In The Shadow Of The Beast (24 page)

‘
The old man told you all
that?’ asked Jonn Grumble, ‘Did you even get a glimpse of this
Brodus Klay?’

‘
They were one and the same
person. He’d been with us all along, getting the measure of
us.’

Jonn Grumble blinked in confusion, and so
Sigourd pressed on, ‘He wore the mask of helpful old man as a
disguise, but his true self was something altogether more
monstrous. After he rendered me unconscious, some magic within this
place allowed him to enter my dreams. We fought.’

Sigourd’s eyes became glassy and distant as
he struggled to recall the combat that had taken place in the
dreamscape, for just like a dream it was already fading fast from
his memory.

‘
He talked of a prophecy
that I was a part of and that he would not suffer to pass,’ said
Sigourd.

‘
What kind of a prophecy?’
asked Jonn Grumble, who now wore a dubious expression.

‘
I wish I knew,’ said
Sigourd.

‘
Well, one thing is for
sure. With the bird lying dead out there on the mountainside, our
chances of finding your girlfriend are pretty bloomin’ slim,’ said
Jonn Grumble bitterly.

Something flashed in Sigourd’s minds eye.
Another dreamlike recollection that loomed like a dark shadow
across his conscious mind. Like a shadow, or a silhouette. The
image of that sharply tapering mountaintop, jutting into the ink
dark sky like a jagged tooth. The brilliance of a pale yellow moon,
full and bright, hanging low behind it.

‘
I know the way,’ said
Sigourd finally, ‘I know where we will find Isolde.’

CHAPTER 13

Sky fang...

The pale leaves of spring were blossoming
new upon the trees. After a harsh winter, the city was in need of
the breath of rebirth, and there was not a finer sight to the mind
of The Baron Mortaron than that of the city’s gardens is bloom.
What majestic gardens they were. A place of orchards and fine
floral blossoms of uncounted species and variety and vibrancy of
color.

This time of year was the signifier of
change and renewal, and there could be no more apt a season to be
entering into when the entire land was on the verge of momentous
political change. Though that change was to be brought about
through bloodshed and betrayal was of little consequence to The
Baron. All that mattered was that it was long overdue, and he was
the lynchpin upon which everything was held in the balance.

Mortaron had played this delicate game for
decades, maneuvering the pieces of the royal dynasty so subtly and
with such care. Every detail had been painstakingly prepared months
or even years in advance. His grand scheme had moved so glacially
slowly, but it was always moving, inexorably onwards towards the
ultimate goal.

Most irritatingly, recent events had thrown
something of the proverbial lead pipe into the works, but they had
not terribly undermined The Baron’s carefully laid plans. Mortaron
considered himself mentally dextrous enough that he could improvise
and adapt when he was called upon to do so. So far he had turned
the disappearance of the troublesome brat Sigourd to his own
ends.

Such were The Baron’s thoughts as he
negotiated his way between the tall hedgerows of the Governor’s
Maze. The maze itself took center stage in the upper most level of
the palace’s tiered gardens. Intricately manicured and attended by
all manner of landscapists to ensure that the maze was as well kept
as it possibly could be, it was considered by many to be one of the
most significant artistic achievements in modern Corrinth Vardis.
The Baron simply liked it because it was an ideal spot for secret
rendezvous, of both the political and carnal varieties.

He held in his hand an elder blossom, an
early blooming flower with an off white hue that was possessed of
many beautiful silken petals. The Baron plucked at those petals,
laying a trail of them behind him as he continued to wend his way
though the maze. He didn’t do this so as to find his way back. He
knew exactly where he was going and how to go about getting there.
He had walked the maze a hundred times and knew its secret ways
well enough, although he hadn’t been here in many years. But it all
came back to him well enough.

Around one final corner, he was not
surprised to see his sister sitting on an ornately finished bench
at the center of a squared cul de sac. Upon seeing her brother,
Veronique’s sorrowful expression became darker still.

Mortaron held up the stem of the flower,
with its single remaining petal.

