Dawn of Wonder (The Wakening Book 1) (14 page)

This was the part of the journey that had been
hanging in all their minds like a great sleeping bat nobody wanted to rouse. He
climbed down as wheels began to creak and roll out of the camp, jumped onto the
back of his father’s wagon and climbed to the top of the baggage, the highest
point. His eyes were busier than usual.

It was later that morning as the hills were just
emerging from their misty blanket when he spotted a dark round tower standing
well over the distant hills, cruel fang-like spires cutting into the sky.

It brought an end to conversation. They travelled
with their eyes fixed ahead. The beast with the strange call was forgotten.

The land was such that they were not able to give the
fortress a wide berth, for on the left the mountain pressed its flanks out, and
on the right the lake crept in and stole the low ground. It was with a feeling
of some inevitable advancing fate that Aedan watched the tower loom higher with
every advancing mile. Most of the day had gone when they emerged from a thick
glade to a sight that caused even the horses to stop and raise their heads.
Both wagons shuddered to a halt. The whole party gaped.

The ancient mountain fortress of Kultûhm was
something that few claimed to have seen, but there were none who had not heard
of it, and for good reason. It had been the home of the Gellerac people – the
most powerful and, without a doubt, the cruellest empire ever to dominate the
western mainland. Their navy had ruled Lake Vallendal, using it to reach far out
into the surrounding areas. Fleets would swoop down on lakeside towns and
armies would march inland. They would take what they pleased and none could
oppose them. Taxes were harvested with a brutality that was almost inconceivable
– villagers were simply burned alive until the coffers were full.

There had been many uprisings. Coalitions of
rulers had more than once laid siege to their oppressors, but the great
fortress had never been taken. Rebel armies broke against the walls like waves
bursting on a rocky peninsula.

Yet at the height of Gellerac power, the
oppression abruptly ceased. A wrecked fleet of ships was found washed up after
a storm, and this was the last that was seen of Kultûhm’s population. The
fortress lay open, in deathly silence.

Plague was the word, mostly, but stranger theories
abounded. Explorers and researchers, once they ventured behind the great walls,
were never seen again. The emptiness of Kultûhm was a question that had lured
many into its shadows, and released none.

While Aedan was not free from curiosity’s tug, he knew
too much about those doomed ventures. Looking from this distance was more than
enough.

The fortress was colossal on a scale he had never
imagined. He had heard stories, even read an account of the dimensions and architecture,
but to actually see it now where it crouched on its mountain throne, to fall
under the spell of its silent watchful power that seemed to hush even the songs
of birds … He shivered. It was as if he had stumbled across some giant
predator.

The fortress rose over a hill with sheer quarried
sides, dominating the surrounding land. Only the nearby mountains stood above
it. The hundred-foot-high walls were of dark stone turned black in places where
centuries of trickling water had stained the surfaces and fed cloaks of moss. Trees
fought for light at the base while ferns draped, spilling from narrow slits and
cracks. An enormous creeper clung from the great round tower and reached its
thick arms out over the surrounding buildings like tentacles.

Despite the invasion of plants, a few cracks and
some crumbled stone, there was little structural damage that could be seen. Most
of the towers and turrets stood firmly among the city that rose within. The
place would have been impenetrable even now if it were not for the lowered
drawbridge and the heavy wooden gates standing ajar.

Though the castle itself was impressive, there was
something else that made it significantly more intimidating. In front of the
walls was a plain where about a dozen statues ringed the buildings, facing out
as if on guard. But these were statues the likes of which none of the
travellers had ever seen. From a distance it was clear that they stood nearly
as high as the walls themselves.

Some of these stone giants took the shapes of
fully armoured soldiers, one with a sword many times the height of the
surrounding firs, one with a poleaxe the size of a small ship. Beyond the giant
soldiers were mythical beasts with features so life-like that they appeared
only to be holding their breaths while under scrutiny.

The party found it as uncomfortable to take their
eyes off them as to stare. Clauman was the first to snap out of the trance and
urge the horses on.

They chose a course to the right and hurried around
the outside edge of the plain. Nobody spoke as they rattled past, though their
eyes turned constantly to the left.

