by Sandra Kopp
“And amid these three peaks, they say, lies a lush green valley comparable to the finest of Liedor’s meadows.” Arris sniffed. “At this altitude? That I simply must see.”
A stiff wind swept across the mountaintop and roared through the evergreens. Arris cast an upward glance as Shadow circled overhead. “Keep an eye out for Hans,” he called.
“Kiiiirrrrrrrr!” The bird’s call resounded off the mountaintops. Shadow dipped a wing and veered east.
Arris ran his fingers through Barada’s thick mane, lifting the cascading strands to allow the cooling breeze to pass through. Barada arched his neck and shook his head. Arris laughed, throwing back his own head as he savored the refreshing draft. As his laughter subsided, he peered ahead and spotted a dark green ribbon meandering off a higher slope and then disappearing over the mountain’s opposite flank.
“That looks like grass along a streambed. Bet you’re thirsty.”
Barada stamped and tossed his head.
“Then go!” Arris leaned forward and Barada launched into a dead run. The stallion’s strong legs devoured the distance; but even before they reached the stream, soaring crimson spires rose into view beside Fang Mountain’s ragged tusk, ghostly and translucent against puffy white clouds. Arris gaped, transfixed, not even noticing when they reached the wide brook tumbling down a stony bed along the mountaintop. Barada stopped on his own accord and plunged his nose into a pool formed among some rocks several feet from the slope. Momentarily caught off guard, Arris lurched forward, nearly flying over Barada’s head; but he quickly recovered and swung out of the saddle. Staying low amid the tangled shrubbery, he crept forward, entranced at the ethereal vision unfolding before him.
Towering and magnificent, the castle crowned Fang Mountain with shimmering iridescence. Radiating in the morning light, the imposing structure darkened to deep crimson as clouds crossed the sun and then lightened into opalescent hues of delicate rose tinged with gold when the sun’s strength returned. Its seven spires caressed the sky; its glistening snow-white gate gleamed like a beacon above the wind-tossed forest below.
“Such breathtaking splendor,” Arris whispered. “How unlike Ryadok’s citadel, coal-black and crouched in the shadows like a hulking beast. How—” He broke off and cast his gaze skyward—“how glorious the heavens. While Ryadok reigned they wept and lowered, but now they smile with sun and snow-white clouds, beautiful to behold.”
Arris turned back to the castle. “Ah, Anhuapta! Appearing as an angel of light but in reality a twisting, malevolent serpent. ‘Evil would manifest itself in ugliness,’ you whisper, ‘but such beauty as this could arise only from good.’ And mankind believes it!”
He cocked his head, eyes narrowed as he tried to focus more clearly. He saw no one around the castle, heard no trumpets, hoofbeats, or the harsh commands of officers drilling their troops. The wind had calmed, and he heard only the soft rustling of leaves stirred by the errant breeze.
“I cannot believe the castle stands empty,” he murmured. “Some spell conceals all who dwell there—indeed, I deem the entire castle bewitched.”
His right eye stung and began to tear. Arris shook his head, blinking rapidly to restore his vision, and resumed his scrutiny. “No banners. And no discernable windows. Strange. Perhaps the structure’s luminescence renders them unnecessary.”
He slipped back to Barada, now grazing peacefully near the stream. Gathering the reins, he coaxed the stallion’s nose out of the grass and led him into the trees to a vantage point in the shadows where he continued his perusal.
“I see no way to approach covertly,” he mused, “and as Baldimora has not granted me full power, I doubtless cannot turn invisible. Even if no one inhabits this place, most assuredly the serpent watches.”
He pulled Hans’ note from his jacket pocket and studied it, frowning: Arris, a castle of fire! The devil’s own lair! He comes— the note ended in an unreadable scrawl.
“Castle of fire.” Arris heaved a short sigh. “No, my friend. Castle of blood. Those beautiful rose walls will soon stream ugly crimson and death’s stench will stop noses for miles around. And the devil?” He shook his head. “No. Merely one possessed by him. A witch. A sorceress. I never doubted her identity: Nedra. Her very name reeks of treachery. I daresay Hans also believed so but chose to deny it.”
He put a hand to his mouth as he pondered. “Where are you now, Hans, my friend? For you’ve not been seen nor heard from since this discovery. Would that you could tell me! I would hasten there in a moment.”
