"The Old Man of the Mountain"
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dochermes"The Old Man of the Mountain"
6/1214 DR
I.
It was a chill misty morning in the hills of Skandor. That realm was bleak and uninviting at the best of times, with a rocky soil that yielded only sparse crops. Herds of goats could be heard bleating in the distance. Walking through grass that left his boots wet with dew, Romal the Mongrel paused as he neared the base of the Stepped Mountain.
He had been in Skandor once before, staying among the tribesmen soon after he had first left Maroch. Only his abnormal strength and speed had earned him a place of respect with the rough Skandorim, and only his skill with the sword had guaranteed his survival. He had survived so much since he had last been in this land. Although it had only been a few years, it felt as if ages had passed.
Standing with one hand on the hilt of the sword strapped to his left side, Romal seemed a mortal Human in his early twenties, taller than average and solidly built. He wore colors claimed by no Race or realm of this Age to further mark him as an outsider... black breeches, a dark blue long-sleeved tunic belted at the waist, and an ankle-length cloak of bright yellow silk.
Slung over one shoulder so it could be quickly thrown aside was a leather satchel holding only a few travel items. A wood flask for water was fastened to this satchel.
The Mongrel had a wide, sullen face with dark blue eyes that stared moodily out at the world he hated. His thick black hair was shaggy and untrimmed. Around his temples, a narrow metal band held back that hair to reveal ears that rose to distinct points. Here in Skandor, Romal made no attempt to conceal who he was. Let Humans think what they would.
As he paused, the shamaness came slowly up behind him. She had been bent by the years until her back was hunched and her weak legs required a walking stick for assistance. Noranir's white hair hung loose almost to her waist. "You see your destination, Seven In One?"
"I am still not completely convinced. How long has this Old Man of the Mountain been troubling your tribe?"
"More than a score of years. Sheep and goats are taken in the dark of the night. Sometimes, a young maiden is snatched from her tent and never seen again," the wise woman said. "Men who go up to the Stepped Mountain seeking vengeance do not return."
The Mongrel turned his head to study her dubiously. "Has anyone seen this menace and lived to tell of it?"
Noranir raised her head with difficulty. With her teeth gone, her beaked nose and chin almost touched. "Yes. He is shorter and wider than our men, wrapped in animal hides. Glimpses were all anyone has caught."
"I see," Romal said. "So be it. Return to your people, wise woman. I will return with this head of this Old Man." He loosened his sword in his scabbard. Although he had owned finer weapons in his short career, this was a two-handed straight sword of Signarm make, solid and reliable, and he was pleased with it. As he watched the shamaness make her slow way back to the village, the Mongrel smiled grimly. May Fate bring his own end before time would bend and weaken him that way, he thought. He had no idea at that time what his true fate was to be.
Gazing ahead, he saw how the Stepped Mountain had earned its name. It stood in four stages, each peak more narrow and set back from the one beneath it. If it had not so rugged, it seemed almost as if the mountain had consciously planned to offer steps to its pointed top. Somewhere on its ledges and setbacks lurked the strange man or creature who had terrorized even the fierce Skandorim for a generation. Romal strode quickly toward the foothills which encircled the base of the mountain. He could never have explained the eagerness in his heart at this confrontation. The Old Man of the Mountain should have been no concern of his, but his business was whatever he chose it to be.
II.
Early in the afternoon of the second day after a difficult climb, Romal hauled himself up onto the final ledge near the top of the mountain. He had broken off and trimmed a sturdy tree branch before his ascent to serve as a walking stick, but he had neither rope nor pitons to help him tackle the steep sides. It was his unusual strength and endurance that had been the most help. Fashioned by the arcane secrets of the Darthan Kjes, the Mongrel had the full strength of a Troll and the speed of a Snake man within his seemingly-Human body. Romal was capable of a standing leap up past his own head level and several times during this climb he had jumped to seize a slight rock projection above him. He had spent the first night huddled up behind a boulder on the third ledge, wrapped in his heavy cloak and grumbling at his own foolishness.
Standing upright on level footing for the first time in hours, Romal waited for his chest to stop heaving. This had been more difficult than his youthful confidence had expected. He leaned on the crude walking stick, his other hand on the hilt of his sword. These ledges puzzled him the more he thought about their origins. Flat and wide enough to allow four men to stand abreast, they ran completely around the mountain. They could not be a natural formation, but who could fashioned them? What purpose could they have served? So much labor, it must have taken generations of men to create the ledges.
