Into the Valley of Death

by Frank Cavallo

  Into the Valley of Death

  Frank Cavallo

  1.

  Felix Jaeger ran for his life.

  His feet slashed across the muddy ground with every hurried step. His muscles ached, screaming for rest. His lungs burned and his chest heaved. But he couldn’t stop. He couldn’t slow down, not even for a moment. Not even to catch his failing breath.

  The beast was near. He could hear it, snarling and howling as it ripped through the thick forest behind him, shrinking the distance between them with each passing instant. The chase had already stretched on for almost an hour, tearing a scar across the dark woodlands of eastern Talabecland. It was a desperate race, a break-neck pursuit through treacherous woods and dense, overgrown brush-tangles. And it was now drawing to its inevitable, brutal end.

  Each second brought the claws and the fangs closer. Every time he risked a glance backward, Felix could see those same merciless red eyes, glowing against the cold shadows of the Great Forest. No matter how far he ran, their gaze remained locked on him. In moments the monster’s furious gait would finally close the gap. Soon the beast would outlast him, and Felix’s exhausted sinews would become nothing more than food for the ravenous predator.

  A thistle branch tore away his sleeve as he rushed through a thicket of brambles, cutting across his arm and spilling more blood in his wake. Garbed in what had once been the silken finery of a student at a prestigious university – everything he wore was now shredded and frayed. Months of wandering along the fringes of civilization had left him in rags and second-hand scraps. Stains of sweat, mud and blood discoloured the expensive dyes of his ruined clothing.

  When he spied a rocky clearing in the forest ahead, only a few steps away, he staggered toward it. The monster’s roaring gait was growing ever-louder behind him. Every step made it swell. A rushing river bounded Felix to his right, churning with white rapids, making the frothing water impossible to negotiate. Ahead, at the edge of the stone outcropping, he caught sight of the fat trunk of a great old oak, towering above the uneven ground and reaching up into the dark canopy. He clenched his fists and summoned his last ounce of strength. He charged into the open.

  The beast broke through the wall of brambles behind him only an instant later, splitting the nest of thorn bushes. It was a massive, wild canine, its powerful muscles warped and swollen into a drooling grotesquery of fur and flesh. A mane of razor-sharp bristles crowned the mutant hound’s fearsome head, exaggerating the heft of its enormous shoulders. Its thick body surged with hideous growth. Twisted tusks sprouted from every corner of its flea-swarmed, gore-speckled hide. Ridges of bony spines ran down the length of its arched back. Its haunches flexed over top of scaly, claw-like paws and its scorpion tail whipped wildly through the air behind it.

  Bounding in bloodthirsty fury over the last few paces toward Felix, it was on his heels in seconds. Snapping its rabid, frothing jaws, it howled at the warm scent of man-flesh that filled its slimy nose.

  Felix leaped for the tree, less than a single step ahead of the hound. He stretched his arms out, as long and as hard as he could muster, straining to reach the lowest-hanging branch and ignoring the pain that rippled through every inch of his body. For a moment he was airborne, flying through the woods in a final, frantic effort to escape. His hands clamped down on an arm of grey bark, but his palms were dripping with sweat. One hand slipped from the grip a moment after, leaving him swinging in the wind, hanging on by only a single, precarious grasp.

  The hound gave no quarter. It too sprang on its back legs, careening up toward the vulnerable man, suspended by his tenuous hold.

  Its dagger claws swiped at his leg, tearing through his boot leather right down to the skin. The hound’s snout chomped at him, gnashing its fangs within inches of Felix’s midsection. He could taste the beast’s hot breath, stinking with the foul odours of carrion as it bayed in a maddened, mindless wrath. But the nimble young wanderer held fast. He kicked at the hound’s snout, smashing its nose. Then he swung his entire body back in the other direction, somehow managing to again avoid the beast’s snarling jaws.

  As the mutated hound fell back to earth, Felix quickly re-established his second grip, using his momentum to haul himself up from below. The snarling beast leaped a second time, but Felix draped his legs over another branch, further elevating himself until he could pull his entire body out of harm’s way.

