The Journey, Book 2; Chapter 7 - Previous Chapter
Chapter 8; Buradoth
After days of trudging through mist-veiled valleys, frozen streambeds, and windswept ridges, Nekonata and his companions finally reached the foot of the Buradoth Mountains. Jagged peaks loomed overhead, scraping the grey sky like a wall built by ancient gods who had grown tired of being followed.
The air tasted of stone and frost.
Beside him padded Santaya and Kristolia, his twin wolf companions. Their fur bristled with the cold, breath steaming in the chill morning air. High above, Loki, the overlarge raven with midnight plumage and eyes far too clever for any bird, circled lazily in the skies, riding the wind like a feathered omen.
Gabija, draped in her usual brown travelling cloak, came to a stop just before the narrow mountain trail began to rise.
“This is where I leave you,” she said, her voice low, serious. Her eyes scanned the winding path that disappeared between stone teeth.
Nekonata turned to her. “You’re not coming with us?”
Gabija shook her head slowly. “My road lies elsewhere. But yours...” she gestured toward the pass, “...leads up.”
She stepped closer, placing a hand gently on Santaya’s thick ruff, then Kristolia’s head in turn. The wolves stilled under her touch, ears twitching. Even Loki let out a soft caw and glided lower, perching on a crooked pine branch to watch her with a tilt of his head.
“Head up this path and follow it,” Gabija continued. “It’s treacherous, but if you stay true to the trail, you’ll come across a small outpost hidden in an outcrop of the mountain, barely noticeable unless you know what to look for. There, a dwarf will be waiting. He’ll guide you the rest of the way to the stronghold.”
She paused, then added, softer, “But tread carefully. The mountains are not as quiet as they used to be.”
Nekonata gave a small nod. “Any name for this guide?”
“He’ll know you when he sees you,” she said cryptically.
“And King Althor?”
Gabija allowed the smallest smile. “Give him my best. Tell him the fire still burns, though the smoke has long drifted.”
With that, she stepped back, cloak flickering in the wind like a dying flame.
Nekonata watched her disappear into the mist the same way she’d arrived—silently, without fanfare, as if the land itself swallowed her whole.
He turned to the mountain.
Above, clouds gathered heavy and low, curling around the peaks like coiled dragons waiting for a reason to descend.
He looked to his companions.
“Ready?”
Santaya huffed. Kristolia growled softly. Loki took flight again with a raucous caw.
The trail began as a winding track carved along the mountainside, narrow and frost-slick, no wider than a cart’s axle in some places. Loose shale crunched underfoot, and the wind howled through the crags like a mournful spirit. Neko moved carefully, one hand resting lightly on Santaya’s shoulder as the wolf navigated the treacherous turns with animal ease. Kristolia padded ahead, ever alert, sniffing the air.
Loki flew above in a slow circle, occasionally letting out a rasping call, as if mocking the mountain’s attempts to hide its secrets.
For hours they climbed, following the twisting path as it zigzagged between jutting rocks and icy ledges. The higher they went, the quieter it became. Even the wind, so loud below, seemed to lose interest. Only the sound of boots, paws, and talons echoed in the still air.
Then, Kristolia stopped.
The wolf stood rigid, her head low, eyes fixed on a narrow cleft in the rock ahead. Santaya growled low in her throat, fur rising along her spine.
Neko slowed, raising a hand to Loki, who landed soundlessly on a crooked slab of stone.
The path ended abruptly at a sheer wall of rock, impressive, unremarkable, and utterly blank.
But Kristolia was sniffing along a crack near the base, claws scratching lightly at the surface. Nekonata stepped forward and knelt. At first glance, it looked like a solid mountain face. Then he saw it, barely visible under the moss and frost, an angular seam. Not natural.
A doorway.
He stood and whispered, “We’ve found it.”
A low grinding sound echoed through the silence. Without warning, the wall shuddered and split inward, revealing a narrow passage cut straight into the mountainside. Dust and cold air spilled out.
