Marl of the Maunt - Part 1

            The old Maunt stood high above the empty valley. Of course there were homes still standing, but only because the thorny vines grew thick enough to prop up the old wooden beams. The shadows cast by the surrounding mounts gave the day a sickly pallor. But in the winters the sun would pass directly overhead. The valley was beautiful then; when the air was cold enough to freeze in your lungs. 

            Things still lived up on the Maunt. In it might have been a more accurate term. All over the surface were caves. Some well hidden, others much more obvious for a sinister reason.

            The caves that ran deep through the mountain chain were populated by creatures, mutants, and soulless half-men. They were not things that you wanted to run into in the dead of night; and in their barrow homes, it was always the dead of night.

            Marl was one these so called half-men, though he and his people preferred the term soul-bound. In the ancient time of strife the creatures that had always survived in these parts had given them refuge. There had been a price, but it was one they willingly paid.

            But out here on the far side of the mountain, looking over the wild fields, toward the darker end of the valley, near the “lake” and the glacial wall, Marl didn’t think that it had been so important to bind themselves away from the sky. Under the land, there was never anything that could be described as open. Even the people; being shut in just came with the territory.

            He always liked to wait for the sun to climb over his mountain. Now, in the early fall when the shadows were still long, the sun would light up the darkness that seemed to envelope the northern end of the valley. The glacier stood almost the same height as the Maunt, and it radiated with an unearthly cold. It jutted out sharply, concealing its depths.

            Then as it had been doing, every day, sooner and sooner, until it would be too late, the brilliant sun peaked and the entire ice wall lit up.

             Marl’s eyes buckled under burst. Not his human ones, they had been adjusting to the light all morning. The strange circles tattooed above and below his own oval orbs were much more sensitive to the light. Even wrapped in dark cloth shrouds the sudden warmth across the entire ancient wall of ice was enough to reach them.

            But he could still see it; the great castle in the depths of the ice. This year, more clearly than ever before. When Marl had been very young the first wall had been sticking out of the ice. Now, so much later, nearly two-thirds of the ancient citadel was free of the receding ice wall. Thank the gods for the warming sky.

            He looked as often as he could, for any sign that some priceless treasure had been freed from winter’s clutch. Then Marl and the Valley Reach clan would profit from the expedition he would surely convince them to launch.

            He had tried last year, but they had said no. And the year before that as well. They always demanded proof. ‘Bring us a spec of gold and maybe we shall hear you out.’ ‘We have heard of the beasts that dwell in the Open.’

            Marl believed them to be cowards with no sense of the daring the free-spirits must have had. To come to this sacred land and try to live with the spirits of the Maunt and the valley. The destruction they must have escaped to prefer this desolate existence.

            So he withstood the pain in his face; it reached deeper than the needles that had made the markings to the sprits that dwelt in the fabric of his skein. Marl ced Vincen cal Met’to’tan called on the part of him that had tried to live in the Open.

            Today he strained his untested eyes to search the depths of the newest tower. It was larger than the rest and the stone was made of a darker granite. The windows were much larger and had balconies; a luxury none of the other spires were equipped with. Something inside of his chest had told Marl that this was the stronghold of the castle’s secrets.

            He looked hopefully through the gaps in the shadowed walls, trying to gauge the depths of the power hidden in the more solid shadows within. Something he could take back, anything that would make his days on the Maunt more fulfilled.

            His eyes perceived nothing but darkness and empty space. The cold air couldn’t be penetrated. Another morning wasted. Another day of mundane toil stood ahead.

            Marl rubbed his eyes and sighed to the gods below and even those above. Any sign would be appreciated. The clouds drifted idly by and the wind didn’t shift.

            In an act of sheer aggravation Marl pulled out his father’s dagger and hurled it with all his killing might. It stabbed point first into the dried out trunk of an old mountain tree. The fine silver handle quivered only slightly and the thud echoed down the rocky slope. His father was not amused.

            Knowing he had to retrieve the blade, as was his sonly duty, Marl stepped off his waiting rock and leapt to the boulder the tree’s ancient roots had taken over.

            That was when it happened. It must have been the shift in perspective, or the sign he had begged for, but a brilliant golden flash jumped out of the castle’s dark window, catching Marl’s eye. It blinded him, and he ruined his landing. Knees first into the rocky hill, then elbows into the loose gravel. Marl slipped further, scratching his side. He prayed to the spider spirit living inside of his heart and he felt strength flow into his hands, the swirls of his tattooed thumbs moved hypnotically and his fingers closed around a root, vice-like in their grip.

            His feet kicked out frantically and found purchase on the side of the crumbling boulder. With the gift of his bound hands Marl was able to climb up onto the tree’s plane. He craned his neck looking towards the castle.
            The window was dark and clouds were swelling ominously, threatening to block the sun.
            With his improved strength Marl jumped out over the hill to one of the old tree’s branches, hanging in the middle of cliff. His strong hands gripped the dry branch and Marl saw it again.
            The throbbing pulse of the sun’s reflection, gold against whatever it was emanating from. Marl’s head swirled with the beat, and his mind filled with the implications of such a treasure; fame and fortune, security in this dangerous world. He would be the one to have claimed the frozen castle, and return life to the valley.
            But, rang out in Marl’s head, only if you show them proof. Marl had to claim the golden treasure and bring it back to the tribe. Then they would believe him. They would go to the castle and hail Marl as their king. King of the Spider-bound.
            Then the sun was obscured by the looming storm front. A freezing squall would come down the Maunt and chill the valley with torrents of lashing water.
            Marl didn’t care. He had to cross the valley. He had to climb the glacier and enter the castle. He had to have the golden treasure that his eyes could no longer perceive. These goals he swore to his father’s dagger as he pulled it from the elder tree.

            With hardened purpose Marl, soul-bound to the spiders, started down the Maunt, moving only closer to his destiny.

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