Shadows Page 16

  The mountain pass was bleak and cold. It gained elevation quickly and followed a northwest direction. Lorik was amazed and grateful that the pass had little snow, and the passage proved wide enough for him to ride. The shod hooves of his horse clattered against the stone and sent echoes reverberating against the canyon walls.

  The day had waxed into dusk and a cold wind howled through the ravine that the pass followed. Snowflakes swirled around him and stung his eyes. The changing condition forced Lorik to move much slower than he wanted. Far below, the river made its way south and west, on a journey that disappeared beyond his sight. He was high enough now that no sound from the river found its way up to his ears, and it appeared as little more than a ribbon of water spanned by the stone bridge which glistened in the fading sun.

  Ahead, the passage wound through the jagged teeth of the mountains. In the cold, bitter wind, he needed to make shelter soon or die of exposure. He saw no rock or outcropping he could use and no cave or fissure to take cover from the wind. Instead, Lorik kept as close to the rock face as possible in a desperate effort to wrest from the mountain what little protection was available.

  Beneath him, Lorik’s horse shivered in the wintery exposure. There was very little comfort, as he, himself, found his own body shivering in an effort to keep warm. They trudged up the mountain; step by aching step. He wished his circumstances had never led him to such a miserable place. Who could live here? Still they continued, far more than a thousand feet above the canyon floor.

  Darkness fell like a cold blanket, and Lorik decided to dismount. He led his steed up the passage with hope he might find some small crevice to take shelter.

  Lorik rounded a bend in the pass and discovered a small alcove, little more than an indentation in the hard, cold rock, but enough for him and his mount to escape the howling wind. He unpacked his gear and arranged the firewood on the stone floor. No snow had ventured into the narrow shelter, and the dry wood caught fire with a flash, illuminating the recess with its yellow flames. Shadows danced across the walls as the fire flickered. Around him, cold shards of rock lay scattered on the ground.

  To Lorik’s surprise, several charred remnants of branches and wood littered the ground. Lorik picked a burnt piece and sniffed it. The wood had been burned not more than a day before. Aaron’s captors took refuge in this place. Distinct footprints remained in the ash, reminiscent of the small prints he’d seen at the bridge site.

  Lorik sat near the small fire, desperate for the warmth offered by the flames. The rock face provided some comfort as a protrusion over his head helped to capture the heat. An eerie sound, like the howling cry of a wolf, carried on the wind and sent a chill up Lorik’s spine. He tried to dismiss the sound as the wail of the wind blowing through the cracks and crags of the mountains, but the noise persisted and began to grow louder. Wrapped in a cocoon of wool blankets, he huddled against the chill night air, but kept his sword within easy reach. Rationing his limited supply of wood, he kept the fire dim. One more night in this desolation, he thought, and I’ll have no choice but to abandon the pursuit. Discouraged, he drew closer to the fire.

  It was a bleak night, stark and cold. The fire, not more than a whisper of flame, struggled to dispel the chill air. Stars hung high above in the cold, black sky; a pale, waning moon continued its progress through the velvet blackness of night, its dim illumination only served to enhance the sense of cold. His hands felt frozen in their gloves and his feet, though covered with winter boots, sensed the bite of his frost-covered environment.

  The sound of the wind changed, and sent a deeper chill to Lorik’s already frozen bones. A howl carried on the wind conveyed malice and hunger, and it iced his blood more than the arctic air. Then, just beyond the fire, Lorik noticed two orbs reflected in the light—red eyes glaring back in his direction. They didn’t move—malicious eyes just outside the circle of light that the small fire provided.

  Panic welled up in Lorik’s mind like a fountain, but years of discipline allowed him to dismiss fear and reach for his sword. He unsheathed the weapon and added another brand to the fire. As the flames grew, so did the light and Lorik saw the outline of some monstrous, wolf-like creature. Low growls rumbled from the darkness and in the distance, the howls of other creatures were carried on the wind. The sergeant stood and brandished his sword. He retrieved a burning branch from the fire. Then in one, sudden leap, the creature rushed into the circle of light and attacked. Lorik’s horse reared up and bolted from the small alcove of rock.

