In The Shadow Of The Beast (35 page)

Jonn bent low to retrieve another of the
polished stones from the rocky shore of the atoll, lest the one he
cast was insufficient unto the task.

Sigourd and Jonn Grumble had led Isolde up
into the heart of the Ash’harad, following the trail the two had
taken after they’d emerged from Brodus Klay’s mountain fastness to
descend into the Eastern Fringes proper.

They had negotiated their way carefully back
up to that sorrowful place over the course of four days, and now
found themselves once again standing in the shadow of the ruined
skull keep, and bathed in the eerie radiance of the dark lake.

Isolde had scowled and cursed in the strange
tongue of her people when Sigourd had informed them of his intent
to return to Brodus Klay’s lair. She knew only too well of the
wandering guardian cum sorcerer. For two decades Klay had harried
the people of her tribe. A constant thorn in their sides, never
dangerous enough to bring ruin upon her people in his own right,
but mad enough to think he could.

However, it wasn’t Brodus Klay that Sigourd
was directly interested in. His plan was to cajole or coerce the
boatman into providing them with a means to negotiate the River
Woe.

‘
You really think this’ll
work?’ asked Jonn Grumble.

‘
Bael would have been
forced to go over the mountains. This route will allow us to pass
through them,’ said Sigourd.

‘
Sigourd is right,’ offered
Isolde, ‘this will allow us to shave ten or more days of travel off
our return journey.’

Sigourd had reasoned that the lake must be a
tributary of the great river, and that they would be able to join
the Woe and traverse its lethal currents to get ahead or at least
catch up to Bael.

So here they stood, waiting in the eerie
twilight of the mountain lake for the boatman.

In all truth, Sigourd was not even sure how
he would begin to try to convince the boatman of the urgency of
their needs if he were to refuse their request. Or even if the
boatman would still be there to ferry them down the river. In
cutting the morose boatman’s chains Sigourd may have severed the
link to his only chance of heading off Bael.

He had considered taking the boat by force,
but who knew where such a course of action might lead them.

Minutes dragged on and still there was no
sign of the dragon vessel or its mysterious pilot. Tutting to
himself, Jonn drew back his arm, about to cast the second stone
into the lake when Sigourd gripped his arm and bade him be
still.

Across the lake, where mists had settled
upon the quiet surface like smoke from a burning field, something
stirred. The trio tensed in anticipation, and as they looked on the
mists began to swirl as a shape pushed through them.

The snarling head of some huge reptilian
emerged slowly from the depthless shadows, its fanged maw locked
permanently in a grimace of beastly menace. Following, there came
that long neck that curved downwards into the prow of a small
sailing vessel, and beyond that the body of the boat proper,
flanked by carved wings of the most intricate design which swept
back and up in a great flourish just as they had the first time
Sigourd had lain eyes on the magnificent carvings.

The Dragon Boat.

The vessel drifted beyond the reach of
tendrils of mist and fine vapor that struggled to cling on,
shedding those as it moved with stately grace towards the shore
where Sigourd and the others now stood.

‘
I don’t see him...’ said
Jonn Grumble, craning his neck so that he might get a better look
into the boat. Sure enough, of the boatman there was no sign. In
cutting his chains, Sigourd had freed the pilot of the magnificent
vessel to leave behind the somber confines of the mountain lake and
go who knew where.

But perhaps he had foreseen Sigourd’s need,
and by way of thanks had gifted him the dragon boat in his absence,
for here it was even without its pilot. Surely a blessing beyond
that of mere good fortune.

There was a soft crunch as the boat ploughed
into the silt of the shore, coming to rest not three feet from
Sigourd. The trio looked at the boat before sharing a weary glance
between themselves.

‘
I guess he’s off enjoying
the life of a free man,’ said Jonn Grumble in reference to the
absent boatman. After a moments hesitation, Sigourd splashed into
the shallows to take hold of the boat and pull himself in, followed
by Isolde and Jonn Grumble who threw their packs into the vessel
before clambering aboard themselves.

