The Beast of Ildenwood: 17. A Thunderous Crack

The Beast of Ildenwood

17. A Thunderous Crack

The cabin is shoddy, and a bit run-down. Lahab feels it is to be expected, given that this particular path is generally devoid of travelers at any point in time. But it is shelter nonetheless, and Lahab can see that dawn will only be a few hours away. They need to have some rest, and have not been able to do so since their encounter with the two mercenaries on the road. It is dangerous, to camp out in the open while one more mercenary lurks.

 

And so the cabin is a gift. They trudge wearily up its steps and open the door. Inside, there seems to be more dust than furniture, but that’s alright. Between the two of them, the cabin is prepared as best as possible. Lahab pulls a broom from her sack – while the Wanderer stares, looking at the unassuming fabric bag with intrigue and awe – and sweeps the floor in quick, impatient movements. The Wanderer turns over the wool-stuffed mattresses on the two beds, patting them to make sure there are no nasty surprises awaiting them in the mattresses. Lahab collects a few bundles of firewood, and wastes no time lighting them ablaze in the small wood stove that takes central placement in the cabin. Then, she pulls two knitted blankets from her sack, and the two of them place them on the dusty mattresses.

 

Almost an hour later, the two are settled in and ready to sleep. They do so, no longer able to stay awake, foregoing an evening meal in favour of some much needed rest. Alas, the weather has other plans for them.

 

A thunderous storm ravages the world around them, and as the wind howls past their little cabin, and as the rain batters its worn wooden planks, and as the thunder rumbles through the very ground beneath them, Lahab wonders if it will survive the night. The creaking keeps her up through most of the night – though it seems to do nothing to the Wanderer, who sleeps through the storm, his chest rising and falling with soft, even breaths.

 

It isn’t until dawn is breaking over the horizon that Lahab finally gets some rest, and only a couple of hours later that she is awakened by the Wanderer stumbling about in the cabin and opening the old, noisy door, and stepping outside with a yawn. She sits up, watching the door close behind him, and falls back with a frustrated sigh. Perhaps sleep will continue to elude her until she finally delivers Muna to Burj Annur, and only then will she rest.

 

As she is finally climbing out of the bed, the Wanderer opens the door and backs into the room, glancing at her with wide eyes. “We have a… visitor,” he tells her uncertainly. “He says he’s looking for you.”

 

Curious and on-guard, Lahab prepares herself for another confrontation, a fire brewing in her lungs. She pulls on her boots and makes herself presentable, then steps outside, where the Wanderer awaits on the small wooden porch. On the road, an unfamiliar young man stands, hands on hips, as he waits for her. But Lahab hardly gives him a moment’s attention before her gaze is attracted by the splendid creature standing beside him.

 

The winged steed snorts, pawing the dirt with his front hoof. Its coat is a magnificent silver, with pure white patches of fur on its lower legs, as though it has boots of its own. Its mane is long and intricately braided, and Lahab can tell that this horse is well taken care of.

 

There is only one winged horse that she knows of in these parts, and so she knows, even without looking at the emblem on its chest-piece, that this is the famous Tulpar, winged steed of the Noble Guardian of Samat.

 

“Are you the Noble Guardian of Ildenwood?” the young man asks, nodding towards her but making no attempt to get closer.

 

“You bring the King’s horse,” Lahab replies, ignoring his question. She sneaks into his Guide, looking for information about their guest. “What right have you to ride him?”

 

“He was given me for this journey,” the man replies, a small smile tugging at his lips. He crosses his arms and adds, “By my father, the King.”

 

* * *

 

Prince Shoja is not a Guardian or a Noble, so far as the Wanderer can tell, but Lahab seems satisfied with what he is: the son of the Guardian of Samat, who is also the King of Samat, and who is also one of the few Guardians Lahab knows to trust, along with Deletrear.

 

And so they sit around the small campfire set up outside the cabin and prepare a meal of cooked beans, and the scent of them remind him of something – a memory – that he can’t seem to catch, flitting away just when he thinks he’s finally got it.

 

“I shall admit I do not know much about whatever it is that is happening,” Shoja is saying to Lahab. “My father sent me to help protect the artifact and ensure it does not fall into the wrong hands, but he did not explain much more than that. His quest does mention something ominous about doom and destruction, however. I suppose you can fill in the details, Guardian?”

 

The Wanderer tunes them out as they speak of Muna, having already heard the story, and thinks instead of his memories, which trickle into his mind drop by drop. Whatever Deletrear has done, it is certainly working – it is just working very, very slowly. By extension, his frustration is rising very, very steadily.

 

He takes a bowl of beans when it is offered to him and digs in, but tries his best to remember something more of the few flashes of memories he has already unlocked. The young woman, for example, whose visage he cannot quite make out in his memory. Short, brown hair – eyes wide with fear – a smile that brings him warmth – all of these things, he remembers separately. He cannot put them together. He cannot see her face.

