made him a canvas for all of the dust and grime to stick to. Something warm ran down into the corner of his mouth. It was gritty with dirt and held a metallic taste. He was not sure whether it was his blood or Barde’s but he had no time to care. His mind was focused on one thing: flight.
Loster did not know how long he ran for. Eventually he began to slow as even his childlike energy waned, his trembling legs resisting every step. The tunnels grew lighter until finally Loster turned a corner into white brillianc
e, the light breathing new life into long-dried tears as his eyes screamed in protest.
He raised his arms to his face, shielding them from the sun. The boy couldn’t tell at which point he left the tunnels but suddenly he was surrounded by birdsong and the welcome smell of the forest. Lost as he was, he wandered for hours until a horseman found him. The man was Huss, one of his father’s hunter-trackers. He had been searching for the brothers for a night and a day.
Back in his father’s hall he was called before his sire even before he was allowed to rest or eat. Sat on his carved ebon chair, Lord Gaston Malix cut an imposing and grand figure: broad of shoulder and long of limb and decked in a fine robe of purple whale fur. His smooth, unlined face was etched in an unfitting scowl and yet managed to show no sign of worry or apprehension over his eldest son’s fate. Loster’s mother had been inconsolable when only one of the boys had returned, and so she had been ordered from the great wooden chamber where the Lord of Elk received petitioners.
“I am told your brother is dead. Is this the truth of it?” Even on this subject his tone was one of boredom.
Loster nodded.
“How?” Malix leaned forward and rested his chin on a manicured hand.
Loster swallowed and bowed his head. When he began, his voice was a whisper. His father snapped for him to speak up so he did. He told him of the climb, of the door in the flank of the Widowpeak. He spoke of the mural and Barde’s dirk and the descent into darkness. When he came to the altar and the Temple Deep, even his father grew pale, his jaw set in bonds of iron.
The story of the Guardian and Barde’s violent demise brought the moment back to him. Raw emotion welled up in a hot rush and Loster sank to his knees, aware that he was shaming himself but too tired to care.
After a while, Lord Malix stepped down from his high seat and approached his last remaining son.
He paused before Loster who was unsure what to expect. His father usually carried out his ‘lessons’ in private, yet he would not be surprised if he chose to simply beat him here and now, in front of his vassals.
Loster fought to control his tears and managed to stem the flow to a sob. His father reached down and gripped him by the chin with a soft, strangely feminine hand. The unsavoury heat from his father’s fingers was a hard contrast against the cool metal of the rings he wore and it made Loster feel sick. He winced in anticipation of the blow to come. Did his father blame him? If he did the punishment would be unbearable.
Yet the strike never came. Instead there was a brief stab of pain below his eye, followed by a warm rush of blood.
For a brief and gut-wrenching moment Loster thought his father had gouged out one of his eyes. However reason quickly overtook thoughtless sensation and the young boy unscrewed his eyes and looked up.
Before him Lord Malix stood staring at something pinkish that he held between his thumb and forefinger.
It was a sliver of bone.
I
Three years later…
The snow fell like blossom from an iron sky, landing silently to form a white blanket on the forest floor. Each snowflake floated and twisted on its own lazy journey, spiralling down between the tall pine trees standing row upon row as sentinels in some kingly hall.
The Forester sighed, his hot breath steaming out before him in a great plume. He had not expected the snows for several weeks yet, even this high up in the mountains. It could only mean that winter was upon him. It was too early. He was not ready.
He had grown up near a forest such as this and knew the importance of preparation. As a boy he had gotten lost in a high pass one winter. The sun had set before he could find his father, and so he had been forced to seek shelter by himself. He had spent a night and two days in a small cave, huddled against the howling wind and unsure of where his father was or whether he would ever be found. Eventually the old bastard had stumbled across him, only finding him because of the hunting bow he had dropped. Weak and exhausted as he was, it did not stop his father from beating him bloody as a punishment for his carelessness. His father had always been good with his fists. But that was only a memory, lost in the muddle of a hundred such moments.
The Forester reached inside the many layers of furs he wore and opened a small pouch. He grabbed a piece of dried and cured meat and stopped with it halfway to his mouth. He hadn't eaten in over a day. He'd missed his opportunity yesterday. The shot had been lined up, and then a branch had given way under its snowy burden, crashing to the ground and startling the timid deer he was hunting. His arrow had gone wide, slicing through the undergrowth whilst the deer sprung away. He put the meat back in its pouch and ignored the protest from his stomach. The smell might scare the deer away, the cautious part of his brain told him.
