Over Mountain and Into Tower (part 2)

         The snow storm still raged outside when Ormir awoke, feeling as if he had been asleep for many days. His head throbbed as he sat up and his left arm was in a splint, broken it seemed. His vision was weak as he surveyed his surroundings. There was firelight he could tell, but the glow was blurred, as was the rest of the room, but he could tell it was made of stone. He had no recollection of anything since he had stabbed the giant in its skull. He had likely fallen, and someone had found him in the storm. But who would be out in a storm, and on this part of the mountain which was so empty? He wondered.
         Sitting up as his vision began to focus, Ormir saw that he lay on a bed in a small round room made of stone. There was a single round window through which he could barely see flurries of snow being carried on the wind. There was little in the room, yet in one corner lay his sword and other scant few belongings he had carried with him. At least my rescuer trusts me. Either that or they think I am too weak to do anything. Ormir tried to push himself out of the bed but a sudden stab of pain in his broken arm made him fall back onto the bed clumsily, wincing.
         Footsteps coming up the stairs reached Ormir’s ears and he settled back into the bed, closing his eyes nearly shut. The footsteps halted at the door, and for a moment the only sound was the faint wailing of the wind from outside. Then a figure entered the room, and it seemed to be a woman from what he could tell through his dimmed vision.
         “I know you do not sleep, man. Your people have never been good liars.” She said, her voice seeming almost a hiss; a chill ran over Ormir’s body at the sound. He opened his eyes to see the speaker. Her face was shaped well and her figure was slender, yet this thing could hold no attraction for Ormir. Her skin was as blue as the Northern sky, a fur-less tail flicked behind her and ghastly long nails curled from the fingertips of her delicate hands. Fine grey and black furs clothed her, and her long, dark hair was in many braids, bound together as one behind her head. Azure eyes, with triangular pupils such as a reptile has, glittered at him maliciously.
         “You wonder what I am.” She stated, little doubt in her voice. “By your ignorant race we are called Weirders, though in truth we a people far older than men. We are the sons and daughters of the Old World, the mothers and fathers to the aelfarin, trolken and drowwlin.” She told him
         “I have heard of Weirders,” Ormir answered, watching her warily before continuing, “that they are witches, shape shifters and sorcerers.”
         “It was not the strength of my arms which carried you here.” She answered with a dangerous smile.
         Ormir looked at the room about him more carefully, at the massive ceiling above, the incredibly worked raw stone which formed the walls, the lone window facing the south where snow flurries blew outside. This was the tower he had spied from below. Wrought from the hands of a Giant. A giant that he had slain. What twisted retribution does this creature seek?
         “Why have you saved me?” Ormir asked, suspicion filling his voice.
         “Do you think me so evil that I would not save the life of a wounded traveler caught in the blizzard?” She asked, laughing in icy mirth. Ormir said nothing. The Weirder’s face grew serious, and she spoke again, “you have slain my husband, the giant. For that you have my thanks, and for that you still live.”
         “Why would you wish for your husband to be slain?” Ormir asked cautiously. He could not be sure if she was lying or telling the truth. The best lies are sprinkled with truth, Brocke had told him, of all people. The memory of his brother’s heresy still burned inside Ormir.
         “Long ago the giant stole me from my people, who I was soon to be Queen of, and bound me to him with an oath. He has guarded me jealously on this cursed mountainside for hundreds of years, so long that he was the last of his race to remain in this world. Now the oath is broken, and you have my thanks, as well as your life.”
         “Why could you not have slain him yourself, with some curse or spell?” Ormir asked, wondering if in all his delving into dark magics Brocke would have known the answer.
         “The Jotun are a race as old as these mountains, and my powers have little affect on them.” The Weirder answered, “you, on the other hand…” She extended a curled nail to stroke his cheek. His skin crawled at the touch, but he did not flinch. “What are you called in your lands?” She asked, her tail swishing like a cat playing with its prey.
         “Ormir Sul’Thalion¸ son of Pyrenes Sul’Thalion, King of Lithocras and Lord of the Phoenix Banner.” He answered, pride filling his voice.
         The Weirder’s tail stopped and she retracted her hand. “Of Eclarethenon’s blood…” She said in a hushed voice, regarding him carefully now, and with great interest it seemed to Ormir. He shifted uncomfortably under her unrelenting stare, now regretting his prideful tongue.
         “I am Nymphamora,” She said, her gaze leaving him as she turned to stand by the window, a round hole in the stone, “rightfully Queen of my people.” The Weirder finished with a hint of anger in her voice.
         Silence filled the room except for the wind’s distant moan. Ormir knew his time was short, if even any remained. He doubted Elan or any of the others would reach his father in time. All they knew was that the winged demons had been seen flying to these mountains. It was clear to him, as written by the merciless Gods, that he would need the help of the witch.