 

And the beach. The beach with black sand and the calm waters of the ocean lapping at the shore – the beach, the beach. What is it about that beach? Where is it? Why does it call to him so? Why does his heart yearn with an aching pain when he thinks of it?

 

“Wanderer,” Lahab calls again, and he snaps out of his own thoughts, glancing up at her from his half-finished bowl. “The Prince will accompany us henceforth,” she says, setting down her own empty bowl. “He will help us deliver the artifact to the tower.”

 

“I must send Tulpar away,” Prince Shoja says, nodding at the winged steed that had caused the Wanderer to stop and balk in wonder when he’d first stepped out of the cabin and saw the horse landing carefully on the muddy trail. Tulpar whines and snorts, pawing the mud restlessly. “He won’t stay with me much longer. Being away from my father makes him anxious. I think he is eager to return to him. He senses the distance.”

 

“It is true, then, what they say about Tulpar’s connection with your father?” Lahab asks, her dark eyes glinting with curiosity. “He will serve no other master?”

 

The Prince runs his hands through his long hair, twisting it into a bun as he speaks. “I know not the finer details of their pact,” he admits. “Only that they have formed a lifelong connection, and that they can… sense one another, even at great distances. Perhaps that is why Tulpar is so restless. He knows my father rides for war. He may already be close to the battlefield.”

 

He pauses, crossing his arms and considering the horse again, thoughtfully. “My father told me once that their bond can only be broken through death. If one is to pass, then it will cease to be,” he murmurs. “It brings me great ease to see Tulpar so anxious. It means my father is still alive.”

 

“The enemy seeks Muna,” Lahab tells him, poking at the fire with a stick. “They will stop at nothing to obtain this artifact. For whatever reason, they wish to use it, and I cannot trust that they would use it for good. Muna is such a fragile thing… so easily influenced by those around it. We must deliver it to Burj Annur as soon as possible. If what we know about this artifact is true, then it will bring the war to an end and send the enemy back from whence they came. If we accomplish this task, I feel in my heart that your father and all of the other brave soldiers out there at this very moment will be able to return to their peaceful lives.”

 

“You said Muna was used once before, centuries ago,” the Wanderer says, and both of them turn to him, as though they have forgotten he is even there. “At the time, it was a destructive force that brought about a great calamity. Why would it be any different now?”

 

Lahab hesitates for a moment, dropping the stick into the fire and letting it burn. “I can’t be certain, of course, for the stories are centuries – no, thousands of years – old. But I have read that Muna was awakened in fire and darkness, dropped into a fiery pit of anguish, and that it knew nothing but pain and anger since its awakening. It was then that it brought its wrath down upon the lands. I believe the fiery pit of lore is the abyss – Athar Addhallam. It is a fearsome place, older than we know, and it is to be avoided at all cost. Only evil resides there, and none who go ever return to tell the tale.” Lahab and Shoja both shudder at the thought, but the Wanderer, not familiar with this fiery abyss, does not know to fear it.

 

“There are other stories and poems, however, that tell of a splendid peak, where the very light is purer than any light we have ever seen, and where all that the light touches is imbued with goodness and grace. This peak – this peak is the opposite of the abyss, and the only place powerful enough to bring Muna to life apart from the abyss. I believe that peak is Burj Annur, and though nobody has ever reached the top of the tower, it is there that I will deliver Muna for its awakening.” After a small pause, she adds: “In fact, we should be on our way, for every second we sit here is a precious second wasted.”

 

Shoja sends away the winged horse, leaving with it a letter for his father, and slings the large traveling bag of supplies he has brought with him over his shoulders, tightening the leather straps around his torso. Lahab and the Wanderer pack up the rest of their things in the cabin and prepare to head out. Almost as soon as they pass through the threshold of the cabin, however, the ground begins to rumble.

 

The group stumbles unsteadily to the nearest anchor point, each of them grabbing a post, or a rail, or a tree to stabilize themselves against the roiling ground underneath. A thunderous crack roars through the sky around them, and the Wanderer feels it vibrate through his very being. For one, long, terrible moment, he pictures a great chasm ripping through the land around them and swallowing up the cabin, along with Lahab and himself.

 

This does not happen. Only seconds later, the quaking ceases, and they are left to catch their breath and steady their panicked hearts.

 

Sighing in relief, the Wanderer releases his grip on the porch railing and stands, patting his clothes clean of the dust and dirt that now clings to them. Across the road, Shoja sits against the tree trunk, his pack beside him, attempting to find calm after a moment of uncertain terror. And Lahab – Lahab stands frozen, eyes wide with surprise.

 

No – not surprise. Concern. Fear.

 

“What is it?” the Wanderer demands, stepping closer.

 

“Muna,” she breathes quietly. “Muna’s condition has changed...”

 

Swallowing hard, she shares the notice with him, and he reads it carefully when it materializes before him.

 

Item Condition Notice: Muna

This item’s condition has changed. A crack has formed along its surface.