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Part 1

The Valley of Doom was a narrow passageway, where an army would have to walk in a three line column at some of its parts. But that was not a problem for him, because he was alone.

The walls that surrounded him were so steep, that the sky, dark and heavy, could only be seen if a man arched his back and his neck. But that was not a problem for him, because in his shame, fear, and pain, his gaze lay low.

His feet were buried in the barren and dusty, dark ground, unable to lift its owner’s weight, just dragging, one after the other, both behind the drops of blood that splashed in a rhythmic fashion on the dust. The wound on his torso, right side, just below the ribs, was still open and starting to swell and smell. The sword of the undead warrior, coming what of nowhere, had missed his liver by some inches, depriving him from a most longing and quick death.

He had lived… and he was still alive. At least the heart was still beating, and his body was still reacting to the brain’s survival mechanism; spasms of erratic commands that compel him forward along the valley. His mind and his soul were gone, clouded by the defeat and by the terror he had witnessed.

In his thoughts there was a persisting call: go back. But he could not. He hadn’t entered the valley alone. More men joined him. All defeated, all wounded. All frightened, ashamed and stripped of the warrior dignity. What they had endured was no battle. It was a slaughter, a blood bath on both sides.  No victories… only death and destruction. Something like Balor had never seen before.

Oh how I wish to be dead, along with the others that died sword in hand. This thought pounded on his head, like a heavy hammer; filling his brain with a buzz of his infected blood circulating though his swelled veins.

Thirst… more blood soaking on the dark ground.  He fell, rolling on his back, face first to the deep grey sky, clouded by vaulters and even worse creatures that would devour him no matter his heart was still beating. He had to carry on.

Go back…

 I cannot.

How could I? Where would I go? Where could I hide my shame from the world? Nowhere… The valley would be my last travel, and if I can survive, I’ll see what waits on the other side. It was futile he knew. Not many people have crossed this valley, only a few; very few indeed, as the open mouthed skulls lying on the ground, and trashed against the stone walls could confirm at every step, at every corner, on the top of every small slope, and on the bottom of every agonizing plunge. And what about the ones, those rare specimens, that appeared on the other side of the Doom? They were, forever after, different. Some were memoryless, others were living ghosts. Others became shadows, ravagers, plundering the earth with bloody claws and fangs.

This was known.  He knew it, and the companions that entered with him knew it. They all have died, quit, tried to get back, screamed to the skies for salvation, and ended up with an arrow in their open mouths, or a fang from a carniboar in their bellies. The more desperate you were, the more beasts you attracted on this endless and mercifulness valley.

So he was quiet, both from fear and pride.

Copyright: 2017 by Duarte Malaguerra Nunes (SD Shytos)

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