         There were stories of men in times of need seeking out Weirders, though it was said the price asked for by the strange race was always terrible and more than it seemed at the time. Ormir shuddered to think what he would have to give. Payment often meant giving a limb, an eye, even your memories. I must accept whatever she asks for, he thought despairingly, considering his left arm.
“I must leave soon.” Ormir stated flatly.
         “Your arm is broke, and your mind is weary, but I can see too that you have some desperate need for haste.” Nymphamora answered. Her lips curled in sly pleasure. “It is a loved one you seek, yes? A girl, perhaps?”
         “I need your help, witch. I have freed you from your husband’s oath; now I require your assistance in finding my father.” Ormir answered in a tone like iron.
         “It is no small favor saving you from a frozen death, yet I am willing to help you find your father the best I can, without a cost. Though to help you get to him, I will require payment.” Nymphamora replied.
         “I wish to see my father then,” Ormir said. The cold eyed witch held some cunning intellect he could not fathom, but he judged her this time to speak truthfully.
         “Very well, come with me.” The witch answered.
         Ormir swung his legs out of the bed, wincing at a spasm of pain in his broken arm. He pulled clothes on awkwardly from the corner where his belongings lay and grasped his word, following the Weirder as she descended down the stairs. A shiver of mingled fear and disgust ran down his spine as he watched her; her gait more slither than step.
         Around a thick stone pillar the stairs curved, down finally to a long stone hall. In the center was a wood table three quarters the size of the room itself, two chairs at either end, one very tall and the other a more regular size. On the table there were remnants of meat scraps, and in a far corner Ormir saw a pile of discarded bones. Past the grisly table they went to the end of the hall, halting at the blank stone. The Weirder put her palm to the wall and muttered in a strange tongue. With a groan the stone opened slowly in the shape of a door, granting them entrance into a dark and narrow hallway.
         Sections of stone divided what appeared to be many carved wooden doors on both sides of the hallway, writings of some old language glittering darkly on the surface of each door. Ormir counted five or six such portals on either side, though he could not be sure if there were more at the end of the hall in the bad light.          Nymphamora led him on with her strange walk, turning her gaze back to him once, blue eyes blazing like some evil snow leopard in the darkness.
         They halted at the third door on the left, and again Nymphamora spoke words of enchantment. The door grated open and a cold draft of air met Ormir as he followed the Weirder through the entrance.
         They had come into a cave, judging by the jagged black rock constituting the walls and floor. His eyes were drawn to a small pool in the middle of the cave, its waters an eerie green. Nymphamora turned to him.
         “For the ritual I shall need a strand of your hair and nail, as well as blood. The more blood, the greater clarity with which you shall See.”
         “How much blood is best?” He asked, drawing a deep breath.
         “If he lies in this world, then enough blood to make you feel the absence in your head will do. If he lies in Hel…you would have to drain yourself nearly whole before you could glimpse him.” Nymphamora answered gravely, icy stare fixed upon the man.
         “He lies in this world.” Ormir answered eyes hard as he met the gaze of Nymphamora. She turned from him retrieved a large stone bowl from nearby.
         “To catch the blood.” She told him, producing a sharp earthen dagger from her hip and offering it to him. Ormir took the small blade, holding out the palm of his left hand, careful not to stress the splint that the held the same arm. Nymphamora poised the bowl under his palm.
         Ormir placed the knife on its side, drawing back the razor edges deep in his palm, wincing silently in pain as the warm, dark blood flowed free. He tilted his palm so that it oozed into the bowl. A ravenous light glinted in the alien eyes of Nymphamora at the sight of his blood. Some abhorrent instinct in her longs for my blood, Ormir thought, wondering what cloven-footed archfiend had spawned her race.
         Blood came steady from his palm, yet still he deemed the bowl less than half full. He gripped the knife again, drawing a new crimson slash in a separate area of unbroken skin on his palm. This new stream’s flow mixed with the first and filled past halfway, but soon it appeared to die off. Ormir drew a shuddering breath and drew the knife a third time across his palm, gasping as he rent an even greater gash than the previous two. Blood spurted into the bowl now, the dark liquid rising quickly. Ormir’s thoughts became woozy and his mind was carried along like a dizzied cloud, yet he continued, squeezing the wounds when their flow became less. He closed his eyes, gritting his teeth.
         “That will be enough.” Nymphamora’s voice reverberated in his mind, her hand grasping his wounded palm. A sensation filled his arm and he tried to pull away from her touch, but her other arm latched onto his shoulder, holding him firm. His thoughts were blank for a moment, and then feeling returned, his palm throbbing but bleeding no more. His broken arm seemed to feel better as well, though he was not about to take the splint off. Her sorcerery has some uses, he admitted grudgingly, though he knew better than to invest any trust in her.