‘
Do you remember when we
used to play this game?’ he said in a jovial tone, ‘one of us would
follow the trail of petals laid by the other to a secret treasure.
Or so we imagined.’

‘
Do not toy with me
brother,’ said Veronique, desperation edging her tone, ‘tell me
what news of my son?’

‘
Those were such happy,
carefree times,’ continued Mortaron as if unaware that Veronique
had spoken. ‘I could almost stand the sight of you in those days,’
he mused aloud to himself.

Veronique’s expression hardened, and her
tone matched the stony look that came into her eyes, ‘Tell me damn
you.’

Mortaron idly flicked the petal and the stem
into the wind, where it was carried away on a gentle spring breeze,
and looked up to meet his sister’s reproachful gaze.

‘
Reports are inconclusive,’
he stated matter of factly.

‘
Inconclusive?’ implored
Veronique, ‘what by all the Gods does that mean?’

‘
The boy has been tracked
into the Ash’harad. After that...who knows.’

Veronique stood suddenly, and began to pace
the small enclosure, ‘The Ash’harad. That means he is near to
finding the truth!’

‘
If he survives,’ quipped
The Baron nonchalantly.

Suddenly, Veronique looked up at her
brother, her eyes burning with accusation, ‘I should have never
heeded you. I should have told the truth. Before Sigourd was born I
should have told the truth!’

‘
And brought shame and
ridicule upon your family name?’ spat The Baron.

‘
What is family honor
beside the life of you nephew?’

‘
Nephew!? The boy is barely
human by any reasonable measurement of the facts.’

Veronique’s tone dropped to a low whisper,
but there was a current of iron resolve running through the timbre
of her voice, ‘Sigourd is the heir to the throne of Corrinth
Vardis, and your ordained blood sire. It would serve you well to
remember that.’

‘
Yes, a tragic
inconvenience,’ remarked The Baron casually.

The note of desperation once more entered
the lady’s voice and she began to pace again, wringing her fingers
as she spoke, ‘We must make amends. Before it all comes out. We
must tell the truth to The Regent and to Sigourd, we could--’

In an instant, Mortaron had crossed the
small space to where his sister paced and roughly took hold of his
her, his grip like a ring of iron manacled about Veronique’s
slender arm. The gentle breeze that had stirred the leaves on the
hedgerows died suddenly, as if even the elements themselves were
fearful of engendering the ire of a man as intimidating as The
Baron Mortaron. All was quiet as he spoke in a tone as hard as the
iron grip with which he held the lady, ‘Know this, my patience has
limits. If you attempt to break the vow of silence you swore to,
and endanger the good name of our family then you test my will at
your peril, sister. Rest assured I do not lack the courage of my
convictions on so grave a matter.’

With that Mortaron released his sister and
swept from the small clearing, leaving Veronique in alone with her
tears at the centre of the Governor’s Maze.

The dragon boat slid through the shallows of
the far shore, crunching softly into the black sand it came
suddenly to rest.

Sigourd had summoned the boatman with a jet
black pebble of obsidian, cast into the water, and sure enough the
dragon had appeared from the mists. The boatman had ferried Sigourd
and his companion across the still waters without comment. The
young lord now turned to face the sombre looking and mysterious
pilot of the boat, regarding him cryptically for a few moments. The
boatman made no indication that he was aware of the scrutiny of the
young lord, the deep shadows under his large hood hiding whatever
expression his face might have been wearing.

‘
Come, lets waste no time,’
said Jonn Grumble from the front of the boat.

Sigourd hesitated a moment longer, as if he
thought to speak on something. His next movement was a whispering
blur as he drew his sword from its scabbard and in one fluid
movement spun toward the boatman, bringing the blade around and
down in a wide arc. There was a quiet metallic ‘thunk’, and the
heavy chain that tethered the boatman to his oar clattered to the
deck.

‘
No man should serve as
slave to another,’ Sigourd said. The boatman didn’t so much as
raise his head to acknowledge His new found freedom.

