Destiny

by Paul B. Thompson

  The tip of his staff slipped on the wet granite, and he went sprawling. He skinned the knuckles of his left hand and got a nasty knock on the jaw. Undeterred, he got himself back onto his feet. Rain rinsed the blood away.

  When he reached the exact center of the platform, an odd thing happened. The rain continued to pour down on him and splash onto the stone, but it made no noise. It was weird to observe the fall of rain yet hear no sound of it at all. Curious, he clapped his hands together. They made no sound either. He drove the butt of his staff into the granite. Nothing.

  The unnatural silence allowed other sounds to come forth. These grew louder as he concentrated. They were the voices of his people in camp. By facing slightly left or right he could make the voices louder or softer. He shifted an inch here, an inch there, until the voices were gone, then drew a breath and spoke the name closest to his heart.

  “Kerian.”

  His ravaged lungs permitted no loud cry. He spoke in a normal tone. In the noiseless void, his voice rang like a high, clear bell. “Kerian, this is Gil. I pray you can hear me. I’m waiting for you. Don’t give up!”

  Water dripped from his face as he lowered his head to gather his composure. When he could trust his voice again, he called to the lost explorers. “Hamaramis, this is the Speaker. Come back if you can. We need you. Everyone is needed. Come back.”

  A beam of sunlight swept across the stone disk. It passed over him like a seashore beacon.

  “Come home, everyone. I need you. I need you all.”

  With that his store of strength was done. His knees buckled, and he collapsed onto the rain-washed stone.

  * * * * *

  Hunched low over Eagle Eye’s neck, Kerian shook her head. “Do you hear that?”

  “Hear what?” Sa’ida asked.

  “That buzzing sound.”

  Sa’ida did not. She suggested Kerian’s ears were congested from flying. Her own had popped painfully several times as Eagle Eye climbed higher in the sky.

  “It sounds like music or a voice.”

  “None could reach us up here, could they?”

  That was true enough, ordinarily. But Kerian recalled how far her voice had carried when she stood on the huge stone platform in the center of Inath-Wakenti. She described the great disk to Sa’ida and explained how it brought voices to her ears from a great distance and likewise projected her own voice over several miles. Perhaps what she’d heard was another such distant call.

  If so, Sa’ida reasoned, then why hadn’t she heard it too?

  They had no answers, and Kerian felt a growing sense of urgency. Beneath them the untamed desert flowed by. The view was unutterably dull to the Lioness and her impatience rendered the endless vista even more unbearable.

  For her part Sa’ida never tired of the view. The blank sands were broken now and then by a narrow circle of green grown up around a well or spring. Nomads in sand-colored gebs looked skyward when the shadow of the griffon flashed across them. Even at this height, elf and human felt their cold hostility. The nomad children were not so unfriendly. They raced madly below the passing griffon, obviously thrilled to behold such a rare sight. Pointing, jumping up and down, the children waved at the soaring flyers.

  Once they plunged into a bank of clouds, a very unusual occurrence over the desert. Warm mist flowed around them. A dark shape loomed out of the murk on their right. Kerian immediately turned Eagle Eye away, banking sharply left.

  “What—?” Sa’ida swallowed her question as the dark shape grew more distinct. Long and gray, it resembled a ship’s slender hull, bare of masts or sails. Glass portholes dotted its curved side. Lights gleamed within. White steam billowed from a pipe at its stern. The steam was feeding the cloud, thickening it. Mist closed in behind the machine, and as silently as it had appeared, the strange device was gone.

  Astonishment kept them silent for a time. Kerian shook her head, saying, “Must be the work of gnomes. I’ve heard they build strange things.”

  Sa’ida had heard the stories too, but the device seemed so elegant and purposeful, she could hardly credit it as a creation of that erratic race.

  They burst abruptly into sunshine. Kerian exclaimed in surprise. During their passage through the cloud, they had inexplicably climbed several thousand feet. The air temperature had fallen greatly. Their garments, dampened by the heavy mist, chilled them to the bone.