  The ferocious hound remained undeterred, leaping and growling at the base of the old tree, but for the moment, Felix had found his haven. For the moment, he was safe.

  2.

  With the beast still circling beneath, the chase averted for at least a while, Felix reached into his pack. The tattered green travel-bag was now his only worldly possession, and as he expected, it was nearly empty. Just a handful of nuts and some dry berries remained among stale crumbs. The stolen bread he’d packed away days before was long-gone.

  Breathing easy for the first time in a long while, his cheeks were flushed from the hunt. His chest still pounded with the rush of adrenaline as he tried to relax. Perspiration soaked his clothing, dripping from his sleeves and from the long blond locks that had fallen down over his face. He pulled back the mop of hair with a grimy hand, raising his sights to the heavens.

  The wet, shoulder-length strands fell down over his collar and the top of his dirty tunic. He was a lean, lithe young man, with a hard-edged jaw-line and narrow eyes that always seemed to squint just a little. Despite having been on the run for many weeks, his youthful face showed only the earliest hints of a beard, no more than scattered patches of fine whiskers on his chin and a thin bit of a moustache forming above his lip.

  No longer a boy, but not quite old enough to grow the beard of a man, as his father used to say.

  Felix watched the hound below, licking its fangs with a serpentine red tongue. If it was hunger that motivated the vicious abomination, then he shared at least that much in common with the beast. The gurgling pain deep in his own gut, as empty as his burlap rucksack, hurt worse than any knife-wound. A constant, excruciating reminder of how far he’d fallen and how much he’d lost.

  It had been days now since he’d been on the run, since he’d awoken with a splitting headache to find himself alone in some of most dangerous wild places in the Empire. Though he whispered curses to any number of gods, he also could hear his father’s disapproving voice for another reason, scolding him within his head. He well knew what the old man would have said: that he could blame no one but himself for his current string of misfortunes – save perhaps the brigands who had recently knocked him unconscious and relieved him of nearly everything he owned.

  He’d known, even at the time, that taking up with a band of strangers in Wurtbad was a strategy not likely to bring him good fortune. But his options had been limited.

  The association had begun with the best of intentions. Seeking out a place to drown his sorrows with the last of his coins, he’d stumbled into a dingy tavern on the edge of the city, and just as quickly found himself sharing tankards of ale with a motley band of other, apparently like-minded young ruffians.

  It was only after they’d become entangled in a brawl and found themselves chased out of the city, that he’d begun to question the wisdom of his choice of company. The exact details, though recent, were rather sketchy in his recollection. It had all happened so fast, and after so much ale.

  Someone in his drinking circle of new acquaintances had taken offence at the song being sung by another patron, praising the virtues of Reikland at the expense of all other provinces, if he remembered correctly. That of course, had led to an argument, which had led to a fight, which had turned into an
all-out melee in a matter of seconds.

  It was only as they fled the scene, overwhelmed by the other patrons and chased even by the city guard, that Felix discovered the identity of his new friends. But by then it was too late to excuse himself from the company of the followers of the infamous local bandit, Therkold Red-Scar.

  There was no way he could have foreseen that, having made their escape to a secluded cabin along an old road north-west of the city, Therkold and his men would soon turn on their new-found friend, robbing him of all that he carried and leaving him to die in the wild forest.

  Though as he re-traced the steps in his mind, Felix realized that it all looked quite obvious in hindsight.

  Returning to his present predicament, he looked down once more. The hound was still there, but was no longer pacing beneath him. Instead it had begun to look elsewhere, its interest snared by something else, out in the forest shadows beyond the clearing. Its sinister tail elevated, curling up over its body as its ears pointed in an alert posture. Whether scent or sound, Felix did not know, but as he watched, the hound began to creep away, skulking out toward some other victim.

  With nothing to eat, and nothing near enough to threaten him – for the moment – Felix Jaeger laid his head back against the moss-covered bark, and closed his eyes.

