A Shrouded World (Book 4): Valhalla

by Tufo, Mark

  I continue holding still, peering through the trees and listening. By now, if there was someone there, they’d know by now that I noticed them and skedaddled the fuck out of there. But, I feel more or less on neutral ground now, and that’s a shit ton better than where I was.

  Inching away from the fallen tree, I move more to the side, using the terrain to keep me out of sight. I want to get a good look farther back on my trail to see if someone isn’t trying to flank around my last known position. I feel more comfortable now on neutral ground, but the cat and mouse game is one of the tensest situations one can encounter. Either there was no one to begin with, or they bugged out, or they’re good. I’ll take the first two, hands down. The latter, not so much.

  In a great circling maneuver, I inch toward my trail. My movements are slow and methodical. I may have lost some of my edge with age, but I have a bag of experience that I keep tied to my belt. With the lack of a breeze, scent won’t be a reliable indicator, so I’m stuck with visual or auditory clues, and hope that the sixth sense is my friend.

  Crossing my trail, I find the faint remains of another to the side. This is the validation I needed to silence the critical thoughts in my mind. However, it also brings up a shit ton of more problems. My stalker had to notice my disappearing act and react accordingly. But, what would reacting accordingly mean? If it were me, I’d note the cautious way I was taking through the woods and keep that in mind. They might expect that I’d head back to observe my trail and circled back around themselves. This is the point where I should just play the game of “get the fuck out of here.”

  That might be the best solution. There are times when it’s best to leave things well enough alone. My game is one of surviving encounters and I don’t feel an inherent need to see who is the best is. I’m not into measuring dicks nor do I feel pushing too far just for the sake of curiousity. But, I do need make sure I’m not going to be tailed. They haven’t shot as yet, but that doesn’t mean they don’t have an ill intent. It could only mean that they don’t have a ranged weapon.

  I back out of my position and slowly creep through the deepest shadows. It’s not an easy trail to keep in sight, but it isn’t impossible either. The problem with this game is that, once it’s afoot, it has to be seen through. I can’t back out with any surety that I won’t be further tracked. I move along, making sure that my background isn’t well lit, which would allow my silhouette to be seen.

  The trail as can be readily observed comes to an end. I do, however, note a fresh waist-high scrape on the bark of a nearby tree. It’s not much if I wasn’t looking for such a thing, but in my ultra-sensitive state, it stands out. Another barely noticeable aspect is the faint hint of a trail leading away. It’s an attempt at covering and a pretty damn good job of it. I only notice the darker color of a couple of overturned leaves. It looks like whoever was here jumped to the tree and used it as leverage to push themselves further to one side, and then skillfully and quickly covered their tracks. That piece of information doesn’t sit well with me in the least.

  Where they went from there is anyone’s guess. They could have circled back and we could be playing “ring around the rosey” with each other. Or, they could have gone on ahead and set up a position where they could pick me up again. Alternatively, they could have come up with my original plan of getting the fuck out of Dodge. My feeling now is that it’s best to call it a draw and take a circuitous route toward where I saw the fire. That will take time, but it’s better than being at a disadvantage again.

  If I bug out and circle way around, they’ll pick up my trail again, but it will take them some time to do so. I could take the time to cover it, and I will do so for some distance, but can’t for the whole way or I won’t be up the slope until well after dark. So, I’ll back out of here, covering my trail, then start making time to put some distance between us. That comes with its own risk, but less than allowing whoever it is to catch up.

  After creeping out of the area while doing my best to leave no sign, I angle away before turning back toward the bottom of the slope. Again, knowing that I’m sharing these woods with someone skilled is disconcerting to say the least. The slope steepens the higher I go and the sun is getting closer to its zenith, from what I can make out. It isn’t much longer before the trees take on a sharp angle to their upright growth. It’s tiring work, scaling the hill, having to firmly set my feet and push. Every few steps, I pause to look and listen, but I don’t feel the sense of being watched as I scale further upward.

