In The Shadow Of The Beast (21 page)

Once they were seated within, the boatman
pushed off from the shore, and ere long they were moving at a
casual pace across the still waters.

Sigourd shifted discreetly so that he might
see the face of the man that steered the craft. But try as he might
he could make out not the slightest hint of features beneath the
heavy hood that covered the boatman’s head. Indeed, there appeared
to be nothing more than shadow filling that space. No less alarming
were the solid wrought iron chains that Sigourd noted, tethering
the boatman by his wrist to the same post which supported the oar
at which he tugged. They clinked and chinked softly along with the
sound of the oar slicing the the water.

‘
The penalty for
engendering Brodus Klay’s wrath,’ said the old man from behind
Sigourd, having taken note of where his younger companions eyes
were lingering.

‘
Brodus Klay is a gaoler as
well as a warrior?’ asked Sigourd.

‘
He is many things to many
people,’ said the old man.

‘
What did this person do to
warrant captivity?’

The old man studied Sigourd, his small dark
eyes, no longer rheumy with cataracts, caught the light of the lake
just so. ‘He was a wanderer who made his way into places that he
had no business knowing. Trouble yourself no further with it.’

Sigourd leaned back, looking once more upon
the shadowed recess of the boatman’s hood, and he realized that
what had given him such a sense of disquiet upon seeing this figure
emerge from the mists upon the lake, was the aura of forlorn
hopelessness that hung about the boatman like a cloud.

Ahead of them, the great skull keep loomed
larger and larger. Its polished volcanic surface warping the light
around it, strange patterns of swirling illumination that danced
upon that surface like dervishes. The huge eye sockets of the
skull, easily large enough to dwarf the boat in which they now
traveled, were as fathomless as the shadows under the boatman’s
hood.

The boat crunched into the soft sand of the
atoll, and Sigourd hopped down into the shallows so that he might
assist the old man in climbing down. He was astonished by the
frigidity of the water as it seeped through his breeches, it all
but took his breath away. On the other side of the lake the water
had been cool, but not nearly as icy as the waters around the skull
keep. It was as if the skull were the source of the cold, which
seeped from it into the waters hereabouts, bitter tendrils
emanating ever outwards.

The old man stepped carefully into the
waters, but made no comment about the sudden variance of
temperature, impossible as it was to ignore. Sigourd continued to
help him through the shallows, and together they trudged onto the
narrow shore of the atoll. The sand here was all black, as dark as
the surface of the gleaming skull and presumably composed of the
same volcanic glass, only ground powder fine.

‘
This way lad,’ said the
old man cheerfully, and began to stride toward the mouth of the
skull, the ‘teeth’ of which were composed of several interlocking
iron grilles in the manner of some giant portcullis.

Reaching the gate, the old man pushed it
open, the ironwork scraping softly as it ploughed through the black
sand beneath it.

Sigourd followed him into that grinning
skull, and was surprised to find that the walls within, tall and
broad, glowed infernally in the same way as the exterior of the
skull. It perturbed Sigourd greatly that he could not determine any
source of illumination that would be causing the odd emanations of
light.

Sigourd was loathe to use the term ‘magic’,
for he had not fallen so far into superstitious thinking as might a
common serf of his kingdom when faced with the unusual nature of
these surroundings, but he could not deny that there was something
at play here in this place that defied any logical explanation. And
just as Sigourd had surmised, the interior of the Skull was
damnably cold. Sigourd reached out a hand to touch the faintly
glowing wall of the corridor, and as his fingers caressed the
surface they burned with the intensity of the cold he felt. He
pulled his hand away quickly, and drew his cloak about himself to
stave of the chill.

It occurred to Sigourd that there were no
seams or joins in the wall where an ordinary structure might carry
them. He could see no brick or strut or connective element within.
It was as if the interior of the skull had been carved, like a
sculptor might pare away the unnecessary excess from a block of
marble, or in this case ice, to reveal the hidden form within the
material.

