Chapter Two: Only Your Shadow As A Companion
He woke to full awareness suddenly in the dark,
gasping with the abrupt intensity of finding himself back in his body. It was a painful, wrenching feeling, as
though he had physically fallen out of the gentle gloaming he had been drifting
in so contentedly. Gone was the warmth
and calm of the recess of his mind as he was made uncomfortably aware of his
body and how much it ached.
He
opened his eyes, blinking with the effort.
Above him somewhere he could see a faint glow of light, although it
seemed quite far away, further away
than he wanted to think about. The air
all about him was warm, almost unpleasantly so, and smelled sulfurous and
burnt.
He
lay in chiaroscuro dusk, on a thin ledge jutting out over a deep crack in the
earth. He lay almost completely still
and silent in magic-blasted armor that encased him like the shiny black
carapace of some kind of deadly-looking beetle. The armor rose and fell only slightly with the hitching of his
uneven breaths. Around him, the earth
rumbled gently, settling into itself.
His ears still seemed to ring with her words to
him. Her command to wake, and
live. Melancholy added itself to the
list of aches that pulsed through him.
"Pirotess,"
he sighed, her name bringing an acid burn to the back of his throat. He could taste old blood on his lips. Apparently, even if the sword had saved him,
it had not healed his wounds, and he knew that he was badly hurt. He closed his eyes, licking his lips
distastefully. He could not remember
when his body had ached as sharply as it did now.
He
wanted very much to slip back into the comfort of semi-consciousness, but
resisted simply because the detached, logical part of his mind told him if he
drifted off again he might not be able to wake, sword's power or not. For half a moment he debated with himself
whether he actually wanted to come back to life or not; the darkness
that flickered behind his eyelids was truly inviting. After a brief debate, he sighed, wincing as his breath hitched
against ribs that were bruised to inflamed tenderness.
Ashuram
wondered how long he had been laying there.
He had no sense of time. His
position over the crevice kept him from being able to see anything, and
whatever scent might have been left after the battle was completely dominated
by the sulfur in the air. Vile. He resisted the urge to cough against the
scratchiness in his throat the thick air caused, sure it would only bruise his
ribs the more.
His
instinct told him that there was nothing else alive left in this subterranean
place besides him. What had Pirotess
called the island again? Marmo's
tomb. Considering what had happened
here, a very fitting title.
After
a while, he decided to see how far he might get were he to try sitting up. Bracing himself for the effort, he struggled
to a sitting position, clawing at the stone wall beside him to lever himself
up. His vision swam grey and muzzy with
the effort, spots floating before his eyes, the burn of his stomach and throat
raising the taste of blood on the back of his tongue. He clung to the wall in sudden dizziness, afraid he would
accidentally pitch himself over the thin ledge that stopped abruptly just
inches wider than the width of his own body.
It was a wonder that he had managed to stay on it for this long.
He waited until the spots had faded from his
vision, and looked up. The top of the
deep shaft that had opened in the earth was not as far away as he had
originally thought. If he stood up, he
thought he would be able to manage to reach it if he jumped for it.
The problem was his armor. It was heavy and bulky, and he wasn't sure
he would be able to pull himself up out of the crevice while still wearing
it. Much of his strength was gone. Yet he could not fathom leaving it
behind. He would as soon be naked as be
without the armor he had grown so accustomed to.
He
decided to try standing up first before removing it. Carefully gathering his legs under him, he dug his fingers into
the stone wall and pulled himself up into a standing position. His vision receded to a fine, distant spot
and a rushing roar began in his ears, stealing his hearing. When the fit had passed him, he found
himself panting against the stone, sweat trickling down his forehead. One hand locked anchor-like in a shallow
crevice in the stone, he reached down with a slow, careful movement and began
to unbuckle the heavy, sculpted black armor.
When he was finished with one side, he switched hands carefully and
undid the other. The awareness of the
void below and behind him was like a sword at his back, making his palms slick
with nervous sweat.
He finally undid the fastenings
at his shoulders and throat, pulling the massive shoulder guards away from his
body. He did not have enough room to
pull them away from his body all the way, and so instead carefully pulled them
off over his head, scraping his face in the darkness as he did so. The weight of them nearly overbalanced him
and sent him plunging backwards into space, but he threw himself against the
wall as the shoulder guards slipped from his grasp, hitting the ledge with a resounding metallic crash, before
sliding into the depths of the crevice.