Sigourd took a moment to familiarize himself
with the boats layout, which seemed standard enough. A platform in
the aft of the vessel provided for the pilot of the craft, and a
single long oar connected to the sweeping tail to act as both
locomotion and rudder, plunged into the dark waters.

The group settled themselves. Isolde at the
front, Jonn Grumble sitting in the middle, and Sigourd to the aft
serving as boatman.

He pushed off from the shallows with a great
shove of the long oar. In an instant, the boat was adrift once more
upon the calm surface of the lake.

‘
I hate to bring this up
now,’ said Jonn Grumble, ‘but didn’t that treacherous old git who
led us here say something about no man who attempted to navigate
these waters ever survived?’

‘
Aye, that he did,’ replied
Sigourd, ‘but as we’ve already seen I’m no man!’ he said with a
wink and a thin smile.

‘
That’s a comfort...’ said
Jonn Grumble, with a worried look on his face.

Sigourd allowed himself a moment to stand
quietly with the oar in his hands. He quieted his mind so that he
might feel the solid oak of the haft against his palms, the weight
of the craft under him, the subtle pull of the hidden currents
beneath the silken surface of the water. He allowed the boat to be
drawn by the tug of the waters. Those currents would lead him to
the opening which fed into the River Woe as surely as water spirals
down through a sink hole.

He needed only to ensure that the boat
stayed true to the pull of the waters, and before long they would
find themselves being sucked into the raging might of the great
river.

A strange sensation came over Sigourd then.
A feeling not unlike many of his experiences of late. His senses
seemed heightened beyond the norm, to the point where he could feel
in the very fibre of his being the vibrational thrum of the waters
resonating up through the hull of the Dragon Boat. He could fee the
energetic pull of the waters almost as if he were swimming through
them. He could sense the thrum of life within the boat itself, a
pulsing, rhythmic beat not unlike that of a living heart. Sigourd
was struck by this last sensation most powerfully of all. It almost
seemed as if there were someone else in the craft with them. The
boatman perhaps?

Sigourd turned to look down into the boat to
confirm that there was indeed only the three of them present within
its carved confines. He saw exactly what he expected to, Isolde and
Jonn Grumble sitting before him, and nothing more.

Isolde noted the distant expression on
Sigourd’s face, ‘What troubles you, my love?’

Sigourd continued to stare into the boat for
a moment longer before shaking his head and returning his attention
to the water, where he embraced once more the ethereal submersion
of the lake.

The faint moon hung high in a sky awash with
blooms of pinks and oranges over the distant horizon, darkening
through several shades of deep purples and blues as ones vision
climbed toward the heavens.

The woodlands that overlooked the city of
Corrinth Vardis and the resplendent palace within its walls were
quiet now. As day turned steadily to dusk there was a serenity
about the place that was unusually profound. The indigenous wild
population, usually still markedly vocal even at this late hour,
were silent. It was as if the creatures of the forest were holding
their breaths, or perhaps had hidden themselves away for fear of
being discovered by creatures that were not native to these woods
at all. The stillness was too perfect. It was as unnatural to the
woodlands as those beings who now penetrated its borders.

From the long shadows that crept throughout
the wood, cast in the fading light of the day, something stirred,
and that perfect stillness was broken.

Carefully, Bael lifted his head from cover
so that he might better see the twinkling city spread out below the
low foothills he was hidden atop. One by one, the members of his
murder party emerged stealthily from the cover of the dense woods.
Nearly five hundred wulfen had joined Bael. Consisting of the
survivors of the massacre of his own village, and wulfen drawn from
other tribes who had eagerly awaited the call to war.

Daubed in ceremonial face paint of white ash
paste to illustrate their willingness to sacrifice their lives,
they hunkered low in the shade and shadow of great trees and thick
foliage, careful not to give away their presence to those who would
defend the city.