As he caught his breath, the Mongrel untied the carved wooden flask from his satchel and took a swig. Finding a clear rivulet that ran down one side of the mountain had been a help as he had not had to ration drinking water during the climb. Only a few strips of dried meat remained in his pouch but he had gone hungry many times before. Romal walked around the wide ledge and stopped short at a gruesome sight. Driven into a hole in the rock was a wooden pole seven feet high, and on its top was fastened a Human skull with the lower jaw missing. Scraps of hair still remained on the cranium. A clearer warning was hard to imagine.
The Mongrel sneered openly at this device. Seizing the post with one hand, he yanked it up out of its setting and tossed it carelessly down over the side of the mountain. It would take more than that to shake his nerve. The dark blue eyes scowled as he watched the skull come loose and bounce as it hit the next lower ledge a hundred yards below. Certain trouble was at hand, he shrugged off his satchel and lowered it to his feet.
"Man.. what is your name?" rumbled a deep bass voice from around the turn of the ledge.
Setting down his staff, loosening his sword in its scabbard, Romal called back, "Why do you ask?"
"I will... say prayer for your ghost," came the answer.
Warily, expecting a spear thrust at any second, the Mongrel stepped around the curve and came face to face with one of the most bizarre beings he had seen in a strange career.
The Old Man of the Mountain was a short, gnarled brute no more than an inch or two over five feet in height but made of almost two hundred pounds of solid muscle. His short bowed legs and thick arms looked hard as oak. Roughly trimmed wolfhide was draped over his shoulders and around his middle, he was barefoot and his big toes stuck out from his feet at an odd angle.
A long tangled mat of white hair was bound around his temples by a cord decorated with varied animal fangs. The face had a receding chin and a wide brow ledge that stuck out far enough to shadow the deepset dark eyes. In one hand was gripped a short bludgeon to which a polished green stone had been tied with cord.
"Very well," Romal answered. "Know that I am Romal the Mongrel, Seven In One, Alharod, born of no woman. And your name if you have one?"
"I am Uwan Rig Tule..." came the voice so deep as to be nearly unintelligible. "What do you want here on the holy peak?"
The Mongrel smiled ominously but said nothing.
"This mountain belongs to me," rumbled Uwan Rig Tule. "My kind ruled here ... before your kin arrived in this land. We hunted and prayed and grew old and died here.. before even the Darthim were known."
Romal had been listening and glancing around but as far as he could tell, the two of them were alone on that ledge high above the plains. "Where are the rest of your tribe, then?"
"Gone now. Slaughtered by you tall ones. Swept away as if never born. I am the only one of the True Folk still alive." The leathery paw tightened on his club until the bony knuckles stood out. "When I walk into the land of shadow, there will be not... be even memories of us left."
"Humph. Be that as it may, you cannot be suffered to prey on the Humans who live on the land below here. A stray goat or sheep may be taken perhaps, but to steal young girls is a mortal crime in any realm." He slid his sword from its scabbard with barely a rasp. "Old Man of the Mountain, have you any defense to speak before you die?"
"Young pup, you know nothing," answered Uwan Rig Tule. "Before your kin learned to work metal, we did much with... the bones of the earth. Stone is our real element. There is dark magic from the Age of Stone you upstarts never knew." The Old Man raised his staff and cried out in a weird hollow tone words that no other living being had ever heard. Swirling around him, growing solid as it took form, a column of black smoke darkened and rushed straight at Romal.
III.
Seldom had the Mongrel reacted more quickly. With both hands, he yanked his cloak up over his head and whirled it violently back and forth in front of him. The heavy yellow cape snapped and lashed, breaking up the black smoke into stray fragments that drifted away. Romal flung the cloak onto Uwan Rig Tule, tangling him hopelessly for an instant. Seeing the Old Man's outline beneath the silk, the Mongrel stepped forward and brought his clenched fist down like a hammer on the top of the being's head. He had never known a man to survive a blow like that. Uwan Rig Tule groaned and sagged to the rocky ledge to barely remain on his hands and knees.
Picking up his sword from where he had been forced to drop it, Romal thumbed its edge thoughtfully. Easy enough now to tug his cloak free and finish off this Old Man of the Mountain with a single thrust. Yet he hesitated. So often he did not understand his own reactions and this was one of those times. With a heavy sigh, the Mongrel kicked the Old Man's staff off the ledge to clatter far down the mountainside. He pulled his cloak off the dazed creature and refastened it to hang down his back.
Soon it would be getting dark. A hot reddish sun hung low in a cloudy sky. Romal waited, sword in hand, wondering why he simply did not slay this woman-stealer and be done with it.