‘
Huh,’ tutted Jonn Grumble,
‘ungrateful sod.’

He and Sigourd turned to step off the boat,
when suddenly the skeletally thin hand of the boatman shot out to
take hold of Sigourd’s wrist. The young lord turned back suddenly
to see that the boatman was looking straight at him, and for the
first time he could make out the twinkle of dark eyes under that
deep hood. A voice, like the whispering of the wind through a dead
forest gusted out of the darkness from all around them, ‘Heed me
young wolf lord. Through mist and spray God’s anvil looms, the
currents speed to certain doom. Hold your line and set your eye,
through danger’s veil you’re sure destined to fly...’

With his cryptic message delivered, the
boatman released Sigourd and lowered his head once more, the
twinkling light fading from beneath his hood.

Somewhat unnerved by the vague undercurrent
of menace in the whispers, the adventurers turned and jumped from
the dragon boat, the darkly glowing water of the lake splashing
between their long strides as they marched onto shore.

With a protracted scraping, the boatman used
his single long oar to push the small vessel away from the black
sands. Slowly the dragon boat and the mysterious oarsman floated
away on the currents of the lake, fading steadily back into the
mists that hung thick about the water’s surface.

Sigourd and Jonn Grumble watched the boatman
disappear, before turning and trudging back up the towards the
great fissure that would lead them to the surface.

After an hours struggling back through the
narrow tunnels, the pair emerged from the mountainside once more,
and back into the darkness of night where the stars glittered
brilliantly overhead. They blanketed the heavens like shattered
crystal. But there was no moon to light the way.

‘
We will continue in the
direction we were traveling,’ said Sigourd. ‘We have to come down
from these mountains, beyond which lies a valley. Within that
valley, at the foot of a jagged peak we will find
Isolde.’

‘
Sounds a touch vague, I
guess your vision couldn’t have helped being a bit more on the
specific side?’ said Jonn Grumble.

Sigourd shrugged, ‘The vision was specific
enough. When I lay eyes on the peak I saw in the dreamscape, I’ll
know we’ve arrived at our intended destination, and there, I will
have the answers I seek.’

Together, the pair began the long descent
into the valley below them. The barren and snow swept wastes of the
Ash’harad turning into a white wonderland of snow drifts and deep
gorges, before the color once more began to return to the
landscape. The rich, dark greens of forests the like of which
neither man had ever seen before. Trees that were meters across,
and many hundreds of feet high soared into the sky like towering
monoliths, their branches thick and full with dense foliage that
seemed too thickly arranged for the weak sunlight to penetrate.

Far below the forest canopy, a kingdom of
shadows reigned. From the darkness the sounds of mysterious
creatures squawking and growling at the pair of travelers as they
made their careful way between the boles of the giant trees. The
noisy attention from the indigenous population was almost constant,
but the creatures of that perpetual chorus were careful to never
reveal themselves, choosing instead to stay within the comforting
embrace of the morass of shadows.

Hiking for several more days, always in the
direction of the rising sun, Sigourd finally came across the thing
he’d seen in his underwater dream within a dream. The jagged peak,
soaring into the sky to meet the descending darkness of night.
Behind it there hung a cream colored moon that shone brightly. It
hung low in the sky so that its light cast the jagged peak in
silhouette just as it had done in Sigourd’s vision.

‘
That’s it, that’s where
we’ll find Isolde,’ whispered Sigourd as he stared up at the
soaring outcrop of rock before him. To see in the flesh, looming so
mightily the thing that would point Sigourd in the direction of his
beloved Isolde, filled him with a feeling of immense hope. For soon
he would have an answer as to her fate. But it also filled him with
dark concern, because he dared not think upon what other morbid
truths might prove to be at the conclusion of his journey. Up to
this point, he had only considered that Isolde would be being held
hostage, awaiting patiently her rescue.

Now, in sight of the jagged peak that served
as herald to the final leg of his journey, Sigourd allowed himself
to consider the other possibility. That perhaps he would arrive too
late, only to discover that his beloved had been dead all
along.