  It’s been an interesting morning to say the least. There’s a chance of running into whoever it was again, but I get the feeling we both sought the neutral ground and lost each other, opting to take the safe way and come out even. I have no idea what that was about, perhaps nothing other than curiosity.

  Whoever it was had some degree of skill, but it also wouldn’t be that difficult to follow me—I was moving rather slowly. But, most people tend to make sounds at some point, and I never heard the person. And I’m pretty good at picking out the shapes of people even in the thickest terrain. For me, it’s almost like my brain disregards the foliage and I can usually see them quite clearly. At any rate, I know I was dealing with someone well-versed in stealth.

  Once I scale the slope to a point that I feel is level with where I observed the bonfire, I turn and begin making my way along the hills. The terrain has flattened to some degree, which makes the going much easier. I’m just not as young as I once was. I felt the same muscle burn back in the day, but then, it felt good; now, it’s just exhausting. It sucks, realizing that the best days, or should I say the more athletic days, are behind me.

  Thinking as I keep my senses on alert, I wonder if I had been in a better position to handle this shit when I was younger. I was in much better shape and had those lightning reflexes. But, I also wasn’t as experienced, which adds a lot to this kind of mix. The ability to handle stress well is probably a wash. I feel like my mind has grown stronger and more resilient over the years, but there’s also an aspect of being mentally tired. I was ready for a peaceful retirement when this shit went down, and it’s admittedly been difficult to readapt to the mindset necessary to survive in these kinds of environments. As I thought before, what’s the real use? We all die at some point, why not now? Save myself all of this fucking stress. For I have no illusions that there isn’t a shit ton more coming down the road before I can make it back to my family.

  Aaand, this is what happens when I allow my mind to wander, I think, picking my way slowly through the trees.

  Shortly before high noon, I begin to pick up the faint aroma of smoke hanging in the air, more like the smoldering remains of a fire rather than an ongoing blaze. I slow even further and angle toward the scent, only too aware that I’m approaching an unknown, and acknowledging my recent brush with the skilled hunter. If they had something to do with the bonfire, it could easily become a point of convergence. And, seeing my path prior to my diversion more or less pointing toward this location, it wouldn’t take a genius to figure out where I was heading.

  The terrain to either side gradually begins to drop away until I’m creeping along a wide ledge of land protruding from the mountainside. Nearing the end, I drop to my stomach and pull myself to the edge. Looking down an almost sheer cliff of stone, I see a circular clearing below, framed by a wall of trees. Near the center is the smoldering remains of a large bonfire; closer to the wall of rock is a single rectangular block of stone. From my height, I’m barely able to make out the rings of metal set within the stone near each corner. Now, I’m not the smartest being who ever lived, but it doesn’t take much to figure out what I’m looking at. A shiver rolls down my spine at the realization.

  From my slight overhang, I’m also able to see the entrance to a cave. Everything is screaming at me to get the fuck out; that a sacrificial altar is not where I need to be. But, as previously mentioned, I’m not that smart. I’m also not a huge fan of this kind of activity, having witnessed the likes a c
ouple of times during my various forays. It never ceases to amaze me what people can and will do to each other.

  Looking along the sheer cliff, I locate another small shelf of stone protruding further down, closer to the clearing. I push backward and carefully make my way down to the lower ledge, always conscious that there might be someone else watching over the clearing, waiting for my arrival. Although the clearing has been churned by the passage of many feet, and there is an obvious pathway leading to it, I’m also leery that there might be someone residing within the cave. With that, I take my time and set my feet carefully in order not to dislodge any stone. Once at the lower shelf of stone, I crawl to the edge.

  Much of what I observed comes into clearer focus. The surface of the stone slab, with its metal manacles, is darkly stained. The streaks of drying blood running down the sides also indicate that it was recently used for its horrendous purpose. I don’t know what I’ve stumbled upon, but I’m now wishing I hadn’t succumbed to curiosity. I’m also wondering how in the hell they kept the night runners at bay. Or, perhaps that’s what the sacrifice was for. I suppose they could have tied some poor soul to the slab and reinforced the cave doorway. It’s also possible that they built the fire, shackled the person during the day, and retreated before nightfall, the fires and scent of prey drawing the night runners.