Arris bit his lip as he refolded the note and pushed it back into his pocket. If Nedra held Hans—he winced. She would torture him unmercifully. The man who loved her when first he saw her, who cherished her with all his heart, who would have died for her: For this man she held only loathing and disdain, considering him nothing more than a strong, dumb, obedient beast to execute her bidding. Arris clenched his fist and spat in disgust. “Witch! If you have harmed him. . .”
He returned his gaze to the castle, which seemed to stare back, its pulsing radiance beckoning like ghostly, tantalizing fingertips.
I grant you power, although not in full measure. I return to you empathic power and the power to heal.
Thus had Baldimora spoken. Arris leaned against a tree, scowling. “Empathic and healing powers! Those will not benefit here. Baldimora, will you give me nothing more?”
He immediately upbraided himself. He could demand nothing of a high master of the Arganian arts—especially Baldimora—lest he lose what little power he had. Arris sighed in resignation and relaxed his countenance. “Will you speak with me, Baldimora?”
For several minutes he waited, watching the shadows sweep across the mountains and listening to the wind whisper through the boughs. In order to acquire Arganian arts, one must possess the confidence of a master of the High Order. Baldimora had explicitly stated the powers bestowed; but what if, desiring to test Arris’ character, he had granted more, leaving Arris to discover and utilize these hidden powers for himself?
The transcendental portal known as the Corridor might provide the insight he sought—if Arris possessed the authority to enter. He could only try.
He tied Barada and stepped to the edge of the shadows. Facing the castle, he spoke in the Nimbian tongue: “Corridor, open to me!”
He heard a whoosh! like that of a wind-whipped flame. A whirling gray vortex, its clouded interior flashing explosive lightning, opened before him. Arris gasped as an invisible force seized and propelled him inside. A strange sensation, like flying under water, overwhelmed him. He could breathe, but the air felt thick and heavy and possessed a gel-like quality that stopped his ears and shut out all sound save for a low, ominous rumbling against which he heard his own breathing and pounding heartbeat. The terrain over which he passed resembled a reflection in a rippling lake. In an instant he had swept across the valley and up the flanks of Fang Mountain. Rosy light pulsating with blinding intensity engulfed him. An arched white stone gate reared before him and then a deep voice intoned, “Balfor, omrίba, nucan!”
The gate vanished and Arris found himself entombed within bare rose-red walls reverberating with the hollow echoes of phantasmic voices. He saw a flash of white light, felt the stone floor under his feet; but the rumbling continued and the air maintained its viscosity. The brightness dimmed, replaced with subdued rose-colored hues from waves of flickering light traveling like spectral flames up the surrounding walls. Arris found himself at the foot of a wide glass staircase leading to a magnificent golden throne set into the stone wall several feet above. Cushions of sapphire velvet graced its seat, back, and arms, and an array of gems adorned the gold frame—except for one large conspicuously empty setting in the middle of the frame above the back cushion.
“Behold the throne of power!”
The strong deep voice resonated through rooms and corridors, reverberating off the walls in hollow echoes. Startled, Arris turned. A wizened old man with stringy white hair hanging to hi
s shoulders and wearing a blue robe stood beside him, red eyes gleaming as he leveled Arris a searing gaze. He had a sword strapped to his waist, but seemed to Arris much too frail to wield it.
Arris’ eyes flashed. “Who occupies this throne?” he demanded, his voice thundering through the corridors.
A long hiss whistled through the old man’s teeth. He pulled his sword from its scabbard with a gnarled hand. “Do you not know? Or do you deem yourself worthy, Arganian, to recover the missing stone and claim this throne?”
Where would I begin to look? At that moment Arris spied the large sapphire, the same size and shape as the empty setting in the throne, in the hilt of the old man’s sword. He met his opponent’s unflinching stare and saw in his eyes confirmation that he had indeed found the required gem. He noted, too, the grinding teeth and heaving chest of a man braced to fight. Jaw set, Arris drew his sword.
But even as Arris took his stance the old man convulsed, cowering behind his two hands now held together before his face. He suddenly exploded in a flash of red light, transformed into a towering warrior who, from the waist up resembled a man, but possessed a serpent’s coiled body for his lower half. Reptilian scales plated his powerful arms and broad chest. A long forked tongue flicked in and out between sharp fangs dripping with venom. Slanted red eyes glittered amid the blue-green scales of his serpentine head. A deafening hiss erupted from his throat as he reared back, sword poised to strike.