         “A strand of your nail and hair, now.” She ordered. Ormir clipped off a small piece of nail and cut a few strands from his hair, grown longer now after weeks of travel, and placed them in the Weirder’s outstretched hand. He knelt beside her as she turned to the mystical pool.
         Nymphamora hissed heathen incantations as if in rhyme, tossing in the hair first. Bubbles began to rise, and as she tossed in the nail fragment the water hissed. Her voice grew louder now, and with its increased pitch the water began to froth violently. All light from the room was sucked into the pool, and Ormir could feel the heat of the roiling water grow great. Suddenly Nymphamora raised the bowl of blood and poured it into the frothing liquid. The water went as still and blue as a frozen lake, the room growing ice cold.
         “Now watch,” The witch said in a hushed tone. Ormir leaned forward silently.
In the water appeared a lone dark mountain, at first in the distance and then looming slowly closer. At its peak a great stone spire twisted into the sky, countless tiny flames burning in its sides. Windows, Ormir realized, and knew he looked on some unholy fortress. Gradually the vision lowered, the ashen rock of the spire passing by swiftly, to the mountain’s base, from which thin tendrils of lava flowed. Abruptly the vision veered through mountain, following along an earthen tunnel cloaked in darkness.
         After a moment a small cavern came into view. Light returned a dim grey color, barely illuminating a form which lay slumped against the cavern’s wall. After a moment Ormir recognized his father and suddenly cried out when the vision grew closer: On his father’s bare chest was scrawled a demonic symbol in dried black blood, formed from hideously deep wounds into the flesh. Ormir beat his fist against the rock in anguish and fury, burning tears streaking his face.
         Nymphamora touched his arm gently and spoke, “His chest rises and falls, your father lives still.” Her voice somehow calmed him and Ormir raised his head, watching the vision in the pool. It was true, Ormir realized, sudden relief flooding him. Though his Pyrenes’ face was pale and his closed eyes pained as if engaged in some internal struggle, the King’s heart still beat at the pace of a living man. The vision began to dissipate and Ormir watched until it faded completely, and then stood facing the Weirder.
         “I must reach him as soon as possible, do you know of that place or any way to get there?” Ormir questioned, his eyes alight with passion.
         “Yes, I know both.” Answered Nymphamora slowly, watching the man before her.
         “What must I give?” He asked grimly. Those wounds…Rage filled him. He would give his left arm to be on the way already.
         “For this I will require an unusual payment,” Nymphamora said, choosing her words carefully as she continued. “I wish to place a spell upon your sword, granting that it shall deal no harm to my only son and remaining family.”
          “A curse.”
         “Yes, a curse to protect the only family I have left to me. In return I shall tell you where your father is held and help you get to him quickly, as well as supply you with all the rations and other supplies you may need.”
          “Who is your son?” He asked suspiciously.
         “I have not seen him for many long years, I do not know if he even lives. Yet it would warm my heart if he would be safe from your blade.” Nymphamora said. Ormir tried to meet her gaze but the weird eyes flicked away from him. There is some mischief at work here, thought Ormir.
         Sensing his suspicions rising, Nymphamora continued hurriedly. “It is doubtful even that your paths will cross, yet a mother must protect her children, yes?”
         “Yes…” Ormir answered slowly. He remembered his mother, the warm nights by the fire she had read to him and his brother when they were children, of happy tales and bright days. And he remembered the terrible days after she had died, a part of his heart permanently shorn. Not again, he swore silently.
          “I will meet your terms, witch, though I know lies roll from your wicked tongue more readily than truth.”

         “I shall supply you for your journey, as promised.” Nymphamora told him, leading Ormir into storage room, sudden light piercing his eyes as they entered. Weapons and armor, as well as many other items, hung from the hooks on the walls.
          “Take what you wish,” Nymphamora told him, handing over a medium-sized pack.
         Ormir took a torch and flint, as well as warm-looking cloak. He found a chain mail hauberk, gloves, and leg and arm bracers. The chain mail mesh was light enough for travel, but seemed strong enough to offer some protection. He was about to depart when Nymphamora stopped him, indicating to an old, dirtied kite shield hanging above them.
         “You may find yourself in need of a shield, especially that one, should you encounter fire, by chance.” The Weirder suggested, with a casualness that told him a warning lay underneath.
         Ormir took the shield, wiping off the grime with one hand and exclaiming in surprise as the ensigna of Lithocras gleamed back at him in the firelight. It was an ancient shield, from Eclarethenon’s time if not later. It was true in those days that the Knights of the Phoenix had their shields enchanted by the great wizards for when they faced the terrible wyrms which infested had the eastern Kingdom.