Regaining his senses, the gnarled man did not rise. He lowered his head for the killing stroke. "Finish me then," he rumbled. "My people have all been slain by you Tall Ones. What can life hold for me? Spare me another... empty dawn."
"I am not one of the Humans we both hate," answered Romal. "They all fear me. Perhaps with good reason. I have no homeland, no family, nor will I ever have such. I suspect we have much in common, Old Man."
"You climbed the holy mountain to kill me." Uwan Rig Tule stiffly rose to his feet, painfully straightening as much as he could. Suddenly he seemed an Old Man in reality as well as name. "Do it! End... this hollow life."
The Mongrel did not answer for a long moment. He was torn. Perhaps he should have remained on Maroch to be a warrior for Tollinor Kje. Perhaps he should have lost himself in the vast forests or ice fields to the north and avoided all Human contact. More and more, he realized that he would never find peace of mind in this life.
"I cannot leave you here to kidnap and kill young women, nor to steal the herd animals these Skandorim live on. Their lives are hard enough. Come with me to another realm. You can survive in the deep woods, hunting and fishing alone and the Humans will remember you just as a tale to frighten children."
Uwan Rig Tule silently trudged over and braced his wide back against the side of the mountain. Then, taking Romal by surprise, the Old Man ran and dove off the ledge. He cried out in unavoidable terror as he fell. His body struck the next ledge below but glanced off its edge and continued tumbling down the mountainside. It took the Mongrel a few seconds to realize what had happened.
Romal stood at the edge of the rocky setback, gazing down, but in the increasing gloom even his keen eyes could spot no sign of the Old Man's body. Sheathing his sword, he did not feel triumphant, only sick of heart and weary of it all. It was too late to descend the mountain now. Walking idly around the ledge, he found a shallow cave with half-burned branches and broken sticks in a crude firepit.
The Mongrel settled down facing outward, digging inside his satchel for the pieces of flint he carried. With the edge of his sword, he could at least start a fire and be warm enough during the night. Wrapping himself in his cloak, he sat behind the flames to be safer from any wild animals who might approach. Romal finished the last of the dried meat he had brought and sipped water sparingly. Tomorrow he would climb down the opposite side of Stepped Mountain and hopefully avoid any Human contact as he left Skandor. The last thing he wanted now was praise or reward for helping to end the life of the Old Man of the Mountain.
Soon the stars were out. Romal the Mongrel stared up at them far into the night, thinking.
3/12/2017
6/1214 DR
I.
It was a chill misty morning in the hills of Skandor. That realm was bleak and uninviting at the best of times, with a rocky soil that yielded only sparse crops. Herds of goats could be heard bleating in the distance. Walking through grass that left his boots wet with dew, Romal the Mongrel paused as he neared the base of the Stepped Mountain.
He had been in Skandor once before, staying among the tribesmen soon after he had first left Maroch. Only his abnormal strength and speed had earned him a place of respect with the rough Skandorim, and only his skill with the sword had guaranteed his survival. He had survived so much since he had last been in this land. Although it had only been a few years, it felt as if ages had passed.
Standing with one hand on the hilt of the sword strapped to his left side, Romal seemed a mortal Human in his early twenties, taller than average and solidly built. He wore colors claimed by no Race or realm of this Age to further mark him as an outsider... black breeches, a dark blue long-sleeved tunic belted at the waist, and an ankle-length cloak of bright yellow silk.
Slung over one shoulder so it could be quickly thrown aside was a leather satchel holding only a few travel items. A wood flask for water was fastened to this satchel.
The Mongrel had a wide, sullen face with dark blue eyes that stared moodily out at the world he hated. His thick black hair was shaggy and untrimmed. Around his temples, a narrow metal band held back that hair to reveal ears that rose to distinct points. Here in Skandor, Romal made no attempt to conceal who he was. Let Humans think what they would.
As he paused, the shamaness came slowly up behind him. She had been bent by the years until her back was hunched and her weak legs required a walking stick for assistance. Noranir's white hair hung loose almost to her waist. "You see your destination, Seven In One?"
"I am still not completely convinced. How long has this Old Man of the Mountain been troubling your tribe?"
"More than a score of years. Sheep and goats are taken in the dark of the night. Sometimes, a young maiden is snatched from her tent and never seen again," the wise woman said. "Men who go up to the Stepped Mountain seeking vengeance do not return."
The Mongrel turned his head to study her dubiously. "Has anyone seen this menace and lived to tell of it?"
Noranir raised her head with difficulty. With her teeth gone, her beaked nose and chin almost touched. "Yes. He is shorter and wider than our men, wrapped in animal hides. Glimpses were all anyone has caught."
