Terrors From the Red Mountain, Ch. 1: Death Descends
Death Descends
A merry Sword & Saturday my fellow scribes and scriveners. Before I begin with my own contribution for the day, a bit of context for what you’re about to read. Roughly a year ago, I wrote a five-part primitive sword & sorcery novelette titled, The Claws of the N’longu. Some of you may remember it, as it was one of my most popular stories of 2024. You may also recall that the story was written as part of the first prompt hosted for our fantasy themed writing days.
Well,
are at it again. Partnering with and , they’ve presented us with their fantasy mega contest. The challenge? Write a 3,000-12,000 word fantasy tale which showcases courage and the greatness of the human spirit while pitting the characters against overwhelming odds. Today we will see the start of a journey which will do just that, as we revisit the primitive jungle hunters Blackpaw and White-eye on an adventure that will push them to the very brink.Chapter 1: Death Descends | Chapter 2: The Midnight Hunt | Chapter 3: As Our Foe Flies | Chapter 4: The Red Mountain | Chapter 5: Cat Skull’s Gambit
When the night fell over the jungle, it did so under the pale light of a silver gibbous moon. As the moon rose high, there came with it the sounds of the night. Blackpaw recognized them. The buzz of insects, some quiet, some loud. The chitter of the birds which ate them, and the squeaks of the tiny rodents which also ate them. The shrieks of leather-winged fiends, descending into the jungle from the slopes of the Red Mountain.
And with their descent, the screams of the dying.
Blackpaw and White-eye were away in the jungle that night. Perched as they often were in the branches of a thickly trunked chumpa tree, they hoped to take advantage of the brightness of the moon to hunt night creatures. A long-fanged cat, a sleeping tree coiler, or perhaps a couple of those large-eared bush dogs. All would provide good meat for the tribe, and if they were successful they’d save themselves some of the difficulty that came with hunting during the sweltering days of the hot season.
Yet fate, as it often did in that primeval land, had a different and all together crueler plan in store for the brothers.
It began with the shrieks of the fiends. Those loud, violent sounds sliced through the already busy night air, silencing all but the buzz of the insects. The moment he heard those piercing cries, Blackpaw pressed himself against the trunk of the tree and scanned the canopy. Dark shadows cast by the chumpa tree’s broad leaves made the night air feel thick, and it only felt thicker still when he saw black forms blot out the shafts of moonlight as they passed through.
Perched lower in the tree, White-eye grunted curtly up at his younger brother. Glancing down, Blackpaw wouldn’t have been able to see him had it not been for the flickering shafts of moonlight reflecting off his milky left eye. Broad shouldered and barrel chested though he was, White-eye blended in so thoroughly with the shadows against the trunk of the tree that he was practically invisible. Understanding his meaning now, Blackpaw nodded. Cautious and quiet, he climbed down until he stood at his brother’s level.
There they waited, watching the Red Mountain fiends descend into thejungle. Leaves rustled noisily, joined by the snap and crack of twigs and small branches. Despite their large leathery wings and darkly furred bodies, the fiends were vaguely man-shaped. They stood upright on two legs, though those legs were squat like those of the deep jungle apes. Like the apes, their toes were dexterous digits built for grabbing. Their shape was closer to the talons of terror soarers, though, with three toes facing forward and one facing back. Alongside the massive ears upon their heads, they appeared like an interbreeding of man and bat, albeit considerably larger than both.
Blackpaw was far from the largest in his tribe. Though sizable compared to the civilized men who lived in the realms outside the jungle, realms which the primitive warrior had only the vaguest notions of, he was considered runty among his people. He stood shorter than his brother by slightly more than half a head, his shoulders weren’t as broad, and his chest and arms, while still corded with dense muscle, weren’t as thick as White-eye’s, who was among his people’s largest males.
Yet even White-eye was dwarfed by the Red Mountain fiends. He was only slightly bigger than just the torso of one of these bat-like monstrosities, and they stood as tall as him even when hunched over on all fours. When standing upright on their squat legs, they were a full head taller at least.
They were out in force tonight, flocking into the jungle with one thing on their bestial minds: prey. Pressed close to the titanic trunk of the chumpa tree, the brothers silently hoped their forms would go unnoticed by the shrieking devils. Neither wished to be made a meal of at the best of times, but the Red Mountain fiends were especially notorious. This wasn’t just for the violence of their kills, either. They had a penchant for dragging off still living prey to be fed upon later, a cruel fate which Blackpaw had no desire to experience.
Fortunately, the swarming night hunters passed them by before long. Letting out a relieved sigh, Blackpaw sunk to a seat on the branch he’d stood upon. White-eye did the same, and as the two peered into the jungle night, Blackpaw wondered what prey they’d chosen tonight. A herd of broad-horned lowers, or maybe bristlebacks? Either would make for good eating, though the lowers were dangerous prey with long memories. Lone hunters who killed one in the sight of its herd were known to be brutally gored and trampled. Some were even driven up trees while the herd waited below for them to fall or die of thirst. No jungle man of experience would ever hunt lowers alone. Perhaps the Red Mountain fiends were similar in that.