  “Look!” Kerian pointed ahead. The blue-gray slopes of the Khalkist Mountains filled the view from horizon to horizon, most prominent among them, the three snow-capped peaks that marked the entrance to the valley. Sa’ida was amazed. She’d never been more than twenty miles from Khuri-Khan in her life. She asked Kerian about the white stain atop the three peaks.

  “Is it truly snow?” Kerian nodded. After a pause, Sa’ida asked, “What is snow?”

  The Lioness cast about for a reply. She’d never tried to define snow for someone to whom it was utterly alien.

  “It’s like rain, only much colder. When the air is cold enough, rain hardens and becomes snow.”

  The priestess was as delighted as a child by this discovery. Although a wise and long-lived woman, her education had been devoted entirely to healing and the doctrines of her goddess. She pulled her heavy cloak closer around herself and enjoyed the adventure, marveling even at how very cold her nose was.

  Despite Sa’ida’s pleasure in the trip, she was shivering, and Kerian thought better of continuing at this height. It would be easier if they entered Inath-Wakenti at a lower level. To their left, northwest, a square notch in the rugged range beckoned. Green with trees, its slopes were several thousand feet lower than the mountaintops directly ahead. Eagle Eye shifted course and they descended. The temperature warmed.

  “Better?” Kerian asked over one shoulder, and the priestess patted her shoulder in reply.

  The warmth was welcome but could not dispel Kerian’s worries. Eagle Eye had performed heroically, making such a long flight with very little rest between the journey out and the return, but she wished he could fly faster. She couldn’t escape the feeling that the strange noise she’d heard was somehow a call for help.

  * * * * *

  Trying to find the promised rescue party was no simple task for Hytanthas. Fit as any warrior, he set a rapid pace and tried to maintain it, but hunger and thirst weighed his limbs. Once his torch was exhausted, blindness only added to the strain. Still, his sovereign had promised rescue, and Hytanthas would do his utmost to seek the elves searching for him.

  Trailing the fingertips of his right hand along the tunnel wall, he negotiated the featureless dark. One factor worked to his advantage. The tunnel floor was clear of debris. Beneath his feet was only hard, clean stone. He’d come across no more bodies for quite a long time. He was thankful for that mercy. The dead could tell him nothing. They only reminded him of the fate that awaited him should he not find help or an exit from the subterranean maze.

  The air shivered as if from a light breeze and a voice said, “Kerian.”

  Hytanthas halted.

  “Kerian, this is Gil. I pray you can hear me. I’m waiting for you. Don’t give up!”

  The voice belonged to the Speaker. Was Lady Kerianseray in the tunnels?

  Hytanthas marshaled his scattered thoughts. The Speaker had told him the Lioness was away on a mission, flying to Khuri-Khan to bring back the priestess Sa’ida.

  The Speaker continued, calling to Hamaramis to return. The general of the Speaker’s own household guard was away too?

  Hytanthas shouted, “Sire, I’m coming!” He strained to hear the reply.

  “Come home, everyone. I need you. I need you all.”

  With that, the peculiar resonance was gone from the air. The Speaker’s pleas were at an end. Hytanthas drove a fist into his palm. His sovereign needed him, and he was blundering around in the dark. He fell to berating himself out loud, but broke off abruptly when he detected more voices. Hytanthas held his breath and listened.

  He could hear q
uite clearly the voices and footfalls of five or six people. One tread was heavier than the rest, and the voice associated with it was lower, rougher—a human. How had a human gotten down here?

  Hytanthas called to the unknown party, giving his name and identifying himself as a friend. Drained by hunger and the long sojourn in impenetrable darkness, he nevertheless steeled himself for a final push. He continued to call out as he jogged down the passage. After perhaps half a mile, he could hear the voices more clearly and he identified a female and a male as well as a human male. The number of footfalls told him there were several more elves who weren’t speaking.

  He drew breath to shout, but his warrior training abruptly reasserted itself. What if these people weren’t his comrades? Ridiculous, he told himself. What other elves would be in the tunnels beneath Inath-Wakenti? But why was there a human with them?

  Stricken with doubt, he fell back against the side of the tunnel. To his surprise, he discovered the wall was fluted by shallow scalloped niches. The niche at his back was just deep enough to conceal him. He flattened himself into the cover and waited, prey to all sorts of fears and uncertainties.

