Swirling mist and dark concealed
Mysteries and bones revealed.
Ferrian and Aari were silent for a long while, each digesting their own thoughts. Beside him, Aari dozed off, his head on his knees.
The shadow appeared without warning. One moment there was nothing but swirling mist, the next… there it was, a dark smudge shimmering in the rain.
Ferrian caught his breath and flailed once again for his non-existent knife, but it was only Commander Trice and the Captain returning.
He sagged in relief.
"What did you find?" he asked when they had come close enough to speak without raising their voices.
"Not a great deal," Grisket replied darkly. "The campsite was completely burnt out. It's a good thing that storm came when it did, otherwise the whole forest might've gone up." He shook his head. "We've lost all our supplies. There was nothing left to salvage."
They glanced at Aari. The Angel didn't move, he had finally fallen asleep out of sheer exhaustion.
"What about the Murons?" Ferrian asked.
"Dead," Sirannor replied. "One of them, at least." He tossed his sabre carelessly on the ground. The blade was severely warped and blackened by heat and congealed black gunk. He gave the other weapons he had collected a perfunctory examination before discarding them as well.
The final knife, however, he brought to Ferrian. "Not many blades have tasted the blood of a Muron," he said quietly. "This one has been blessed by the Lady. Don't lose it."
Ferrian took the knife, surprised that his was the only weapon that had survived the battle. It was nothing special, just a cheap hunting knife he'd bought at a market years ago. He stared at the black stains on the blade. Then he looked Sirannor in the eye. "I won't."
Grisket crouched down beside Cimmeran and shook him awake. To everyone's shock, he uncurled and sprang to his feet like a startled snake, staring around wildly and poised to flee. "The Murons! The Murons!" he cried. "Where are they? Where are they, where are they?"
"Quiet!" Grisket hissed. "One of them is dead and the other blind and flightless, but no doubt it can still hear any fool who raises his voice!"
Cimmeran went quiet instantly, his face becoming very pale. He shrank against a tree, clutching it as though for support. There he froze like a statue in the rain, except for his eyes, which never stopped moving.
"We're going to Sunsee," Grisket continued in a more level tone of voice. "All our equipment and supplies have been destroyed, and we need to restock." He hesitated, glancing briefly at the others. "We can't force you to come with us," he said carefully, "but we give you our word as Freeroamers that we will protect you if you choose to do so."
Cimmeran's eyes stopped moving and flicked towards the Commander. "S-Sunsee?" he whispered.
Grisket nodded. "That's right. You'll be safe there. We'll get you a good hot meal and dry clothes and anything else you need."
Ferrian noticed that the Commander was purposely avoiding mentioning anything of their plans beyond the city. If Cimmeran decided not to cooperate with them… what then? He still had not revealed to them the exact location of the Sorcerer's Valley, and that information was vital if Ferrian was to have any chance of curing the Winter, or finding out what was causing the strange explosions of light.
He realised that he was holding his breath. This bedraggled, pitiful stranger held Ferrian's life in his hands.
Cimmeran straightened and his curious golden eyes brightened noticeably. The hunted look diminished somewhat. "Sunsee," he said. He gave a jerky nod. "Yes. I… I want to go to Sunsee."
Ferrian let his breath out silently. Grisket smiled. "Good, good." He hazarded a reassuring pat on the shoulder. The servant flinched, but did not back away.
"Now, let's get out of here," Grisket said, and stepped over to wake Aari.
Long hours stretched away, and the rain showed no sign of ceasing; if anything, it got worse. At irregular intervals, the clouds darkened even further, pressing menacingly close to the treetops. The rain spilled down in heavy, pounding sheets, thundering upon their hunched backs as though determined to bring them to their knees. Ferrian guessed it must be sometime around noon; it was impossible to be certain of the time, as the sun had disappeared and the day felt like an extended twilight. He had been considering suggesting a rest stop for some time, although any comfort gained from this would be minor: there was no dry shelter to be found under the tall, high-limbed eucalyptus trees. He stared at his feet splashing through the mud and wet leaves, and wished he could feel the sun burning on his back again…
It was then that two things happened at once: a scream pierced the pattering gloom, and Aari collapsed.
Both Ferrian and Sirannor spun, their hearts leaping through their chests, to see Commander Trice dashing to Aari's side. "What happened?" Ferrian cried, but he realised almost at once that the scream had not been Aari's.
It had come from Cimmeran. The man was pointing a trembling finger into the trees, his eyes wide and a look of terror on his face. Sirannor swept to Cimmeran's side and peered intently in the direction the servant was pointing. "What did you see?" he demanded.