  Now, the other frightening thought is that the night runners have found refuge in the cave and the sacrifices were brought up during the daylight hours. There could easily be a cult who thinks the night runners are worthy of worship. Yet another possibility is they bring a sacrifice here to keep the night runners up in the hills instead of coming down to where they live. I can totally see that happening. With all of those possibilities in mind, there’s no fucking way I’m going to venture inside that cave: I plan to be far fucking gone by the time night falls.

  Looking up, I see that the sun has nearly reached its zenith and it’s past time to go. I’ll take a circuitous route in the other direction heading back to the cabin, knowing that my stalker in the woods might very well still be tracking me. I’ll keep to the bag of tricks that I’ve gathered through the years and not leave the same way I arrived. That’s just asking for trouble, and my plate is already full of that.

  Inching back, I wonder where my eventual path will lead. I can’t just aimlessly pick a direction and walk. I mean, I can, but the odds are that I’ll be strolling further away from where I need to be rather than toward it. And that’s assuming there is somewhere I need to be. I could just be fucking stuck in this world. Trip’s apology letter comes to mind and I wonder if that’s what it meant—that I’m alive but won’t be able to return. If that’s the case, I might just use the sacrificial altar below and attempt to summon the motherfucker here to atone.

  A soft roar rushes across the clearing as a gust of wind bends the tops of the trees, ending with a blast as the swaying treetops lose their momentum. A cold wave then races past, one without wind. It pushes into my core, my bones feeling the coldness rather than my skin.

  Oh fuck!

  It’s a sensation I’ve felt a few times while in the other world of Atlantis, and not one that has led to pleasant consequences. I grip my carbine and ready myself to be transported to some other place and time. Nothing much changes, but I do notice movement by the trees. Or, rather, within them. There’s movement all around and it takes me a second or two before I realize that it’s the actual shadows that are moving, not something that could be causing them.

  What in the actual fuck!

  The sun is racing across the sky like it had just mouthed off to its mother. In a matter of five seconds, the brightness of the day forms the gloom of evening. In ten, the sun sinks below the horizon and day turns to night.

  A deep sickness forms in my stomach as panic creeps in. I’m out in the fucking open with night suddenly upon me. Not only that, but my back is against a literal wall. The only saving grace is that the ledge is narrow and not easy to get to. There’s a natural choke point, which means any night runners could be contained. But, if anything goes south, then I’m completely screwed. I’m low enough that I could jump to the clearing if I need to, but that would place me in an even worse situation. No, I’m not pleased with this sudden turn of events at all.

  Steady, old boy.

  The flicker of yellow light against the rocky surface catches my attention; it’s then, after I force the panicked feeling down, that I also notice the low murmurs and the sharp crackle of flames. Inching back to the edge, I peer down into the clearing.

  Below, figures in black robes gather in a semi-circle around a towering bonfire. The surrounding trunks shine from the glow of the fire, shadows dancing beyond. The murmur is coming mostly from within the cowled heads of the group, and it isn’t long before I realize that they’re chanting, heads lowered and hands locked in front of them.

  In the far distance, I hear faint shrieks that I instantly recognize. Night runners are about. Amid the fear of the situation in which I’ve found myself, there’s a small part of me that’s curious as to how they’ll handle the night runners crashing their party. I look through the woods for the first ghostly signs of the pale creatures racing up the mountainside.

  It’s then that I notice a few individuals, clad in the same black robes, spaced around the perimeter of the clearing. The difference is that they have their robes pulled down off their upper bodies and have a double line of chains linked between each of them. A closer look reveals that the ends of the chains have barbed hooks that dig into the chests and backs of each member. It’s a grizzly, terrifying sight. They also intone the same chant, their arms raised in the air.

