Tharan stares at his office wall. Its grain sits beyond his perception as he tries to absorb the full context of the missive he received. Dorië stands inside the door, unseen but Tharan feels the attendant’s presence.
They pursued him.
The warnings. Iroshi’s instruction. Common sense. Ignored. They had gone in spite of them all.
In hindsight it was obvious. No manner of warning would have delayed Alkara. Their efforts are at best optimistic, likely foolish.
What darkness awaits? Whatever force, whoever assembled them, to keep Iroshi in check, would be formidable. Perhaps greater than Alkara can overcome.
She will not back down.
Alkara will fight and fight until the end. Any deep beast or twisted entity they set against her will slay her when she does not listen to reason.
Tharan stands. His chair scrapes hard against the floor. He turns to leave but stops, pauses. Possibilities race within him. He shakes his head and sits, taking out parchment and quill. The steps trickle in to form one of the most dangerous excursions he has ever attempted.
Dzaire Sonnagh’s irritation will be well earned. The paladins cannot accompany Tharan. They will delay or, worse, prevent his departure. Leaving Alkara to die.
Local Mercenaries will not suffice. Fiësin warriors could dispatch the Forsaken with ease. Doësin sellswords and even some human mages are plenty capable of completing the task. But no. This needs to stay quiet.
The scritching of his quill abates. Tharan sprinkles fine cuttlebone over the ink and waits. Some short time passes. No need to count. Only a few beats, internalized with so many previous dryings. Tharan jostles the parchment, sifting the powder, before folding it and passing it to Dorië. “Follow these instructions exactly. This is of the highest priority so make haste.”
Dorië takes the parchment. A question shimmers under the surface of Dorië’s expression. Tharan lifts his chin to a slight incline and the question boils away. The attendant leaves without a word. Tharan swallows his sigh, breathing out a slow, quiet breath.
Mïeran spins about Urda twice with no arrivals. Tharan promises more coin and still no response. His heart quickens at the thought of the ticking clock.
Tharan paces his front hallway. Up and back. Up. Back. He clenches his jaw with a look out the front window. Tharan’s training pertains to short term defense, a stopping measure until his Paladins arrive to step in. Against the creatures in the Forsaken Realm they would be insufficient.
Tharan starts to look out his window once more but wrenches his attention away. He shakes his head at himself as he stalks away from the front door. Nearly jogging up the main staircase, he finds his Solarium and kneels before the anvil placed within.
He had done this for months, and only grown more certain of his love for Alkara. But more than that, he has the strong sense that for some reason, Doë needs her. For what, he cannot fathom.
The logic eludes him. His mentors and advisors alike struggle to clarify his augury. Why would a Glöhasin deity take any interest at all in a human woman? Particularly this woman. The Doësin, the ideal Doësin, share little with Alkara.
The conviction holds firm despite Tharan’s misgivings. Failing the support from his counsel, his recourse must be to protect her himself. He will find Iroshi before the Waste Walkers, negotiate his release, and dismantle the trap.
Negotiating with the Forsaken may prove more difficult than the journey to find them. Their hatred for the Glöhasin grows with each generation. And Bell Keepers especially.
But even these circumstances will not detract from his determination. Tharan must convince them to release Iroshi. Otherwise…
Images of Alkara slain by the Forsaken swim behind his eyelids. The bow he had made as a gift lay next to her, bloodied. Her arrows tumble across the ground. Hair splayed out from the braid with blood soaking through. Her green eyes flutter one last time before staring open and unseeing. Guenwyvar whines.
Tharan’s eyes snap open. Guenwyvar. Urdima.
The Bread Eaters.
He exhales a puff of air with relief and sings a quick chant of gratitude to Doë. Then dashes down the stairs to arrange the meeting with Pathfinder Boann.
“Bread Eaters Fionntan,” Tharan nods to the short-haired forest warden, “And Caitria,” he looks to the grey-eyed female warden, “Thank you both for coming.” Tharan guides the wardens to seats in his parlor. The smoke of lavender incense clings to the air. “Pathfinder Boann explained my request?”
Fionntan smirks, a scar forces his mouth into a lopsided smile. The Bread Eater, like his counterpart, wears a mottled tunic and breeches of greens and browns. “Boann said what he could.”
Caitria nods with the statement. “You need guides. Underground.” A bright yellow feather sewn into her tunic’s shoulder breaks the camouflage of her clothing. A slight lump in her pant leg betrays a hidden weapon.