"I see," Romal said. "So be it. Return to your people, wise woman. I will return with this head of this Old Man." He loosened his sword in his scabbard. Although he had owned finer weapons in his short career, this was a two-handed straight sword of Signarm make, solid and reliable, and he was pleased with it. As he watched the shamaness make her slow way back to the village, the Mongrel smiled grimly. May Fate bring his own end before time would bend and weaken him that way, he thought. He had no idea at that time what his true fate was to be.
Gazing ahead, he saw how the Stepped Mountain had earned its name. It stood in four stages, each peak more narrow and set back from the one beneath it. If it had not so rugged, it seemed almost as if the mountain had consciously planned to offer steps to its pointed top. Somewhere on its ledges and setbacks lurked the strange man or creature who had terrorized even the fierce Skandorim for a generation. Romal strode quickly toward the foothills which encircled the base of the mountain. He could never have explained the eagerness in his heart at this confrontation. The Old Man of the Mountain should have been no concern of his, but his business was whatever he chose it to be.
II.
Early in the afternoon of the second day after a difficult climb, Romal hauled himself up onto the final ledge near the top of the mountain. He had broken off and trimmed a sturdy tree branch before his ascent to serve as a walking stick, but he had neither rope nor pitons to help him tackle the steep sides. It was his unusual strength and endurance that had been the most help. Fashioned by the arcane secrets of the Darthan Kjes, the Mongrel had the full strength of a Troll and the speed of a Snake man within his seemingly-Human body. Romal was capable of a standing leap up past his own head level and several times during this climb he had jumped to seize a slight rock projection above him. He had spent the first night huddled up behind a boulder on the third ledge, wrapped in his heavy cloak and grumbling at his own foolishness.
Standing upright on level footing for the first time in hours, Romal waited for his chest to stop heaving. This had been more difficult than his youthful confidence had expected. He leaned on the crude walking stick, his other hand on the hilt of his sword. These ledges puzzled him the more he thought about their origins. Flat and wide enough to allow four men to stand abreast, they ran completely around the mountain. They could not be a natural formation, but who could fashioned them? What purpose could they have served? So much labor, it must have taken generations of men to create the ledges.
As he caught his breath, the Mongrel untied the carved wooden flask from his satchel and took a swig. Finding a clear rivulet that ran down one side of the mountain had been a help as he had not had to ration drinking water during the climb. Only a few strips of dried meat remained in his pouch but he had gone hungry many times before. Romal walked around the wide ledge and stopped short at a gruesome sight. Driven into a hole in the rock was a wooden pole seven feet high, and on its top was fastened a Human skull with the lower jaw missing. Scraps of hair still remained on the cranium. A clearer warning was hard to imagine.
The Mongrel sneered openly at this device. Seizing the post with one hand, he yanked it up out of its setting and tossed it carelessly down over the side of the mountain. It would take more than that to shake his nerve. The dark blue eyes scowled as he watched the skull come loose and bounce as it hit the next lower ledge a hundred yards below. Certain trouble was at hand, he shrugged off his satchel and lowered it to his feet.
"Man.. what is your name?" rumbled a deep bass voice from around the turn of the ledge.
Setting down his staff, loosening his sword in its scabbard, Romal called back, "Why do you ask?"
"I will... say prayer for your ghost," came the answer.
Warily, expecting a spear thrust at any second, the Mongrel stepped around the curve and came face to face with one of the most bizarre beings he had seen in a strange career.
The Old Man of the Mountain was a short, gnarled brute no more than an inch or two over five feet in height but made of almost two hundred pounds of solid muscle. His short bowed legs and thick arms looked hard as oak. Roughly trimmed wolfhide was draped over his shoulders and around his middle, he was barefoot and his big toes stuck out from his feet at an odd angle.
A long tangled mat of white hair was bound around his temples by a cord decorated with varied animal fangs. The face had a receding chin and a wide brow ledge that stuck out far enough to shadow the deepset dark eyes. In one hand was gripped a short bludgeon to which a polished green stone had been tied with cord.
"Very well," Romal answered. "Know that I am Romal the Mongrel, Seven In One, Alharod, born of no woman. And your name if you have one?"
"I am Uwan Rig Tule..." came the voice so deep as to be nearly unintelligible. "What do you want here on the holy peak?"
The Mongrel smiled ominously but said nothing.
"This mountain belongs to me," rumbled Uwan Rig Tule. "My kind ruled here ... before your kin arrived in this land. We hunted and prayed and grew old and died here.. before even the Darthim were known."
Romal had been listening and glancing around but as far as he could tell, the two of them were alone on that ledge high above the plains. "Where are the rest of your tribe, then?"