Alas, Blackpaw would soon learn that his musings were very wrong. It wasn’t bristlebacks or broad-horned lowers which the night hunters sought. He could tell from the screams which echoed through the jungle. The screams of men. And just as those screams told him what their prey was, the direction they came from told him who.
Rising to their feet, Blackpaw and his brother looked at each other with wide, disbelieving eyes. Howls of terror, wails of agonized death, they cut the night air. A hardness formed in Blackpaw’s gut. It felt like he’d swallowed a stone the size of his fist. To his primitive mind, fear and dread were too similar to have significant distinction. Both activated his most primal of instincts: fight, or fly. Spear gripped tightly in his hand, he looked back to his brother.
White-eye met his gaze. He too gripped his spear with white knuckle tightness. Another scream cut the air, and he nodded.
Leaping down from the tree, the savage brothers tore across the jungle floor. With their spears tucked against their chests, they ran on three limbs, each using their strong free hand to vault over low obstacles in their path. Dark though the jungle was, they knew its paths by more than sight alone. Sound, smell, and touch would be their guides, but sight wouldn’t stay absent for long.
Skidding to a halt, Blackpaw whooped at his brother and pointed ahead of him with his spear. He saw ominous color between the shadowed trees, a telltale orange glow of fire starting to burn out of control. Gritting his teeth, White-eye roared and continued forward. Blackpaw followed right behind him. His mind was mostly focused on the flickering glow, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that something far worse than fire lay ahead of them.
Suddenly, it hit him; the shrieks of the night hunters had gone silent! That stone in his gut grew into an open pit, and worry began to overtake his mind. Imagined glimpses of the dead assaulted him. Screams echoed in his mind despite already being reduced to scattered groans, weeping, and the crackle of burning wood. Only when he caught up to his brother did he realize how much worse the reality was.
Blackpaw stood at the edge of the stone circle where his tribe had made their home. A natural formation which jutted from the top of a low hill, the large boulders had provided them with good cover from both predators and the elements. They enhanced that with simple shelters built from the branches, broad leaves, and fronds of jungle trees. Those shelters burned now, set alight when the fire at the center of their hideaway was toppled. Blackpaw saw the trail of hot coals strewn about. They made a line in the direction of a burning lean-to. That lean-to then burned the one next to it, and the next after that. On and on, until most of their hideaway had ignited.
White-eye paid no mind to the flames. He stared into the hideaway’s middle with his jaw set, where the handful of survivors wept over the dead and the dying. Blackpaw gazed at them himself now. He recognized the faces of family and friends, all weeping over the mangled dead or howling as the dying bled out. Unbelievable, so many were dead or missing.
To his right, White-eye’s spear dropped and clattered on the rocks. Facing him, Blackpaw saw his shoulders tighten and his lips curl into a toothy grimace. Then he wailed, tears running down his cheeks and into his thick, bushy beard. He hurried into the hideaway, slowing only once he neared one of the bodies. A woman’s. White-eye’s mate.
Even from so far off, Blackpaw recognized her face. She used to have shining eyes. They were the color of pale sand, flecked with green, and they peered out above a slightly prominent nose and high cheekbones. Her hair was thick and dark like his own, but of a lighter color, more like the brown bark of the chumpa trees as opposed to his black tresses. She’d cut a fine figure as well. Tall and somewhat slender, she was wide at the hips and the shoulders, though not nearly so much as the males of the tribe in that latter case. Her slenderness showed off her strong physique, which was the result of her own forays into the jungle to forage and hunt smaller game. She’d been a climber, a lover of trees and high places, and she’d long wished to have a child with White-eye.
It never came to be, and now it never would. Her once bright eyes now stared blankly at the smoke and sky above. Her body, once celebrated for its litheness, lay ravaged and ruined on the jungle floor. To her left was a broken spear, its stone head bloodied up to the haft. Blackpaw could almost see what happened as he took the scene in.
When the fiends attacked, she took up the weapon to help fight them off. Then she speared one in the chaotic melee, wounding it, perhaps gravely. However, judging by her position near the center of their hideaway, this left her exposed. Another fiend descended on her. She tried to fight them off, and the spear broke. Together they savaged her, killed her, and ate off her corpse before taking to the air with whichever poor souls they deigned to take with them.
Blackpaw slumped into a seated slouch. Heart heavy from the sight of the dead and the grieved sounds of those who still lived, his mind clouded with despair. What were they to do now? Well over half their number were dead or taken, far too many for the tribe to recover from. Many of those missing were their young or wizened elders, those who would have the hardest time fighting back against their beastly captors. That thought stuck with him, made his skin burn red with anger. Primitive though he was, he still recognized the brutal cruelty of such a fate. Oh, the things he would do to turn that around if given the chance! The righteous vengeance he would enact upon those terrors from the Red Mountain if only he had the opportunity!
Behind him, a rustling in the bushes surrounding his stone perch pulled Blackpaw to reality. Rising, he turned on the balls of his feet, defensively raising his spear. Keen eyes scanned the dark of the jungle night in search of whatever made the bushes move. They rustled again, and with a barking cry he leveled his spear in preparation to strike.
