“Cleavon?”
His friend groaned.
“Cleavon?
“Over here.”
Cleft got to his feet, only to feel blinding pain in his ankle, so bad he couldn’t manage more than a few steps.
He looked at it, but the daylight that sneaked in through the opening above them was weak. All he could tell was that it wasn’t broken. So, a sprain, maybe?
“Arnet?”
“He’s dead,” said Cleavon.
Cleavon’s eyes were red. “I should have been able to help. I should have learned these things,” he said.
“What things?” said Cleft, watching the cavern opening.
“Spells. Herbs. Poultices. I don’t know; just something that would have helped him.”
“Let’s focus on getting out of here.”
It was left to Cleavon to explore their surroundings, because Cleft couldn’t manage more than a few steps. As he watched his friend disappear into the darkness – there was barely more than a foot or two of visibility now – he felt a clench of fear in his chest.
Cleavon returned just five minutes later. In a way, that was more worrying because Cleft knew what it meant. At least if Cleavon had been gone for longer, it meant there were places to explore.
“We’re stuck, aren’t we?”
“Just a single tunnel. Runs straight for a while, then gets so tight a mouse wouldn’t squeeze through. I could hear water behind it, but there’s no way we could get past.”
“You could blast it.”
“With what? I don’t know any spells good enough to carve through rock.”
“Someone will come looking for us.”
“They will,” agreed Cleavon. “But they will look in the north, remember? That is where we told them we were going.”
“We’re in deep, aren’t we?.”
“In many ways, Cleft. Oh, gods. Arnet…”
“Where are our things?” asked Cleft.
“We dropped them in the forest when we were picking them up.”
“Then we have no food, no elementals, nothing. We need to find a way out.”
But there was no way out. The only way to the surface was the hole they had fallen through. It was twenty feet above them and the stone walls leading up to it were smooth, offering no way to climb.
The gnomes never reappeared. That was a small mercy, at least. But it was one of the few mercies they would get.
With no elementals, magic would not offer them a way out. They explored the cave, and Cleft hobbled along the tunnel Cleavon had found, hoping his friend was wrong. When he reached the end, he saw how narrow it became, forming into a crack barely big enough to squeeze a sheet of parchment between.
They found little alcoves in the ground that filled when it rained, so although they were drenched every time the clouds opened, at least they had water.
Food, on the other hand, was not to be found.
Cleft’s stomach tightened in agony after three days. He and Cleavon combed every inch of the caves, finding just a few cave mushrooms and some moss, but eating it seemed to do more harm than good.
They would take it in turns to shout, screaming pleas for help up at the tunnel opening. It seemed cruel that they could see the surface world above them, yet had no way of reaching it.
After seven days of starvation, both of them were weak. Cleft’s thoughts were sluggish, and his moods flitted between apathy and anger. Twice he and Cleavon came to blows, only stopped when one of them drew blood with a fist.
After nine days, they stopped calling for help. They rarely spoke to one another. Cleft sat with his back against a dew-covered wall and thought only of Hacinda and his child growing inside her.
It was only those thoughts that gave him any kind of strength. It was those thoughts that took his mind to a dark place, a place he had never imagined he’d have to go.
But it was that place that offered a light.
He kneeled beside Arnet’s corpse, staring at it for hours. Cleavon sat in a stupor, but it was as Cleft stared at his dead friend, that Cleavon finally spoke.
“No, Cleft,” he said.
As simple as that. Almost as if he could read his mind.
“We don’t have a choice.”
“He’s our friend.”
“Our friend has gone to the land beyond. This is just flesh.”
“Our bodies are vessels. We cannot do this to him. He might not have reached the land beyond yet. If we did this, it might stop him.”
“Do you think Arnet would want us to starve?”
“There are some paths a person can’t retread.”
“Spare me. If there was a famine, and people died, do you think someone like, say, Pendras, would hesitate?”
“He would know that even thinking of this leads to dark places. Pendras respects those who go beyond.”
“I have to get back to Hacinda.”
“Cleft…”
But it was too late. The idea had burrowed deep into Cleft’s mind. All he could think about was Hacinda and how worried she would be. How he had to get back to her. He wouldn’t let her be alone.
He wouldn’t allow his son or daughter to grow without a father, the way he had. They would have Hacinda, sure, which is more than Cleft could say about his own childhood, but still. He couldn’t stomach the thought that his child wouldn’t know him, all because he wanted to kill a family of komonauts.
And so, Cleft ignored Cleavon’s urgings. He ignored the retching sounds Cleavon made, and he approached Arnet, and he walked the dark path.
It was just a day after this that they heard voices coming from above them.
Cleft had been lost in a dream since he had taken his first bite, then another, and finally summoned the courage to fill his belly.
Yes, the flesh had given him such vivid dreams. But were they dreams, or nightmares?
He couldn’t say. The images flooded his mind too quickly. Pictures and voices. Symbols. Flashes of something flitting across his dreamscape; some kind of pattern.
Runes, of some sort, etched into his mind and repeating themselves over and over until all he could see was runes, runes, runes.
He almost felt like the runes weren’t just dreams, but were etching themselves inside him. Not on his flesh, but in his soul.