Tharan nods, unperturbed, “We’re going into the Depths. Discretion and skill are both vital.” The Bell Keeper holds the wardens’ gazes for a moment. “We are to approach and negotiate with Forsaken.”
The two wardens flick glances at each other.
Tharan smiles with no humor touching his eyes. “Yes, I understand.” He unrolls a parchment across his tea table. Ragged lines ran across the parchment, twisting and turning to form the approximate tunnels the Doësin know about. “We are traveling outside of your usual patrol.” He points to a tunnel with unfinished lines. “We are also traveling outside of the mapped portions near Afanen.”
The two pale and stiffen. Caitria murmurs, “Afanen.” Fionntann grips Caitria’s wrist before turning to Tharan. “This business is dire to take us so far.”
Tharan sets a smithing hammer on the table. “A Glöhasin has been captured.” He pushes past the wardens’ sharp gasps. “I will negotiate his release. You both will watch the Forsaken and keep them civil.”
Caitria stands, “Let’s go then.” Her partner stays seated, staring at Tharan.
Fiontann leans against the sofa. “We are not prepared for a journey into the Depths. When will we leave?”
Tharan nods, “I have secured supplies for the route. We leave now.”
Fiontann opens his mouth but closes it again. He makes no move to leave the sofa. Caitria taps her foot into the parlor’s carpet.
The Bell Keeper breaks the silence, “We must assist our brethren, this I have seen.” He rolls the map up and places it in a scroll case.
Fiontann nods and joins Caitria. Together with Tharan they return to the home’s entry. The wardens retrieve their packs and sling their weapons. Axes, bows, and a couple odd daggers. Caitria turns to the exit.
“A moment,” Tharan interrupts the Bread Eater’s departure, “Please. He holds out his hands, one to each. “Take my hands.”
They furrow their brows. Fiontann takes Tharan’s hand and nods to Caitria. Once she grips Tharan’s hand, they both close their eyes with heads bowed. Caitria begins chanting a short prayer under her breath. Fiontann waits.
Tharan stretches his consciousness to the Bell under Mt. Doë. Toward the resonance with which the bell sings. Each note forms part of that underlaying current the Chord placed through Urda. Tharan’s attention dances along that melody, moving across the beats and pulling himself through the current.
Pressure fills the trio, building with the ringing of the Chord’s harmony. Tharan’s heart pounds, arrhythmic beats misaligned with the melody. He ignores it. His fingertips thrum against the Bread Eaters’ gloves, sewing together and unstitching. Tharan pushes the sensation from his mind. The scent of the home’s wood tears through his nostrils, then musty dirt, metals, coppery blood, and fetid fungi. He relaxes his nose, letting the smells filter through without dwelling on any.
And finally he finds the pattern. With one surge Tharan pulls the three through a gap in the sound and into the tunnel.
A bell’s peal echoes through the tunnels, overwhelming the quiet. Fiontann throws his hands over his hands. He squeezes his eyes shut. The grimace on his face whitens the scar of his mouth.
Catria gags, choking on nothing. She sinks to her knees and puts her head in her hands. Her torso trembles.
“Wha—,” Fiontann coughs and spits phlem onto the tunnel’s floor. “What was that?” Some blood pollutes the mucus.
Tharan flexes his left hand, stretching it out from Catria’s grip. The reverberations harrow his form, but he had done this many times. The discomfort fades. “I attuned us with the Chord. Then I brought us out of it before we were overwhelmed.”
Caitria murmurs, “Overwhelmed.” Her face remains buried in her hands.
Fiontann pushes one of his nostrils closed and blows. A thick, lumpy mucus spurts out. “I can walk next time.”
Tharan nods. The tunnel is as he had left it. A soft decline leads from the bell he had placed further toward warm air. A soft blue light shines through the area from the bell. Flat violet mushrooms grow in a ladder-like pattern against the opposite wall. An earthy mulch stench permeates the tunnel.
Caitria stands with labored breath. She rubs her arms, “I didn’t—” She peers up the tunnel that leads to Afanen’s Fao Thalash Geat. Then she looks toward the descending path. “Are your paladins meeting us…”
Tharan shakes his head, “This requires discretion even from them.” His mind turns back to the blessings he needs ask of Doë.
“Discretion” The word leaves Caitria’s mouth limply. She glares at Fiontann, who is slinging his bow. Caitria starts to do the same but stops. Hers is near twice as long as Fiontann’s. “How far down are we?”
