In The Shadow Of The Beast

by Harlan H Howard

  In their headlong flight from the city, Sigourd hadn’t had an opportunity to learn much of the man who had rescued him or why.

  ‘My name is Sigourd, and this is my friend Jonn Grumble,’ offered the young lord. ‘I must thank you for your timely intervention. Were it not for you I fear those soldiers would have put us to the sword.’

  ‘Or tried too!’ offered Jonn Grumble, his mouth full of half chewed fruit.

  ‘That ruffian you were quarreling with at the tavern is the city constable,’ said the old man. ‘...and those guardsmen that gave you chase were his men. It would have been a sorry end for the both of you had they managed to catch you.’

  ‘What’s that? You don’t think we could have handled those buggers?’ said Jonn Grumble. ‘We had it all well in hand thanks very much.’

  ‘It looked to me like you were running for your lives. But with these old eyes, my sight isn’t to be trusted like it used to,’ said the old man.

  Jonn Grumble snorted at this comment, and went back to pulling the sweet plums off the branches of the little tree.

  ‘You have yet to tell us your name, friend. Or why you came to our rescue,’ said Sigourd.

  The old man paused in his ministrations to the horses, his body was turned from Sigourd who could not see the momentary expression of confusion that flickered across the old man’s face. After a moment he turned to face Sigourd, ‘It’s been so long since I’ve had any use for names I’d almost forgotten my own. Names are so overrated, but you may refer to me as the elder. As to why I came to your aid, I assumed that anyone willing to stand up to those wretched louts must be either very stupid, very brave, or very new to the city.’

  ‘Well elder,’ began Sigourd, ‘we are very grateful for your aid, and are pleased to have made your acquaintance. My friend and I have traveled far. Jonn Grumble lives in the Velvet forests, and I hail from the city of Corrinth Vardis.’

  The old man accepted this with a nod, ‘You have indeed traveled far. And if you do not mind me asking, what brings you so far from your lands?’

  ‘Perhaps we do mind,’ said Jonn Grumble, drawing a frown from Sigourd.

  ‘Suit yourself, I merely seek to know a little about the men whose live I have saved and start some conversation to lighten the burden of wearisome travels,’ said the old man without a trace of disquiet. ‘Although sitting here down wind of you has given me cause to rethink that desire.’

  Sigourd smiled at the playful jibe, while Jonn Grumble scowled and returned to foraging for more fruit.

  ‘And where might you hail from, elder?’ said Sigourd.

  ‘I too have traveled a long way. I make my home in the mountain ranges of the Ash’harad.’

  Sigourd’s eyes went wide at the mention of those treacherous mountain ranges, ‘You come all the way from the mountains. The Ash’harad border the Eastern Fringes do they not?’

  ‘Aye they do. It’s a fair way for these old bones to travel, but one must go where there is money to be made,’ replied the old man.

  ‘And what is it exactly that you do to make this money?’ asked Jonn Grumble.

  The old man turned his gaze upon the wild man, and something like mild annoyance flittered behind his eyes for the first time, ‘I tell stories.’

  ‘An old crow like you must have more than a few tall tales to tell,’ scoffed Jonn Grumble.

  ‘Yes, and I have no doubt there will be another to add to my collection before very long,’ said the old man, his manner quite cheerful once again.

  ‘We are searching for someone. A great warrior named Brodus Klay. Have you heard of him?’ asked Sigourd. The old man raised an eyebrow, considering Sigourd’s question.

  ‘Yes, I know of Brodus Klay,’ the old man said.

  ‘Perhaps you could direct us to him, or better yet take us there? You would be rewarded handsomely!’

  ‘Handsomely is it?’ chuckled the old man, an amused gleam in his eye, ‘there’s no need for handsome anything. I travel in that direction and would be glad of the company. Even an old soul like me can tire of keeping his own counsel for too long a time.’

  ‘We would owe you a great debt for your assistance,’ said Sigourd.

