Shining Force
Blåkulla Pass
The snowflakes were blue in the glare of the setting sun, great thick wide constructs that drifted to the ground slowly, each unique, each shimmering with malevolent delay. When they landed, they became one with the land, the environment, until they were shattered into a million pieces by the footsteps of the Shining Force.
Max led the way, of course. His sword, too short to be long, too long to be short, was sheathed safely at his side; his only protection against the elements was his clothing. It was simple, roughspun cloth made by… God, he couldn't remember. His possessions were so few and so critical now that it mattered not where they came from or whom, it simply mattered that he had them.
He glanced over his shoulder. A single piercing glare that froze many in their tracks as sure as the falling snow. When he saw his friends, though, he smiled. Lowe, ever-dependable, was closest to him. Behind him were Anri, Mae, then Ken, and Hans, Diane, and the others.
"How much farther?" asked Ken.
"Why?" Mae retorted, red-cheeked. "Are you getting cold?"
"I'm only asking for the comfort of those less protected," the knight responded, hefting his armor.
"Or are you asking for the comfort of those less padded?" Lowe asked, glancing down at his girth to much laughter.
"Just another league or two," Max said, when the chatter died down. "The pass is near. In fact…"
The Force made its way up another hill. Over that rise, the deep chasm was visible, the legendary Blue Maiden Gorge. It would have been impassible in such weather—in any weather—if not for a single, teetering wood and rope bridge that spanned the two cliff faces.
As the band got closer, it became clear just how isolated and austere their environment was. The granite cliff-faces were hundreds—or thousands of feet above the white frothing waves below, and with night approaching…
"Friend, we should take rest," Lowe said. "The bridge is long, and in the darkness, it may be far too easy for a fatal mis-step."
"No rest now," Max said simply. "We cross before sunset. Then we make camp."
Another icy glare put an end to any further objections. And so the Force made its way forth, gathering at the very edge of the precipice. Here, they were minuscule, insignificant ants to the scale of their surroundings. Any one of the boulders that formed the landscape dwarfed all of them, not even their combined forces could have vanquished one.
And there were so many…
Max turned from the vistas. Irrelevant they were. Immaterial. Invulnerable to his forces, and the forces of Runefaust.
He surveyed the bridge one final time. In the freezing cold, the ropes were strained, withered and beaten, but seemed firm, true. The wood planks that made the walkway appeared to be preserved by the elements—he tested them with a foot—and nodded once. He took a step forward, and that was when Hans stopped him.
"I'm lighter," Hans said. "And with my bow, if an enemy should attack—I'm the one who can respond best. And quickest."
Man and elf shared a look. Max's glare was always sharp, but this time, Hans was even sharper. They needed no words to communicate what was obvious to both of them: something was wrong. Something about the cold, or the overlarge snowflakes, or the whipping white waves below, or the stones, as immense and unmovable as the earth itself… something was wrong.
"We could stop," someone offered. "Just for the night."
Their words were blown away by the wind, scattered into nothingness. Hans stepped forward—and the bridge held. Another step forward—and then another. And then he was walking. Slowly, carefully, eyes focused on the distances ahead rather than those below.
Max joined him. Then Ken, then Mae, then the others. In moments, they were in single-file, making their way across the gorge, telling themselves that the height, and the hazard, and the numbing cold didn't bother them. They were scarcely more than halfway across when Hans stopped dead, his elven eyes focused on something on the other side of the bridge, something the others couldn't yet see.
And then he appeared.
He was slight of stature, slender, clad in black, half doubled-over from the cold or an unseen affliction. His clothes were similar to those worn by the dark mages in the legions of their enemies, but worn, almost ragged. And his face appeared strangely pale, an ethereal shade of blue.
He stood at the edge of the bridge, swaying in a peculiar fashion, irreverent of the wind. He seemed to be facing them, or something beyond them.
"Shining Force," he said, in a peculiar accent, "at the Blue Maiden Gorge already. You move well… even in such conditions."
"Our mission hastens our pace," Max said.
"And your arms burden it," the stranger said.
"Only until they cut through our obstacles," Max said sharply.
The stranger laughed, a bizarre shrill piercing sound that made the hairs on the back of Max's neck stand on end. "You've a sharp tongue," he said.
"And a sharper blade still," Max snarled. He shouldered past Hans and drew his weapon.
"I tire of verbal banter and my troops are cold. You will stand aside and leave us to pass," he demanded, "or—"
"No. No, you cannot threaten me," the stranger drawled. "This gorge… this pass… this vicious, desolate landscape… do you know what we call it?"
"A rock to piss on, for all I care," Max spat.
The stranger looked directly at him. Under his hood, Max saw only teeth.
"We call it… Blåkulla," he said.
He raised his arms. When he cast his incantation, it was neither in the common tongue, nor Elvish, nor the twisted bastard language that the forces of Runefaust used. It was a vicious scream whose tenor cut the air—the snow—then the ropes of the bridge itself!
(Ash nazg durbatulûk, ash nazg gimbatul,
ash nazg thrakatulûk agh burzum-ishi krimpatul!)