  Pushing myself against the stone underneath as if trying to burrow into the rock itself, I see the first flash of a figure in the trees beyond, accompanied by an increase in the volume of shrieks. More come into my line of sight as I bring my carbine into a more ready position. Night runners emerge into the flickering glow of flames, their eyes flashing silver as the light catches them.

  Pale bodies race toward the chanting figures and bounce backward suddenly as if they’ve hit an invisible wall. The leading night runners gather themselves and again launch forward, only to come against the same barrier. Enraged, they claw at the shield, like mimes in a park. They scrape and claw, their screams echoing into the night.

  Frustrated, they begin to race along the sides to find a way past the barrier. More arrive only to bounce back against the invisible wall that was undoubtedly thrown up by those along the perimeter. As the night runners try to find a way through, they are drawing closer to my perimeter. Now, if the sight of those below caused some consternation, watching night runners work their way closer to me is even more so.

  I know I’m pretty fucked, but look behind me thinking that I can get some distance while the creatures of the night are busy with the prey they can see. I could scale higher up the mountain and hopefully find a defensible location, or perhaps work my way past them.

  There’s a very faint shimmer just beyond my outstretched legs. It’s not much more than a dim waver in the air. I extend my legs a little more, expecting to feel my boots come up against something solid. But, they slide past without any sensation at all. Pulling them back in, I watch the night runners circle around, a couple of them eventually coming up behind me. The time to run has come and gone.

  Rolling onto my back, I bring my carbine to bear, my finger tensed on the trigger. Seeing me, two start forward with a shriek that would alone bring down any physical wall. Just beyond my feet, they come up short, the eager expressions changing to confusion. They come again, clawing at the shield as if they could force their way past. The rage in their eyes is easy to see, their frustration at not being able to get to me making them even angrier. It’s not a pleasant feeling, being on my back with night runners just a couple of feet away, so to speak.

  Spittle comes from their mouths, splattering against the barrier. Drool falls from lips peeled back to reveal stained teeth. Piec
es of ragged and deeply soiled clothing still cling to their pale and dirty bodies. I hold my finger steady on the trigger, although every instinct in my body is screaming for me to shoot. I feel my finger twitch a few times as the night runners lunge, but without applying enough poundage to actually fire. With a scream that threatens to shatter my eardrums, the two turn and run back along the perimeter, seeking another way to the prey they can clearly see.

  The entire perimeter is a cacophony of shrieks, the night filled with the echoes of screams reverberating off the stone cliff. Those within the perimeter seem unperturbed by the volume of noise, or the fact that an overpowering number of predators are in a frenzy just beyond the clearing. They remain still, the only movement coming from the night runners and the flames of the towering pyre.

  A commotion directly below me catches my attention. From within the cave comes a group of twelve dressed in hooded red robes. Between them is another and I can only catch a glimpse of blond hair from within the tight group of bodies. The one they are prodding is struggling for all he or she is worth, but to no avail. The grip the twelve have is complete. They haul the unfortunate person to and atop the rock slab, bending over the person as they both hold and tie them to the sacrificial stone.

  I grip my M-4 even tighter as a deep-seated anger begins to take hold. The fear within me adds to that. When I’m scared, I get angry. Most times it’s not beyond control, but it sits there like a smoldering fire burning deep within. The anger and fear seem to balance each other out, and with that, I’m able to push the fear down to achieve a kind of evenness, if you will. There’s the smoldering fire burning below an outer calm. I’m able to think rationally, with all emotion pushed down but still recognized. The fire, though, pushes me toward action without hesitation once the time is right. It’s not really easy to explain, even to myself. It just is.

  This shit below me? Well, it’s just not going to fly. The person is struggling and yelling, fighting with all of the strength they have. However, the twelve are able to get the body manacled to the table as another red-robed figure emerges from the cave. This one has a chain of gold draped around its neck that holds an ornate sheathed dagger hanging at the chest.