At the entrance stood a squat figure clad in a heavy cloak of grey wool, with a helmet low over his brow and a battle-worn axe strapped to his back. His beard was braided into thick knots, each ringed with metal beads stamped with runes.
The dwarf studied Nekonata for a long moment, then gave a short grunt. “Was wonderin’ if you’d show up before nightfall. Name’s Rorik. Gabija said to expect you.”
“Then you’re our guide,” Nekonata said, stepping forward, wolves flanking him.
“I’d say aye,” Rorik muttered, stepping aside. “But I guide through stone, not around it. Hope your companions don’t mind tunnels. The mountain likes to squeeze.”
Loki gave an offended caw.
Nekonata glanced down the narrow corridor, then at his wolves, who stared into the darkness with glowing eyes.
“We’ve walked worse paths,” he replied.
Rorik nodded approvingly. “Good. Keep your hands close, your thoughts steady, and if the walls start whisperin’, ignore ‘em. They’re not talkin’ to you.”
Nekonata raised a brow. “Encouraging.”
With a smirk lost under beard, Rorik turned and led the way into the dark.
As the stone door closed behind them with a heavy thud, the mountain swallowed their presence entirely, leaving no sign that anything had ever passed.
Only wind and snow remained.
The mountain had no mercy for time.
Nekonata had lost track of how long they’d been walking, hours, days, or lifetimes. The tunnel Rorik led them through never descended, only curved slowly upward, like a serpent coiled around the heart of the world. The path was narrow, carved with dwarven precision, smooth underfoot, the walls lined with faint runes that pulsed softly with golden light, just enough to see by, never enough to see far.
The silence pressed close.
Santaya and Kristolia padded quietly, never once growling or veering from the path. Even they sensed that the stone here was old, watchful. Loki, uncharacteristically subdued, flew low, wings tucked close, letting out only the occasional click or rustle of feathers. The oppressive stillness seemed to stretch the tunnel longer with every step.
Rorik, as ever, said little.
Only once did he mutter, over his shoulder: “This place don’t care for noise. Nor impatience.”
And so they walked.
Twisting, always twisting. Upward.
Until…
The tunnel widened.
Nekonata blinked against a sudden wash of golden light. The air grew warmer, tinged with the scent of iron, smoke, and polished stone. The path opened into a massive vaulted chamber, the ceiling lost in shadow, but the walls glittering with inlaid gold and obsidian carvings that shimmered like stars.
Dwarves lined the edges of the hall, silent and proud, axes across their backs, armor glinting. Some nodded in respect. Others merely watched.
At the center of the clearing stood a throne not of gold, but hewn from the very stone of the mountain—simple, unyielding, and utterly commanding.
And there, upon it, sat King Althor.
His beard was braided thick, with rings of hammered steel and etched runes. His crown looked less like a royal trinket and more like something worn into battle. His eyes fixed on Nekonata with an attempted serious look on his face the moment he stepped into the light.
“Well,” Althor said, his voice echoing through the chamber like rolling thunder, “Took your bloody time didn’t ye Neko!”
Nekonata stepped forward, cloak dusty, wolves flanking him like shadows, Loki gliding down to perch on his shoulder.
“The mountain has a long memory,” Nekonata replied. “It doesn’t let strangers walk quickly.”
Althor grinned, slow and wolfish. “That it doesn’t. You’ve earned the right to stand before me, and more importantly, you’ve brought Santi and Kristi.”
The wolves bounced on their front paws excitedly as they ran up to the Dwarven king jumping up at him, licking his face.
The hall quieted, tense with breath held with shock, then the King himself burst out laughing, fussing the wolves, until they calmed down.
“Welcome, my friend, it’s been a long time,” the king said. “You’ve come at a good time. There's drink, there's danger, and there’s a damn mess to clean before the feast. Just how I like it.”