A stairwell led them up, up, up for what
seemed like far longer than would be possible given what Sigourd
had seen of the size of the skull.

Finally, the ascent leveled out onto a
narrow landing, at the end of which stood an open portal where a
cold light flickered and jumped. Sigourd followed the old man
across the landing and through that portal, into a room that again
should have been too large to fit within the dimensions that the
skull provided. It was a source of great consternation to Sigourd
that the mathematics of this strange place seemed to be warped
beyond what should have been. The room itself was conical, the
ceiling tapering to a fine point like a dunce’s cap, some thirty or
so feet above Sigourd’s head, and this in itself was a denial of
even the shape of the skull as seen from the outside.

‘
How is this possible?’
asked Sigourd, the wonderment in his tone sparking a smile upon the
old man’s face, ‘I told you master Sigourd, this place is a
repository of ancient magics. The usual rules which bind the world
do not apply here.’

At the centre of the large room, there was a
fire pit in which blue flames burned dazzlingly, the light of the
fire cast against the shimmering walls of the conical room, and
Sigourd knew without doubt that the strange fire was the source of
the intense cold that pervaded the atoll. The temperature in the
room was so low that Sigourd’s breath steamed the air before him,
coming out in steady puffs of mist that bloomed and dissipated like
ethereal spirits from another place.

As Sigourd looked upon the cold blue of the
fire, flickering like butterflies trapped in a glass bell, he once
more became aware of the disquieting feeling that had insinuated
itself into his mind since his arrival at the tunnel entrance. An
almost instinctive thing warning of a danger as yet revealed.

The only other objects in the room were a
solitary work bench, and a steaming kettle with two steel cups by
its side. The old man had moved over to the bench, and was busying
himself with the preparation of what seemed to be hot tea, pouring
a measure of the clear liquid into each cup before returning to
Sigourd’s side and holding out one of the cups.

‘
Go ahead,’ he said, ‘it’s
always so damn cold in here.’

Sigourd took the cup, sniffed at the
contents but did not immediately drink.

‘
Where is Brodus Klay?’
asked Sigourd.

‘
He will be along
presently,’ replied the old man, who had now moved over to the
strange blue fire, and stood there thoughtfully sipping at the tea
in his hand, ‘If it’s one thing you’d think to get used to living
in these accursed ranges,’ he continued, ‘it would be the bloody
cold. But I never can get truly comfortable.’

As the old man spoke, Sigourd could indeed
feel the chill creeping in stealthily to numb his bones, his mind
then turning to the cup of hot tea in his hands without conscious
thought. He dipped his head to sip the contents of the cup, and was
pleasantly surprised to find that the tea was subtly sweet, and
incredibly warming as it made its way past his lips.

‘
Did I ever mention that I
was a man of the west, like yourself?’ asked the old
man.

‘
I don’t believe that you
did,’ said Sigourd.

‘
Yes, I’d dearly love to
return to my home. To walk in the fields of Atos as I did when I
was a young fellow.’

‘
Why did you come all the
way out here?’ asked Sigourd, realizing that despite the length of
their travels he really knew next to nothing about the person
before him.

A strange look crossed the face of the old
man just then, like the the shadow of a cloud passing over the sun,
there and gone in an instant.

‘
Tell me of your dreams
Sigourd,’ said the old man.

The request came from nowhere, and caught
Sigourd off guard. Suddenly the air in the chamber felt incredibly
close, and Sigourd felt pinpricks of sweat break out on his back
despite the chill in the air.

‘
What do you see when you
close your eyes, boy?’ pressed the old man, ‘Is it a blood moon
hanging low in a sky swirling with dark clouds? Do you hear the cry
of the wolf thrumming in your blood as it rushes like a
river?’

Sigourd’s eyes went wide, how could the old
man possibly know the content of his dreams? Had he spoken aloud of
them while asleep, so that another might be privy to the secret
madness of his troubled slumbering?