"Goddess," he breathed, closing
his eyes as his face pressed against
the warm earth. He hardly knew who his
supplication was directed to. He looked
over his shoulder into the crevice.
Warm air blew up from the shadows into his face, and far, far below him
he could see a dim red glare.
I am looking into Hell,
he thought grimly to himself. If I
stepped over this ledge…I am sure not even the power of Soul Crusher could keep
me from that fiery death. He could
not help but keep his eyes locked on the glow below him, his hands beginning to
loosen their desperate hold on the stone.
He
seemed to hear Pirotess' voice in his ears again, telling him he must
live. His hands almost of their own
accord tightened their hold, and he tore his gaze away from the void. He looked up to the edge of the crevice, and
bending stiff knees, he jumped for it.
His
hands hit the edge but did not find enough leverage to catch on to, and he
slipped backwards. The yell of effort
he released was swallowed by the earth, and he felt a rush of adrenaline dread
for just one brief moment as he slid, and then his feet hit the ledge beneath
him. Not allowing himself time to
think, he jumped again, and this time he caught the edge with his hands and
scrabbled to pull himself out.
What
seemed like an eternity later Lord Ashuram, the Black Knight of Lord Beld's army, lay panting and pale
beside the crevice, looking rather less formidable without his armor. He was sweating heavily, his head resting on
his folded arm. Slowly, he got his
breath back. He sat up, wiping sweat
away from his forehead with his dark sleeve carelessly, and looked around him.
Light,
faint and devoid of warmth, vaguely illuminated the cave-like place. He could not tell where it was coming from,
exactly, but it seemed to cling to the few pillars still left standing in the
middle of the spacious shrine. By the
pale light he could see the ruin all around him. The earth was buckled and broken, rifts and crevices opening up
in deep wounds. Wagnard had fallen into
one of those, he remembered vaguely.
Gone was the altar the mage had been hell-bent (literally) on
sacrificing the Elven ranger on.
Ashuram supposed it had followed its maker into the red gleam that
waited hungrily below.
No
bodies had been left behind. Neither
the bodies of Wagnard's acolytes nor the monsters that had seemed to be drawn
out of the woodwork at the mage's command were anywhere to be seen. He wondered if they had just disappeared
upon Wagnard's death.
Incongruously
enough, he spotted his cloak lying in a dark puddle of silk on the earth not
far away, like an oil spill shimmering faintly in the wan light. He levered himself to his feet and carefully
picked his way around the broken earth to it.
Yes, it was his cloak. He flung
it over his shoulders, feeling slightly less vulnerable draped in its
length. He wondered if perhaps there
might also be a weapon lying about, discarded from the battle. Even a boot knife in his hands would make
him feel better. His eyes, grown used
to the dimness, scoured the floor but could not spot a telltale glint of metal.
He
swallowed a faint disappointment. In
his weakened, wounded state, a sword would have been quite useful; he was not
sure what kind of nasties were leftover from Wagnard's spellcasting in this
damp darkness. However, long before he
hand learned to use a sword he had been trained to defend and to kill with his
hands. A sword was not necessary. In fact, he was not even sure he could have
carried the weight of one.
The
earth around him rumbled and shifted without warning, pitching him flat on his
face before he could catch his balance.
He cried out in pain as the air was expelled forcefully from him body,
and hung onto the earth as it bucked and stirred beneath him. Rocks loosened by the unsettled earth fell
from the high ceiling above him, reigning down dust and small pebbles on him as
the larger chunks of stone fell with a noise that deafened him. He protected his head as well as he could by
folding his arms behind his head, grimacing in pain.
As
suddenly as it had begun, the rumbling stopped. Dust floated through the air, settling slowly. Ashuram painfully picked himself up and got
shakily to his feet. Pirotess was right
about the island falling to ruin. He
had to leave.
With
the altar gone and no mage's magic to levitate the huge stone platform back up
to the surface of the world, he suspected the climb back up was going to be a
lot harder than the descent had been.
Yet, there had to be some kind of exit, or the small party from Valis
would have never been able to escape.
There must be a stairway somewhere that Wagnard's acolytes had used to
come and keep the shrine clean. He
simply had to find it.
