”Look at this”, Elsa said, pointing with her finger.
Hellrien crouched down. ”Tracks…”
”A hell of a lot of tracks. And not older than a few hours at most.”
Hellrien stood up. Tall oak forest and ancient crumbling stone walls rose all around them, almost covered by thick, red mist. They had been wandering the ruins for almost ten hours straight, attempting to stay out of sight of patrolling Créoth. But the ruins had been strangely desolate. They were in the heart of the Créoth kingdom.
”Let’s follow them… to see where they’re going”, Hellrien said hoarsely.
”All right.”
They carried on their journey through the oak woods. The water reeked of blood, almost suffocatingly so. The mossy swampland grasped their boots with gluttonous, nauseating sucking sounds, attempting to pull them into the depths of the sickly swamp. Chilly wind blew between the rusty red tree trunks. Something ethereal and glooming red jumped forth from a brush only to disappear between trees.
They followed the weak tracks deeper into the copse. They walked even more cautiously now, holding their weapons up.
The woods gave way to a clearing on the side of the fortress. In the middle of the clearing there was an elevated stone platform, like an altar. There was some kind of unnatural fire burning brightly in the middle of the altar.
Hellrien’s nostrils vibrated.
Elsa looked about. ”There’s no-one here”, she said, sounding almost amazed.
Hellrien didn’t respond. The dark woods filled her heart with dread. Not a single bird was singing. Not a single squirrel played on the tree branches. It was as quiet as a grave…
”I don’t like this”, muttered Elsa, who had suddenly grown pale. ”I…”
She stood as if struck by a lightning.
An old Créoth wearing a garish outfit and a ceremonial headdress of a warlord had suddenly stepped out of the woods.
”Don’t move”, Elsa whispered. ”That’s old Dúnlang, the Créoth warchief!”
Slowly the hillman raised his hand.
It was a sign of peace.
Elsa responded to the sign. She whispered from the corner of her mouth: ”I know him. A hard man. If he sees it fit, he will nail us to those trees. For the love of the Valar, keep your hands away from your weapons!”
Hellrien felt her scalp straining. She knew that dozens of pairs of eyes were watching them from the darkness.
The warchief came closer.
He stopped right in front of them.
”Drop your weapons”, he said calmly.
Hellrien stiffened. But Elsa obeyed. She let her scabbard belt and bow drop onto the ground.
Hellrien stared into the dark eyes of the warchief. Slowly she untied her scabbard belt and dropped her swords and crossbow on the ground.
”Follow”, said the hillman, starting to walk towards the elevated platform.
They followed him. It was deathly silent. Hellrien noticed that she was trembling of cold in spite of the sweat pouring down her skin. There was a bitter smell in the air. The warchief rose the steps on the side of the platform and gestured for them to follow. Hellrien and Elsa climbed the stairs to the altar and suddenly stopped.
There were statues of some ancient kingss of the fallen kingdom of Rhudaur on the four corners of the altar. In the middle there burned a bright flame that seemed to be born out of nowhere. The floor of the altar was littered with corpses in varying degrees of decomposing, some no more than skeletons. More corpses and skeletons sat in cages hanging from above.
The freshest of the corpses was a woman with blue face paint.
”Temair!” Elsa whispered.
The warchief stretched up. His eyes flamed with hatred.
”The faithless killed her… here”, he said, and his voice was trembling. ”Here they killed my daughter – on the sacred sacrificial altar of Naruhel.”
He made a gesture towards a big, hollow megalith on one edge of the altar. The megalith housed a smaller standing stone in a hollow den on the side of the megalith. The den was glowing with mysterious luminessence.
Hellrien stared. The sacred altar of the Red Maiden! She saw the banners surrounding the altar – hanging from wooden crosses. The flags depicted a dark forest above a red swamp. She saw a cart standing on one side of the altar, filled with human limbs and heads, partially covered with a tarp.
”I could have killed you, infidels”, said the warchief. ”My blood is clotted with hatred. My daughter is dead. My life is finished. But I desire to kill no more. My people have suffered enough. You may live… and remember. Come!”
They followed him over to the monolith.
”Look”, said the warchief.
Hellrien and Elsa looked down on the foot of the monolith. They stared. There was something shining and sparkling on the floor. Hellrien crouched down.
Jewelry! There was a green gem set on a silver pendant lying on the floor. It didn’t look like something from the ancient kingdom of Rhudaur – the pendant appeared elven-made.
She looked around. Somebody had been in a hurry. They had taken the jewels from the den in the monolith, but one pendant had dropped down unseen. She crouched down again. She saw tracks again… blood-stained imprints of boots. Not Créoth boots.
Four pairs of footprints. Three males, one smaller, possibly a female.
”Come”, said the old warchief.
They followed him out of the altar. The forest was still oppressively quiet as it opened up before them like an impenetrable wall.
Once they had descended the stairs Hellrien could finally breath again. But the memory of the terrifying sacrificial altar followed her like a knife against her back.
”The shining stones were the misfortune of the Créoth”, said the warchief. ”Our young devoted ones bought cratefuls of iron and madness from the faithless ones. They came back, desecrated the sacred altar and took the shining stones. And my daughter – who showed them the place – has paid with her life.”
Suddenly the warchief threw his ceremonial headdress on the ground. Then he ripped his ornate tunic into shreds, baring his old, scarred chest.
”Look, you dogs of infidel dogs! Look at the defeated Créoth warrior! Look at me, and mock me!”
He ripped his clothes, and tears flowed down his painted, bearded, wrinkly face.
”I’ll kill the ones responsible”, Hellrien heard herself saying in a strange voice. ”I swear it!”
”Your oath makes the wargs laugh!” yelled the warchief, standing before them with bared upper body. ”My daughter is dead! Can the blood of four faithless ones replace her? I curse you, infidels! You have seen the sacred sacrificial altar of Naruhel! I summon the curse of Naruhel upon you! Cursed… be cursed! And now… go! Go and take the curse of the Red Maiden with you!”
Hellrien and Elsa bent down to pick up their weapons and turned. Suddenly a large group of hillmen had appeared out of the woods. They stood soundlessly around the altar.
When they walked away, the old warchief stood in the clearing – surrounded by the eldest of the tribe. He stood with stooped shoulders, and even though his scarred chest kept rising, he was dead – as dead as his daughter lying on top of that terrible altar.
