[Translator's Note: Here is the last, and longest, surviving fragment of Darkos Warkannon's story about his exploits at Snakepipe Hollow. Historians and biographers have always been interested in how this young Tarshite nobleman came to follow the ways of the dread Urox, and this document sheds considerable light on the subject. It is known that Darkos had connections with the Storm Bull temple in Alda Chur, and this section of the tale offers strong evidence for how he came to follow their ways. It is clear this story is part of a larger narrative, since the document comes to end on a torn and burnt piece of parchment, but nothing else has survived history. The original has been catalogued in the Jonstown Knowledge Temple under index DW889-060PP]
I have been deliberately methodical. I know they have been watching me but I refuse to hurry. Nobody mentions it though, not even the Uroxi with their never-ending jibes. Whether out of respect or merely because I am not one of them, it does not matter.
I honed my sword and dagger the previous evening, now I must check the shafts of my arrows. It is a tedious job, but all those on which your life may depend, strangely tend to be.
I unroll a tarp, inside are two spare quivers, each holding twenty arrows. I unclip a third quiver from Sashas’ riding tack and add the arrows to the pile. I can’t help but notice several of the men leaning in to get a better look. I do not know what they’re expecting to see.
One by one I lift the arrows from their case and inspect them. Holding them out to the light, I turn them end-on to my eye and squint down the length. I am looking for imperfections. A knot, a twist in the grain or a bend in the shaft, no matter how small, may cause my aim to be off, if only by a fraction. When you miss by a few degrees with a sword you usually hit something. Magnify this by a distance of fifty metres or so using a bow, and you are shooting wildly. I am about to be lead scout into one of the deadliest places in Glorantha; today of all days my aim must be true.
Selecting the best twenty arrows, I stow the rest back in the tarp and secure them in a deep saddlebag. The remaining quiver I sling over my shoulder on a long leather strap.
Rising, I turn to face the gathered men and read in many of the Stormbulls’ faces the same thought, a thought that somewhere finds a voice.
“Get yourself an axe mate, proper weapon. Look ‘em in the eye as you cut their heads from their stinking shoulders”. Some laugh, others nod their agreement.
I am ready. I turn and walk towards The Hollow.
Oden waits some distance away, leaning on a great axe at the top of a steep scree-covered track that winds its way downwards. It is going to be a hot, dry day as Yelm is already high in the sky and bearing down on us.
As I walk Grant falls in alongside me “Good luck, Darkos. We’ll be right behind you.” he says, slapping me on the back and striding off. To my left I can see Cleombrotus, armoured for battle, helmet under his arm. He looks relaxed “Don’t fuck up” he calls and smiles broadly. He is only half joking.
As I join Oden he is offering a prayer to his God. He finishes and looks at me.
“Ready then? Shall we be off?” He is a huge man, red-bearded and thick set with muscles on his muscles. I am acutely aware that I must look like a child beside him and register the disappointment on his face as he looks me over. Secretly I bet myself that he would give a week’s wages to have one of his own alongside him.
I nod and head off down the track. Oden follows a few paces behind. After a few minutes he begins to whistle a sea shanty, Orlanth knows where he picked that up from this far from the sea, but I’m not going to ask. Instead I turn and suggest, “That may not be a good idea. It would be better if we discover anything on the path before it hears us coming a mile away”. He nods his agreement begrudgingly and we move on. Behind us I can see the others beginning their descent.
Time passes and as expected the day is a hot one indeed. The going is slow. Every few paces bring another potential ambush point. Fallen boulders and mounds of rubble litter every turn. To our right I am painfully aware of the dizzying drop to the floor of Snakepipe Hollow but Oden seems untroubled by it.
I can feel the sweat trickling down my spine in rivulets and even my light armour is chafing and heavy. What I wouldn’t give to be mounted and riding the flatlands somewhere far away. I would even settle a re-run of the cavalry charge at Bantok’s Ford, in the run up to Starbrow’s. Their longbowmen cut us to pieces that day.
After what feels like an age I stop and turn to the now red faced and profusely sweating Stormbull. “Time for some water,” I say. His hairy face breaks into a childish grin. “By Stormbulls gonads! I thought you were never going to rest,” he chuckles. “You may be smaller than my missus, but by ‘eck you keep going longer than a Greydog beerfest”. “Here!” he pulls out a large waterskin and tosses it to me. As I take a long draught he watches me, smiling all the time. For a moment I have the thought he’s sizing me up for lunch, then dismiss it.
I hold the waterskin out for Oden to take back. With out-stretched arm he takes it from me, still smiling. As we stand there grinning inanely at one another, his eyes flick over my right shoulder and steal a glance down the pathway. His expression suddenly drops; so does the waterskin.