Nekonata nodded once. “Then let’s begin.”
Chapter 8; Buradoth
After days of trudging through mist-veiled valleys, frozen streambeds, and windswept ridges, Nekonata and his companions finally reached the foot of the Buradoth Mountains. Jagged peaks loomed overhead, scraping the grey sky like a wall built by ancient gods who had grown tired of being followed.
The air tasted of stone and frost.
Beside him padded Santaya and Kristolia, his twin wolf companions. Their fur bristled with the cold, breath steaming in the chill morning air. High above, Loki, the overlarge raven with midnight plumage and eyes far too clever for any bird, circled lazily in the skies, riding the wind like a feathered omen.
Gabija, draped in her usual brown travelling cloak, came to a stop just before the narrow mountain trail began to rise.
“This is where I leave you,” she said, her voice low, serious. Her eyes scanned the winding path that disappeared between stone teeth.
Nekonata turned to her. “You’re not coming with us?”
Gabija shook her head slowly. “My road lies elsewhere. But yours...” she gestured toward the pass, “...leads up.”
She stepped closer, placing a hand gently on Santaya’s thick ruff, then Kristolia’s head in turn. The wolves stilled under her touch, ears twitching. Even Loki let out a soft caw and glided lower, perching on a crooked pine branch to watch her with a tilt of his head.
“Head up this path and follow it,” Gabija continued. “It’s treacherous, but if you stay true to the trail, you’ll come across a small outpost hidden in an outcrop of the mountain, barely noticeable unless you know what to look for. There, a dwarf will be waiting. He’ll guide you the rest of the way to the stronghold.”
She paused, then added, softer, “But tread carefully. The mountains are not as quiet as they used to be.”
Nekonata gave a small nod. “Any name for this guide?”
“He’ll know you when he sees you,” she said cryptically.
“And King Althor?”
Gabija allowed the smallest smile. “Give him my best. Tell him the fire still burns, though the smoke has long drifted.”
With that, she stepped back, cloak flickering in the wind like a dying flame.
Nekonata watched her disappear into the mist the same way she’d arrived—silently, without fanfare, as if the land itself swallowed her whole.
He turned to the mountain.
Above, clouds gathered heavy and low, curling around the peaks like coiled dragons waiting for a reason to descend.
He looked to his companions.
“Ready?”
Santaya huffed. Kristolia growled softly. Loki took flight again with a raucous caw.
The trail began as a winding track carved along the mountainside, narrow and frost-slick, no wider than a cart’s axle in some places. Loose shale crunched underfoot, and the wind howled through the crags like a mournful spirit. Neko moved carefully, one hand resting lightly on Santaya’s shoulder as the wolf navigated the treacherous turns with animal ease. Kristolia padded ahead, ever alert, sniffing the air.
Loki flew above in a slow circle, occasionally letting out a rasping call, as if mocking the mountain’s attempts to hide its secrets.
For hours they climbed, following the twisting path as it zigzagged between jutting rocks and icy ledges. The higher they went, the quieter it became. Even the wind, so loud below, seemed to lose interest. Only the sound of boots, paws, and talons echoed in the still air.
Then, Kristolia stopped.
The wolf stood rigid, her head low, eyes fixed on a narrow cleft in the rock ahead. Santaya growled low in her throat, fur rising along her spine.
Neko slowed, raising a hand to Loki, who landed soundlessly on a crooked slab of stone.
The path ended abruptly at a sheer wall of rock, impressive, unremarkable, and utterly blank.
But Kristolia was sniffing along a crack near the base, claws scratching lightly at the surface. Nekonata stepped forward and knelt. At first glance, it looked like a solid mountain face. Then he saw it, barely visible under the moss and frost, an angular seam. Not natural.
A doorway.
He stood and whispered, “We’ve found it.”
A low grinding sound echoed through the silence. Without warning, the wall shuddered and split inward, revealing a narrow passage cut straight into the mountainside. Dust and cold air spilled out.
