Marl of the Maunt - Part 2

            Marl gave thanks to the spirit gods for the darkness within the castle. More like the caverns of his home, these depths were suited to his other eyes.

            This was also fortuitous because Marl had used the dark scarves that usually covered his face to bandage his hands. The ragged wrappings covered his blistered and burned fingers and palms.

            Crossing the valley in the storm had been rough. The wind had been worse than Marl had expected. The way it cut across the flat plains and whipped the rain sideways was particularly harsh. At least he was moving with the storm.

            The fierce gale was only fueling his drive. Even so, Marl had to take refuge for the heart of the storm. He ducked into an ancient barn, the rafters over taken by vines, the walls thick with leaves. The wind railed against the rickety building, but it was used to the stresses of the weather.

            Lightning crashed and thunder shook the ground. The storm only raged harder and the wind screamed through the cracks in the walls. Marl had never even seen a storm like this from the safety of his cave, let alone weathered one in a shack out in the Open.

            There was lightning again. The thunder was louder and the tremors threatened to tear the barn to the earth. He had never seen a storm of this magnitude. As quickly as it had swelled, the winds blew on.

Marl felt the eye pass over his head as the electricity in the air danced and his hair had stood on end. The rain didn’t slow, but the lighting had moved on with a burst.

The spirit-bound ran out into the rain and watched the path of the storms vortex, hurtling away from the dusk. Lightning bolts scoured the earth underneath its swell. Marl was awed by the power he had felt. Something awful would happen before the sun’s light touched the earth again, and he, Marl ced Vincen cal Met’to’tan would be in the shadow of the glacier before that happened.

Before his third dawn off the mountain Marl had jogged through the freezing rain and into the icy shadow of the ancient rock. His breath came ragged as his lungs tried to fight out the frost. There was something chill about this glacier and the air that touched its surface reflected its nature.

Marl had waited until the suns peak, while not breaking through the clouds of the storm, still warmed the air and gave him the strength to ascend the cliff. The spider inside of his soul lent its will to his finger tips and they did not slip against the icy face. Still they burned at the unnatural cold and tore against the glass-like rock.

The sun had begun its descent behind the Maunt and the air turned harsh. Only half way to the castles wall, Marl feared a night out in the exposed freezing air. If the rain started again, his body would freeze to the glacier until the spring thaws melted him free.

The spirit gods lent him an ounce of wit and he pulled out the two lowest daggers from his concealed eight. These were sturdy tools; not of fine death like some of the others, but every tool had its purpose. With resigned strength and the thought of his oath, Marl stabbed into the glaciers face and moved even more quickly up the frozen wall.

He had reached the grey castle wall before the moon had risen into view of the valley, and the clouds had seemed to lose their energy. They dissipated letting the full moon through. The rains would not return this night. Marl looked at god of the night sky and put his daggers away their work done. His hands ached, and blood flowed freely from several sores.

The grey wall was not smooth as it had appeared from even a short distance. It was jagged and rough, which made scaling it an easy if not painful feat. The rock seemed to bite into Marl’s hands and the points tore at his legs and stomach. More than once he had banged his head though he had been looking where he had been headed.

Marl had sat atop the high grey wall, resting his torn palms and watched the moon drift behind the old Maunt. It had been a heroic climb, and the gods would be pleased by his effort. Every drop of blood spilled in their name would be added to his tally of deeds. Some men measured their worth only in their own vital fluids.

Marl was surely glad of the darkness of the keep. A large boxed fortress sat in the middle of the castle, built around the black tower, rising from the center. It had been set into the ground to make use of the earth’s natural defense. The cold bit worse here in the stale caverns of the castle.

The spirit within him could feel something more sinister about the chill air. It was not the absence of heat; it was more the unwillingness of it to travel inside the castles walls.

Marl had also noticed the absence of anything living other than insects, and only those that crawled across the earth in search of waste and carrion. Marl was the only predator here, his soul the only that belonged to a spider. 

The caverns were laid out strategically, a defensive position Marl was easily able to follow to its center. A wrought iron portcullis barred the last passageway. Marl could see the tower beyond it through the eyes of his spider-spirit, it glowed a strange black that seeped into the cavern floor and the icy ceiling.

The gate had been lowered but Marl could not tell if it was locked. There was a pile of very old armor slumped against the wall, the dirt and shadows trying to reclaim it as well. He tried not to think about his raw palms and wrapped them around a cold iron bar.

Marl heaved, and a loud grating sound echoed down the empty caverns. Much louder than he would have guessed possible, but the portcullis had only moved a few inches. His left hand started bleeding again.

Again he tried, this time willing more out of his spirit, Marl knew where to find the strength to move this gate. Every year since the day it had been deemed he would survive being weaned, Marl had been slashed with the first pair of daggers he had been given. Two Xs under each arm; four new Xs cut each year on top of the old ones. It was a painful sacrifice to his spirit, but it gave Marl extraordinary power in return.

Now he put only some of his spirit’s weight into the pull. The gate shrieked again, metal grating that could have woke the dead. It pulled another inch upwards but still would not fully commit. Marl’s left hand bled freely, soaking the bandage, and he feared that his right had gone numb from damage. 

One more time Marl cal Met’to’tan summoned his spirit into his arms and pulled on the metal grate. The banshee wail of metal on stone echoed down the short tunnel, and for a split second Marl felt the metal bar his right hand gripped bend upward out of its frame. The very lattice of the portcullis was breaking before it consented to move another centimeter.

Then Marl’s left hand, his blood greasing the bar it held, slipped and he lost his battle with the gate. His hands hurt and his side ached. The tired hunter slumped against iron wall and again a loud clang bounced down the earthen halls.

It was only a split second of rest, then the pile of armor burst into motion. Dust flew from its ancient breastplate, revealing a unique emblem, one Marl had never seen before. He was only able to glimpse a flower and a skull before he jumped back from the stubborn gate.

The animated suit clanged into the portcullis, the sound less urgent than before. Marl couldn’t see a face beneath the helm, but skeletal hands clutched at the iron bars. With his spirit’s eyes Marl could see the deep black of the tower clinging to the suit from the floor where it stood. This was no simple trick.

The armored skeleton pulled up on the gate, one bone hand tugging on the bar Marl had bent. The warrior expected the rotted arm to fall right out of its socket, but the portcullis slid straight up into the ceiling, no rusted shrieks sounded this time.

The undead thing gestured towards the black doorway of the tower, and whatever power resided inside. Marl had come too far now to turn back, his path was finally clear. As he took his first step behind the suit, Marl took account of his weapons, in case the thing that had drawn him here was not friendly.

He had his two personal daggers, Zim and Barca at his hips, that was their rightful place. Hanging below Zim on his right hip, was his father’s dagger, Devil-root. Slung low across his back, end resting on his hip, was the machete-like blade Marl had taken from a Mutant chieftain. There was the small blade from Auto cal Re’De’Tan concealed in his right boot, and the long thin blade behind his left thigh from a cabin on the surface he had found two Springs earlier. Last was the pair of daggers, upside-down on his back, which Marl had won in octathalon, marks of his skill, as well as tools of death.

Should it come to a fight, Marl was sure he could overpower the dead soldier and escape down the tunnel. As he took one more glance at the final passageway the spirit in him knew that was only true if they left the gate open.