Then they would have to travel further south toward the Great Lake and back west over the three floating mountain ranges that made up the collar to find some way down onto the giant creature’s back.
From there, ferret out the route to the tundra, which rose up in many sets of steps along giant humps that were miles long.
On the other hand, they could try to get to the creatures back through the barren lands, over the volcanoes, through the forest-covered peninsulas and avoid the allure of the Primal Tree with its pollen fields and verdant growth.
Either route was perilous and long. It would take an average humanoid several weeks to make the journey on foot. The Warden kept it this way. If the inmates built bridges, he would have them destroyed; if they bored holes through the mountains, the Warden would have them filled.
The Warden was not without means and aims capable of altering the landscape on a colossal scale if need be. Especially the tundra offset from the center, its various steppes could be raised or lowered it seemed at whim.
No journey up and down the gigantic spurs of rock and over the convoluted landscape would be the same twice.
What a prisoner faced here was not just the inescapable, but also an entirely complex world within which to live, and ultimately, die.
**
The far northern path nearest the arrivals platform sunk out of sight below the edge of the higher plateau that Fenix ran across.
The trail on which he had first traveled to the Festering Warrens was more than four hundred feet below the top of the cliff’s edge. During the highest point of the sun, the plateau threw a shadow along the trail and across part of the Warrens themselves.
Fenix knew this, and his unerring sense of direction did not guide him north out of the dense undergrowth in hopes of getting down the side of the cliff.
Even if he could take the time to scale the sheer face of the rock, there was the gap between the floating land mass and the trail’s ground to get over. Far more of a distance than he could jump, even without the height to account for.
No, he headed to the cliff face so he could reduce by half the available terrain the land crabs could use to surround him.
They followed in a crashing, leaping, and rush behind him. The sound of their passage spurred him onward with all due haste. His limbs pumped, and soft soil gave under his feet as he leaped large tree roots or over fallen boughs.
The press of trees and bushes could hide any number of the land crabs, but he ran onward. Sometimes he would grab the lower branches of the trees to swing across shallow gullies. Other times, he leaped over rocks and fell into a roll from which he arose quickly and ran on.
The quick little creatures constantly tried to leap onto his back or shoulders, and their prodigious speed meant they could keep up with or even get ahead of him. A few times, it almost meant his downfall, the backpack was lost twenty minutes into the run, the number of stabs and slices from land crabs proved too much for the thin straps to bear.
He left the weight to fall behind, he would either recover it later or not at all.
A profusion of cuts and scrapes added to the plethora of injuries he had sustained. Bites, flesh dug out by claws, knocks, and bruises from the various headlong encounters with rocks and trees. Fenix was a mess of general injury, any one of the wounds, or even a few of them, would not be of much concern.
All told up they were taking a heavy toll for even his warrior’s constitution.
It took him a little while to recognize that the wind steadily picking up was not just from the speed of his passage through the brush. Gaps in the foliage above showed him storm clouds’ scudding overhead, the dimming of the light was not just from blood loss.
He burst out along the edge of the plateau, where only a few spindly trees barely hung on the edge of the cliff. Above him, the dark, seething mass of the oncoming storm split the sky with ominous thunderheads.
He skidded to a stop and turned, his back to the open air.
Perfectly placed to fend off an attack.
The land crabs did not rush at him. In fact, nothing came out of the fauna at all. He waited, his breath rasping in his throat as he caught up with the high oxygen requirements of his body from the run.
Dampness and ozone from lightning strikes filtered into his senses through the air as the sun was blotted out by clouds.
He could hear them, the rustles and breaking twigs as the land crabs moved among the growth packed densely up to the small gap by the edge. In between rolling thunder, he could clearly discern the movements they made in a vast horde just out of sight.
Smart little things that they were, they waited for him, knowing he had to go back at some point.
**
The Prison weather systems brewed powerful storms over the northern land masses, the roiling heat from the southwest would suck in the colder air and create pressure fronts.
These waves would circulate as the giant creature the Prison was attached to made its extended slow circle through the planar dimension. Over time, the conflicting temperatures would gather water vapor high enough to form clouds.
The sudden cooling of the air as it moved away from the hot zone would then condense the droplets, only to be caught in the shifted patterns of a new day. When that happened, the clouds dropped and thickened.
Vibrations caused by the winds pushed the entire mass into a roiling turmoil that sparked lightning bolts. The pressure waves rebounded from mountains and built up, funneling the cloudscape into a torrential downpour.
The storm would come across most of the northern half of the Prison from due east in a few days, drenching the land masses.
Prisoners who survived long enough to get used to the fairly regular occurrence holed up for the duration. Usually about a day, when everything got its rinse. For Fenix, it was his first time under the downpour, and it could not have caught him in a much worse situation.
The land crabs did not pursue him while he skirted the edge of the cliff, but neither did they stop paralleling his course. Where he moved along the narrow gap between plantation and open oblivion, they followed, staying among the brush.