At the entrance stood a squat figure clad in a heavy cloak of grey wool, with a helmet low over his brow and a battle-worn axe strapped to his back. His beard was braided into thick knots, each ringed with metal beads stamped with runes.
The dwarf studied Nekonata for a long moment, then gave a short grunt. “Was wonderin’ if you’d show up before nightfall. Name’s Rorik. Gabija said to expect you.”
“Then you’re our guide,” Nekonata said, stepping forward, wolves flanking him.
“I’d say aye,” Rorik muttered, stepping aside. “But I guide through stone, not around it. Hope your companions don’t mind tunnels. The mountain likes to squeeze.”
Loki gave an offended caw.
Nekonata glanced down the narrow corridor, then at his wolves, who stared into the darkness with glowing eyes.
“We’ve walked worse paths,” he replied.
Rorik nodded approvingly. “Good. Keep your hands close, your thoughts steady, and if the walls start whisperin’, ignore ‘em. They’re not talkin’ to you.”
Nekonata raised a brow. “Encouraging.”
With a smirk lost under beard, Rorik turned and led the way into the dark.
As the stone door closed behind them with a heavy thud, the mountain swallowed their presence entirely, leaving no sign that anything had ever passed.
Only wind and snow remained.
The mountain had no mercy for time.
Nekonata had lost track of how long they’d been walking, hours, days, or lifetimes. The tunnel Rorik led them through never descended, only curved slowly upward, like a serpent coiled around the heart of the world. The path was narrow, carved with dwarven precision, smooth underfoot, the walls lined with faint runes that pulsed softly with golden light, just enough to see by, never enough to see far.
The silence pressed close.
Santaya and Kristolia padded quietly, never once growling or veering from the path. Even they sensed that the stone here was old, watchful. Loki, uncharacteristically subdued, flew low, wings tucked close, letting out only the occasional click or rustle of feathers. The oppressive stillness seemed to stretch the tunnel longer with every step.
Rorik, as ever, said little.
Only once did he mutter, over his shoulder: “This place don’t care for noise. Nor impatience.”
And so they walked.
Twisting, always twisting. Upward.
Until…
The tunnel widened.
Nekonata blinked against a sudden wash of golden light. The air grew warmer, tinged with the scent of iron, smoke, and polished stone. The path opened into a massive vaulted chamber, the ceiling lost in shadow, but the walls glittering with inlaid gold and obsidian carvings that shimmered like stars.
Dwarves lined the edges of the hall, silent and proud, axes across their backs, armor glinting. Some nodded in respect. Others merely watched.
At the center of the clearing stood a throne not of gold, but hewn from the very stone of the mountain—simple, unyielding, and utterly commanding.
And there, upon it, sat King Althor.
His beard was braided thick, with rings of hammered steel and etched runes. His crown looked less like a royal trinket and more like something worn into battle. His eyes fixed on Nekonata with an attempted serious look on his face the moment he stepped into the light.
“Well,” Althor said, his voice echoing through the chamber like rolling thunder, “Took your bloody time didn’t ye Neko!”
Nekonata stepped forward, cloak dusty, wolves flanking him like shadows, Loki gliding down to perch on his shoulder.
“The mountain has a long memory,” Nekonata replied. “It doesn’t let strangers walk quickly.”
Althor grinned, slow and wolfish. “That it doesn’t. You’ve earned the right to stand before me, and more importantly, you’ve brought Santi and Kristi.”
The wolves bounced on their front paws excitedly as they ran up to the Dwarven king jumping up at him, licking his face.
The hall quieted, tense with breath held with shock, then the King himself burst out laughing, fussing the wolves, until they calmed down.
“Welcome, my friend, it’s been a long time,” the king said. “You’ve come at a good time. There's drink, there's danger, and there’s a damn mess to clean before the feast. Just how I like it.”
Nekonata nodded once. “Then let’s begin.”