  He didn’t rest for long.

  A commotion roused him only moments later. Groggy and still aching in every part of his body, Felix was a moment in responding. But as the noises grew, and his senses returned, he scrambled to make up for the lapse.

  Shouting dominated the cacophony, angry calls that echoed through the darkness of the forest. They were yet too far away to make out any words, but for the occasional curse or obscenity, hollered above the rest of the calls. A band of brigands perhaps – but men at least, from the sound of distant voices. Trouble to be sure; one never could be certain what kind of rogues were likely to emerge from the shadows of the deep woodlands.

  The shouting swelled as the ground shivered and trembled, sending ripples through the trees and the bushes, dislodging rocks from the river-side sediment. Then came the howls. Fierce. Feral. Familiar.

  And getting louder – closer, with every second. The hound was returning, and this time, it was not alone.

  His body pressed against the trunk of the great oak, Felix felt the vibrations. They were rhythmic, not the widespread rumble of a quake, but a repetitive, powerful pounding. When he looked out from his makeshift shelter, his senses were confirmed. The raging hound charged out once more, again emerging from the deep of the woods. Every footfall of the massive beast was like a hammer-strike upon the earth. The wild monster stomped its way right up to the edge of the river, stopping and letting loose a ferocious squeal as it dug its paws into the silt.

  But this time, it was not concerned with Felix at all.

  It was wounded now. Blood ran in streaks and splotches across its thorny brown haunches. A dozen arrows and just as many spears pierced its midsection from every angle, lodged beside the spiny growths that jutted out from its hide. Blade-wounds had cleaved chunks of flesh from its shoulders and underbelly, exposing raw muscle and furry flaps of torn skin.

  Whatever the beast had gone forth to find, it had met with more than mere prey. It was now the hunted. Felix smiled at the apparent reversal of fortune.

  Only a few moments later, after the shouting had risen to a frenzied crescendo, a party of men came up in its tracks. They appeared to be mounted hunters, just as Felix had already guessed. But they were no common trackers or woodsmen. To a man, they were garbed in matching burgundy surcoats, stitched with a gold chevron and double-eagle herald, denoting some noble livery.

  Most were armed to the teeth, wielding cumbersome blunderbusses, crossbows, spears and other ranged weapons. But Felix saw that all of them were dishevelled and spattered with mud, their horses panting from their own long pursuit.

  As he remained in his secluded spot, careful not to reveal his presence, the hunters dismounted and re-grouped. They fanned out in a semi-circle fashion, closing off any avenue of escape for the wounded beast, its back against the forbidding rapids of the river. Although the men were clearly no strangers to violence, hulking, burly figures all, Felix noticed that they took their orders from the smallest of their number.

  His horse, the finest of the group, took up a position behind the centre, and furthest from the hound. It was a regal black stallion, well-fed, meticulously groomed and saddled with an expensive gold-trimmed bridle. Its gear hauled several large packs. The other steeds in the party however, were equipped differently. Obviously sturdy riding horses all, their accoutrements were just as well-crafted, but lacking such elaborate flourishes, and most showed signs of wear. The leather was broken-in and the shine was worn away from the iron buckles. The animals themselves were powerful geldings, and most bore the scars of old wounds etched into their hides.

  The young man’s head was the only part of him exposed, and to Felix, his features marked him as a youth probably not much older than himself: pale skinned, with close-cropped sable hair and a clean-shaven face. His features were sharp, with an angular chin and nose that lent him an almost royal bearing.

  Slight of build and careful to remain at a distance, he wore none of the accoutrements of a noble house or of a fighting man. Instead, he was garbed in ill-fitting, voluminous dark robes that seemed to swim around him as he moved, and he carried only a scythe atop a long, crooked staff.

  Despite that, he was undoubtedly in command of the armed men who stood before him. He directed the hunters with a combination of shouted orders and deliberate gestures. The last of them was a general order to finish the hunt. With perfect obedience, the men began to move forward, closing their ranks like a vice.