After two weeks hard march, through mountain
passes and over frozen wastes, always careful to avoid human
settlements and laying low whenever the soldierly orders of the
lands of Atos came near, Bael and his forces had finally arrived at
their intended target. Now they stood before the city where the
first hammer blow would be struck. They stood on the precipice of
history ready to strike the spark that would ignite the
revolution.

Bael intended to raze the city to the
ground, to tear out the throat, in a very real sense, of the ruling
elite and leave the masses in disarray. He needed only await the
rising of the full moon so that his forces might effect The Change,
and initiate their attack.

He looked to the darkening sky, where that
faint moon sat in slow ascendence. Bael gestured once to Nartaba,
who crouched close by. Nartaba pulled himself up, and raised an arm
to the assembled forces waiting at the wood’s edge, showing them
his clenched fist. The message was clear to the gathered wulfen.
The attack would come soon, but not yet. Silently the massed ranks
of Bael’s murder party sank back into the shadows to disappear from
sight.

Bael looked again to the unsuspecting city
twinkling on the flatlands below him. It was only a matter of hours
now.

Mortaron was in a gleeful mood. His careful
designs, laid out over the course of decades were finally coming to
fruition. He had never been one to show much interest in the Gods,
or ascribe much credence in their designs. But he had to admit that
he had been very fortunate in the recent play of events.

The Baron was on the way back to his private
sanctum within the palace, allowing himself a rare opportunity to
savor his imminent success. He arrived at the doors to his sanctum,
pushing them open he was surprised to see that his chambers were
not empty.

Standing there behind the ornate desk where
Mortaron would sit and orchestrate his grand designs, was the Lady
Veronique. She looked up as Mortaron entered, holding in her hands
parchments and manuscripts. It was clear from her expression that
she had not enjoyed reading through her brother’s personal
documents.

Mortaron’s eyes narrowed at the sight of his
sister, but he was careful not to allow his expression the
opportunity to betray the depth of his concern.

‘
It was you!’ hissed
Veronique through clenched teeth, ‘it was always you.’

Mortaron moved into the chamber, where the
setting sun cast its ochre glow across the room, lending sombre
depth to the patchwork of long shadows that lay heavily across the
floor and the furniture.

The Baron affected a disdainful air, not
even bothering to look at his sister as he took off his long cloak
to cast it across a delicately carved rack near the door, ‘You have
some business here?’ he asked her.

‘
I received a warning
brother. A warning that my husband and his army is riding into more
danger than they could possibly know. The Morays have already
crossed the border and are waiting for him. The Regent is riding
into a trap. A trap set by you!’ said the lady.

Mortaron smiled thinly, although there was
little amusement in his dark eyes, ‘You’re drinking again are you,
sister?’

Veronique moved around the desk so that she
could stand before her brother, a sheaf of papers still clutched in
her hand. Her voice was tremulous as she spoke, but her eyes blazed
with a righteous anger, ‘I could scarcely believe the warning
myself when it came. So I went looking for proof,’ Veronique thrust
out the sheaf of papers before her, ‘and here it is!’ she said.

Mortaron didn’t even glance at the papers in
his sister’s hand.

‘
And what would those be?
Letters of confession, written by me in some mad delfictional hilt
for these fictional crimes?’

‘
Letters confirming orders
to the garrison commander at Daros to re-deploy his forces fifty
miles south. Your orders!’

Veronique’s voice had risen steadily above
mere talking now, and she berated her brother, ‘My husband is
counting on those reinforcements. They are a vital part of any
victory he will achieve and you have deprived him of them. And
don’t for an instant try to insult me by citing coincidence as the
sole cause of this happenstance. I know you too well,
Vincenzo.’

Mortaron stepped toward his sister. He made
no obvious threat of it, but his inclination was clear enough to
one who had grown up beside him. Veronique recoiled, suddenly very
aware that she was alone with a man she knew only too capable of
committing the most heinous of acts.

‘
You were always so damned
inquisitive weren’t you sister...’ said The Baron, still wearing
that thin, humorless smile upon his lips. ‘Even as a child it was
all our parents could do to keep you out of trouble. Out of the
places you had no business going.’