"It's out there!" Cimmeran wailed, his voice shrill with panic. "It's out there! It's coming for me!"
"The Muron?"
"Yes!"
They all fell into a terrified silence, staring out into the rain, watching the mist swirl and shift around them.
Nothing showed itself.
Ferrian stood rooted to the spot, wide-eyed, his attention torn between watching the mist for signs of shadowy beasts and Aari lying motionless on the ground. Eventually, concern for his friend won over his fear and he ran to Commander Trice, who was hunched by the Angel's side.
Grisket carefully peeled back the bandages that bound Aari's wings so that he could inspect the wounds. Aari was unconscious. His face was horrifyingly pale and his lips were beginning to turn blue. "What… what's wrong with him?" Ferrian gasped, fear sticking the words to the back of his throat. Grisket gently replaced the bandages and shook his head, water droplets scattering from the point of his hat. "It's this blasted rain!" he muttered angrily. "He's caught an infection and there's no chance the wounds will heal in the damp. We need to get him to a healer."
Ferrian looked down at Aari and swallowed. "But… but we're still hours from the city!"
Grisket stared at him until he caught Ferrian's eye, and his face was grim. "I know, you don't need to tell me."
Cimmeran and the Captain were still staring into the mist. Sirannor was turning in a slow circle, eyes grey and hard as the rain, scanning the trees. Cimmeran backed close to Commander Trice and stood in a half-crouch as though trying to shrink into himself. His bony hands wrung his sodden clothes and his eyes flicked this way and that like trapped insects. A long moment of tense silence passed, but still nothing could be seen.
All of a sudden Ferrian gasped and pointed in the direction from which they had come. "There!" he cried.
They all spun to look.
The mist shifted to reveal a large shape, as black as wet coal beyond the sheets of rain. Grisket and Sirannor moved at once to protect the others, though they had nothing to defend themselves with. Ferrian drew his knife quickly and gave it to Sirannor, trusting the Captain's aim better than his own. Cimmeran started whimpering, and kept repeating in a strained whisper: "I won't go back, don't let them take me! I won't go back, don't let them take me…"
A moment later, the shape faded back into the gloom.
The mist continued to swirl languidly as before.
Then the shadow burst out of the mist to one side and was on them in seconds, nearly trampling the stricken Sergeant Aari. Everyone except Captain Sirannor yelled and stumbled backwards in fright, but it was only Grisket's quick reflexes that caught Sirannor's arm and kept the knife from leaving his hand.
"It's a damned horse!" the Commander cried.
He was right. The big black mare reared and sprung back a few paces, startled by their shouts.
"Ardance!" Cimmeran cried, as soon as he had recovered from the shock.
They all turned to look at him in surprise. "That's your horse?" Grisket asked.
"Y-yes!" Cimmeran stammered. His breath was coming in short, rapid gasps: they could not tell if he was sobbing or laughing.
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The horse stood a few yards away, eyeing them suspiciously. Her saddle, bridle and saddlebags were askew but still in place, and she did not appear to be hurt; merely wet, dirty and frightened.
As they all were.
Grisket muttered a few choice imprecations under his breath, but the relief was evident on his face. Cimmeran edged towards the horse and stroked her nose comfortingly. He was crying, Ferrian realised; that was more than rain trickling down his face, but at the same time he was grinning.
Despite the seriousness of the situation, Ferrian couldn't stop himself smiling as well.
With extreme care, Grisket gathered Aari off the ground and tried to bundle him on Ardance, but the horse was incredibly jumpy and shied away if anyone so much as took a step towards her. It seemed that Cimmeran was the only one she would permit to touch her. Eventually, though, with the servant's help, they managed to get Aari onto her back and secure him in position. Then, with Cimmeran leading the black mare on foot, the little party resumed the long, dreary march to the city of Sunsee.
* * *
Crack.
The torch clattered to the floor, sending shadows leaping all over the corridor.
Crysk hunched down against the floor, glancing wildly in both directions, not daring to breathe.
Silence.
It was quite a while before his mind unglued long enough to register the source of the sound: bone fragments all over the floor. He had stepped on the skull of some unfortunate creature and it had crushed beneath his foot.
The Grik gulped in several deep breaths and retrieved his torch, relief flooding through him. He wondered how far he had come, and whether Grogdish and the others had heard the crack. He was glad they hadn't seen him panic. Perhaps they thought poor old Crysk had met a nasty demise. Perhaps that was what they were hoping. They were probably laughing their big, ugly heads off.
Crysk scowled into the darkness and sniffed indignantly. He felt a sudden, strong rush of pride at the fact that he was still alive. "I'll show yers," he muttered.
He took a firm grip on his torch and continued on his way with renewed purpose.
