In the Halls of the Mountain

“I’ve need of your magic.” Those were the words that had landed Samorost in his current predicament.

Lost inside a sprawling labyrinthine complex of caves, he sat. His back against a wall, a conjured flame by his feet offering him warmth and some light. With a glance up at the roof of the cave, he gave an audible sigh and shook his head.

“What a nightmare.” He muttered to himself.

The handful of bats dangling above him in the dark offered no reply, their eyes shining as they watched him cautiously. Samorost wondered if the blizzard was still raging outside. He also wondered how long he had been in here; it hadn’t taken long for this whole ‘quest’ to go awry, to say the least.

Seven of them had entered the cave; he and two others were magic users of some sort: Samorost, a traditional Midlands-trained mage, and the woman who was some sort of swamp-dwelling witch. She smelled of earth and was as beautiful as a sunset in autumn. Samorost didn’t see what happened to her in the chaos; it was as though she just disappeared. Not unheard of for a witch to do something rare like that, He thought to himself. The third magic user was an interesting one, skin dark as night, his face painted to look like a skull… entirely out of bone ash. Tall, emaciated, voice as deep as the ocean. When the mutiny began, he whispered to Samorost without moving his lips, “Go deeper, turn at the waterfall.” Then this man had melded into the cave wall and disappeared also.

Samorost naturally did as he was told, except that in his panic, he never conjured a flame to light his way, and he ran right off the edge. He fell a great distance, only surviving the fall thanks in part to a spell that slowed his descent and to the body of water he fell into. What a beautiful body of water it was. The water glowed a glorious hue of blue; lichen, moss, fungi, and their fruiting bodies covered the cave all around the water. He would have stayed and admired this scene longer if it hadn’t been for that sickening feeling that wouldn’t cease, emanating from way above. That… Beast, had stood on the ledge he fell from and stared down at him. Even from that distance, its glowing red eyes had felt like they were penetrating his very soul.

So Samorost knew to some degree that he and the other magic users were alive, but as for the other four. He scanned the vestiges of his mind to figure out if he had seen what had befallen them. Well, he knew what had befallen one of them; Wendol, that accursed wretch who had approached him at the tavern earlier in the night; his treachery was the cause of all this.

That left the fate of the tan-skinned brute from the desert, the red-haired woman with a bow and the paladin still unknown. The paladin, Samorost, figured was as good as dead; that was about all their kind were good for when it came to matters like these. Cloaked in their unshakeable religious fervour, they jumped into the fray and thus jumped straight into the afterlife. From what he could remember, this paladin had done just that; his pale face and blonde hair had quickly disappeared beneath his gold and silver helmet, then charged at the beast. His gargantuan shield in one hand and an unnecessarily ornate flail in the other.

The red-haired woman Samorost eventually remembered had leapt backwards. Not to run, but to sink to one knee and draw back on her bowstring, waiting for a shot. The brute, on the other hand, had run. Not out of fear, though. The brute had laughed and shaken his head. He declared something before he turned tail, Samorost however, couldn’t remember it.

“Ah well, time to try get out of here.” Samorost groaned as he struggled to his feet, using his stick in one hand and his other hand against the wall to help get himself up.

His old bones ached; age paired with dampness was not a good combination. But something about that pool of water was off; he was just as wet as when he had clambered out of its body. Those beautiful blue waters beckoned to him; the waterfall splashing into it sounded like a sultry whisper. With a reluctant sigh, Samorost peeled his eyes from the pool and began to trudge forward.

The part of the cave where he had stopped to rest was at the base of an upward slope. He figured he’d either find an exit or run into that beast again. He was going to exit this cave one way or the other. As he walked, Samorost listened intently. He could hear the rumble of the waterfall back in the distance, and he could hear the dripping of water all around him. Damp, wet and dark, Samorost thought, three of his least favourite things, why had he agreed to this? He still couldn’t figure it out.

Back at the Tavern, this Wendol fellow had approached him, a handsome, charismatic young man. A sword sheathed into the side of his belt, a dagger on each shoulder like they were pauldrons, and the typical tanned leather garb befitting of a mercenary. Wendol had tapped on the staff that lay across the table in front of Samorost and his tankard of ale, “I’ve need of your magic.” He had said, a brilliant youthful smile on his face. Samorost had cocked one eyebrow skyward and shook his head, “I don’t do birthday tricks.” He muttered before returning to his tankard.