From the shadows in the high windows, Aedan found
it easy to imagine the much-rumoured darkness looking down at them. Amid all
the speculation, the one thing unanimously agreed on was that those who
attempted to explore Kultûhm never returned. It was clear that none in the
party wanted to know why.

“Probably a hive for bandits,” Borr said. “Foolish
to linger.”

That was about as many words as Aedan had heard
from the man in a week. It was also complete nonsense – there would be no
bandits in such a forgotten corner of the world. But nobody argued. Not even Harriet
raised her opinions on “those empty stories”. Aedan looked back at the hollow
eyes of statues and the dark slits in the turrets. There was something watchful
about the emptiness of Kultûhm, and he was very happy to be travelling away
from it.

They had covered about a mile when a high keening
howl floated over the air and turned it to ice.

It was Harriet who shrieked the word that leapt
into everyone’s minds. “Wolves!”

Both wagons stopped and all eyes scanned the hills.

“There!” said Clauman.

They looked in time to see the grey shapes surging
down the distant slope, racing towards them. It was a big pack, very big. The fold
of the land soon hid them, but everyone knew what was coming.

Aedan looked around. There were no trees nearby,
no refuge, except …

“The fortress,” Clauman shouted. He turned the
horses and lashed them to a gallop, causing the wagon to leap over the ground.
The other wagon, drawn by the ponderous carthorse, fell behind.

“Take the reins Aedan,” his father shouted,
handing them over and reaching back for a bow that he tried to string.

The fortress grew larger and they turned off the
track and bounced over the plain. They headed for the stone road that cut a
long, twisting way up a steep slope, edged on the left side by a sheer drop
into a rocky chasm, and leading eventually to the giant gate.

“Don’t slow down,” Clauman yelled over the
clattering wheels, as Aedan allowed the horses to ease the pace through the
first corner.

“But the wagon might tip.”

“Don’t you question me!” Clauman found the whip
and applied it to the animals.

Aedan braced himself for the next corner. The
wheels skidded and kicked up a shower of chips from the cobbled surface. He
felt the inside wheel lift slightly, and caught a glimpse of the drop beyond
the outer wall. The next corner was worse.

Clauman looked behind him and spun round, his face
pale. He lashed the horses furiously and did not hold himself back as they
approached the last corner.

“We’re going too fast,” Aedan screamed, pulling on
the reins. His father wrenched the reins away.

The corner was on them. The horses had veered off
their line in the confusion and now made a jagged turn. The wagon lurched, its
inside wheels lifted and struck the inner wall, thrusting the wagon over onto
its side. It slid over the road with a grinding of stone and rending of beams
until it crashed into the outer wall which collapsed and fell into the chasm.
The three people had been thrown to the ground, but the horses were dragged
after the wagon. It looked as if they would be pulled over the edge until the
strain became too much and the leather snapped. The animals surged up from the
ground, stamping and rearing, while the wagon, with all the family’s worldly
belongings, hurtled downward to be smashed and lost among the rocks far below.

Aedan pushed himself off the ground. A heavy
rattling drew his attention and he turned to see the other wagon taking the first
corner at the bottom of the hill. More than a dozen wolves were closing in,
coats rippling, ears flattened, long legs reaching for more ground with each
stride.

“Run!” Clauman yelled, grabbing his wife’s elbow
and heading for the gate. Aedan was half a stride behind.

It was perhaps fifty paces. Before he reached the
gates, Aedan saw what looked like a drawbridge lowered to the ground. As he
approached it, he understood its purpose. The final sixty feet of road was
simply missing. With the drawbridge raised, there would be a barrier of air over
two hundred feet deep. Aedan tried not to look to the side as he ran after his
parents onto the bridge, their feet causing the ancient beams to shudder
beneath them. They had to bend their course around two large holes where rotten
timbers had fallen into the chasm.

The walls, imposing from a distance, were
mountainous now – ancient buttresses that reared overhead and blotted out half
the sky. A hideous turret-like figurehead stood over them, directly above the
gate, leering down through hollows that Aedan half expected to disgorge burning
oil.