  First came a new round of ranged attacks, a bank of arrows fired in a single rush. Then a hail of spears hurled at the beast, as the men moved ever nearer to close quarters. The gunners took aim next, setting their wide-barrelled firearms against their shoulders and firing off their blunderbusses in an ear-splitting spasm of smoke and flame. The beast staggered with every hit. Each new wound blasted out dark, fetid blood and chunks of mutant flesh from its hide. But despite its many injuries, the battered hound stood its ground, spitting acid-mucus from its snout in utter defiance.

  The man in the black and violet robes called for a change of tactics. He ordered the force arrayed before him to shift into units. Breaking off into these smaller groups, two or three at a time, the hunters followed up their distance-strikes, racing in with slashing swords held high. They alternated angles at his behest, hitting the beast from the left, then from the right, keeping it moving and bewildered as he directed their movements with shouts from afar.

  But still the hound rebuffed every new attack, squealing in misery and ever-swelling wrath as it swatted down a different hunter with each attempt to subdue it. Those not cut in half by its whirling, serrated tail or gored by its up-turned fangs were knocked to the side, crushed by the stomping of its claw-like paws. Others were thrown into the air, landing unconscious all over the stony ground of the river-side outcropping.

  Felix watched in horror as the entire hunting party was cut down and cast aside until only two remained standing. The first was a grizzled old veteran, barrel-chested with arms like tree trunks. Streaks of black ran like tiger stripes through his bushy grey beard. Behind him, the man who directed the contingent cowered in the shrinking shadow of his lone surviving soldier. They now faced a beast with darkness surging through its blood, raging in a vicious ardour of hunger and pain.

  With a fierce canine snarl, the hound charged. The lone remaining warrior heaved a half-broken spear, but the wild-eyed monster brushed it aside like a twig. The tired fighter backed up as the beast closed in on him, and his own feet betrayed him. Tripping blindly on a broken stone, he fell backwards, leaving the hound a clear path to the defenceless young man in the strange robes.
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  For a long, tense moment, the horrific beast paused, as though unsure of which vulnerable prey to strike first. While the veteran struggled to come to his feet, disarmed and dangerously near to the hound, he appeared careful to make no sudden movements that might provoke it into a final assault.

  As he did, the man in the robes behind was not so still. Instead, he lifted his scythe, waving it as he recited some incantation that drew the beast’s crimson stare. For an instant, the young man seemed emboldened as a spell wove itself around his staff in a swirl of purple fog. He then swung his scythe, casting off a blade of sparkling mist. It sliced down upon the beast, breaking like sea-waves upon its hide.

  For a brief moment, Felix thought the battle won, but he soon realized his faith was misplaced. The hound was paralyzed for but an instant, before it shook off the mist-attack, snarling and coughing at the fading fog, though otherwise unharmed. The young spell-caster’s eyes widened at the failure. His face suddenly panicked. Again he tried to launch an attack, rushing through the complex incantation once more. But his second salvo proved even weaker than the first. This one fizzled in mid-air before the mist-wave even reached the hound.

  The beast growled and then roared, its attention now focused solely on the young man. Though the pale youth raised his scythe in some feeble attempt at defence, the summoned mist seemed to dissipate from around him as the hound closed in for the kill.

  Though exhausted, starving and weary, Felix could not sit idle any longer. He leaped from his seclusion, shouting with his hoarse throat to draw the beast away from the unarmed man.

  It proved effective enough. The young man managed to duck aside and the hound over-ran him, leaving his rear flanks exposed for an instant. It was a chance Felix did not waste. Snatching a sword from the hand of a fallen hunter, he leaped toward the beast that had sought to make a meal of him, intent on having a measure of revenge for himself.

  Although well-schooled in the formal art of the duel, but not a hunter by training, Felix slashed across the hound from behind, slowing its recovery enough to allow him to kick a second discarded blade to the fallen soldier. The grizzled veteran clambered to his feet as his youthful master once again ducked behind. Their partnership unspoken, but sealed nonetheless in that moment, the two men pressed the attack.