  Alone, Lorik faced the creature with his sword in one hand and a firebrand in the other. The creature growled and snapped its massive jaws as Lorik pivoted to avoid its attack. The hideous beast lunged at Lorik. But with the agility born of experience and desperation, the sergeant moved again and plunged his sword though the monster’s breast. The beast howled, a sound that Lorik had never heard, filled with pain and malice, and lay on the cold rock as it quivered in the final throws of death, dark hair matted and bloody. Lorik pulled his sword from the carcass and wiped the steaming blood on the monster’s coarse fur, he then cast the last pieces of wood onto the fire and it leapt up in a brilliant shower of embers. Lorik feared he faced the fight for his life and wanted to see whatever came next.

  It didn’t take long. From the darkness along the path, he heard the low growls and blood-chilling sounds of the wolf-like creatures approach. Four sets of eyes glowered in the distance, no more than twenty yards from his campfire. Guttural noises pronounced the creatures’ awful intentions as they advanced with slow, cautious steps. The beasts growled and revealed long, sharp fangs. The huge, wolf-creatures stepped closer to the fire and sniffed at the air. Their eyes never left Lorik, and he heard the hunger in their ravenous tone. The fire stood between him and the beasts, its warmth and light blazed with brilliance in the cold night air. Lorik reached down and grabbed another brand from the fire, never taking his eyes off the predators.

  He stood, sword in one hand, fire in the other. “If you want dinner,” Lorik challenged the beasts, “it’s going to cost you!”

  The four beasts continued their slow, careful steps toward Lorik. Then one of the creatures stopped, its ears perked up as if it listened to the wind. It sniffed the air and gave a horrendous howl then sprung back to the path. The others followed the first into the darkness and back down the mountain trail. Lorik’s shoulders slumped and he heaved a heavy sigh of relief, glad that the beasts were drawn away.

  From the darkness, Lorik heard the ringing sounds of battle as shouts and cries echoed up the cold mountain pass. Lorik listened, concerned a greater threat approached from the dark. Again, unintelligible shouts mingled with the howls of the creatures and filled the night. With his makeshift torch and sword gripped tight in his fist, Lorik navigated the narrow path toward the sounds of battle.

  In the darkness, a battle raged. The echoes grew louder, and Lorik now heard the shouts of voices: “Stand your ground… behind you!” Mingled with the shouts were the piercing howls of the ferocious beasts. Lorik moved through the dark, his torch flickered and shed very little light before him—just enough to prevent him from plummeting off the cliff. He had little doubt who else wandered the barren heights but guessed that it was another band of the rugged warriors.

  The sounds grew louder as he approached. Just ahead and around a corner, the clang of steel and guttural bellow of the monsters set Lorik’s heart racing. He slowed his pace and hugged the cliff wall, inching his way along to glance around the bend.

  It was as he thought. The short men with their sturdy look and double-bladed axes fended off the assault of four monstrous beasts. The stout, diminutive warriors moved with great agility and surprised Lorik as they fended off the attack with remarkable skill. There were eight in all, two on each of the creatures, and they hacked and swung against their assailants until all four monsters were killed.

  Panting with the exertion, one of the short men spoke. “Quickly now, we must hurry to find the intruder. Do not t
ake time to dispatch the bodies of these horros, leave them to the mountain.”

  “Sir,” replied another, “he must be dead; no one can survive alone.”

  “If he’s dead,” the first returned, “then he’ll be easier to find. Now let’s move out!”

  Lorik knew that they meant him. He raced back up the mountain trail and hoped to outdistance himself from the others. He needed to give himself enough time to douse his fire and hide in the shadows until they passed. He arrived at his camp out of breath, his heartbeat ringing in his ears. The fire had diminished to orange embers and small, wispy flames. Lorik stamped the coals and flames to ash. Carried along on the wind, he heard the sounds of feet clamoring up the trail—the patrol, he thought. With the fire out, he gathered up his gear and ducked into a crack in the cliff wall to wait for them to pass.

