Dread Mountain

Lief, Barda, and Jasmine stared at the scrawled words on the cave wall. All of them were imagining the lonely, suffering man who, it seemed, had used his own blood to write the message.

Why had he written it? To keep himself sane, perhaps, thought Lief. To convince himself that, in the nightmare of terror and confusion that his life had become, some things were real. That he himself was real.

“Who was he?” breathed Jasmine. “Where is he now?”

“Dead, perhaps,” said Barda. “If he was wounded, then —”

“He did not die here, at least, for the cave is empty of bones,” Lief broke in. “Perhaps he recovered, and escaped from the Mountain.” He found himself hoping against hope that this was so.

“He says, ‘I know where I have been,’” Jasmine murmured. “Surely that means that he came here from somewhere else, not long before he wrote the message.”

“He could have come from the Shadowlands, like the Vraal,” Prin put in helpfully.

“That is impossible. No one escapes from the Shadowlands,” Barda growled.

Lief leaned back, his head suddenly swimming. He felt Jasmine’s hand on his arm and struggled to look at her.

“You have lost much blood, Lief,” she said, in a voice that sounded far away. “That is why you feel weak. Do not fight the urge to sleep. Barda and I will keep watch. Do not fear.”

Lief wanted to speak — to tell her that he too would take his turn to keep watch. To say that she had been knocked unconscious by the Vraal and was also in need of rest. To beg her to make sure that Prin stayed safe. But his eyelids would not stay open, and his mouth would not form the words. So at last he simply did as she asked, and slept.

The storm raged on all that night and through the next day. Thunder roared without ceasing. The hail became icy rain. Wind lashed the Boolong trees, and many crashed to the ground.

The companions could do nothing but stay huddled in their shelter, eating, resting, drinking from the stream that rushed by the cave’s opening, taking turns to keep watch. By the time night fell again they were fretting about the delay. Lief’s arm and Prin’s paws were healing wonderfully, and they feared that the Vraal might be recovering just as quickly.

“Only if it has learned that the green moss heals,” Prin reminded them, nibbling a Boolong cone. “And I do not think that is likely. Vraal are clever only in fighting and killing, Mother says.”

At the mention of her mother her voice faltered, and she swallowed hard.

“It is very fortunate for us that you were with us when the Vraal came. But your mother, and the other Kin, must be worried about you, Prin,” said Lief after a moment.

“They know I am safe,” Prin said softly. “I am sure they visited us last night, in their dreams.”

She looked around. “And now it is night again. They could be here at this very moment. They would all fit, because, after all, it is only a dream.” She bent her head. “If they were here, I would tell them I was sorry for causing them pain,” she murmured. “And I would say I missed them very much.”

The others were silent. It was eerie to think that they might be surrounded by Kin spirits, yearning to speak to Prin, to touch her, but unable to do so. It was sad to realize that Prin was deliberately saying aloud the words she wanted her family to hear, just in case.

By the following morning, the wind had died and the storm had retreated, leaving steady, light rain in its place. The travellers decided that it was time to move on.

They began climbing through the rain in single file, following the swollen stream, alert for the sound of the gnomes above them and the Vraal below. The way was steep, slippery, and dangerous. Prin went first, doing the best she could to beat a safe path, but despite her best efforts the companions were soon covered in scratches.

After an hour or two of this miserable tramping, the rain stopped and a few weak rays of sun began to struggle through the clouds.

“That is something, at least,” muttered Barda. Then he jumped as Prin stopped suddenly in front of him and darted off the path.

“What is it?” whispered Jasmine from behind.

“I do not know!” Barda whispered back irritably. “Prin! What are you doing?”

Prin had disappeared into the trees and was thrashing around, breaking down branches with new energy and purpose. “Come and see!” she called softly to them, after a moment.

Unwillingly, shielding their faces from the thorns, they crept into the small, cleared area she had made. Then they stopped, staring.

Right in the center of the clearing was a small round stone hut roofed with bark. Two rusted metal spikes stood on either side of the low door, each crowned by a grinning skull. To the door itself was fixed a beaten metal shape.

“I am sure this is a gnome-rest,” Prin whispered. “The huts where gnomes shelter if they are caught out in storms. They are forbidden to strangers. That is what the sign means. But —”

She looked at them anxiously.

“But this has been abandoned for a very long time,” Barda reassured her. “You were right to uncover it.” He strode to the door and pulled at it. It sagged open and the companions went inside.

If they had hoped to find weapons, they were disappointed. The little building was festooned with webs and crawling with spiders and beetles. Otherwise it was empty except for a few mugs, some woven rugs which had almost rotted away, and a pile of what had probably once been food, but which was now black dust.

“It is strange,” murmured Prin, as they backed out again with relief. “Mother told me that in the old days there were gnome-rests scattered all over the Mountain, all of them linked by paths that crisscrossed everywhere. But this is the first gnome-rest we have seen, and it was completely overgrown by the trees.”

Lief looked around at the dark and silent forest that surrounded the clearing. “The Boolong trees have run wild since the Kin left. But that cannot be the only reason why the gnomes have abandoned their buildings and their paths. Surely they would have fought to save some of them, at least.”

Jasmine too had been looking around her. “Something else has happened. Some change we do not know about,” she said slowly.

There was a sound behind them. Prin glanced over her shoulder nervously, then gave a start. Barda had begun pulling sheets of bark from the roof of the little hut. Already three large pieces lay beside him on the ground.

“Oh, do not do that!” she begged, hurrying over to him. “The gnomes will be angry. Do you not see their warning sign?”

“I care nothing for that,” snorted Barda, pulling a fourth sheet onto the ground. “They have already shown they are our enemies. In any case, they have plainly abandoned this hut to the forest. And this bark will be very useful to us.”

Prin stared at him, and Lief and Jasmine also raised their eyebrows in surprise. Smiling, Barda tapped the bark sheets with his foot. “This is Boolong bark,” he said. “See how hard it is? Yet it is light to carry, and slightly curved too. With vines to bind them, these pieces will make excellent shields. Shields that will stop any arrow — and will protect us from the Boolong thorns.”

They spent the next half hour binding vine strongly around the bark pieces so that they could be held easily from the back. Standing behind their shields’ protection all the companions felt safer.

“You must always carry your shield in your weaker hand,” Barda instructed. “Then your strong hand is left free for fighting. It is tiring at first, but you will soon get used to —”

He broke off, startled, as Jasmine suddenly jumped up and raised her finger to her lips. “I hear voices,” she breathed. “And feet. Marching feet.”

Lief and Barda listened carefully and at last heard a faint, buzzing, rhythmic sound, like harsh chanting or singing, coming from further down the Mountain.

“Gnomes,” whimpered Prin.

The sound was coming closer, growing louder by the moment.