At this, Wendol laughed and sat across from Samorost, leaned in close and nodded towards the table he had come from, “I’ve gathered a party, you see, there’s a beast that terrorises the villages in these parts. On the night when the harvests come to an end, the beast emerges from its den, a cave up in the mountains. Lures away dozens of villagers over the course of one night. They are never seen again.” Wendol had explained, his eyes had drawn Samorost in, the youthful, fiery gaze of a young man keen to be a hero. Perhaps this is what had made Samorost agree to join them in the end.

“Pah! Sounds like some bedtime story to tell the whelps so they stay in bed while the adults get drunk and fat.” Samorost had exclaimed, his mood souring as his tankard ran dry.

Wendol’s eyes had glinted at this, a smirk on his face, “Maybe it is? So, say we go up into the mountains and kill a bear, cut off a paw and bring it down as proof. Care to hear what the reward is for killing this monster?” he asked as he slid over a roll of parchment to Samorost.

One look at the number on the parchment, and Samorost had stood and grabbed his staff. “Fine.” He had muttered.

The path in the cave came to a fork. Samorost closed his eyes, listening and trying to triangulate where each path might lead. The right path heads upwards, right back to where the beast was, I bet. The left path looks to slope down again. He stared at that downward slope; a cold wind seemed to emanate from its maw. He cast his eyes to the centre path; everything about it was still. Calm. “Middle it is.” He muttered.

Just before leaving the fork in the path behind him, his ears caught a distant echo to his right. Samorost’s skin prickled, and his heart froze for a moment. “I’ve need of your magic.” Samorost quickened his step, as much as his old body would allow.

When the party had approached the cave, the dark-skinned gentleman had warned them of the cave, “Something is amiss, I feel an ancient evil in this cave. I suggest we turn back.” His deep voice had said.

That foolish paladin had taken it as a challenge and stormed ahead, “All the more reason to go in and put this demon down.” He’d shouted.

Wendol. Wendol had said nothing. He just smiled as he followed. The rest of the group cast looks at one another and tightened their ranks. But ultimately, Samorost and the others followed.

This middle path quickly began to seem like a bad choice to Samorost. At first, it was just one here and there, but after what could have only been a hundred meters or so, there were piles of them. Bones. Human bones. Picked clean, arranged into sizes and types. It’s like a god forsaken library of bone. Samorost thought.

He came to a halt as he heard the sound of someone talking, muttering, up ahead. He didn’t recognise the voice as one of the group he was with, but it sounded old, like him. A hermit? Here? He pondered. His grip tightened on his staff. He readied a spell in his mind. I’m getting out of this cave, one way or the other.

Samorost slowly crept forward, and a glow began to grow as he got closer to the voice. It all seemed like rambling, incoherent babble. But it all sounded awfully familiar to Samorost, and he cursed his memory as he couldn’t quite pinpoint why.

He paused just before the path turned to his left. The cause of the glow lay just beyond. The shadow of a wizened old man could be seen pacing about in the light of a flame. An old mage, older than I, Samorost realised as his mind placed the incantation being rambled. He’s trying to raise the dead!

Samorost hurried around the corner and shouted, “Halt your fiendish spell!”

The necromancer stopped and spun to face Samorost. He was an old, hunched-over man, his grey beard almost to the floor, his eyes a milky grey, long void of sight. “You have come!” the necromancer exclaimed in a wizened rasp.

“What?” Samorost mumbled as he placed his free hand at the end of his staff, a flame flickering from his palm and engulfing the blackened and gnarled tip of the wooden staff.

The necromancer said nothing; instead, he reached into the sleeve of his long, flowing ashen robe and drew a dagger from it, brandishing it above him. “Don’t you come near me!” Samorost threatened as the flame at the end of his staff tripled in size.

The necromancer took a step, “You are… The final piece!” he croaked.

Samorost clenched his jaw, “Take one more step and you’ll be nothing more than ash when I’m done!” he threatened.

The necromancer smiled and took another step. Samorost unleashed a cone of flame towards the necromancer. The inferno engulfed the wizened old man, who cackled for a second before his voice was ripped away by the flame licking the air from his mouth. He staggered backwards and fell into his own fire. The flames turned a sickly green as his body smouldered and burned away, quicker than a human body should. Samorost gulped and turned to run, knowing something was wrong. The green flame burst upwards, scorching the roof and spreading all over the small alcove. The flame slammed down behind Samorost like a hand trying to swat a fly; the slam caused an explosion, which threw Samorost forward. He flew into a pile of bones. Oddly enough, they served somewhat to cushion his landing, but as he lay there, face down in a pile of femurs, his body refused to move. Instead, his vision swayed and swirled. Before long, he had fallen into unconsciousness, swearing at his uncooperative body before slipping into darkness.