He is reaching for me wide-eyed and shouting, though I hear no sound. All has become silent except for the rush of adrenaline which pumps like a raging torrent in my ears. I feel his vice-like grip on my upper arm as he half pushes half throws me to one side. I hit the ground hard, thankfully having the presence of mind to pull my bow from under me before impact, else it take the full force of my weight. From my position in the dust I look up to see Oden clutching at a javelin protruding from his chest. He takes one step backwards then goes down.
For the first time I swing my gaze to view the pathway that is our intended route. Simultaneously I pull my feet under me and push myself upright. My hand is instinctively reaching over my shoulder, withdrawing a shaft and notching it to my bowstring.
Dropping to one knee I scan the pathway for our assailants, bow poised, but I see nothing. Silence has descended once more. The only movement is the gentle rising of dust beside me where the big Uroxi fell. It dances in the sunlight like fireflies. I cannot call for help without sign posting my position and my compatriots are out of range for mindspeech. Time has slowed to a standstill and I fight to regulate my breathing, forcing myself to inhale and exhale slowly and deeply, slowing my pulse.
Quietly, I utter the incantation of protection but feel only slightly safer in this exposed position.
As the stillness grows I feel the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. There is no feeling quite like that of being hunted by something that knows where you are when you have no idea where it is.
Then, all at once, comes a bestial scream and thirty metres along the path a creature breaks from cover and charges.
It is hideous and sickens me to look upon. The upper torso of a black-skinned man protrudes from the huge and armoured body of a scorpion. I have heard of such creatures but nothing could have prepared me for the filth of such a mutation across species as this. All at once I understand the Stormbulls’ loathing for chaos and can empathise with their cause. Only in facing chaos eye-to-eye can you fully appreciate how all that it is, and all that it represents is an abomination against what is natural and right.
It continues to charge, screaming in some guttural tongue all the while. One of its four arms holds a wicked looking scimitar, which it whirls around its head. The other arm holds a javelin, the twin of that which struck Oden.
I draw the string to touch my right ear and take aim. Sweat runs from my brow and stings my eyes. I close them to blink it away, all the time picturing the scorpionman’s charge. I open my eyes in time to see the creature fling the javelin with an almighty heave. There is no time to dodge; I will never reset myself before the creature is upon me. I must trust to the gods. Somewhere at the edge of my vision I am aware of the arc of the missile as it hurtles toward me. Gently I release my breath and allow the bowstring to slip from my grip. There is a sharp crack as the arrow is let loose, followed by a metallic clang as the javelin strikes the ground less than a foot to my left. Orlanth be blessed!
Without pause I draw another arrow. The first is embedded in its left foreleg but it lumbers on, limping only slightly. I take careful aim and with less than five metres between us I loose the second shaft. It tears upward through the throat of the beast, severing the windpipe and ripping out flesh, sinew and artery in a spray of blood and gore. The scimitar clatters to the floor as its hands come up, clutching at its destroyed neck. There is no scream as the scorpionman collapses dead in the dust, facedown, a black pool growing around its head.
Silence returns.
I remain in my prone position but slowly reach over my shoulder and withdraw another arrow. Notching it to the string I rise and scan the area.
For what seems like an age I stand motionless, listening, but hearing nothing. “Where are Grant, Cleombrotus and the others?”
Edging to my right, I lower my guard momentarily and climb a large boulder that overhangs the drop into the Hollow. There is a moment of panic as I straighten and come face to face with the several hundred-foot drop. Turning, I have a higher vantage point from which to scan. Instantly my change of position pays off. Below me and fifty metres away I spy the insectoid back leg of another child of Bagog disappearing behind a pile of scree and rubble, seeking to creep up on my flank. Moving quickly from cover to cover.
I kneel and draw back the string, feeling the familiar tension in my short bow. Bending it to the limit of my strength. I shadow the creature’s movements, catching occasional, partial glimpses as it moves. I estimate its next cover; it will have to dash between two rocks, two metres apart. I take aim.
After what feels like an eternity, my arms beginning to tremble, I catch the faintest glimpse of movement at the edge of one of the rocks and let fly.
I say with all modesty, this is the greatest shot I have ever made.
Climbing down from my elevated position I walk to the corpse and stare down at the hideous thing. My arrow protrudes from the temple like some antenna. I think about reclaiming it then dismiss the idea.
At that moment there is a rush of feet behind me as my friends and the others burst into the small clearing, stop and take in the scene.
As I stand staring at the dead scorpionman, the Stormbulls file silent by me. To a man they salute, index and small fingers extended, imitating the horns of The Bull. They go to tend their fallen comrade.