Arris swung his sword, meeting his enemy’s blade with a ringing clang. From the corner of his eye he glimpsed the tail unfurling toward him and jumped aside just as it popped, whip-like, near his ear. Arris pivoted and swung again, severing its tip. The beast roared, filling the air with venomous mist. Fangs bared, he lunged at Arris, who jumped aside and managed to hack off the scaly nose before the beast retreated. Already he felt exhausted, for the viscous air impeded his movements and drained his energy. Knowing that an adversary could deceive with his eyes, he riveted his gaze on the creature’s chest, deftly deflecting each blow as he sought opportunity for a fatal thrust. Steel clashed with steel as the competitors dodged, thrust, and parried. Stinging sweat ran into Arris’ eyes. They watered profusely and, blinking rapidly, he wiped them with his free hand while his sword hand absorbed blow after furious blow.
Something rough and heavy struck him in the side of the head, sending him sprawling. His sword flew from his hand and clattered to the floor several feet away. His adversary hovered over him, grinning maniacally. He raised his sword, tip pointed at Arris’ heart, and drove it downward. Arris threw himself aside, but the cruel blade tore his clothing and grazed his back.
Again the creature raised his blade. For a moment it glowed softly in the filmy light; then, as if in a dream Arris watched it descend. With the point a mere hairsbreadth from his body, he squirmed sideways and swung his foot up and around in a circular sweep. The toe of his boot impacted the scaly wrist, snapping the bone. Howling, the creature dropped the weapon.
Arris scrambled to regain his feet, but his opponent seized him by the throat with his good hand and lifted him, crushing Arris’ throat as he fixed him a long hypnotic stare. Arris went limp as his consciousness fled. Through the gathering darkness he saw the creature rear back, and then the bared fangs streaking toward him. With a strangled cry, Arris leveled another kick that dislodged one fang and cut his attacker’s lip.
Cursing, the creature hurled him to the floor. Arris brought his left arm down hard, slapping the floor to break his fall. Blinding light filled the corridor as he scampered for his weapon. Armed once more, he readied himself for what he hoped to be the final onslaught. But to his dismay he saw his enemy fully restored and invigorated. The battle began anew, with the creature striking with his fangs amid sword thrusts. Arris’ arm throbbed but he stubbornly pushed on, his eyes glued to his enemy’s heart. If he could just make that mortal strike. . .
Searing pain shot through his left shoulder as one fang found its mark. Arris gasped and fell to his knees. The creature threw back his head, spewing a caustic cloud throughout the Corridor. With a mocking laugh, he raised his sword again and swung at Arris’ neck.
Gathering his strength, Arris deflected the blow and then propelled his blade forward, driving it deep into the creature’s stomach. Shrieking, the creature pulled back. He tried to strike, but Arris’ blade had pierced his bowels. With his strength draining rapidly, the snake-man wallowed helplessly amid a pile of gore and writhing coils. Fighting for breath, Arris lurched forward and thrust his blade into the creature’s heart.
Arris’ mind reeled. His own life ebbed. Wheezing and gasping, he forced his collapsing lungs to keep working while he clung to consciousness. His labored breathing made speech almost impossible; yet he must speak if he hoped to live.
“Corridor, release me!”
The air cleared, its viscosity vanished. Arris found himself on his back on the mountaintop, scarcely conscious and fighting for air. With all the strength he could muster he fumbled through his jacket pocket and retrieved a small bag. Somehow his trembling fingers pulled it open. Lips moving in silent prayer, Arris sucked in a long asthmatic breath, then raised the bag to his mouth and dumped in the contents.
Somehow the crystals dissolved despite his parched mouth. The pulsing yellowness framing his vision gradually faded and the tightness in his chest eased.
Utterly exhausted, Arris raised his head and scrutinized his torn and bloody clothing.
So. . .it was real. He emitted a tired chuckle and lay back. His right arm throbbed such that he felt he could never use it again. Blood oozed from his punctured left shoulder. His head ached, and reptilian scales stuck in his hair where the creature’s tail had struck him.