He pulled the cloak he wore underneath his bearskin up under his nose for warmth and trudged on. It was eerily quiet in the forest, the only sound coming from the delicate crunch of his boots on packed snow. The Forester walked briskly but carefully, avoiding loose twigs and icy patches, his senses alert for any sign of his quarry. There was no point in looking for tracks in this weather. Without combing under the surface layer of snow, they would be impossible to see. He knew that luck would have to be with him if he was to find a meal before the weather closed in.
Something caught the Forester's eye, contrasted against the brilliance of the snow. It looked like blood. He pushed through a thin screen of bare branches and knelt. The cold had given the blood a ruby sheen, hard on the surface and glistening. It was relatively fresh, uncovered by the fallen snow but frozen nonetheless. There was bound to be more nearby.
The Forester pulled one of his gloves off and let the cool air dry the sweat between his fingers. He swept his hand gently over the loose snow near the blood, feeling for spore. There, about a knuckle's breadth beneath the surface, was a hard depression. He lowered his face to the snow and blew, dusting the loose crystals away. Sure enough there was a faint dent in the snow, large enough to be from a deer's hoof. He spent the next few minutes searching for more tracks. There were several, patterned in an erratic line. Some were deeper than others. He grunted. The deer was badly injured, then, favouring one side over the other. He stood slowly and slid his bow from the oiled leather tube strung across the small of his back. Placing the stave between his thighs, he bent it, taking a coiled bowstring from another pouch on his belt and looping it over the top. He checked the arrows in his shoulder-slung quiver. Four. More than enough.
The Forester took small measured steps, bow held low, eyes scanning the ground ahead and to the side for any more blood. A few specks led him toward a steep rise broken by some exposed rock. He crawled up the slope on his hands and knees, trying as much as possible to keep his furs dry. If they were to get wet and then freeze again, he wouldn't last long out here.
It was against every fibre of his being to skyline himself as he crested the rise. The trees would break up his shape a little, yet his time as a soldier had taught him to view every situation by what could go wrong, what could make him vulnerable. Nevertheless, he was tired and had not seen another soul in months. It was worth the risk. He needed to find something soon or today would be another waste of energy. Doing his best to keep as low as possible, the Forester crossed the lip of the rise and half-stood, silhouetted against the sky.
The point at which he stood was not just a fold in the land but actually the rim of a deep bowl. It was completely open to the elements at the bottom, with only a few trees ringing it. The snow was falling more heavily now, floating serenely down into the middle of the clearing to settle on what was left of the deer. The Forester swore and slid carefully down the inside surface of the bowl, slinging his bow over his shoulder. He knelt next to the carcass and surveyed the damage. Wolves had taken the greatest share, gnawing the gentle beast down to the bone. It had probably — mercifully — been dead when they started to feed, since there were no signs of a struggle and very little blood. With a ragged sigh the Forester took a small paring knife from his belt
and sawed off a few loose threads of flesh, storing them with his dried cuts of meat. The wolves had not taken everything. He would be able to make a meal or two from the remains but it wouldn't last very long. His winter survival would be based on grain and black bread.
He frowned. He must have scared the pack off before they could pick the bones clean, yet he had not heard a commotion. That was not unusual in this weather. However it was unlike them to leave anything behind.
Something caught his attention at eye level. He laid his bow on the ground and clambered up the side of the bowl, digging his fingers in to the packed snow to find purchase. Now he was at the top, he couldn't see what had seemed so out of place from below. The Forester wrapped his hand around the rough bough of a pine tree and hauled himself up to balance above the icy slope of the bowl.
There, sprawled on its belly and half-buried by a snowdrift, was a wolf. The Forester knelt and ran his hands through the coarse, frozen fur. He looked for blood or obvious wounds but there were none. Taking off his other glove, he pinched and probed along the wolf's spine, feeling for lumps or breakages. Nothing. Finally he slid forward to the wolf's maw, still pink with its last meal. Gripping the snout and lower jaw, he prised it open. Other than some blood and flesh between the fangs, there was nothing that would explain its death. Unless...
With a start the Forester stood, crashing through the thin branches above his head. He ran forward a few paces through a thick cluster of pine and into another clearing. There lay the rest of the pack, a dozen wolves frozen in various poses of agony. He turned and stumbled back to the bowl, tripping on a branch and falling headlong down the slope, landing hard next to the body of the deer.