Turning I walk to the edge of Snakepipe Hollow and look down on the chasm before me. It is a fine day. Yelm is glorious and Orlanth sends a cool breeze to ease my sweat-soaked body.
I am Darkos. I am Chaos killer.
Dawn at Snakepipe Hollow (an Addendum Part 2)
[Translator’s Note: Here follows another document found among those ancient parchments in the Jonstown Knowledge Temple detailing events of a descent into the infamous Snakepipe Hollow. This text is a transcription by Grant McKielson, and offers an interesting view of the same narrative written by Darkos Warkannon. Like the previous folio, it shows clear evidence of the Tarshite Hillsman’s sense of humour and colloquial language. One can not be too sure of its accuracy in detailing events and the careful scholar must be on his guard – it is important to remember Grant McKielson’s known barrack-hall humour. The real value in this document is in the scarcity of McKielson’s own work.The original manuscript has been archived in Jonstown under catalogue GM1776-YYP]
"Oh, for fuck’s sake. Isn’t he ready yet?"
"No, he’s poncing about with his arrows," replies Cleombrotus.
"I hope he’s got a lot, ‘cos he shoots for shit".
Cleo laughs, which causes him to fart that, in turn, makes me laugh. Seeing as we are about to enter one of the most dangerous places in Glorantha with probably the worst scout in the world leading the way, Cleo and myself are in a jolly mood.
I look over to my right to see Darkos standing and as he does some of the Stormbulls start to tease him.
"Ah, he’s alright . He’s used to being teased" says Cleombrotus.
I make over to Darkos. "Good luck, Darkos. We’ll be right behind you." With that I slap him on the back and stride off. As I pass him Cleo says, "far enough behind that we’re out of his bow’s range." I snigger and make my way to my pack. Cleombrotus says a few encouraging words to Darkos and heads back to join me.
Darkos makes his way over to Oden. Oden is a huge man and Darkos looks like a small boy being led by his father. They both wander off down the track into the Hollow.
Time passes and Cleombrotus and I are sitting down chatting away as Yelm rises into the sky when I suddenly spot a flock of vultures circling high above the Hollow. I turn to Cleombrotus who at the same time turns to me. Without a word we both rise and start down the path into the Hollow.
We instantly spot Darkos who is trying to be unseen, stealthily climbing over some rocks, but has the drawback of a walking boulder (Oden) following right behind him. All of a sudden Cleombrotus clicks his tongue and I instantly go to ground. We wait a moment then Cleo points out some movement along the path ahead of Darkos and Oden. We now get a speed on down the path leaping from boulder to boulder like mountain goats. Small rock slides are forming as we climb down but we do not worry about the noise. Then, all at once, comes a bestial scream some couple hundred metres ahead of us. The climbing becomes harder but we are still getting a lick on. The screaming goes on for some time then abruptly stops. We keep climbing down until we happen upon Oden lying on his back with a javelin sticking out of his chest. Shit, where’s Darkos? We move quietly around the next boulder along the path to discover a hideous creature that has the upper torso of a black skinned man protruding from the body of a scorpion lying in a pool of its own black blood. My blood turns cold at the sight of two arrows sticking out of the creature.
"Fuck, he’s got his bow out".
We both immediately dive for cover. After some time I bravely pop my head up to survey the situation when I notice another of those hideous beasts just above us. I catch Cleo’s eye and signal to him with my hands what I have spotted. He then quietly takes his bow from his shoulder and notches an arrow. I gesture to him in what direction and how far the beast is in relation to himself. I see Cleombrotus take a steadying breath. This is very dangerous, I thought; he has to be quick, if Cleo hesitates too long there’s a chance an arrow will be heading his way.
A few more heart beats pass and in one swift fluid movement Cleo rises from his hiding place and unleashes an arrow and returns to cover. The arrow strikes the foul beast to the side of its head and the creature crashes to the floor, motionless. At the same time an arrow whistles past my ear and I duck for cover.
Cleombrotus and myself lay still behind the cover of the boulders. I wonder how long ’til the danger will pass. Then I hear the heavy footfall of what can only be the Stormbulls. I tentatively raise my head to see Darkos and the Stormbulls standing around the corpse of the scorpion man. I nod to Cleo and we leave our hiding places.
I notice the Stormbulls salute Darkos and then make their way to where Oden lays. Darkos makes his way to the edge of the chasm and stares down into the Hollow. Cleo and myself walk over to the fallen beast. "Good shot," I say. "I was aiming for Darkos" replies Cleo. I laugh out loud which causes me to fart.