The Mountain King
Being one of the Chronicles of Cyron
Lannicus groaned and rolled out of bed. His head throbbed from the copious amounts of ale he had consumed the night before. One of the tavern wenches, a busty blonde with a feisty disposition, had taken a particular liking to him, so Lannicus sought to impress her in the only way a boisterous young man knows how: by demonstrating his immense drinking prowess.
The problem with his approach was that he inevitably drank too much and was doomed to spend the night alone. Now, as he sat on the edge of the bed with eyes clenched shut to stop the room from spinning, fragments of the previous night’s revelry flashed through his mind. One phrase in particular was most prevalent in his hazy recollections: the Mountain King.
Two hours later, after a hearty breakfast in the tavern’s common room, along with a prayer of penance recited from the Book of Holy Writ, his self-inflicted torment was soothed and Lannicus was outside the stables securing belongings to his horse, a magnificent courser. It was late fall, and the first hint of snow could be felt in the chilly air. Visible in the distance, the mountain range known as the Spine of Vandria was already thick with the cold, white powder.
To keep out the chill, Lannicus had donned a heavy cloak trimmed with fur. The radiant gold sunburst emblazoned across his breastplate shone out from underneath the warming mantle. A longsword was sheathed across his back, its hilt protruding over his shoulder, while a katzbalger short sword hung at his side.
As the knight mounted his horse, he saw the barmaid from the night before standing in the doorway to the inn, a dejected pout on her lips. He winked at her, mouthed the words, “Next time,” and spurred his courser into a slow canter out of the stable courtyard and onto the dilapidated remains of the cobbled highway.
Lannicus spent the morning and afternoon riding at a steady clip through a ruined and twisted landscape. Centuries ago, the rulers of Vandria had recklessly meddled with diabolical magic and unleashed an apocalypse upon their kingdom. In the ensuing decades, on a divine campaign to reclaim the realm for their God, the Crusaders divided the remnants among their individual chapters and established the Twelve Fiefdoms.
Lannicus was a newly anointed knight in the Golden Templars, one of the oldest of the Crusader chapters, and his destination was a monastery in the foothills of the Spine that was overdue on its yearly tithe. As he rode in solitude, the rhythmic clatter of his horse’s hooves on the cobbles reverberating in his ears, Lannicus’ thoughts kept returning to the Mountain King. Having spent most of his life in Lochven to the north, he was unsure of the phrase’s significance, but one of the few things he could recall from the previous night was that it was only ever spoken in hushed tones.
The young knight was so lost in his thoughts that he at first took no notice of the disheveled and destitute congregation that had suddenly appeared on the highway. It was only when one of the refugees reached for the reins of his horse, and the animal shied away, that Lannicus was abruptly snapped out of his reverie.
“Please, sir knight, help us if ye would,” said the man who had startled horse and rider, a gray haired fellow with a scraggly beard and tattered clothing. Lannicus’ fury at having been caught unawares quickly gave way to pity as he appraised the haggard travelers.
“From whence do you come?” he asked gently, hoping to reassure them.
“The monastery at Trushkova. Were ye riding to our aid, sir knight?”
Lannicus shifted uneasily in his saddle. “Truthfully, I was sent to collect your tithe. It is late by a fortnight. However, it is plain to me that a great tragedy has befallen you.”
“No…not a tragedy,” the gray haired man said with a quiver in his voice, “the Mountain King.”
“Who…or what…is the Mountain King?”
“You must discover for yourself, sir knight. I dare not bring myself to relive the horror. Do not go to Trushkova. There is naught left there but the dead. If ye seek the Mountain King, take the abandoned road that crosses the Spine. You will find his hall sure enough, as we did when we ventured into his mountains.”
A shiver ran down the knight’s spine, though he did not know whether it was excitement or trepidation. “Where will you go?”
“We have taken refuge in the ruins of an old dark elf watchtower just east of here, built when this part of Vandria belonged to the Tanglewood. There you will find us if ye survive the hall of the Mountain King.”