Fiontann tests the bow’s draw, “We’re a half mile in, is that about right, Cimäudi?”
The Bell Keeper stiffens. He need not measure himself. “How do you know?”
The Doësin opens a pocket in his tunic and removes a muted red stone. “We’re here because we’ve plumbed the Depths before.” He holds the stone for Tharan to examine. “This radiates with the warmth of the Furnace below. The closer we are, the redder it gets.” He stuffs it back into the pocket. “I’ve only ever seen it cherry red. About two miles. It’s supposed to go blinding white at the bottom.”
Tharan chuckles. Boann did well. “I am glad you were chosen. Let us gather the supplies.” He walks up the slope, heading back to Afanen’s underground entrance.
The packs and sacks sit in a crevice away from the tunnel’s floor. Dull light limns the supplies. Tharan snaps his fingers and the light vanishes. They parcel out the load evenly and head back downward.
Catria tugs on Tharan’s shoulder. “Bell Keeper.” Tharan nods to her. “I mean no disrespect but…”
Tharan holds the warden’s gaze. The trio stand not far from their entry point at the bell. Soft blue light grazes their feet.
Catria swallows, “We’re only three. And the Forsaken can be vicious.” She shuffles from one foot, shifting her weight. “Can you defend yourself when it comes to blows?”
Tharan turns to the Bread Eater. The stark light paints her a complete blue, somehow richer than in daylight and more serene. Apprehension in Catria’s eyes distorts the effect. She would be great in Doë’s service under the right circumstance. “I will do as you will. What I must,” Tharan gestures to the pristine mallet on his belt. “Our journey from here begins in prayer.”
Caitria mimics ‘prayer’ even as Tharan bows his head. He catches a shrug from Fiontann before closing his eyes. The pair quiet, allowing a distant dripping to echo its way up the tunnels to them.
Tharan intones, bringing an almost imperceptible rich and warm timbre into his voice. “GrandMaster, be it in your wisdom to guide us to that Childe of Reä held in these Depths.” His voice echoes down the tunnels, unusually reflective off the uneven surfaces. “If instead we find ourselves given this task to accomplish, give unto us the strength to succeed.” The last of his words flee into the darkness.
Tharan waits. And waits.
Fionntann looks down the tunnel. Caitria raises an eyebrow at the mushrooms, sneaking side glances at Tharan through her inspection. Outward, Tharan exudes calm. Inward, his ribs tighten. Perhaps they would have no guidance. Worse would be if Tharan’s inspiration proves incorrect. Had he misinterpreted? Is he wrong to come down here?
His hears embrace the faintest vibration, strange against Doë’s sound. It compliments it with impish jubilance. Reä’s sound. Tharan turns his head left and right. In places the vibration vanishes only to reappear a moment later. It feels like a trick of the tunnel, but it registers nonetheless.
“We are prepared,” Tharan gestures to the only tunnel they could follow, downward. “Let us depart.”
The Bread Eaters exchange glances as Tharan passes them, but follow.
The trip stretches through the tunnels. Denizens of the tunnels, natural elements, and the dark itself endanger the journey. Branches in the path force the trio to pause. Fiontann surveys the path ahead, Caitria secures the rear, and Tharan meditates. And sometimes backtracks within a few steps down the branch. Reä’s antics spare not even the Cimäudi Clag.
Tharan maintains his calm demeanor. At times he begins to ask Fiontann if their heading is accurate. Instead he tightens his mouth and steps with more force. Fiontann chastises him to silence and their cycle begins anew.
Quiet fills the Depths. Unnatural, tainted, and corrupt. It is as a slime covering his hum. This is not the quiet that is the absence of mortal sound. No, a sinister doldrum disturbs the air. Something that speaks of no life.
But there is life here. Shadows whisper the presence of their masters. Scuffles alert them. Outlines of critters break the rugged cavern walls. Distant sounds of violence mark the end of some unfortunate prey. Then silence reigns again.
Fiontann acts as sentry and continues ahead of the others. He stops the trio often and disappears ahead. The sickening silence curls out behind him. When Fiontann returns they detour despite Tharan’s protestations.
The sentry does not always alert in time. Fierce battles with aberrant things ensue. Each fight leaves Tharan shaking, trembling. The urge to recoil builds but he resists fleeing from the creatures. He wrenches his mind from staring slack-jawed to focus on aiding the Bread Eaters.