They reached the end of the drawbridge and
sprinted between the colossal wood-and-iron gates, at least three feet thick,
into a long stone passage with an elevated ceiling. A gridwork of heavy iron
bars loomed ahead. It was a portcullis that could have held back any army, but
fortunately it was half-raised and probably rusted into position for good. They
sprinted underneath the iron spikes and burst out into daylight. Aedan
staggered to a halt, casting his eyes around him. Horror locked his feet in
place.

It was not the height of the walls, or the weight
of the iron and stone, or the vastness of the courtyard in which he now stood
that froze him.

Kultûhm was not empty, not as Aedan had understood
the word.

Skeletons were strewn everywhere. Some were the
bones of animals, but many were not. The eye sockets of countless skulls fixed
him with dark, haunting stares.

Beyond the acres of dead remains, the courtyard
was enclosed by heavy walls of stone. Against them, standing as if on ceaseless
guard, were lines of twenty-foot statues – soldiers with the heads of snarling
tigers, bears, wolves and lions. Lips drawn, they glared at the intruders from
green jewelled eyes set in black stone.

Clauman seemed less affected than his son by the
deathly spectacle. He only hesitated for an instant before turning to the side
and rushing them all into a guard room. Once within, he put his shoulder
against the door of iron bars, and with feet skidding on the dusty floor,
heaved it closed, drawing screams from the neglected hinges. He kicked the bolt
until it broke free of its rust and scraped home.

As had become his habit, his hand went to the
velvet pouch on his belt, but it was not there. He had left it with the
baggage.

Aedan began to tremble as he saw his father
staring into the courtyard, fists and jaw clenching. He knew those signs. He
knew what was coming. The fragile closeness they had built over the past weeks,
no more than twigs and thread, was about to be met with steel.

Clauman turned around, his whole body rigid.

Nessa was standing between them. “Please Clauman,
don’t.” She may as well have spoken Orunean. There would be no more reasoning
with him until the rage had been given its way.

He thrust her aside and strode at Aedan.

“That was everything, you wretched, disobedient
fool of a boy!” he roared, his face twisted and contorted by the violent
emotions, almost unrecognisable. “Everything we own!” He lunged forward and struck
Aedan on the head, threw him to the floor and proceeded to kick him while
shouting profanities, setting his fury loose to take its accustomed course.

When Clauman turned away, gripping Nessa by the
arm to keep her from comforting her son, Aedan crept into the corner and scowled.
Gradually the paralysing fear drained away and what took its place was a cold,
whispery anger. He glared at his father’s back. His fists shook as he imagined
driving forward, hitting, screaming and settling the debt.

Yet for all the flames of retaliation that grew inside
him and swirled around until his vision was seared, this was his prison. He
knew from hard experience that the anger would not liberate him. It would only
torment him with images of snarling revenge that tasted so sweet and would
later turn to a dead weight of depression and guilt. But he did not care, and
gritted his teeth all the more until his head shook with the violence of his
thoughts. These feelings were his secret, his to guard. It was his right to
nurture them and to indulge the glowing hate, shivering before its cold fire,
drawing it into his bones.

Clauman was staring out through the bars at
something, or nothing. For some men it was drink that moved them to this kind
of utter destructiveness. Clauman needed no such aid. When it flared, his anger
carried him past all restraints of reason. It carried him to a place where the treasured
bonds with his wife and son – even if they were treasured in secret – were
forgotten, where all he could see was the inferno of his passion. And every
time it was getting worse. Aedan knew his father’s eyes would be hooded with
shame for many weeks, but it would be a bristling, angry shame, as though the
fault lay with the one carrying the bruises.

The two horses galloped out from the passage into
the courtyard and did not stop. One threaded its way between the heaps of bones
until it found itself in a far corner. The other disappeared beneath a colossal
arch at the far end of the courtyard, and the echoes of its hooves were lost
within the unstirring city.

The second wagon boomed through the passage and
clattered under the portcullis into the open, surrounded by the leaping,
snarling pack of grey wolves. The big carthorse screamed and snorted, kicking
and stamping as the wolves darted in and out. The goats were gone. Harriet was
bleeding from a cut on her face and Borr from gashes on both arms. It looked as
if they were about to be torn apart and devoured only a few yards from safety.