  The old man waved his hand dismissively before him, ‘You’ll owe me nothing. The pleasure is mine. But I must confess to no small measure of curiosity as to why to fellows such as yourself find themselves on the road in search of a character like Brodus Klay. Or to travel to so dark a place as the Eastern Fringes. Those territories are not to be traveled without great care.’

  ‘I’m aware that danger may lie before us, but I must press on,’ said Sigourd.

  ‘He’s love-struck!’ offered Jonn Grumble, who was still busying himself with the fruit, ‘and we’re searching for his girl.’

  This time the flicker of mild annoyance passed over Sigourd’s face. ‘Her name is Isolde and she was snatched from my homestead by persons I have yet to identify. I have been told that this Klay may be able to tell me of the nature of her kidnappers. Of how I might defeat them.’

  ‘Ah, a mission of rescue. Of a damsel in distress no less. A nobler cause I never did hear,’ the old man said. As he spoke he looked up with some surprise at the little nightingale that had settled in the fruit tree and was now darting from one branch to the next, chirruping contentedly in the waning sun. ‘And what I must wonder is the story with our little feathered friend here? He has been traveling with us since we left the city.’

  ‘The bird belonged to Isolde,’ said Sigourd, a sorrowful timbre entering his voice. ‘He keeps our course to her true. He is something of a guide if you can believe it?’

  The old man smiled brightly, ‘I can believe almost anything of so colorful a band as you three.’

  Sigourd rose and made his way over to where the old man was standing, and when he spoke there was a thread of unease in his voice. ‘What can you tell me of the Eastern Fringes? Are they truly as terrible as I have heard?’

  Jonn Grumble had stopped picking at the fruit and was now listening intently to what the old man’s response would be. All trace of the cheerful optimism seemed to drain from him, and his tone was now as dark as the shadows under his eyes.

  ‘If there was a place,’ began the old man, ‘that could mirror the darkness in men’s hearts, then the Eastern Fringes would be it. I have seen many a thing in my time, but I must caution you that nothing in my experience compares to the madness that lies beyond the Ash’harad.’

  The old man paused then, and looked into Sigourd’s eyes before speaking again, as if he possessed the ability to see the truth of Sigourd’s desires, or even his very soul. ‘Is she worth that danger?’ he asked pointedly.

  ‘She is worth it a thousand times over,’ replied Sigourd without hesitation. The old man nodded at this, seemingly satisfied that the young lord possessed the strength of his convictions. He turned to Jonn Grumble then, ‘and what of you wild man. Why do you journey into this peril?’

  Jonn Grumble looked to Sigourd, then back at the old man before spitting the seed of a plum onto the ground. His response was reassuringly frank; ‘cause the young fella saved me bacon, didn’t he.’

  Interlude...

  It is faster than he, there is no hope of being able to out-run the shadow at his back, the cloying stink of its hot breath all around him now, filling his nostrils.

  Sigourd hasn’t the speed or the strength in his legs to prolong the chase. There is but one recourse open to him, a noble son of the city of Corrinth Vardis, of the realm of Atos. There was only ever one recourse. Sigourd will turn and fight.

  He will face this nameless monstrosity and whatever horrors it has been set loose to visit upon him. Surely death can be the only conclusion to such a drastic course. A tortuous, brutal death. His limbs rent from his body and his face torn like yards of ruined silk, fluttering on the hollow breath of the ancient forest.

  If that is his lot, then Sigourd will accept it willingly, bravely, as is the duty of a highborn son of hi
s cast. He accepts this truth despite the hammering of the heart in his chest, beating a booming rhythm in his ears to match the thunderous churning of the sky above. He will accept this death despite the knowledge that he will never see his beloved Isolde again. He will not wither, he will master the fear...

  ...and suddenly he turns, his bright blade in his hand, flashing before him as the shadow looms.

  Sigourd will master the fear!

  He dives upon that shadow, pounces like an animal driven to distraction, bringing the thing beneath him to the ground. He fumbles in furious desperation with the cloak that covers the shadow, struggling to reveal his nameless pursuer.

