4 – Into the Dark

At first the Icemen set a course straight for the hill ahead, without a hint of deviation.  They walked in a peculiar unison, the each placing his foot in the exact same spot that the one ahead of them had done.  In manner it was much like the processions of monks seen so frequent through the streets of distant Qaiqala, except that where there would have been sonorous chants, the bang of drums and clash of cymbals existed an absolute silence.

They walked thus until they had crossed about halfway from the dunes to the hill, and then an abrupt change came over them.  No longer did they walk the straight path but instead began to weave their way through the statues, first heading one way and then another, all with no apparent rhyme or reason to the directions they chose.

“What manner of path is this?” Peregrine asked, still following the silent Icemen along their random way.

“It is, no doubt, a means to ward away any strangers who may have landed upon the island undetected,” Blade replied. “Look there.”  He gestured a short way off from where they trod, to a mound of snow that lay between two statues.  Thrusting up out of the snow could be seen a skeletal hand, clutching futilely at the air, blasted clean of flesh and skin and muscle.  It lay not alone on the plains, for as they spread their gaze further afield, they spotted more skeletal remains, where all that remained were the bones.

“So they have entrapped the path,” Peregrine said.

“And in a most cunning way as well it would appear,” Blade noted.  “For half the journey there is no danger, and thus you relax and let your guard down, your fears unrealised.  Less cautious you continue on, only to befall whatever manner of traps that lie in wait.”

Peregrine gave a laugh and a rueful shake of her head.  “City folk would fall for it, those who never had to worry about growing up in the wilds, where danger lurks at every step.  If they had, they would not have been so quick to abandon caution.”

Blade permitted himself a brief smile at the comment.  Their lurked in Peregrine’s soul a nature untamed, nor had it been cowed by her time in the cities upon the plains, and doubtful ever would be, for she was a proud product of her heritage, the Aedring, who lived in harsh lands and who stubbornly resisted all outside influences, never bowing knee to any invader.  And yet they were not alone in the barbarian state, even if they were the most obvious example of such.  For those of a civilised heritage, such as his own Akuvians, the Navodians were little better than the Aedring, and yet the Aedring still saw them as city dwellers, soft men of the lowland plains.  That most Navodians would never have seen such lands bar from the decks of reaver ships did not factor into those views.

Their weaving course brought them, in time, at last to the foot of the mountain, to where two arms of it swept outwards to shelter a gulley, one worn by rain and wind and ice so that its slopes were corrugated with ruts, while shattered boulders and falls of rocks littered their sides, cascading down to cover the gulley floor.  Not a plant grew there but for a few strands of grey lichen and moss that clung to the rocks.  The Icemen proceeded into the gulley, leading Peregrine and Blade ever onwards.  Frayed fragments of cloud seeped down into the gully from the slopes above, tendrils of mist that touched them, beading coats and skin with moisture.

The clouds thickened about them the further they went until they became caught up in a shroud of gloom that obscured their vision, leaving shadows lurking in the periphery of their vision.  Then a flickering light appeared before them, a ghostly glow in the mists.  Drawing closer to it, they saw a torch burning, the flames dancing as if in response to some draught or wind that they could not feel.  The torch had been lodged in a sconce of iron, pitted by the weather.  The sconce had been set into a stone face of the hillside, above an open doorway, beyond which lay the depths of darkness that no light penetrated.

The doors were massive things, ancient and indomitable, carved out of solid stone an arm span thick, and thrice the height of a full grown man.  Without marking or ornamentation they stood, their origins could only be but hazarded at, as well as where it was that they led.  Such was the air of permanence that they gave off, of sheer bulk, it appeared that no man alone could swing them open or shut.

The four grey clad Icemen who had led Peregrine and Blade to the place split apart, taking up position two to either side of the door.  They turned to face each other as if flanking the approach to the entrance.  There they stood, silent and unmoving, almost as if they were statues, but ones of grey and not the green of those down on the plains.

“Hraega’s Thunderous Beard, but they aren’t exactly forthcoming with what it is they desire,” Peregrine growled, giving a shake of her head.

“I think that they mean for us to enter,” Blade told her.

“Then why did they not say so?”  Peregrine’s sword swung free from its sheath with a cold, steely ring and, not waiting for an answer from Blade, she plunged into the darkness through the door.  Blade drew his rapier, set his shoulders and, taking a deep breath, followed her in.

The plunge into the dark came in an instant, an unnatural shroud that clung to them like webs, and let in scant light from the outside.  They could see little more than the grey gloom of the doorway, set in the blackness.  Then, before they could react, the vast doors slammed shut behind them with a sepulchre boom of finality, leaving all in an absolute dark.

A lilting whistle arose in the dark, piercing the stygian gloom, a melody that brought to mind sun dappled forest glades in the spring and the call of birds on the wing.  In response a small glowing ball of bronzed light flared into existence, hovering in the air in front of Blade, the glow from it battling for dominance with the shadows in the corridor they found themselves in, shadows that almost seemed to have a life and consciousness of their own and one that sought to drown out the interloper into their domain.

In the bronzed glow that came from the arcane orb they could see a dark corridor head further into the depths of the hill.  Of the door that had closed, there were no signs that it had even existed for it had closed so tight as to appear but part of the wall.  No means of opening it could be seen either.

A layer of fine dirt covered the floor, almost sand or dust in nature, undisturbed and unmarred by any footsteps.  The roof of the corridor arched over their heads, while the walls were without design upon them, being bare, worked stone, but still the work of a hand that few could match, for they were perfectly smooth, without blemish or flaw.  A few wispy webs were strung across the corridor, or dangled from the arched roof.

Down the length of the corridor there came to their ears a whispering sigh, as if a wind stirred, sending the webs to shivering, and yet at the same time it touched their minds as well, with words that remained unheard, stirring their hackles at its touch.

“Our choices are made for us it would seem,” Peregrine observed coolly, crouched in readiness for any threat that might emerge from out of the shadows, her hands curling tight about the hilt of her sword as she held it before her.  “The way behind lies closed, which leaves but the road ahead.”

On silent step she began to prowl down the corridor, as vigilant as a hawk on high and as stealthy as a stalking wolf.  Here, where danger lurked unseen, she was in her element, as much a force as nature as was raging storm.

Blade sent the bronze orb floating off ahead, dimming it so that it cast but a fragment of light, in hues that made them appear drenched in a bloody sheen.  Blade found the vision of it most disconcerting.  With his slender rapier in one hand and the carved bone in the other, he set out after Peregrine, heading deeper into the hill and the darkness.

On to Chapter Five – The Twelve Who Stand Watch