  They moved swifter than he anticipated and soon Lorik noticed the silhouette of small soldiers entering the alcove, twenty yards away. Lorik watched as one of the stout men drew close to his campsite. The man shouted back to his companions. “Over here!”

  The others approached and noticed the dead beast, fresh blood still oozed from its fatal wound, and the defunct fire blew one final wisp of smoke. “He’s gone.” The first one noticed. Lorik held his breath as the band of warriors left the alcove.

  “Let’s move!” shouted the leader. “He must have continued up the mountain. If he knew about our bridge, he might know about the secret entrance to our realm. We must hurry!”

  Lorik watched as the others disappeared up the path and beyond his sight. Slow and cautious, he stepped from his hiding place and listened for the sound of the patrol. The faint, rhythmic cadence sounded through the darkness. He retrieved his pack from the crevice and slung it over his shoulder. With sword in hand, Lorik wrapped his cloak tighter, hoping to gain any advantage over the frigid air, and followed the patrol through the darkness up the mountain pass.

  He found it difficult to keep pace or to determine any sign of their passage. The one hope he had was the fact that with a large cliff on his left and a shear drop on his right, the pass was the only trail available. The wind howled and gusted all around him and prevented him from hearing anything more than his own footfalls. Lorik maneuvered along the stone ledge with stealth, anxious to remain undetected yet desperate to keep pace with the advancing guard. With no light except the thin sliver of the moon, his movements were slow.

  Lorik stopped. Were those footsteps behind him? He listened—nothing. Turning slowly, with his sword clenched in his hand, Lorik peered down the dark trail. The quick glint of steel flashed in his eyes, and Lorik fell to the ground. He blinked and blinked again as the world around him spun out of control. A searing rush of pain wracked his head as blood dripped from his face. Lorik tried to stand but collapsed in a heap on the cold rock. His vision blurred as he gazed up at one of the short men standing over him, a battleaxe in his hands. Then all went dark.

  ****

  Lorik woke in a corridor illuminated by large, white crystals imbedded in the rock wall. He was lying on a cobblestone floor in a wide, warm passage. The cold night air was gone and so were the stars as he stared at the smooth ceiling of a cavernous tunnel. His hands were bound with thin, but strong leather straps and his head throbbed with pain. Every heartbeat brought a new sensation of anguish as the world spun in dizzying disarray. He tried to gain his bearings but the illuminated environment was foreign to him. Lorik heard the sounds of muffled speech from somewhere beyond his line of sight. Then all went dark again.

  Lorik next woke from the continued effort of one of the dwarves who alternatively slapped him across the face and splashed cool water on him. He tried to speak but the stabbing pain that filled his head prevented him from offering much more than a muffled, muted moan.

  “Sir,” shouted one of the dwarves, “the man is waking up!” The dwarf’s voice hit Lorik’s ears like a hammer against an anvil.

  “Very well,” said another. “Let’s get him on his feet and move out. We’ve waited here too long.”

  Two of the dwarves stood over Lorik and hoisted him up. He collapsed in their arms as the world spun like a top. He grew nauseous and stumbled over his own feet. Yet the dwarves held him erect with each of Lorik’s arms draped around the broad shoulders of his two guards. He was loathe to walk, but the strength of his captors denied him any quarter, so Lorik took one laborious step after another. Several times he almost fell as he stumbled through the dizzy effects of his head wound. He sensed the slow trickle of blood as it dripped down his face and matted his hair. With his head bowed, Lorik watched his own blood splatter on the cobblestone floor.

  As they walked, he tried to determine their direction but had no means of knowing if they traveled north or south. One thing Lorik did know, they were on a steady descent, deep into the roots of the mountains. The miles passed beneath his feet one weary step at a time while his captors showed no signs of fatigue. Spaced along the wall, radiant crystals gave off soft, white light, providing ample illumination for the journey.

  Lorik began to regain his equilibrium and moved more freely than before. His head pounded with pain, but he began to see with greater clarity as the dizziness subsided. Two stout warriors stayed by his side and allowed him to walk without support. He was grateful to stand erect without nausea overwhelming him.