  ‘Who are you!?’ Sigourd screams into the face of darkness, an instant before he rips the hood back to reveal...the snarling fanged maw of a wolf, its golden eyes glittering with a beastly light that transfixes Sigourd. He is powerless to resist those golden eyes, even as that razor filled maw, dripping hungrily with saliva, opens wide to devour him...

  Sigourd awoke with a start, a silent scream buried deep in his throat. He struggles with the wolf thing, struggles until he realizes that he has woken from another nightmare, and that he is lying safely beneath the small plum tree.

  Instead of looking into the gold eyes of a bloodthirsty predator, he sees the old man kneeling beside him, where he has shaken Sigourd gently to wakefulness. His rheumy old eyes regard Sigourd kindly and with a measure of understanding as he speaks, ‘It’s only a dream lad. You’re quite safe.’

  Sigourd sits up, looking about himself wearily so that he might confirm that indeed all is still well. After a moment, embarrassment settles upon Sigourd. What whimpering and groaning must the old man have been privy too as Sigourd slumbered fitfully.

  ‘I apologize if I woke you, elder,’ said Sigourd, thankful that the fire had died enough to preclude the chance of anyone seeing his cheeks flushing red as they surely must be. ‘Perhaps it was something I ate!?’ said Sigourd meekly.

  ‘Perhaps,’ said the old man kindly. ‘Either way, lay your head to rest once more. I’ll continue to keep watch a little while longer.’

  Sigourd nodded, and slowly laid his head back against the cool ground. It was not long before his eyes grew heavy and sleep came to Sigourd once more.

  Sitting in the fading light of the fire’s dying embers, the old man continued to watch over Sigourd, studying the lad with those rheumy old eyes.

  CHAPTER 11

  Hammer of the gods...

  The driving snow of the mountains was relentless. Whipped up by the howling winds which beat against the faces of the travelers and pulled at their clothes. Sigourd drew his cloak tighter around him to try to shield himself from the penetrating cold. It was the fifth day of their travels since arriving at the steppes of the mountain ranges, and they had, according to the old man, been making good progress. To Sigourd, it felt as though their ascent was painfully slow. Since leaving behind the fertile greens of the valley below, the terrain had become ever more treacherous. The snow and barren rock that had steadily crept in to replace the verdant land was proving very difficult to traverse. Several times they had had to scramble for cover as rock slides and other hazards had assailed them. The mountain pass along which the old man was leading them was little more than a foot path, barely wide enough to accommodate the width of the cart in some places. Yet he seemed confident of his understanding of the mountains and how best to navigate them, and so Sigourd had left the matter entirely to him.

  Up here amongst the high peaks of the Ash’harad, the air was so thin that breathing became something of a labored chore for both Sigourd and Jonn Grumble, who were finding it increasingly difficult to draw breath. On the other hand, the old man and his horses seemed utterly unperturbed by the difficult conditions. He steered the cart cheerfully along, and would take every opportunity to point out landmarks of historical note or which had some fantastical tale attached to them. Indeed, he possessed an abundance of stories that seemed to spill from him at the slightest provocation. He told tall tales of high adventure, where heroes vanquished villainous characters and honor and loyalty were tested. He told tales of loves lost and friendships torn asunder, and all of the tales seemed to impart some moral code or value that was written deep into the subtext.

  Sigourd had met fellows like the elder before, who plied their trade over lands far and wide, entertaining and educating wherever they went.

  For his part, Sigourd enjoyed the tales, finding them to be a welcome distraction from the troubles that nagged at him. The longer they traveled with him, the more the old man began to grow on Sigourd. He had a fatherly wisdom and a kindly manner. Yet there was a quick wit and an unprepossessing frankness that Sigourd had not encountered in many individuals, the only other of late being his companion Jonn Grumble. Perhaps that was where the developing friction between the two lay, Jonn Grumble and the old man were in reality very similar.