He could catch sight of a few at a time, as covered in water as he was, they became shiny with the wetness. There were more than enough of them to pose a severe threat if he attempted to get back through.
Exposure to the rain wasn’t helping, his wounds bled profusely, and his body was wracked with shivers. The downpour and cold would kill him as surely as running into the clutches of the small creatures.
He needed shelter and warmth.
Fenix swept his gaze along the Cliffside, looking for any overhang or outcropping. About a mile along the outer edge, he found a perfect spot, where a chunk of the land mass had fallen away and left an overhang above a small alcove of rock just below the lip.
It wasn’t too far down, so he could get to it, but far enough out that the land crabs would still have trouble getting to him.
If they got over their avoidance of the cliff’s edge at all. He gathered up some sticks and twigs. Various dead plants overhung the edge, so finding the wood was easy, lighting it was going to be the problem. He bundled the wood together and tied it up with some vines, making a bundle that he left on top of the cliff while he climbed down.
The overhang was small, and the dry patch beneath would barely allow him space to sit, but it was dry. Rain fell from the cliff above in long rivulets, making it like being inside a waterfall. He grabbed the trailing vine he had let down and tugged.
The bundle of wood followed after and he caught it, and then nearly dropped it over the side. He was shivering so badly he could barely get his fingers to respond correctly.
He lay down the large bundle and started to pull out some smaller sticks and kindling before he realized he didn’t have anything to light the wood with.
His backpack with the various supplies he needed to pare the kindling into smaller pieces and the flint to ignite it with were all back in the brush
with the land crabs.
The wood was saturated with water so he wouldn’t be able to light it by rubbing, and he didn’t even have the bow or bowstring to get enough speed necessary to start a fire.
If he could not get warm soon, it would be the end of him.
He might have been out of the rain, but it was now bitterly cold, and he was not going to dry out in time for his wounds to close. The constant shakes also broke up any coagulation. With the wetness of his body and the tremors keeping him bleeding, he would pass into hypothermia even quicker.
He was at a loss, his focused mind couldn’t think of a way to survive the oncoming night.
He had to, his earnest desire to live was paramount, and survival was everything. For him to die like this, in such a position—it was unthinkable, unacceptable.
For Fenix, life was to be lived, to be explored, to be consumed in every ounce of possibility that he could muster.
How he was here, or even why, mattered far less than staying alive to work it all out. There must be a plan, an idea of some kind, he couldn’t understand how he could have let himself get in this position, without some sort of hope.
Unless that was exactly it, he had not planned it, he hadn’t got a clue. Perhaps he was lost entirely, caught at some crime and sentenced without any possible reprieve. The very concept was alien to him, even without the few memories he had to guide him. He had done something, something significant—and very dangerous.
But, not something he did not expect, of that he was sure.
There was a way if he could just live long enough to find it. His body grew warm, like a fever, which wasn’t surprising, given the rain and the wounds he had received. Infection was very likely, but it was the least of his current concerns.
He was surprised suddenly by the armlet, though, when it also grew warm, quite warm, as if the metal itself was heating.
Surely that shouldn’t be happening.
He pulled his left arm forward with his right hand to get a look at it. The golden metal with the strange symbol was warmer than his skin, but not by much. His skin was steadily increasing in temperature. His need for a fire seemed to be welling up within him, drawing vital energy to his skin, inflaming the epidermis and wafting off him in waves.
The buildup swelled and crested, he could feel the energy coursing through his veins. Not like adrenaline, nor like fear, more like a sensation of prickles and the fuzzy feeling you get when you stand too close to an imminent lightning bolt.
Instinctively, he threw his hands forward, toward the rough pile of kindling and twigs he had abandoned, and from his fingers flew fire. Orange and red streamers erupted to fall upon the wet collection, immediately lighting the wood.
The outpouring of energy also left the rest of his body in a dull wave of expanding sparks. Unfocused and raw, it dried out his skin and clothes. His wounds crackled, the bleeding rose up to the surface and hardened in seconds.
It was the most amazing feeling as it passed through him and wrung him out, leaving him completely drained as it went. He retained enough presence of mind to add more wood to the merrily burning fire.
Fenix sat back against the cliff face.
Swirling rain turned amber from the reflected firelight while he rested, his body a dull ache and seemingly empty. He had enough wood to keep the fire going for a while, and now that he was dry, he could focus on his wounds.
In a few moments, once he had rested.
It was magic. It had to be.
It was his own magic, from within him.
So not only was he a skilled and well-trained fighter, he had other advantages. However, magic required mastery, training that did not come naturally, like breathing, and he would have to relearn what he once knew.
Alternatively, he could be wrong about that.
This magic had come when needed, and it was likely he would find more. If he could gather up some memories, he might be able to recall how to use his magic again.