"Hah! Crysk ain't afraid of no blackwings! Crysk the Mighty! Crysk the Brave! Crysk go where no Grik ever returned, but Crysk gonna return! Yeah, Crysk ain't afraid–"
He stopped.
On the walls, picked out sharply by the torchlight, were markings. Long, deep scars in the stone that looked as though they had been made by claws or some sort of sharp implement. They were everywhere. Crysk followed one particularly deep cut with his torch until it ended ten paces away in a rusted axe, still embedded in the wall.
He stared at it, horrified. It looked like the scene of a terrible battle… except that there were no bodies, just a few shattered bones and the occasional discarded weapon.
In the silence, the draught blew stronger, stirring his torch. The darkness ahead seemed to be watching him.
Crysk's hand clutched the torch so tightly he heard it splinter. He remembered the echo that had bounced away down the corridor when he'd stepped on that skull. Something else besides the Griks might have heard it…
He nearly ran. He turned to face the way he had come, but the image of Grogdish jeering at him froze his steps. The other Griks thought him a fool, a weak, useless idiot, something to shove around and make fun of. If he went back now, he'd only prove them right.
He swallowed hard. He had to go back.
With great reluctance, he turned and stared into the impenetrable blackness.
The blackness stared back.
Only someone incredibly brave or incredibly stupid would venture into a Muron's eyrie.
"Well," he said aloud, "as long as I'm stoopid, I might as well keep goin'."
So he did.
The corridor continued unchanging, dead straight with no adjoining halls or doorways. The world remained an invisible void save for the walls and floor revealed in the circle of torchlight. The ominous scratches remained as well, becoming less haphazard and more deliberate. Some of them might even have been some sort of writing; however, since Crysk could not read or write, he had no way of knowing if they were any sort of language used by Murons, Humans or otherwise. He had no desire to understand the markings in any case: his imagination was doing a remarkably good job of translation.
The draught grew steadily stronger as he walked, and to his relief, the darkness gradually eased aside to reveal a hazy grey light. Encouraged by the prospect of a way out of the castle and possible escape from impending doom, he quickened his pace.
Eventually the light brightened enough for Crysk to see that it spilled in a dusty band from a sharp turn to the left. He broke into a ponderous jog, and turned the corner.
Before him, rising gently, was a series of broad, flat steps. The steps were rounded on their outward edges, giving the staircase the appearance of overlapping scales. At the head of the stairs was a tall arch. The light beyond the arch was hazy and dim, although compared to the blackness of the corridor he had just passed through, it could have been the midday sun.
It was from here that the draught was blowing. Crysk once again proceeded with caution; the draught brought with it a sour, musty smell, like long-rotten meat. He noticed a faint noise as well, like the clink of something metallic.
Not daring to hesitate too long in case the tenuous grip on his courage slipped, he ascended the stairs.
What he saw at the top froze his steps with awe.
An enormous circular chamber opened before him, the walls soaring upwards a couple of hundred feet to end in a bright opening, sunlight spilling down the walls like water. The disc of light far above was covered by some kind of huge, skeletal iron structure: from below it gave the extremely unsettling impression of a giant spider with its legs outstretched.
Embedded all around the circumference of the chamber, too many to count, were arches. All of them were filled with the same velvety blackness that choked the entrance corridor. Extending from each arch was a narrow stone ledge, and beneath every ledge were stains: white streaks of mildew and something darker that Crysk desperately tried not to dwell on. Hanging from the monstrous iron structure that passed for the ceiling were several long, rusted chains with manacles and hooks attached to the ends. A few of the manacles still contained the remnants of Human or animal carcasses. It was these that Crysk had heard clinking as they swung slowly in the draught.
However, the hanging corpses were not what held Crysk's attention. Directly in front of him, filling the entire floor of the chamber and rising above his head in a ghastly white hill, were bones: thousands and thousands of them. Every one had been completely stripped of flesh.
This was the Muron's eyrie.
Crysk gaped. The bones themselves did not frighten him: he had killed and eaten plenty of things in his time; he would eat anything he could stuff in his mouth, but the sheer number and variety of creatures that had met their death here was stunning.
And some of them were Griks.
Something nearby caught his eye. Crysk peered at it: one of the skulls was huge, grey and rock-like, its jaw affixed with a single big, false fang made from pearlescent Dragon bone. He recognised it as Gobbet, a Grik who had disappeared six months ago after wagering his famous Dragon bone tooth in a game of Rat Bones against Ungefot the Strange, and lost. Gobbet had viciously refused to give up his precious tooth, and thus no one had questioned his sudden disappearance, believing Ungefot had done away with him to claim his debt.