He
squinted around him in the darkness, trying to decide where the staircase in
probability would be. The huge chasm
that had opened up and swallowed the altar closed off the north side of the
tomb to him, and so he decided to try the southern wall.
Ashuram
started over the uneven floor carefully, limping painfully. It was not long before he had to pause,
sucking for breath and spitting against the taste of blood in his mouth. A new wave of hatred for the mage Wagnard
woke in him. He hated weakness of any
kind, and that he should be reduced to this shambling, pathetic vulnerability
by such petty betrayal…. He spat
Wagnard's name like a curse.
He
started against the floor again, and luck was with him now for he could make
out what he saw in the dim light was a staircase in the recess of the wall
before him. He made his way to it with a
new sense of purpose.
As
he reached the foot of the staircase, he looked up at it in dismay. It was the staircase he was looking for,
that was certain. It stretched far
upwards until it disappeared in the gloom above. However, the rumbling earth had brought the ceiling down in
places on the stairs, leaving the stone steps covered in rubble in places and
looking almost impassable in others.
He
did not hesitate now, but instead resolutely started up the narrow steps, his
boots, encased in leg greaves, making muffled clanking noises as he
walked. He stepped carefully over what
he could, and when there was no way to step over the rubble, he picked his way
over it, crawling on hands and knees like an animal.
He
paused when his efforts had covered him in strained sweat, his face pinched and
pale with effort. He stopped in a spot
clear of rubble and rested, his breathing harsh. Still too heavy. At this
rate, he would never make it. Allowing
himself no sense of regret, he unbuckled his leg greaves and left them
behind. That was all he was willing to
part with for now. When his breath was
back, he started up the steps again.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
He
climbed.
When he had to stop, he
did. Leaning against the wall in the
ever darkening murk, he would wipe sweat from his face with a corner of his
cloak or his sleeve, whichever happened to be handiest, and pant for
breath. His body ached with a dull,
mind-numbing throb that he made himself ignore with determined stoicism. When he could go on again, he did so.
As he climbed, he thought about
what had brought him here, scrabbling like an insect out of the earth.
His thoughts went to the Knight
from Valis, Parn. He had forgotten how
many times he had crossed swords with the boy. It had been a necessary sufferance to fight beside him against
the deranged mage, and although Parn tried, he could not convince the Black
Knight to join his side. Ashuram
thought about that, remembering the boy's sky blue eyes as he pleaded with him
to become an ally.
He
could not have done it even had he wanted to, Ashuram thought to himself with
cool objectivity. Looking back on it,
he was not sure how clearly he had been thinking. Having lost Lord Beld, Pirotess, and the cause he had been
fighting for all in rapid succession had left him in a dangerous mood of
stubborn bitterness, and the soft, pleading look in Parn's eyes had merely
fueled the desire to lash out. Besides
which, enemies were enemies, he thought to himself. As long as you knew where you stood on that account, your actions
immediately became clear. He had not
needed – detested, even – the boy's attempts to cloud the issue.
His feet wanted to stumble on
the stairs, and he carefully set aside thoughts of the young knight.
He was very alone in this place. There was no other living thing left in the
entire castle, of that he felt certain.
He was reminded of an old, traditional poem, and mouthed it to himself
as he climbed:
"The
moon is scarcely known here,
So far back in the mountains.
Leave the world behind
And you have only your shadow
As a companion." ¨
He forced the poem out of his
mind as well, and continued climbing.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
When he could climb no further,
he dropped to the stone steps and slept fitfully, curled uncomfortably on the
cold stone in his cape. His dreams were
vague and disconnected, and his sleep hardly seemed restful, but his body had
refused to go any further. At last,
when cold discomfort got the better of him, he roused himself blearily to his
feet and kept climbing. He had climbed
so far that stairs stretched before him and behind him, seeming without end,
disappearing into the gloom either way.
At some points, when he stopped to look behind him or before him, his
depth perception played tricks on him and he wasn't sure if he were going
upwards or falling downwards. When that
happened, he had to pause, eyes closed, and let the vertigo pass him by.
He eventually removed the heavy,
thick leather sword belt he wore around his waist, the scabbard empty, and let
it fall with a clatter to the stone. It
did not relieve much weight, but it was enough that he could keep climbing.