  * * * * *

  “I don’t see how you can be sure we’re heading southwest,” said Hamaramis testily. “I lost my sense of direction long ago!”

  Vixona replied, “It’s simple. We made two right-angle turns, then the tunnel made a quarter-radius bend. Therefore we’re traveling about 270 degrees from our original heading or, measured another way, ninety degrees—”

  “I’m sorry you asked,” muttered Jeralund.

  “So am I.”

  Only Jeralund carried a burning torch. The rest had extinguished their brands to preserve them for later use. Jeralund’s flame passed just under the nose of a figure standing in a niche in the wall. What he had taken for a sculpture suddenly recoiled from the wafting flame, and Jeralund gave a shout of surprise. Vixona’s higher cry echoed his. The figure was no statue; he was alive!

  “Put away your swords!” he shouted. “I’m one of you!”

  Hamaramis froze, unable to believe what he was seeing. “Hytanthas!”

  General and captain fell on each other, embracing like long-lost brothers. Hytanthas recognized the other three warriors. Vixona introduced herself. With her writing down every word, Hytanthas quickly outlined his adventures thus far.

  “You’ve been down here more than a week and haven’t spied another living soul?” Hamaramis asked.

  “Not one.” Hytanthas shrugged helplessly. “Only the dead.”

  “It must have been terrible for you,” Vixona said.

  Torchlight played over her upturned face. It had indeed been terrible, but as he stared down into the warm brown eyes that regarded him so sympathetically, Hytanthas found himself smiling.

  Hamaramis related how his party had found Jeralund. The young captain gave the human a considering look, but when Hamaramis mentioned they’d heard the Speaker summoning them, all other considerations were pushed aside.

  “So it was real! I heard him too!” Hytanthas exclaimed. “We must get to him!”

  They were all agreed on that point. The problem was, even with Vixona’s map, Hamaramis’s party hadn’t been able to retrace their journey. The tunnels seemed to alter after they passed through. Intersections vanished, wall paintings noted by Vixona were no longer present.

  “Strange,” Hytanthas remarked. “That hasn’t happened to me. I’m just lost.”

  He asked to see the map. With ink-smudged fingers, Vixona indicated her party’s path on the small page.

  “We tried backtracking from the deep pit where we found Jeralund, but the passages had changed,” she said, brow furrowed. She obviously regarded it as unfair for the tunnels to belie her carefully drawn map.

  Hytanthas gazed down the tunnel behind Hamaramis. “Let’s go back the way you came,” he suggested.

  The general protested. Hadn’t the boy been listening? The tunnel was no longer as Vixona had drawn it.

  “Nevertheless,” the warrior said and set off.

  Hamaramis was put off by his blithe manner, but Vixona said, “We should follow him, sir. He’s been here much longer than we. He might notice something we missed.”

  Taking the torch from Jeralund, Hamaramis and Vixona followed Hytanthas. The warriors surrounded Jeralund and brought up the rear.

  Keeping his voice low, Hytanthas explained to Hamaramis how he’d been prey to hallucinations during his first few days. Those had faded, and he felt able to distinguish between false and real images. He was anxious to see if his hard-won acuity would allow him to see through the illusions that had stymied the rescue party’s attempts to find a way out.

  Far down the route, Vixona’s map showed a crossing tunnel. Hytanthas found it precisely where she had indicated it would be. He complimented her accuracy. The young scribe blushed. Hamaramis was perplexed. His party had backtracked, seeking that very crossing, and it hadn’t been here.

  They continued on. Hamaramis congratulated Hytanthas on surviving his encounter with the will-o’-the-wisps. The general still found it strange Hytanthas was alive when all the other vanished elves he’d come across were dead. Hytanthas hadn’t mentioned his discovery of the warrior Ullian, whom he suspected of having taken his own life. He didn’t know why Ullian had awakened down here, and until he could report to the Speaker, he wouldn’t engage in speculation. He had no doubt at all why he himself had awakened.

  “The Lioness called me back from death,” he said simply.

  Vixona looked up from her note-taking.