Obviously, that had not been the case. Poor old Gobbet must have simply wandered into the wrong corridor.
Crysk set the torch down and picked up the skull, turning it over in his hands. Well, no sense in wastin' a good opportunity…
He prised the rare Dragon bone tooth from its socket, grinning in satisfaction, and was just turning to leave, when he remembered that he was supposed to return with a Muron fang, not a Dragon one.
Grumbling, he peered at the mound. Here and there amongst the mass of white skeletons and grey, crumbled Grik remains, were bones so black they appeared to be made of obsidian. Those were Muron bones. All he had to do was find a skull or a loose tooth–
Snap.
Crysk jumped, startled, and took an involuntary step backwards. Yet another loud crunch rang throughout the chamber. He cringed, casting a fearful glance at the arches.
Nothing was there.
No sound or movement except for the slight swaying and clinking of the chains. He straightened carefully, remembering suddenly that the Murons were most likely out doing Lord Arzath's bidding.
Yeah, he thought, aren't they all lookin' for that servant?
The thought was comforting and he resumed his search with more confidence, pulling out bones, creating small, macabre landslides that rattled to the floor. He discovered some quite good rat bones amongst the debris, which he pocketed.
It was then he heard the noise. It was not the crunch of bone this time, but a quiet, purposeful click. And it had come from somewhere above him.
Crysk froze. He did not want to look up.
But he did.
The arches were no longer empty. Several dozen of them now contained little yellow pinpricks: all of them staring directly at him. The pinpricks came forward to stand on the ledges, weak sunlight glinting off hard black scales.
Crysk made a small sound of terror in his throat, and ran.
Or tried to. He had barely taken a step before one of the creatures dropped languidly from its perch and blocked the doorway. It hissed at him.
Crysk turned and ran the other way instead. Fortunately for him, in his haste to get away he tripped and fell heavily, smashing into the bones, just as a second Muron landed on the pile and swiped at him. Missing its target put the creature off balance and it stumbled as well, giving Crysk a chance to get to his feet. He scrambled for the only direction left, and found himself against the wall.
Crysk hunched into himself, desperately trying to think what to do. All over the chamber, Murons had launched themselves off their ledges. Some landed on the mound of bones: others circled above. Still others watched curiously from their arches.
I'm dead, I'm dead, I'm dead… the words raced frantically through his mind as though trying to flee. He looked around the chamber desperately.
The walls were perfectly smooth and covered with black slime near their base, and the arches were much too high to reach. The only doorway at ground level was the one from which he had entered, and it was well guarded.
The Muron that had swiped at him had regained its footing and was approaching him. He whimpered again. Not knowing what else to do, he began shuffling along the wall, away from the advancing Muron. The others on the mound followed him almost disinterestedly. They knew he was not going to escape and were enjoying this brief entertainment.
Crysk felt his way along the wall with one hand, not daring to take his eyes off the creatures stalking him. Dere's no way out! he wailed silently.
The inevitability of his fate dawned on him. When the Murons caught him, they would tear him apart, little piece by little piece. Their claws were sharp enough to pierce anything, even a Grik's rock-armoured skin. He had nothing whatsoever to defend himself with. And even if he did… the image of the axe embedded in the wall floated to the forefront of his mind. He had no chance either way. He was going to end up as just another scattering of bones on this hideous pile. No one would come looking for him. No one would care enough to.
Grog was right all along, he thought miserably. I'm just a stoopid liddle Gut'ead. Stoopid! Stoopid…!
Suddenly he stumbled as his hand flailed into empty air. Puzzled, he turned to look.
There was a gap in the wall here; a black pit of shadow. An alcove of some sort. It looked very narrow, perhaps too narrow to admit a Grik's bulky body, but...
With nothing to lose, he threw himself into the gap.
He landed in a thunderous heap sideways on the floor. Directly behind him, the Muron that had been stalking him also threw itself violently into the gap, making Crysk jump. He struggled to get to his feet in the tiny space, but the Muron was having just as much difficulty: its wings were too massive to permit it to enter. Infuriated at the fact it could not reach its prey, it thrashed at Crysk with its talons and screamed, the sound sending pain lancing through the Grik's head.
Awkwardly, Crysk edged deeper into the alcove, his rocky shelled back scraping the wall, while the Muron continued to snarl and scream and claw at the walls. Saliva dripped from its jaws and its eyes were wild. There came a sudden, sickening crack, and Crysk realised with incredulous horror that the creature was breaking its own wings in an effort to get at him.
Crysk continued to back away. It was only when the Muron became an indistinct shadow thrashing in the distance that he finally realised he was not in an alcove at all, but a passageway.