Maaru's Castle

Maaru’s castle inspires dread in any visitors approaching the steep slopes of the mountain pass and the feeling grows the nearer they come. The castle walls seem to grow out of the rock in places and there is no way of knowing how deep it sits within the core of the mountain.  Close to the walls, overshadowed by the smooth, un-scalable stones, both light and sound die away and it is as if no natural life can be sustained in that place.  The travellers are engulfed by the dark and the sounds made by their horses hooves echo hollowly at first but then they too are absorbed by the threatening enclosing stones. The smell is of dank, rotting vegetation and deep, cold caverns.  The horses whinny nervously as their riders steer them onto a made path which ought to be a relief from picking their way carefully over loose and treacherous stones.
The path leads past a tall round tower built from lighter, more decorative facing stones and a high curtain wall fashioned from the same material but a multitude of arrow slits make visitors as anxious as their mounts and, if any were to reach out and touch the scarily smooth stonework, they would find it uncomfortably warm, as if was still cooling from a furnace in which it had been heated and burnished by some agency which knew nothing of romantic whole-hearted love.
The gatehouse, far from being a relief, looms over visitors and pours its chilly darkness into the whole party, so they involuntarily raise their shoulders to protect their vulnerable bristle-haired necks from imagined snipers lining the narrow, heavily fortified passageway and peering through the murder holes above.  The horses’ hooves clatter on slippery worn paving, causing echoes to rise in clamorous unnecessary announcement that someone is making their way into the castle.  Nervous fingers clasp sword-pommels, while more sensible minds know the best chance of survival lies beyond the high metal gates creaking slowly open thirty metres or so ahead of the party.  Fearful throats attempt to swallow imagined saliva from dry-tongued mouths.  Nostrils register nothing more than dust and soil and watchers, if there are any, are as silent as ghosts.
Through the gates and into what should be a courtyard, on the other side of the curtain wall, the route turns back on itself and leads between storehouses and yet more fortifications.  The smell of brewing beer and baking bread alleviates the feeling of terror still clawing weakly at the insides of anticipated invited visitors.  Chickens cluck contentedly, pigs snuffle and cows call to each other somewhere out of sight and off the path while unseen servants give and obey instructions regarding cooking and cleaning.  The domestic clattering sounds are reassuring and sunshine seems likely to creep down the still high walls and flow over the smoky thatched roofs into the cold bones of the passing visitors. Doves and pigeons flutter busily into and out of the dovecote.  A river or fountain plays.
The path turns a corner to the right, past pens containing animals already heard but now smelled.  The distinctive taste of pig assaults the breathing passages, along with acrid urine-soaked straw and sweet fresh bedding.  Husbandmen and labourers work among the animals, urged on by their smiling sweethearts and wives.  Children run unfettered between the enclosures, playing timeless noisy games of hide and tag.  Babies cry or gurgle while mothers croon and sing.
Visitors dismount and leave their horses grazing to follow the path through another gatehouse leading into a second courtyard, where captive birds sing in three long aviaries and seven low waterfalls bubble cool water into narrow rivers of tumbled pebbles which carry the flow between formal beds of exotic plants whose fragrances waft through the calm breeze like a mixed aroma of sweetmeats at a formal banquet.  The courtyard is dominated by the central tower which was visible on the road from the city.  Its huge curved windowless wall was topped by a glassy dome, only just visible this close, sparkling in the weak sunlight filtered through the high mountain air,  The visitors are led to the left, around the massive fire-sealed stone outer skin of the tower and in through a narrow, guarded entrance porch-way which smells sweet in an unpleasant way.  Through the other side of the porch and through a locked door is a third courtyard, overlooked by the strong stone walls of the tower’s inner skin, peppered with windows all containing fine glass panes,  The courtyard is warm and light, lit by beams coming in through the dome.  Common birds sing and flutter around bushes, or tend their nests in the tops of trees, while tame wild animals roam as freely as domestic pets. The myriad scents of exotic flowers drift in the air but many of the leaves and petals on their lower trailing branches look as if they have been ravaged by eerie unseasonal winds and some higher ones seem scorched by unnatural flames.  The richly-coloured stonework of the paths appears to have been scoured by overenthusiastic servants so their once highly polished surfaces appear corroded and weather-worn and it is difficult to stay balanced on the worst-rutted of them.
The trail leads to a magnificent doorway, closed against the beauty of the secret garden but, as the door opens, the hideous stench of stagnant rotting corpse-filled water escapes into the garden bringing with it a feeling of dread.  At last, it is time to face the monster within.