Slowly, cautiously Sigourd lowered the cup,
‘What trickery is this?’ he said, fixing the old man with a hard
stare. Yet even as he spoke, Sigourd could suddenly feel his focus
waning, his legs began to tremble beneath him as if they were
burdened by the weight of heavy armor, and the sweat on his back
grew into a frost which coated him entirely beneath his leather
tunic.

‘
I have seen many turbulent
things in you Sigourd Fellhammer,’ said the old man. His voice had
taken on a malevolence Sigourd would not have previously thought
possible, and the mad light of the lake was in his eyes once more.
Sigourd could barely keep from his face the surprise at hearing his
full name upon the lips of the old man, who arched an eyebrow in
recognition of Sigourd’s surprise.

‘
I know you young
Fellhammer, I have always known. Son of Veronique Mortaron, lord
heir to the realm of Atos and the great city of Corrinth Vardis. I
name thee.’

Sigourd’s world began to drip and melt, the
surrounding walls of black volcanic rock appearing to turn to ice
and run before his very eyes. The chamber was slumping in on
itself, even the face of the old man began to warp, like wax held
too near the flame. The only thing that stayed constant and true in
all this twisted madness was the cold blue of the fire, burning
dazzlingly, the flames leaping and jostling, it became the sole
focus of Sigourd’s attention, filling his minds eye. Sigourd cast
aside the steel cup, now empty of the delicately sweet tea. It
clattered noisily into a darkened recess of the conical room and
lay still. The lids of his eyes began to grow heavy, so unbearably
heavy, and finally his knees gave out beneath him. Sigourd
collapsed unconscious to the floor with a dull thud, his head
striking wickedly the cold ground.

The old man came to stand beside the fallen
prince, looked down upon Sigourd for brief moments with eyes that
shimmered with the reflection of the fire. Slowly he kneeled and
reached out a skeletally thin hand to rest gently upon Sigourd’s
brow. The light of madness played behind his dark eyes as surely as
the reflected glimmering of the cold blue flames.

Jonn Grumble had thrown himself into that
great fissure in the belly of the mountain almost without
hesitation. Almost. It had taken him a moment to realize what he
was looking at and steel himself against the sensation that what he
saw was looking back at him from out of the darkness. He had known
instantly that Sigourd and the old man had passed through,
understood it in a most primitive way, like a sense echo of their
passing. It was that same primitive insight that tied such knots in
his stomach now. He knew that to step beyond the fissure, into that
total darkness would signal a crossing over into territories beyond
his ken. Into things that he sensed were not for men of his ilk to
know. But his friend was in danger, and so steeling himself with
that knowledge and the determination of his oath of fealty, he
pressed on and had now emerged into the beyond, the site of a
hidden lake far below the mountain. Across the waters at the center
of the lake he could make out what appeared to be the giant
volcanic skull, and it seemed obvious to presume that his friend
and the old man were inside that very structure. But how to get
there?

Jonn Grumble marveled at the magnificent
scope of the great rock basin. Never in all his days, nor even his
wildest dreams had he ever encountered so grand a place.

Stepping to the waters edge, he could see no
way in which to cross the lake to get to the small isle at its
center. He was also not inclined to believe that the frail old man
with whom they’d been traveling had strength enough to swim the
distance between the shore and the skull. Sigourd perhaps, but not
the old man. There must be a way across, hidden from sight.

After a few moments more in which Jonn
Grumble considered his limited options, he decided that his only
recourse was to try and swim it after all. Stripping off his
overcoat and cloak, he moved up to the water’s edge and stopped
dead. As he peered into the eerily glowing waters of the lake
something caught his eye beneath the surface. The dark waters began
to clear as silt and mud settled, and it took Jonn a moment to
realize that the bed of the lake was littered with human remains.
The skulls of numberless hundreds of the dead looked up at him,
grinning balefully from their final resting place.

Jonn’s mouth fell open in horror. As it did
so the heavy plum seed he’d been rolling around in his mouth
dropped into the water with a loud ‘plunk’. Ripples began to cast
out across the surface of the lake. And then something from the
darkness of the other side began to stir.