Page 57 of Blood Fist
Brune reached for the remnants of the food over the fire, bundling them up in a handkerchief.
“The Shrieking Cliffs,” Brune answered as he tucked the food away, stepping away from the glow of the fire and into the night.
It was closer to dawn by the time Ridan trudged out of camp. He was wearing his cloak, and had a bag slung over his shoulders. So focused, he didn’t notice the big alpha until he fell into step beside him.
Scowling, Ridan glared up at him. “What are you doing here, Foreigner?”
“I’m coming with you.”
Skidding to a halt, Ridan’s face twisted into a familiar sneer. The one he got when he thought people were misjudging him.
“I didn’t ask?—”
“Neither did I.”
Ridan inhaled sharply, his eyebrows furrowing in misplaced outrage. Brune reached for the folded-up handkerchief.
“Here, you probably didn’t get a chance to eat.” He handed him the bundle and didn’t wait for him to say anything, stepping off towards the mountain. Ridan said nothing, but he heard the fabric rustling and then the crunch of someone biting into a crust of bread. After a moment, Ridan jogged up beside him, facescrunched up as he tucked into the food Brune brought. It wouldn’t be as good cold, but Ridan didn’t seem to mind.
Brune didn’t know where they were going, but the mountain was hard to miss. It rose higher than the clouds most days, its pointed peak only visible on cloudless days. From the clan, it was hard to make out any details—save for rocky crags and granite slabs that looked formidable even from a distance. Artrax’s mountain was surrounded by smaller, nubby looking mountains. Brune thought they looked like small orphans, mountains who lost their own range and came to bask in the shadow of Artrax’s. Much like the Clansmen did.
And himself.
Ridan didn’t seem eager to talk, so Brune let the silence settle over them. It wasn’t a difficult walk, even in the darkness before dawn. He had grown used to traversing the land, a far cry from when he stumbled after Osmond all those months ago. Proper boots helped.
By the time the sun rose, they’d left the plains behind and entered a thick forest. It wasn’t unlike the swamp, but it was drier, and the roots were less hazardous. Ridan laughed when a deer leapt in front of them, and Brune cried out in joy, startling the young buck back into the underbrush.
There were many animals in this forest. Far from the clans, he figured they must feel safer. Small little furry critters Brune didn’t have a name for, rabbits, and all manner of birds. They flit from branch to branch, screaming as they passed.
Brune felt more than saw them stepping onto the mountain. What had once been a steady walk on even terrain was now an incline. He could feel the burn in his legs, the ache in his shoulders from bearing the shield.Ridan seemed to slow too, his eyes growing misty with exhaustion. He wouldn’t bother suggesting a rest—Ridan would likely sprint the rest of the way just to spite him.
The trees thinned out, and soon they were walking on a barren slope. A small trail had been cut into the thin dirt, scrubby plants growing on the edge. They had to walk single file as the path narrowed and a sheer drop off appeared on their right.
For the first time since arriving, Brune could see the land from a bird's eye view. He stopped, one foot in front of the other as he looked over the plains.
It was all laid out like a map. Toward the edge of his vision, he could see the clan, their tents nothing more than smudge marks against the vastness. The swamp lurked off to the east. He could see the spring where the clan liked to bathe. Up this high, without trees or land to protect him, the wind was vicious. It raked his hair away from his face with icy talons and stung his skin. He was beginning to see why Ridan didn’t bring Peppercorn.
They climbed until well past midday, when the slope evened out into a series of catacombs. The mouth of the big cave was massive, burrowing deep into the center of the mountain. Ridan stepped into one without reservations. Even as the dark enveloped them, he stepped lightly. Water flowed somewhere nearby, and occasional holes in the ceiling let light through. Enough that Brune could see the artwork on the walls.
Much like the art that adorned some of the clan’s tents, it was all about Artrax’s final battle with Sinestrus. It was a tale they all knew as well as the back of their hand, yet it never failed to make Brune pause.
As he studied a drawing of Artrax clasping Sinestrus in his giant claws, holding him to his chest as his goldenlight enveloped them both, he noticed a crack. One crack led to dozens, all criss crossing across the walls of the cavern. Some were as big as his thigh and others were nothing more than a spider’s leg in width. The way they cut through the art told him the cracks were newer than the paintings.
He touched one, running his finger along the ragged wound in the rock. It wascold.Not like the wind, but like he’d plunged his hand into an icy lake.
Before he could wonder too much, he noticed Ridan had turned a corner, and he left the cracks behind to jog after him.
They exited the caves just as the sun was dipping below the horizon.
A painted sky greeted them—cascading pinks, oranges, reds, and yellows, blending to press down upon them. Brune had never felt this close to the sky. He felt as if he simply lifted his hand he would be able to swipe his fingers through the colors.
Nearly as beautiful as the sky was the red rock surrounding them. An alcove was cut from the mountain, surrounded on three sides by high walls. The red was interspersed with veins of something softer, a white shimmer Brune had never seen before. The last side was open to the mountain range, dozens of smaller peaks breaking up the scenery of the setting sun.
Ridan was standing in the center, looking down. He was on the edge of a massive hole cut out of the rock. Its jagged edges had been smoothed over time. Even the mighty rock surrendered to the whim of the elements.
For a long moment he stood staring down, his shoulders tight. It was when Brune was about to call to him when the wind picked up. Gusting through the mountain like it had a life of his own, blowing through the hole with a screech.
The Shrieking Cliffs.