Not for the first time Tharan wonders if his choice to come without his Paladins was the correct one. He had weighed the practicality of both courses. His mother’s voice comes unbidden to berate him for bringing a trifling escort. Tharan cannot help but agree. The unnatural quiet must be dragging him toward insanity.
Countless hours pass. The Depths warp the sense of time without remorse. Eventually, though, Fiontann returns from scouting to suggest they rest.
Caitria takes a knee, “How much further is this Reäsin?” She rubs her shoulder, massaging away the echo of a wound that Tharan had healed.
Her question reiterates one brought to Tharan mind through their journey. The vibration of Reä’s sound in its constant hum offers no hint. Doë wants him here searching for Iroshi. “Our journey requires several days travel.”
Fiontann nods with set jaw. Caitria begins removing camp items from her pack; bedrolls, a blanket, and her mess kit. Fiontann watches without comment. He creeps to the rear, inclining his head toward the path they had left.
“Wait,” Tharan holds his hand out to Caitria, “Our camp will be less rugged than that.”
Caitria furrows her brow. Without comment she removes a thin tarp.
Tharan inspects a tunnel wall. It extends in broken planes left and right. Here though a recess breaks a section of the wall into a pocket. He steps backward, avoiding both uneven surface and Caitria. “Pack those up, please.”
The Bread Eater shakes her head but obeys. She folds the blanket and tarp, places them in the pack, and finally packs the mess kit. All this is done with an even, dry expression. But no comment. She stands and joins Tharan at his gesture.
Which leaves an alcove of bare rock a smidge larger than Tharan’s parlor. He nods at it in greeting, smiling. The Bell Keeper spreads his arms to that nook. Tharan brings his voice into the Depths with a throaty, deep chant.
The chant fills the tunnel, the deep chime of his Bell a resounding drone underneath. The chant takes shape, forming solid walls, a window frame, and a door.
Fiontann runs back from his rear sentry post, “What are you doing?!” His question breaks above the din of the Doësin Bell’s chime. “That damn sound probably alerted every blasted creature down here.”
The Bell’s report fades into a discoordinated echo before fading altogether. The fading Sound seems to drain Tharan of his strength, leaving him with the familiar exhaustion after calling on such power. “So they know to stay away,” Tharan indicates the door, his arm heavy, “We will be safer with protection, and a restful sleep will suit us.”
Caitria pushes the door open and enters first. She scans the room as though expecting an ambush in the newly constructed underground cabin.
Tharan follows after without any such caution, holding himself high in spite of the effects of the Bell. Fiontann grumbles from behind, but enters nonetheless. A round table dominates the center of the room. Three stone beds sit at the corners of the room. Tharan places his pack on one bed and sits on it, releasing a slow exhale. “This structure will protect us from the denizens of the dark.”
Fiontann tosses his pack into the foot of a bed. “And tell them exactly where we are.” He peers out the window shutter.
His companion Caitria throws her bedroll onto a bed and rolls it out. “Doë will protect us. This is a gift.”
Tharan pauses. The Bread Eater is right, of course. But not every gift is one of protection. Sometimes they spur growth. He eases the door closed. “Whatever heard that will know we are not to be trifled with. Nothing down here invokes the Sound of Doë in fear.”
“Maybe not,” Fiontann pushes the shutter closed. “But maybe they should.” The Bread Easter sits on his bed and tenses.
Their rest proves peaceful. Though it was impossible to tell whether it was the Sound, or simply disinterest that kept enemies away. Tharan sighs slowly when Fiontann informs them nothing had crept close during their rest. It had been a calculated risk. Sleeping without his chest plate had tipped the scales.
Their journey continues in much the same way. They travel for a few hours along stretches of nondescript earth tunnels, through passages aglow with fungal light, and above bubbling pools of fetid waters.
Against Fiontann’s wishes, Tharan erects his stone cottage the next night as well. And the third. The trio continue on with dwindling supplies. Each day of travel needs another day’s worth of rations for a return trip. The Bread Eaters supplement their food with foraged goods, but their expertise lay on the surface.
Caitria halts them a few hours into their journey on that third day. She points to the side of the tunnel where lay a stone basin and some metallic ovaline ring under a thin layer of dirt.
Fiontann approaches the basin and inspects the area around it. After examining the area to his satisfaction, the Bread Eater nudges the metal ring with his dagger. A soft clink accompanies the reveal of another ring. Fiontann pulls at the ring and dislodges more until a chain appears leading to the basin.