  “We’ll stop here,” the patrol commander ordered. “We’ve walked for several miles and will take a moment to rest. Besides,” he continued, “now that our captive is conscious, he needs to answer some questions.” The stout commander strolled over to Lorik and stood before him, arms crossed over his massive chest, glaring.

  Lorik looked down at his captor. His head still throbbed with pain. “What is the meaning of this,” Lorik stammered. “Who are you?” His speech was slurred and hesitant, and he struggled to keep his mind focused on the short man in front of him.

  “Silence prisoner! I will ask the questions.” The gruff voice of the commander rumbled in Lorik’s ears and pounded against his skull. “Why have you invaded our land?” he demanded.

  “Invasion?” Lorik questioned. “No, no invasion.” His mind was still swimming in confusion as he tried to respond.

  “Well,” barked the dwarf, “if you’re not here as an advanced scout for invasion, then why are you here? How did you find the way into our realm?” The leader of the patrol stood firm, his countenance like iron.

  Though Lorik still felt dazed from the blow he suffered, he took a defiant, resilient tone. “I am a sergeant in the Royal Guard of Celedon,” he said. “I am a soldier under the command of my captain and servant of the emperor.” Lorik was clear-headed enough to conceal his actual purpose in the mountains.

  “Very well sergeant of the Royal Guard,” the patrol leader mocked, “you are now a prisoner of Lord Dunstan, and you will be brought before him to answer for your crime.”

  “What crime?” Lorik demanded.

  “You have invaded our land. Either you’re a terrorist or a precursor to war. Unwelcome intruders must face Lord Dunstan. Now march! We have a long road before we arrive in our capital.” He ordered the two who stood near Lorik to act as his guards. The leader led them down the long, wide passageway deeper into the heart of the mountain.

  They journeyed for days and kept to the same passage through the mountain, though there were several offshoots which meandered left and right from the main causeway. Lorik’s wound healed enough so his eyes cleared, and he no longer struggled with double vision. The passage continued its descent, and to Lorik’s best guess, they were several thousand feet beneath the surface, near the base of the mountains. On the fourth day, the passage ended and opened into a wide, spacious valley. They were still several hundred feet above the valley floor and stood on a large stone platform like a balcony overlooking a stage.

  In the distance, he saw a massive, brilliant city. Its high walls sparkled as if adorned with thousands of gemstones. The day shone brilliant upon the ramparts, as if
the sun rose in the sky just to cast its light upon the distant city. Behind him, the mountains loomed like giant bulwarks of stone. In front, the passage they followed became a wide road that meandered through large, well-tended fields and abundant groves of trees.

  The city waited several miles away in the center of the valley, a shimmering ship in a golden sea. Stairs, carved into the solid rock face, descended to the valley floor. Lorik was led down these stairs, exhausted from the journey. But the sight of the rich valley and beautiful city electrified him with anticipation. They traveled through massive groves of trees, with leaves of gold and red occasionally falling in gentle motion. Amber fields of wheat shimmered in waves, stroked by a gentle breeze. In the fields many of the smallish people labored as they harvested the grain. Wagons pulled by mules and oxen navigated the broad road and passed Lorik and the patrol with little notice.

  “What’s happening out there?” Lorik asked the guard to his right as he pointed toward the fields.

  “It’s the final harvest,” the dwarf said. “We had a late growing season, and they’re trying to bring in the last crops.”

  “But the snows have fallen in Celedon,” Lorik observed. “How is it that your valley is untouched?”

  “This land was given to us by the ancient King, and it is sheltered from the harsh conditions of other regions,” the dwarf said.

  Three hours later, they entered the city. Colossal, ornate doors hung open, and the guards led Lorik through the arched gateway. Thousands of the diminutive people bustled about their business with no regard for Lorik though he stood a head taller than the entire population. Stone houses lined the streets, adorned with gold and silver decorations. He marveled at the wealth and craftsmanship displayed in the city’s architecture.

  All the people of the city, Lorik noticed, seemed of the same stock as his captors. The men sported long, thick beards and many wore leather shirts with ringed mail and carried at least a small double-bladed axe. The women, however, were just the opposite. Small, slender forms weaved their way through the crowded streets, many of them with young children at their heels.