The road the old man spoke of ran less than half a league northeast of Trushkova. In the late afternoon sunlight, Lannicus could make out the cathedral spire and the deteriorating stone wall that surrounded the monastery complex. Even at this distance, the stomach-churning odor of putrefaction lingered in the autumn breeze.
The knight steeled his nerves and turned away from the doomed settlement, urging his courser to follow the road into the Spine. The smell of death seemed to have unsettled the animal and it displayed some resistance before breaking into a plodding, reluctant trot. They had not traveled more than a few hundred yards of the old mountain thoroughfare when there was a sound like a thunderclap.
Lannicus watched in disbelief as his horse’s head disappeared in a spray of blood. The knight recovered his wits just in time to leap clear and avoid being crushed under the decapitated animal as it collapsed. He lay on his back, momentarily stunned, and a massive shadow fell across him.
Lannicus found himself looking up into the baleful eyes of the Mountain King.
The troll was twice as tall as Lannicus, and three times as wide, with elongated ears and snout, and a pair of wicked looking tusks that protruded out from his mouth.
“Why are you on my mountain?!” he snarled at the knight.
“God protect me!” Lannicus proclaimed with astonishment.
“Jor can’t help you,” the troll laughed scornfully, referring to the Creator by His elvish name, “He has long since forsaken Vandria.”
The Mountain King hefted an enormous axe, the crude blade still dripping with horse blood, and whirled it down on the knight. Lannicus dodged sideways and the thunderclap sounded again as the axe split the stone where he had been mere moments before.
By this time, Lannicus had his longsword unsheathed and he hacked at the troll’s gigantic, bulging forearm. The blessed weapon bit into the creature’s thick hide, leaving behind an angry red streak. The Mountain King roared indignantly and backhanded Lannicus, sending the knight flying several yards through the air. He bounced off the mountainside and crumpled to the earth, gasping for breath.
Lannicus heard the troll’s mighty axe split the air. He managed to parry with his sword, and though the consecrated blade absorbed the brunt, the knight’s arm was rendered numb from the impossible strength behind the blow. Lannicus drew his katzbalger with his left hand, and thrust downward with all his might. The short sword sunk into the Mountain King’s clawed foot like a glittering thorn and the creature roared again, this time in pain.
Lannicus ducked under another backhand and heaved his katzbalger at the troll, piercing its throat. The Mountain King let out a gargling shriek of anguish and flailed around wildly with his axe. Lannicus leapt backwards, but he was too slow and the weapon caught him in the joint between his breastplate and tassets with a sickening crunch. Searing pain wracked his body and he slumped to his knees, blood pouring from the grievous wound.
Lannicus reached for his Book of Holy Writ, which hung by a thick chain from his belt. He fumbled desperately through the leather-bound tome with clumsy fingers and found what he was searching for. With his head swimming and his vision blurring, Lannicus began to recite the prayers on the pages in front of him. Warmth immediately flowed through his body, and his torn flesh knit itself back together.
Breathing shakily, the knight got to his feet and approached the headless corpse of his horse. His heater shield had been squashed when the animal met its demise, but his crossbow was blessedly still intact. Lannicus shouldered the weapon, gave his motionless courser a melancholic cuff on its hind quarters, and followed the bloody trail left behind by his enemy’s retreat into the mountains.
Dusk had fallen and the first stars were twinkling in the twilight when Lannicus found the Mountain King. The troll was slumped against the mountainside next to a gaping cave entrance, the knight’s short sword still lodged in its throat. He could hear the creature’s labored breathing in the calm mountain air. Snow crunched under the Crusader’s boots as he approached and the Mountain King’s eyes slowly fluttered open.
“Still…alive…human?” the troll wheezed, frothy blood bubbling from its mouth. “How…did it…come…to this? I’m…the Mountain…King.”
It was a pitiful sight and Lannicus almost felt sorry for the creature in spite of himself. Not really knowing what to say, he lifted his crossbow. The troll made no move to interfere, and Lannicus loosed a bolt into the Mountain King’s head.
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I really like this. A short story packed with a cool, action-y punch. Good work.
Very atmospheric and mountainous! I can see why you were reminded of this story, Josh.