But then something strange happened. A few of the
wolves raised their noses to the air and their tails dropped as they began to
whine and glance around them. Unease spread quickly. The pack lost interest in
their prey; their heads spun in all directions.

Borr took the opportunity to crack his whip on
their backs. Several yelped and fled, opening a path to the guard room where Clauman
stood and called.

Wolves began to shrink from the courtyard and slip
out the gates. Borr said something to Harriet. They jumped from the wagon and
ran to the door that was held open for them. Two wolves moved forward, more out
of habit than intention, but they quickly turned away, looking around with wide
eyes and twitching heads.

A sound like a heavy pouring of course sand grew
and filled the courtyard. All looked in vain to find its source. It seemed to
be coming from everywhere, but there was no movement on the ground or on the
walls. Aedan was on his feet now, tears brushed away, the experience pushed
back into a festering vault. Something was happening.

He looked at the wolves and tried to determine
where their ears pointed. Some were as bewildered as the people, but a few on
the opposite end seemed to have agreed on a direction. He followed the angle of
their heads. Not far from the wagon, there was a wide ramp that descended into
the ground. A thick wooden trapdoor had once covered it, but this was now
splintered and crumbled. It was completely dark beneath the fragments of wood,
but Aedan was sure this was the source of the rough pouring sound.

He had heard of sand being used as a timer –
shifting ballast for large traps. He also knew that Kultûhm had been home to
the most advanced engineers of many ages. Tales of castle explorations rushed
through his thoughts – arrows whistling out through cracks in the walls, floors
collapsing over spear-filled pits, falling rocks, channelled floods … He had
never thought he would actually face any of these. But what happened next was unlike
any of the stories he had read.

The trapdoor snapped open and a sound rent the
air, like the explosion of steam from a cauldron overturned on a bed of coals. Aedan
covered his ears and fell to the ground as a cloud of black vapour burst over
the wagon. From within the cloud something enormous moved. Everyone fell back
from the door. There was a deep fleshy thud that Aedan felt in his chest and a
violent clatter of wagon wheels.

Wolves yelped and cried, scattering in all
directions, some even vanishing into the city. Those that remained in the
courtyard shrank into corners with their tails tucked and every hair raised.

The sandy sound returned, just audible under the
squealing and whining, but this time it died away quickly. The air cleared,
revealing nothing but a wagon dripping with sooty slime, and a scattering of
frightened wolves.

The carthorse was gone.

Tattered ends of the harness lay on the ground.

“Did anyone see what it was?” asked Clauman, his
voice thin.

Nobody spoke. Nessa whimpered. They waited for a
long time, but nothing else happened.

“We need to get out of here!” Harriet gasped.

“Yes,” said Clauman, “but if we run without the
wagon we will not last. I’ll fetch my horses. Borr, try to make something of
the broken harness. The rest of you, stay in here.”

The wolves paid scant attention as the men left
their refuge, but Clauman and Borr each took a heavy bush knife from the wagon.
Nessa continued to whimper as she saw her husband striding through the mounds
of bones to the far corner where one of the horses turned and pranced about, held
in place by its fear. It reared several times when Clauman tried to take its
bridle, hooves whistling through the air at head height, but eventually the
forester was able to snatch a broken rein and gain control.

It was an even slower process coaxing the animal
back through the maze of skeletons towards the wagon. Clauman held it in place
while Borr repeatedly fumbled the harness straps. At last, the knots were
secure. They drove the wagon around to the entrance of the guard room, away
from the trapdoor.

“One will not be enough,” Clauman said, looking at
how the horse strained before the huge wagon. He left them again and weaved his
way towards the distant arch – one of three entrances to the city – where the
second horse had disappeared. A dark forest of towers and spires and hulking
buildings rose up beyond the walls of the courtyard, daring, challenging. As
Clauman walked on he grew smaller and smaller against the backdrop. It almost
seemed that Kultûhm was swelling over him.