         “You took this from a dragon slayer?” Ormir asked in astonishment.
         “He gave it to me willingly Ormir; few men can resist my charms when I wish to use them.” She replied, a mischievous gleam in the Weirder’s eyes.
         Ormir shouldered the shield, feeling its weight. Sturdy, but lighter than he had expected. He had never been one for a shield, but this one was well crafted.
         “I care not for your tales, let us finish our evil bargain already.”

         Nymphamora’s face leaned over the cauldron intently, lit by a faint foul glow emanating from the depths of the dark liquid. Then the witch began to rhyme the spell in a weird voice of power, adding each ingredient in turn into the cauldron as she spoke of it:
         “Ash of mountain,
         Hair of crone.
         Eye of weevil,
         Tongue of magma eel.
         Blood of man,
         Sap of midnight roan.”
         Ormir stood across the iron radius of the cauldron from the Weirder, watching the heathen ritual with revulsion. There was nothing he could do now; he had agreed to the witch’s terms. The cauldron began to hiss and Nymphamora motioned to Ormir. He stepped forward and held out his blade, hilt first, eyes resolute.
         Nymphamora took the blade, dousing it to the hilt in the bubbling liquid. Dark purple smoke billowed from the cauldron, and Ormir feared his blade would scarred or warped by the evil heat, but when the witch pulled it forth steaming the sword was untouched it seemed. The witch handed him the weapon and Ormir examined it carefully. My eyes cannot see the stains of her curse upon it, he knew.
          “You have your curse, now how will you help me find my father?” Ormir asked, sheathing the sword.
         “You know of Drykandore?” Nymphamora asked.
         “It is a fortress of the trolls, and their source of arms. It is their home too, I have heard.” Ormir replied unsteadily.
         “It is a great fortress, and it does produce the weapons and armor for all the trolken, for it is built upon a fiery mountain from whose flows black crystal rock forms, as hard and sharp as steel. But this is not why Drykandore is called the Home. The tomb of Cain, the father of all trolls, lies beneath the mountain.” Nymphamora told him in a voice that held no trace of doubt.
         “Cain is another name for the Midnight God, is it not?” Ormir asked, suppressing the fear that welled in him.
         “Cain is the son of the Midnight God. It matters not; it is in the depths of Drykandore that your father lies imprisoned, somewhere near the mines, far below the actual fortress. I can grant you passage into the underworld, which will lead you, should you heed my directions, to your father within a day. The choice is yours whether to follow through or not.” Nymphamora told him, her voice harsh. She expects me to balk, Ormir thought angrily, in part because he was afraid.
         “I will follow through, tell me the way.” Ormir answered wearily.
         “First you shall come onto a bog; you must follow this through the trees until you reach the entrance to a cave. Into this cave you must go until you are presented three paths, choose the one to the farthest left. From there you must travel until you reach a long pond. An imp lives on the largest isle in the middle, you must present this creature with my band, he will guide you the rest of the way.” The Weirder instructed Ormir carefully, handing him a thin, pale blue bracelet.
         Ormir considered and then nodded. “I understand.”
         “Come with me then, man, and be the first of your kind to enter the Realm of Cain.” Nymphamora turned, leading the man out again a final time, heading to the last door on the right.
         The air was chilling, but not from the mountains it seemed. An unholy draft from within it seems; some ancient power lies within, Ormir thought. The door opened into a rocky chamber much like the other rooms, yet at the far end where the cave ended was a tall, rectangular portal. Dark, gnarled roots wrapped about the edges like tentacles. The portal itself was made of a silvery substance, almost like a spider’s web. Through it Ormir could only see darkness.
         “I will give you one final piece of advice,” Nymphamora told Ormir, placing herself between him and the door. “Travel quickly and do not spill your blood, to do so is quick death.”
          “I understand, move aside.” Ormir said tersely. The witch moved aside and Ormir strode ahead to the portal. He halted; dread creeping up his spine as he prepared to set foot onto a plane of primordial terror. Ormir drew a deep breath. The words his father had told him many years ago echoed in his head: Often is life ugly and cruel, and in the end all you have are the truth of your words and the courage in your heart.
         He put a hand into the substance of the portal. At first it seemed to almost stick, giving slowly, but then it came through on the other side. He put one leg through, then his other, and finally his whole body.
         Ormir fell abruptly, landing on a hard surface. It seemed as though he was deep under the earth, for it felt as though a great ceiling was far above him. Here the abysmal blackness was darker than night, an eternal darkness, a world where the sun had never been born.
         “Ohnajar give me strength,” Ormir said as a hellish cry rent the air in the distance.