As
he removed his sword belt, something jingled faintly in his pocket. He reached his hand in and pulled out a
small metallic object, and squinted at it in the dimness. Pirotess' Dark-Elven symbol. His fingers closed over it, a grimace of
pain flitting briefly across his fingers.
Perhaps he should just leave the thing behind…
Something stopped him from
discarding it. He couldn't leave it
here. Instead, he put it around his own
neck, hiding it under the tunic he wore, putting it out of sight so he would
not be tempted to throw it away again.
He owed Pirotess that.
His thoughts drifted again, this
time to the Grey Witch, Karla. He had
seen the girl, Leylia, with the skinny, bookish mage Slayn, the circlet gone
from around her forehead. The Witch
must have found a new body. As
appealing as the thought was, he doubted that she was dead. She was far too old and crafty to let someone
kill her, and he wondered if after so long she could truly die. As long as she no longer interfered with
him, he did not mind her existence in Lodoss.
He carefully put
aside thoughts of the Witch as easily as he had shed his sword belt, but
his body wanted distraction from the monotony and pain of climbing. He thought next about Lord Beld. The sight of the old Lord impaled on the
hideous length of the dark lance had shocked even Ashuram, who was in general
inured to such gruesome sights. Lord
Beld had always carried himself with such an air of invincibility, it had
almost seemed impossible that the leonine Lord could die. It had been such a culmination of strange
feelings for Ashuram; both a sense of loss that their leader was dead, and a sense
of vicious fulfillment that now he, the Black Knight, would also become the
Sword Bearer, had vied in him for dominance.
The feeling of vicious fulfillment had won out, and he had accepted Soul
Crusher with an eagerness that had almost cost him his life. The first time he had held Soul Crusher, the
power of the sword almost proved to be too much for him.
He set these thoughts aside too,
like so much dross, his consciousness narrowing to the stairs before him.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
It seemed he had always been
climbing.
The
time held within the high-vaulted stone staircase seemed never-ending, almost
as if he had never been Lord Ashuram, Black Knight, at all, but only this
struggling self, afraid to stop moving now lest his legs refuse to carry him
any further.
He stopped at last, body seized
with agony, and lay stretched out as though he had fainted, unable to move.
"Pirotess," he sighed slowly,
his face half-hidden against the cold stone.
"Pirotess, I have lost everything.
Being the Sword Bearer means nothing to me. You are gone. There is
nothing left." His mind clouded in the
darkness of his exhausted depression, he slept.
He seemed to see Pirotess' face
before him, and when he woke again, it was to the memory of her words ringing
in his ears, importuning him to live, and remember her. The melancholy that stole over him when he
thought of her was stealing his will to continue, and so with real regret, he
put aside thoughts of Pirotess as well, discarding the things that weighed him
down.
He eventually discarded his
boots as well, the heavy, thick-soled black boots that had been with him on
every campaign. He finished the rest of
the climb barefoot, scrabbling over rocks and sharp rubble on feet used to
marching but not used to sharp stones.
All he could do, however, was to keep going. Eventually, he could see the staircase was lightening, the gloom
around him gradually lifting. His
dark-adapted eyes squinted against even the feeble light, but sensing victory,
he continued upwards.
When he at last broke the
surface of the world again, he had shed nearly everything weighing him
down. He stood barefoot, clothed only
in his dark tunic, loose breeches and cloak, his face pale and gaunt, his dark eyes
shadowed. He had discarded the thoughts
weighing him down as well, and it was almost as though a new person faced the
dim, suffused light filling the upper reaches of the palace on Marmo, a person
free of any encumbrance. Gone was the
Black Knight, and in his place stood a ragged-looking man, fiercely determined
and coolly efficient, but exhausted both in body and soul nearly past the point
of endurance.
He allowed himself only a brief
moment of triumph before he let himself realize how sickeningly hungry he
was. He had to find food. With only this thought in mind, he went to
search the kitchens.
* * *
Hi! Your friendly neighborhood Fírén here, with
just some Authorly notes:
¨ - The Japanese translation of this
poem is as follows:
Tsuki wo
shiranu ya
Miyama
naruran
Sutsurumi
ni
Waga kage
bakari
Tomonai
te.
And is
taken from the book Traditional Japanese Poetry, An Anthology, compiled
and translated by Stephen Carter.
Whee! I told you it's dark! But don't worry, from here on out – if
you're still reading – it gets better.
Thanks for reading!