“Cleft,” said a voice.
Cleavon was nudging him.
“Cleft!”
Cleft opened his eyes. Cleavon pointed at the cave opening above them, where four figures were peering down at him.
Were they real?
Part of his brain wanted to latch onto any sign of hope, but another part, a part born down there in the caves, knew that hope was dead.
“They found us,” said Cleavon.
And they had. Huntmaster Mayhew had requisitioned a valuable elemental from inventoryman Amou, and he had cast a tracking spell to find them. A party of five Lonehills reached the cave in the forest, where they saw two skinny, wraith-like figures festering in the darkness.
After cutting logs and stripping bark and vines to make ropes, they fashioned a winch to pull Cleft and Cleavon up. Sitting in the forest, in the open air after so long in the darkness, Cleft felt mild agoraphobia stir in him.
The light hurt his eyes, and when he looked at his Lonehill rescuers he was sure he saw shadows playing over their skin, as if he sensed an overlay of something else on their faces.
Runes?
A blink, and it was gone.
“Where’s Arnet?” asked Mayhew.
“We…” said Cleft, glancing at Cleavon. “We don’t know.”
“He came with you, didn’t he?”
“He was separated from us when the gnomes attacked.”
Mayhew looked at Cleavon. “Did you see where he went?”
What will you say? Thought Cleft. You know I had to do it.
Cleavon shook his head. “We didn’t see. Everything happened so quickly.”
When they finally made it back to the camp, they found that
almost everyone had gathered for their arrival.
First among them was Hacinda. Cleft hobbled over to her, his ankle still weak, his calf muscles skinny and making every step a chore.
She slapped him once. “That’s for lying about where you were going.”
Again, on his other cheek. “That’s for lying about it being dangerous.”
Finally, she kneed him in the testicles. “That’s from your unborn child.”
As Cleft gasped for breath and he heard huntmaster Mayhew and the Elder tell Hacinda that her actions were uncalled for, all Cleft could think was that he deserved it.
However she felt about what he’d done, they hugged each other all of that night, and when Cleft woke the next morning he immediately shut his eyes again and kept himself in darkness. He was scared that this was all a fantasy and that he was still in the cave.
Two days passed in mourning for Arnet. Cleft did not see anyone, because a sickness took hold of him. It started in his gut, where he felt pain slither through his insides like a python. He thought it was Arnet, his spirit wreaking revenge from within.
But even after spending two days purging his body, Cleft still felt the terrible pain in his gut. The only mercy from pain came when he slept, but sleep brought troubles of its own.
The nightmares. Nightmares of runes. Nocturnal fantasies where he felt a great power rushing through him. Sleepy visions where he imagined Arnet’s soul trapped inside his own, banging on the sides and begging for relief.
And then he imagined his own soul digesting Arnet’s, piece by piece.
He saw more runes in his mind. Runes etched into the ground. Runes etched into flesh using bones of the dead.
In one dream, he felt Arnet’s soul disappear from inside him completely. It was then that Cleft saw himself rise out of his own body and float up high, where he looked down upon himself.
It was night, in this dream. And somewhere nearby, an infant was crying.
Cleft paid the sound no mind. He was doing something…but what? He floated higher to see what he was doing.
Ah.
He was drawing a rune on the ground.
But this wasn’t Cleft. He knew he was looking at himself, but at the same time, he was changed. His face, his skin, the aura around him…
He woke with a start, and he sat up and looked around. This wasn’t right. He was alone, and he was in a forest.
Had he sleepwalked away from camp?
It was then that he saw three things; rope around his legs. A knife by his feet. A sheet of folded parchment resting in his lap, with his name written on it in Hacinda’s handwriting.
CHAPTER 38 – Boom Boom Again
Harrien was already with the others when I joined them, and I walked into the tunnel and felt the stone walls around me block out the wind instantly.
“I guess this is it. If we’re right, the Mines of Light will be at the end of the tunnel,” I said.
“Or is just another mine, and I was wrong,” said Tosvig.
I took my old fire poker from my bag, and I opened a jar of yellow alchemooze. I guessed I could have used my sword for this, but it was my best weapon and I still didn’t know enough about the gnomish good to risk damaging my blade.
Using a piece of cloth, I dabbed yellow ooze onto the poker and spread it from the middle to the tip.
Light beamed out of it as if I had just lit a giant candle. There was no flame, no heat, but the glare was bright enough that looking directly at it gave me spots in my vision.
The glow revealed a tunnel that stretched ahead of us. The ceiling was uneven, dropping low in places, and raised high in others. It meant this wasn’t a carefully crafted tunnel, and more a haphazard passage carved into the rock by gnomish dynamite. They had supported by wooden beams, but even so, it was hasty work.
It didn’t seem to fit with the scant things I had learned about the gnomes. I guessed that they weren’t usually accustomed to sloppy mining. They wanted this tunnel made quickly, and there had to be a reason for that. Tosvig might have been right after all.
In this part of the tunnel, there was nothing else to indicate it was anything but a regular mine. I mean, I’d never been in a mine before. But this tunnel smelled of dirt, and parts of the walls were stone, other patches were made from squashed dirt.