A man had emerged. Tall and dark of skin, he had a stony faced mien that reflected the seriousness and grief Blackpaw felt. Likewise, he also carried a spear, though he kept his tall weapon at his side, holding it like a walking stick.
The stranger was of the high folk, dark bodied men who lived among the tall hills and canyons in the deep jungle. Unlike the men of Blackpaw’s tribe, the high folk didn’t have the same sort of densely muscled, broad shouldered physique to them. Even he, as one of the smaller men in his tribe, sported wider shoulders and thicker thews than the ebon skinned stranger before him. The stranger stood tall, though, possibly taller than White-eye. His build was rangy and lean, and he was hairless, another marked difference between the two men. A tawny long-fanged cat pelt was draped about his waist and shoulders, and the beast’s polished skull rested atop his hairless head.
“Ihmaquan na mon sheti,” he said, tapping the butt of his spear twice against the boulder on which Blackpaw stood.
Still uncertain as to his intentions, Blackpaw kept his spear trained on the stranger and grunted out a simple reply. “Agraah shok!” No entry!
The dark man replied by continuing to stare at Blackpaw. Around him, the bushes rustled once again. He held his rangy arms out wide, and a dozen men emerged from the dense foliage alongside him. Like the first, each was dressed in an animal skin. However, theirs were of more common make, such as the hides of bristlebacks, broad-horned lowers, or the pelts of jungle dogs. None wore a beast’s skull atop his head, and none was hairless as the man who was clearly their leader had been.
Strangely, not all of these men were high folk. About half of them were, but some were men of the lower jungles like Blackpaw himself, while others were the lighter skinned cave dwellers who lived near the cliffs at the jungle’s edge. All looked at him with expressions that seemed to mirror the tumult he felt at his people’s recent tragedy.
The stranger, whom Blackpaw began referring to as Cat’s Skull in his mind, motioned to one of his men. Older and with graying hair, the stocky hunter looked like a shorter version of White-eye, save for the fact both his eyes were intact. Barrel chested, and hairy as could be, the older warrior’s skin had a reddish hue and was latticed all over with scars. Stepping forward, he explained to Blackpaw in his simple and familiar tongue just who Cat Skull and the rest of them were.
Blackpaw frowned as he listened to them speak. Lowering his spear, he stood fully upright and turned to face his people’s ruined hideaway one more. Fires still burned, but some among the survivors were beating them out with a few of the animal skins that survived. White-eye wasn’t among them. He remained grieving next to the body of his mate, eyes closed and head hanging low in contemplation. Placing his middle finger and thumb into his mouth, Blackpaw let out a piercing whistle that grabbed the attention of all save his brother. Seeing this, he called down to White-eye directly, but still his brother didn’t stir.
Frustrated, Blackpaw called to others to rouse him. They did so, grunting and shaking him at the shoulders, doing all they could to get him to pay attention to his younger brother. Ultimately all they did was anger him, such that when he finally did react it was by screaming and throwing blows with his meaty fists.
Blackpaw called out to him once more as he raged, and finally his brother’s eyes fell upon him. Beckoning him to come, the large man reluctantly did so, staring in surprise as he climbed up the side of the rock to see the motley gathering before him. Cat Skull turned to face White-eye and spoke. As he did, the older man who looked like White-eye - Blackpaw had quietly taken to calling him Old Scars - translated.
White-eye had worn a blank look of confusion as Cat Skull spoke. However, his expression soon turned contemplative again, and that then became hard and fierce as he looked back over what the fiends had done.
With a grunt, White-eye faced Blackpaw, who nodded in kind. Like themselves, these warriors had lost kin to the fangs and claws of the Red Mountain’s devils. A yearning for vengeance swelled in them, and Cat Skull aimed to bring them that vengeance. Before the night was done they would slay the fiends of the Red Mountain, or die gloriously trying to do so.
Thank you for reading the first chapter of “Terrors From the Red Mountain,” my entry to the Warrior Wednesday/Sword & Saturday Mega Contest being hosted by
and in partnership with . Chapter 2 will be made available next Monday, Jan. 27th.Chapter Word Count: 2,718
Total Word Count: 2,718
Chapter 1: Death Descends | Chapter 2: The Midnight Hunt | Chapter 3: As Our Foe Flies | Chapter 4: The Red Mountain | Chapter 5: Cat Skull’s Gambit
My first novella, In the Giant’s Shadow, is available for purchase! Lured to the sleepy farming community of Jötungatt by a mysterious white raven, Gaiur the Valdunite soon finds herself caught in a strange conspiracy of ritual murder and very real nightmares.
Purchase it in hardback, paperback, or digital on Amazon now:
Excellent opening. I was in the jungle with them, feels very otherworldly. Looking forward to more.
Very well done. I grieved alongside white-eye when his mate was killed.
I raged along with him and agreed when he decided to enact vengeance.
I'm always skeptical when people show up out of nowhere and offer refuge and help.
Some small part of me wonders if they sent the men-bat's down.