He pulled on the cord around his neck, checking that the pouch on the end containing the Vitae stone still securely tied. He undid the knots and revealed the orange rock, it didn’t reflect the firelight but seemed to be both dull and glowing with its own inner light.
He considered it carefully, his body exhausted, but his mind slowly forming thoughts. Holding it up in his hand, he willed the Vitae to be drawn from the stone, and energy seeped out and down into his palm then up along his arm.
The sensation spread along his shoulders and up and down his neck, flowing through his body and head. Fenix hadn’t eaten or taken a drink in days, it was evident now that the Vitae was replacing that lack of nourishment, filling in the gaps of his exhaustion from the energy consumed by the magic and his lack of other sustenance.
As soon as he felt better, he noticed that his wounds also began to heal, the flesh rapidly knitting together and closing over. The simple cuts and scrapes went quickly, the gnawed injuries from the small creatures took longer, though, and he stopped instantly.
The energy needed to restore him had taken quite a bit of the Vitae stone’s volume, and the healing was taking even more. He could heal naturally on his own time now that the immediate danger passed.
The Vitae would be needed later.
A memory of being special…
On a planet that was a quick hop through a portal from the war camp, his people had found a deserted wasteland perfect for their needs in arcane study.
The planet was dead and nearly lifeless, with a thin atmosphere that provided little of the robust oxygen content necessary for most life. They theorized that within a few more centuries there would not be enough oxygen for even their superior metabolisms.
On this planet, Fenix’s race founded a place of study within the canyons that cracked the landscape open. What had once been the sea bed was now a vast swath of open ravines that ran deep into the earth.
Within these fissures, they had dug and delved and built a complex warren of tunnels and rooms. The different shafts each led down into a canyon, and miles below the surface, these fissures then served the new masters of the dead world.
The experimentation and magical energies that accompanied dangerous evocations were channeled and contained within the canyons, making them perfect places to try out different spells. So the entire school of magic for his people, based as it was on the need to test and improve, moved here, where they could do so without threatening their homeworld.
Destructive forces capable of annihilating armies first scorched the high sides of these rocky channels before being employed in calculated use.
Fenix’s people expanded across many worlds. Their network of portals and the sanctity of the worlds they proclaimed as their own reinforced by the groupings of worlds and judiciary systems that joined with all those who could travel among the stars.
That such travel was done through instantaneous means was also the mark of a civilization ready to be approached by the greater councils.
Or by any other means employed by the race or races in control of particular areas of space.
Long ago, the higher powers had decided that an open stance toward allowing the universe to grow as it would was better than enforcing their beliefs on everything.
Exactly why was uncertain, but that there had been cosmic battles and atrocities was clear.
Their magical academia found signs that their school now resided on one such victim of that time, this planet of dust and stone.
**
Their temperament suited the barren landscape.
Fenix himself enjoyed his visits, and the stark reality of losing was a profound reminder of why he, and his race, was so driven to survive. This world showed the folly of being unprepared or weak.
Even their progenitor and the instructions left for them to improve and evolve themselves gave detailed philosophical pointers in that regard.
To lift themselves up and take part in such a grand scale of events was to also risk such a grand scale of failure.<
br />
It would not be tolerated.
Discipline was vital to survival, but discipline not just over rules and behaviors but over oneself in all things. To master magic, one was not merely born with the potential, one had to also be able to use it in the multitude of forms it could present itself.
Fenix himself was chosen for both a great talent and the mind capable of adapting to the demands of rigorous arcane practice.
Most anyone could learn magic of some kind or another, the basics of transmutation or conjuration could be done with the correct rituals and sigils, for example. A smart enough being of any stature could divine, through the use of the right mumblings and pronunciations that beckoned powers from the cosmos.
Smaller spells were always there for even the slightest of skills.
However, to wield magic, to truly expand the might of that power, one had to have a talent for the energy itself.
Proper breeding practices, attentive culling of the incorrect bloodlines, assessment of the psychic and supernatural powers of individuals even in the slightest of degrees. The school for magic dominated the evolutionary path of his people, they ascertained the most viable, and pursued with relentless determination the right strands and mixed the blood of their kind. All to the purpose of growing a stronger and more powerful people.
This was done certainly for the physical aspects, grounded magical vessels, but also to breed in the more significant and greater traits that allowed for magical supremacy.
Their efforts had not been in vain, they now had contact with and healthy respect from major powers among the planes, within the realms, and across this stretch of the cosmos. High mages, powerful wizardry, arcane sorcery, all sourced among Fenix’s people and sought after for trade in political affairs or wars.
That he was to be one of them, chosen for his gifts, proved that Fenix was superior to everyone else in the war camp.
He could not say so; it was forbidden. Respect to those you stood upon to reach higher goals was also taught. He was reminded of this upon arrival at the school for magic, barren basalt rock and grainy sandstone lined the cavern he arrived in.
Convict Fenix Page 10