  ‘What’s that noise?’ asked Jonn suddenly, bringing Sigourd out of his reverie. He was sitting ahead of Sigourd, huddled against the biting winds with his head down. Sigourd had assumed he’d been fast asleep. He strained to hear any noise other than the howling of the wind amongst the peaks and the steady creaking of the cart’s old frame.

  ‘I hear nothing,’ said Sigourd, and was happy to think no more on it when suddenly it he heard something too. A great crashing, booming coming distantly from out of the swirling snows, the sound growing a little louder with each passing moment.

  ‘Elder!’ Sigourd called out, ‘what is that sound?’

  ‘What else,’ said Jonn Grumble glumly, ‘it can only be trouble.’

  The old man turned slowly in his seat at the front of the cart to look at the pair huddled behind him, he smiled briefly before turning his eyes back to the road ahead, ‘It is one of the wonders of this realm. A sight to stir the blood.’

  Minutes passed by, and the crashing, booming grew steadily louder until the sound now filled the narrow pass through which they traveled. It became a deafening, echoing crescendo, so loud that it drowned out the high pitched whining of the winds entirely. Sigourd’s view of what might possibly be causing the sound was blocked by the sheer rock faces to either side. he had to wait until almost sundown before finally the cliff face on one side dropped away entirely, revealing to Sigourd the source of the incredible sound. What he saw took his breath away.

  Huron had never ventured so far into the mountain ranges of the Ash’harad. He had heard the tales of fell magics and woeful abominations that roamed the foothills and deeper crevasses of this dreaded place, but he held no fear for such fanciful nonsense. In his time he had heard more talk of goblins and warlocks than he cared to remember, and none of it had ever manifested before his eyes that he might have some basis to foothold such fear. As far as he was concerned, there was nothing in this world that could not be dealt with by a strong arm and a sharp blade, and he had the will and means to wield both.

  Indeed, he was most intrigued to learn where this curious expedition might reach its conclusion. He was certain that the trio were headed across the mountains and would eventually descend into the Eastern Fringes, about which so little was known that it was no wonder superstition pervaded every account of them.

  The only spirits troubling the knight thus far were the wrathful ravages of the four winds, their bitter chill seeming to penetrate his heavy war plate as if it were made of the thinnest paper. He had had to dismount to save his horse from expiring, the air in these parts had become so damnably thin. Even his war hawk had remained somewhat subdued by the harsh elements. No matter, he decided. He had been able to keep his quarry in sight this whole while and would be damned if he was going to loose them now because of a little frostbite.

  As Huron trudged on through the snow covered pass, his heavy booted feet crunching over the compact drifts that blanketed everything, he became aware of an odd sound. Like thunder rolling distantly. What, he wondered, had the gods of the elements in store for him now.


  Head down, leading his faithful battle steed behind him, the nightmare knight pushed on into the maelstrom, and the growing cacophony that hammered the steep walls of the pass about his head.

  The sight that greeted Sigourd and Jonn Grumble gave their mouths cause to drop open in amazement. In all his young life Sigourd had never dreamed he might lay eyes on anything so terrifying or magnificent.

  Before him, some three to four hundred meters distant across a deep gorge that plummeted away dizzyingly, was the source of the thunderous sound that had traveled with them the last hour or so of their journey.

  A mighty waterfall, the size and scope of which beggared belief. Its raging waters the sound of the unrelenting crescendo. The noise hammered out by the descent of what seemed, for all intents and purposes, a vertical river. Sigourd had to crane his neck to see the top of it, which even now was obscured by the light of the midday sun burning through a haze of moisture that loomed over the falls, vast and brooding, like a pall of smoke hanging over a burning city.

  ‘By the great All-mother,’ whispered Jonn Grumble.

  ‘The Hammer Of The Gods,’ exclaimed Sigourd to no one in particular.

  ‘Exactly so,’ said the old man from behind them, a rueful smile upon his face, ‘I see you’ve heard tell of them.’

  ‘I’ve heard stories,’ said Sigourd, unable to shake the tremor of awe from his voice. ‘But never did my imagination allow me to envisage something so...vast!’