Chapter 11 The Shrieking Cliffs #3
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 golden light 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 was cold. 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.
It didn’t stop screaming, the pitch only increasing with the power of the wind. Ridan didn’t flinch, standing tall as his hair and cloak whipped back. Even as he rocked on his heels, he didn’t shy away, lifting his chin in defiance. His eyes were nearly closed, blonde lashes fluttering.
Reaching into his bag, Ridan pulled out a clay pot.
It was clearly Shesto’s finest work, painted meticulously to depict scenes from Chief Restrina’s life—her giant feather earrings, the weapon she carried into battle, teeth, and even some of the scars that cut across her skin.
Brune didn’t know what they all meant, but he didn’t have to. They weren’t for him.
Holding the pot in his hands, Ridan stared down at the cork top, fingernail scratching at the wax. His lips were pressed together in a tight line when he lifted the pot and threw it.
The work of art sailed across the chasm, tumbling before it crashed to the other side. Breaking clay joined the shrieking winds as Chief Restrina’s ashes were caught, carried up into the air.
Brune watched as they dispersed, caught on the screaming currents. Lofted higher and higher until they disappeared from sight.
A second scream joined the wind. Ridan tipped his head back, eyes closed, as he released his battle cry. Hands twisting in his shirt, he dropped to his knee as he continued. Brune shivered.
With the fading sun reflecting in his eyes and the painted sky dripping its colors onto his blonde hair, Ridan’s anguish, mourning, pain, longing, all came out from between bared teeth and twisted lips. Ridan screamed for his mother. He screamed for his clan. He screamed for himself.
And suddenly, Brune understood.
Grief was beautiful. It was raw and jagged, powerful enough to rip the earth asunder but as delicate as the whiskers on a kitten. It wasn’t tangible. Brune couldn’t touch it, yet he felt it as a blow to his chest.
It was beautiful because it meant there was a time before. A time when things were so sweet. A joy comparable to the pain. Something to mourn.
Fat tears streaked down his cheeks, and he let them fall.
Let them drop to the dusty red rock beneath his feet and stain his shirt.
He cried for Chief Restrina, who had given him so much.
For the clan who had welcomed him like a lost brother.
For the blonde boy in front of him who had lost his mother and gained a responsibility too big for his shoulders.
And maybe he cried for the little boy who never understood grief because he never had anything to mourn.
With tears clouding his vision, he stepped up beside Ridan, joining him on his knees. Inhaling deeply, he let his own screams join Ridan’s. With emotion clogging his throat, he took Ridan’s hand, tipped his head back, and screamed. He screamed for them all.
Fingers tightened around his hand, holding onto him like a lifeline as their screams were caught on the shrieking winds and lifted to the summit.
Like that, Chief Restrina passed in the only way she would want. Loudly.
The stars were sparkling in the sky before Ridan spoke again. His voice was rough—cracked and hoarse. Brune had to lean close to hear him, but that was fine. The night was cold, and warmth seeped down his arm every time their shoulders brushed.
With the mountain behind them, they were heading towards home in no rush. The previous journey had exhausted them, but there was an unspoken agreement to continue. To let the remaining grief and pain follow them like a shadow.
“She taught me to ride,” Ridan said. “She taught me a lot of things, most things really, but that was the…I think it was the first.”
Brune smiled at the thought of little Ridan sitting astride a big horse, his legs too short to drape along its sides so they stuck straight out.
It was like the screams had ripped out all his apprehension.
The ragged wounds left in his throat bore confessions rather than blood, and as they walked, he spoke of his parents.
Of how his father was so gentle, how his mother wilted under his soft stares.
How his father would beg Chief Restrina to tell them stories, like he was the child and not Ridan, and she would.
How his mother would become insufferable during her ruts, pacing all around their tent until it reeked of territorial alpha, and her mate would have to lie over her in the nest, telling Ridan to take an arm so she would finally relax and sleep under the comforting weight of her family.
He told him how Restrina, younger than Ridan was now, killed an adult Tetratorn. She plucked its feathers and wore them in her ears ever since. How during her reign, she doubled the Stone Blade’s land, and the clan never knew a starving winter.
He told him about his family name, Oldsun, and how it was Chief Restrina’s ancestor who earned the name.
She was born moments before the time when the moon ate the sun.
The land darkened as her first screams rent the air, and by the time she was settled at her dam’s breast, the moon had spit it back out, unable to handle the heat.
Ridan’s rough voice was laced with emotion, tender and brittle as the first frost. He didn’t shy away from Brune’s brushing shoulders, seeming to lean into him as the dark sky finally began to lighten and the clans’ fires could be seen in the distance.
It was a rawness Brune had never seen in Ridan, a moment of vulnerability as rare as seeing a sunset in Kaledonea.
His heart clenched and looking down at Ridan’s drawn face, he remembered his last conversation with Chief Restrina.
You’re kind. He will need that.
At the time, he hadn’t known what she meant. Now he did.
Ridan needed a shield. Not just from steel and claw, but from himself. From the weight of expectations.
Just as the last stars were fading, he stopped. They were close enough to the clan to smell their cook fires. Ridan looked at him in confusion.
Nerves stilled his tongue, but the drive in his heart was greater. Swallowing, Brune dropped to a knee in front of Ridan.
“I, Brune, Son of Somebody, vow on the dawning of this new day to be your shadow. To follow you as the sun follows the sky. To protect your back so that you may always look forward.” He swallowed, looking up into Ridan’s eyes. He held them.
“I swear the strength of my arm, the beating of my heart, and the shield on my back, to you, Ridan Oldsun. From now until my battle has ended.” With his words, he tilted his head and bared his neck.
Dark eyes stared down at him, shock and something Brune couldn’t define rolling across Ridan’s face quicker than a storm over the plain.
His hands trembled by his sides before he reached out, tracing a featherlight finger over Brune’s cheek to run down his neck, shivers following him across his skin.
Transfixed, Ridan watched him for a moment before cupping his cheek and taking a step closer, so close Brune’s chest was pressed to his abdomen.
With only the stars to witness, Ridan smiled. “I’ll hold you to that, Brune.”