Water dripped from unseen places, though I couldn’t be sure if that was real. Maybe, standing in a tunnel, my mind knew that places like this always had water dripping from the ceiling, and it had manufactured the sound to meet my expectations.
With our way forward lit by goo, we started into the tunnel. Judah went ahead, since his practiced scout senses would be useful in detecting danger. Similarly, Kayla stayed a little behind us all, walking at a slower pace and staying alert for anyone stupid enough to sneak up on us.
“What do we know about this place?” I asked. “It seems to me, it’s highly likely an ancient mine is booby-trapped. They always are.”
“You have been before?” asked Tosvig.
“No…but books, movies, comics.”
“Comic?” asked Tosvig. “Comet?”
“Stories, I mean.”
“Ah.”
“Yeah, old mines filled with ancient power are required to have more traps than a rat catcher’s stockroom. I think it’s a law or something. What I’m asking is, should we expect scythes to swing down from the ceiling, or lava pits or anything equally nice?”
“You must understand, Isaac,” said Judah. “Old tales are allegorical. Used to explain, or to teach. There is chance Mines of Light never held power, but old ancestors needed reason to explain theirs and so, created myth.”
“You’re saying this might be a wash-out? A failure, I mean?”
“Personally, I believe there is nothing in the Mines of Light that you will not find anywhere else. Many, many suns ago, when our ancestors were one clan, some had magic within themselves, and others had magic weapons. Perhaps they did not know where these things came from, and they invented story of mines to explain it to themselves. Because a person sometimes cannot accept a power they cannot explain.”
“Ah. Like the gnomes with their prophecies,” said Cleavon. “I have read their prophecy books. Very amusing.”
“The gnomes predict the future?”
“They do.”
“I wished someone had told me before I blackmailed the duke. I could have asked for a prophecy book.”
“They predict the future, Isaac. But they do not predict it accurately. Anyone can make a guess of what is to come. Words do not have a price for speaking them, na? The gnomes’ prophesies are how they comfort themselves. It lets them stare into the future and see something other than unrelenting bleakness. We take solace by explaining our past. The gnomes do the same by imagining their future.”
“Let’s say we find nothing in the mines,” I said. “Will us going there be enough to convince your chief to help fight the ogres?”
Judah shrugged. “Unsure. The weapons our ancestors say they got from the mines have been long lost. Every male or female who becomes chief yearns to become the chief who finds a mighty blade. Chief Fergus will not be happy if we return with no prize.”
“Then we better hope.”
“If it comes to it, friend Isaac,” said Judah, “I will speak for cooperation. I feel I have seen enough in our time together that old stories might be best put into retirement.”
“How did you lose all your fancy blades, anyway? Seems pretty careless.”
“How does anything get lost?”
“Don’t answer me with a riddle, man. If you don’t know, then just say so. If a chief fifty years ago was in the forest taking a crap and he put his magic sword down and a sneaky little gremlin took it, then say that. I just don’t see how you would lose something so important.”
“Some blades were lost. Others broke. All blades have their limits, even ones wrought by magic. And, most pathetically, some blades were stolen by ones of our own clan, who took them and fled aw
ay to start a camp of their own, where they fancied they could become chiefs.”
“Are any of the thief chiefs still out there?”
“If they were, and Kayla, Adi, or I found them, we would string them up to the nearest tree by their guts and have a feast around them while the crowd pecked at their innards.”
“Got it.”
As we walked, I wondered what we were going to see in the Mines of Light. I already knew it was important to both the Tallsteeps and Lonehills, and that decades, maybe centuries ago, both clans got some pretty sweet stuff from here.
That was the whole reason for coming back, right? Get some cool Mine of Light gear, as well as earning the Tallsteeps support for a fight against the ogres.
Hells, that seemed so long ago now. In fact, after spending so much time with Judah and Adi-Boto, it seemed hard to believe there even was a rift between the Tallsteeps and Lonehills. Take the circle off the mages’ heads, and both clans were the same.
But regardless of that, what were we going to find in here?
What was it about the mines that meant the Lonehills could get medallion material here?
Who was to say that there was even anything left inside? Maybe the original Lonehills had taken everything. Or, despite it being supposedly impossible, someone else had found a way in and looted the place.
Or, as Judah said, it was all just a story.
“Doors!” said Tosvig.
He, Harrien, and Adi-Boto sprinted forward now, their footsteps echoing off all sides of the tunnel. They were like children who’d just caught glimpse of the park after a boring car ride, and now they were tearing toward the see-saw.
Tosvig and Harrien, sure. Tosvig didn’t just wear his heart on his sleeve; he held a sign over his head saying this is my heart. Harrien was young, so young he didn’t know that it just wasn’t cool or adult to show any kind of emotion.
But Adi-Boto?
This was the first time since we had gotten rat-ass drunk in the pitmen pen that I’d seen anything but a stoic glare on his face.
Then again, this place was mythical to them; something they probably heard about since they were young but had never imagined they’d get the chance to visit.
Everything Is Worth Killing- Isaac's Tale Page 39