He held an object in his left hand. Arris bent his elbow and rolled his head aside to gaze at the lustrous blue gem nestled in his palm. His face relaxed into a triumphant smile as he lowered his arm and closed his eyes.
He had the stone.
Night fell. A frosty pall fell over the mountaintop but Arris took no notice. Oblivious to his blood-soaked clothing, he sat astride Barada as the horse labored up the steep forest trail. The trees crowded closer, the hems of their mossy robes brushing his face as he passed. The dank air reeked of mold and corpse’s liver. Arris stopped his nose and leaned forward, trying to urge Barada on faster. Then he spied the sunlit opening just ahead signaling the forest’s edge.
As if through a mirror he watched Barada haul himself the last few steps out of the forest onto a treeless sun-drenched crest abounding with grass and wildflowers. Ahead and to the left one of Fang Mountain’s jagged teeth stabbed at the sky. To the right, Firendoom’s bald dome glowered down at him.
A dark green ribbon meandered off a higher slope and disappeared over the mountain’s opposite flank. “Water, Barada!” he shouted and gave the horse his head.
They pounded across the mountaintop, but before attaining their goal, soaring crimson spires rose into view beside Fang Mountain’s ragged tusk, ghostly and translucent against puffy white clouds. Arris gaped, oblivious when they reached the wide brook tumbling down a stony bed along the mountaintop. Barada stopped, nearly unseating Arris as he plunged his nose into a pool formed among some rocks several feet from the slope. Arris righted himself and sat, staring at the celestial beauty before him. He felt he had already been here, already nearly unseated during the same wild dash to this very brook and yet. . .Impossible! Never had he ventured so far into the Black Realm.
For several minutes he simply stared, only vaguely aware of the burning pain gnawing his left shoulder. His right arm ached and felt strangely weak; probably the result of the long journey, he told himself. He brushed aside his trepidation. He had come to engage Anhuapta, the serpent. Lives hung in the balance. He must not tarry.
Barada, having slaked his thirst, lifted his head and shook it vigorously. Arris clicked his tongue and the eager stallion stepped out, descending now into a broad green valley overshadowed by the rosy hues emanating
from the castle. He calmly gazed upon it as he would have upon his own home. The castle seemed indifferent to his approach. If Anhuapta lurked there, he doubtless would not strike until he had Arris well within his grasp.
Abruptly the calm vanished. Apprehension washed over him. His intuition, so reliable in the past, had vanished. He should have received emanations providing an estimate concerning how many resided there, whether bestial or human, and such like. Arris, however, felt alone, adrift—almost panicky. He needed his empathic abilities. He needed strength, reassurance and Arganian counsel. He desperately needed the power he had possessed during Ryadok’s war.
Angelika! Baldimora! If you grant me no power, come advise me, at least!
An evergreen copse nestled into the cozy hollow of a low rise near the center of the valley. Arris guided Barada toward it, hoping there to initiate contact with at least one of his mentors. But all the usual communication channels closed tight, leaving him isolated.
Heart pounding and throat tight, Arris reached the copse and hesitated a moment. The castle, obscured now by the knoll, still tinged the air and surrounding terrain with delicate rose. Something amid the silence bade him continue. Arris nudged the stallion forward and rounded the copse.
Soon the castle loomed before them, its haunting radiance pulsating with such intensity that Arris had to look aside. But almost immediately its brilliance softened into delicate rings of light floating wave-like from the structure’s base to the top of each tower. His insides churned. Every instinct screamed that he flee. Someone or something watched from those towers, burning with vengeance. He could not enter this sorcerer’s lair as he had entered Ryadok’s—and live.
Arris turned Barada and dug his heels into his sides. The stallion leaped forward, his powerful legs propelling him across the valley. A weird humming arose, steadily deepening to an obnoxious buzz that set Arris’ head throbbing. The air around them thickened, darkening to deep crimson as it took on a suffocating gel-like consistency. Arris gritted his teeth, shaking his head in a vain attempt to clear his head. Under him Barada pitched and lunged. The goo encasing them sucked and gasped as the stallion fought through. Slimy fingers clawed at Arris and tightened around him, pulling him from the saddle. With a strangled cry, he wrenched his arms apart and broke free. His flailing hands caught Barada’s slippery tail and he somehow managed to wrap it around one wrist and hold on.