"Gone now. Slaughtered by you tall ones. Swept away as if never born. I am the only one of the True Folk still alive." The leathery paw tightened on his club until the bony knuckles stood out. "When I walk into the land of shadow, there will be not... be even memories of us left."
"Humph. Be that as it may, you cannot be suffered to prey on the Humans who live on the land below here. A stray goat or sheep may be taken perhaps, but to steal young girls is a mortal crime in any realm." He slid his sword from its scabbard with barely a rasp. "Old Man of the Mountain, have you any defense to speak before you die?"
"Young pup, you know nothing," answered Uwan Rig Tule. "Before your kin learned to work metal, we did much with... the bones of the earth. Stone is our real element. There is dark magic from the Age of Stone you upstarts never knew." The Old Man raised his staff and cried out in a weird hollow tone words that no other living being had ever heard. Swirling around him, growing solid as it took form, a column of black smoke darkened and rushed straight at Romal.
III.
Seldom had the Mongrel reacted more quickly. With both hands, he yanked his cloak up over his head and whirled it violently back and forth in front of him. The heavy yellow cape snapped and lashed, breaking up the black smoke into stray fragments that drifted away. Romal flung the cloak onto Uwan Rig Tule, tangling him hopelessly for an instant. Seeing the Old Man's outline beneath the silk, the Mongrel stepped forward and brought his clenched fist down like a hammer on the top of the being's head. He had never known a man to survive a blow like that. Uwan Rig Tule groaned and sagged to the rocky ledge to barely remain on his hands and knees.
Picking up his sword from where he had been forced to drop it, Romal thumbed its edge thoughtfully. Easy enough now to tug his cloak free and finish off this Old Man of the Mountain with a single thrust. Yet he hesitated. So often he did not understand his own reactions and this was one of those times. With a heavy sigh, the Mongrel kicked the Old Man's staff off the ledge to clatter far down the mountainside. He pulled his cloak off the dazed creature and refastened it to hang down his back.
Soon it would be getting dark. A hot reddish sun hung low in a cloudy sky. Romal waited, sword in hand, wondering why he simply did not slay this woman-stealer and be done with it.
Regaining his senses, the gnarled man did not rise. He lowered his head for the killing stroke. "Finish me then," he rumbled. "My people have all been slain by you Tall Ones. What can life hold for me? Spare me another... empty dawn."
"I am not one of the Humans we both hate," answered Romal. "They all fear me. Perhaps with good reason. I have no homeland, no family, nor will I ever have such. I suspect we have much in common, Old Man."
"You climbed the holy mountain to kill me." Uwan Rig Tule stiffly rose to his feet, painfully straightening as much as he could. Suddenly he seemed an Old Man in reality as well as name. "Do it! End... this hollow life."
The Mongrel did not answer for a long moment. He was torn. Perhaps he should have remained on Maroch to be a warrior for Tollinor Kje. Perhaps he should have lost himself in the vast forests or ice fields to the north and avoided all Human contact. More and more, he realized that he would never find peace of mind in this life.
"I cannot leave you here to kidnap and kill young women, nor to steal the herd animals these Skandorim live on. Their lives are hard enough. Come with me to another realm. You can survive in the deep woods, hunting and fishing alone and the Humans will remember you just as a tale to frighten children."
Uwan Rig Tule silently trudged over and braced his wide back against the side of the mountain. Then, taking Romal by surprise, the Old Man ran and dove off the ledge. He cried out in unavoidable terror as he fell. His body struck the next ledge below but glanced off its edge and continued tumbling down the mountainside. It took the Mongrel a few seconds to realize what had happened.
Romal stood at the edge of the rocky setback, gazing down, but in the increasing gloom even his keen eyes could spot no sign of the Old Man's body. Sheathing his sword, he did not feel triumphant, only sick of heart and weary of it all. It was too late to descend the mountain now. Walking idly around the ledge, he found a shallow cave with half-burned branches and broken sticks in a crude firepit.
The Mongrel settled down facing outward, digging inside his satchel for the pieces of flint he carried. With the edge of his sword, he could at least start a fire and be warm enough during the night. Wrapping himself in his cloak, he sat behind the flames to be safer from any wild animals who might approach. Romal finished the last of the dried meat he had brought and sipped water sparingly. Tomorrow he would climb down the opposite side of Stepped Mountain and hopefully avoid any Human contact as he left Skandor. The last thing he wanted now was praise or reward for helping to end the life of the Old Man of the Mountain.
Soon the stars were out. Romal the Mongrel stared up at them far into the night, thinking.
3/12/2017