  “I heard the commander’s voice. I was falling into oblivion, most certainly never to return, but I heard her voice and it drew me back.”

  Hamaramis offered no comment. They passed a large radial crack in the tunnel wall, positioned exactly as Vixona had noted. Next would come a southeast-northwest crossing passage, she reported. Hytanthas walked faster.

  Jeralund, plodding along near the rear of the group, considered trying to escape, but wandering alone and unarmed in the tunnels seemed a far worse fate than remaining with the elves. The conversation also had given him food for thought. Why had he awakened when so many others had not? He had heard no voice calling him back. He simply awoke as from a sound sleep. Perhaps the magic of the floating lights affected him differently because he was human.

  Vixona gave a cry of triumph. The intersection was exactly where she had drawn it.

  Hamaramis could hardly credit their success. His party had been able to find none of the landmarks on the map once they passed them by.

  “Are you a wizard?”

  Vixona’s question earned a smile. “No, just a hard-working fellow trying to earn his pay,” Hytanthas said. “Maybe the lack of light helped me overcome the visions.”

  They skirted the pit where Jeralund had been discovered. It was silent and dark. The throbbing sound and faint glow were gone. Hytanthas pointed to the footprints left in the dust earlier by Hamaramis’s party. It was a sign they were getting near the surface, he thought. Deep in the tunnels, where he’d first awakened, the floor was covered by a thick layer of bones. That thinned until there was only hard stone that didn’t show footprints. Here the floor was covered by dust that filtered down from above.

  Hytanthas jogged through the last intersection and started up the southeast passage. The others followed until he stopped suddenly, causing Hamaramis and Vixona to blunder into his back. His arms were outstretched to prevent them passing.

  “Listen!” he hissed.

  A metallic ringing came to their ears. There were three distinct rings, a pause, then three more.

  “That’s our signal!” Hamaramis exclaimed, rushing by the immobile Hytanthas. “The Speaker is calling us back!”

  The warriors, bringing Jeralund with them, crowded in behind their commander. Hytanthas trudged tiredly up the rising tunnel after them. Only Vixona remained with him.

  “Don’t worry,” she reassured him. “General Hamaramis is
right. It’s our signal.”

  Hytanthas nodded. He didn’t doubt it, but another realization had stolen away the joy of his escape from the tunnels. The other vanished elves hadn’t been as fortunate as he. He was bringing the end of hope for a great many families.

  Vixona took his arm. “We came to rescue you, but you saved us. The Speaker will honor you for your deed.”

  Hytanthas looked down at her hand. Although ink-stained, it was well formed, the hand of a strong elf woman. He took a deep breath and increased their pace.

  On the surface by the overturned monolith, rain fell in fits and starts. The sun had vanished behind the western mountains, and the last light of dusk was fading from the cloudless sky. Torches had been lit. A large plate of hammered bronze hung in the pit. A mallet rested against it. By hauling the plate up and letting it drop sharply, the elves made the hammer strike. Taranath was there, back from his long patrol. He ordered the gong rung again. The rope gang drew up the heavy plate and let go twice. Before they could do so a third time, something in the pit took hold of the rope.

  Hopeful but cautious, Taranath ordered archers forward. The rope twitched and twisted. A voice from the pit shouted, “We’re here!”

  “Hamaramis?” Taranath exclaimed.

  “Yes indeed! And we’ve brought company!”

  Taranath sent elves scurrying to ready the windlass. Others brought shielded torches closer to the hole. A harness was affixed to a second rope and lowered down the shaft. Vixona came up first, dusty, heavy-eyed with exhaustion, but beaming. The next person to appear was Hytanthas. As soon as the captain was free of the rope harness, Taranath clapped him on the back with such enthusiasm, he nearly went sprawling.

  The three elf warriors were brought up, and the harness was lowered again, for the old general, Taranath assumed. When the person who appeared was not Hamaramis but a human, consternation bloomed on Taranath’s face. The human made no hostile moves, but the three warriors from the rescue party surrounded him quickly and made certain his hands were securely bound.

  At last Hamaramis appeared. Before he had even shed the harness, he asked about the Speaker. Taranath was extremely grave.