A fetid odor grips Tharan, disturbed when the chain upended the earth. “For guard dogs?” The question comes with a note that whatever creatures worked sentry duty would surely not be dogs. Tharan eyes the chain. The last link ends in a twist of metal, broken.
Fiontann looks back with a frown. He shakes his head once, “Probably people. Prisoners.”
Quiet falls between them. They move through the area with slowed pace, inspecting bits of debris. A broken tool, some scalpel-like blade. Hardened food items, some round dark-shelled thing. Caitria pushes through and out of the area first.
She creeps back moments later as Tharan inspects a rough pewter plate lined with intricate flowing script. Saliva floods the inside of his mouth. Tharan forces a swallow. She kneels next to the Bell Keeper to speak into his ear, “Large cavern ahead.”
Tharan nods. Reä’s Sound had stilled as they entered this cavern like it was waiting for something. Now it comes rushing back, louder than before. Iroshi is near. He wills his heart to stop fluttering. “A moment then, if you please.”
Tharan takes a small cord from his pack and ties small knots along its length. With each knot he chants, “Bring to me that uncertainty of flame, Doë.” He finishes the sixth knot and a heat flows through him from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet.
Better to be prepared, these are the Forsaken after all. They’ll likely attack him after their introductions. If it gets that far.
He breathes in deep but forces the air out slowly. Even Glöhasin diplomats would behave similarly. The two seem destined to hate each other until Urda stops spinning and the Chord resolves. Each cursed in their own way. Tharan shakes his head.
Now where did that thought come from?
Doë teaches community, negotiation, and peace. Assaulting a foe, even the Forsaken, on first meeting is anathema. Perhaps the decision to curse the Forsaken was made despite Doë’s protestations.
Tharan breaks his reverie. He affixes the tied cord to his belt while standing. Caitria and Fiontann stand near this cavern’s exit, where the large cavern lay. He takes a moment to himself. Their trial looms ahead.
Grandmaster, bless these negotiations with thine eloquence.
Light blooms from Tharan. The rays creep across the earthern floor, shining light into crevices bereft of that gift for unknown centuries. He steps into the larger tunnel and illuminates two figures. Forsaken.
Curved blades hang on their belts accompanied by crossbows on hooks. Tattoos adorn one sleeveless arm. The other sports close cropped hair. Their faces are twisted in anger. Hate. Further behind a tent sits anchorless on the rock.
They dance a choreographed maneuver as one steps forward and the other slinks into shadow. Light dances on the remaining Forsaken’s tattoos, revealing scenes of torture and grief. “So enamored with being buried alive you came this far?”
One of the Bread Eater’s shifts behind Tharan, out of his sightline. He relaxes his expression, keeping from any hint of response to the implied threat. “I am Tharan onë-Naldo. I speak with full authority for all Doësin.” His voice rings through the cavern, deep into recesses and into unseen tunnels. “You have detained one of my kith from the surface. We aim to resolve this matter peacefully.”
The Forsaken looks left and right, the pink of his eyes glints with malice. “No surface folk down here except three lost calves.”
A soft drip announces the presence of a pond deeper in the cavern. Tharan waits. The Forsaken keeps his other arm behind his back, small movements betray his use of it. Still Tharan waits.
“Just a castoff or two. Maybe we’ll add to the herd.” The Forsaken drops his inflection at the end. Not a native Glöhasis speaker.
Tharan bites his smile away. “He may be a castoff, but the Sound of Reä still clamors from him.”
The Forsaken nods, a wry smile creeps into his expression. “That one is a half-breed so we split him in twain,” He lifts two fingers and separates them into a V shape. “We’ll keep the cursed half.”
Tharan forces a curt nod. Reä’s Sound vibrates from the darkness to the right. “This is an opportunity for civil discourse.” Sniggers respond from the darkness. “Yes,” Tharan continues, “And we can resolve this to equal benefit. Let us rise above our people’s differences.”
The forsaken curls his index finger down, leaving the middle up. He moves his hand in a circle, “Why don’t you take your lost calves and turn around. Leave and—” he cocks his head to one side. “Leave and lower your voice, guppy.”
Tharan nods. He strains to hear whatever alerted the Forsaken, but only quiet hits his hear. “Apologies, but I have no interest in your ease at the expense of my purpose. Let us use this time for mutual gain. I am here to negotiate the Reäsin’s release. What price shall we agree on?”
The Forsaken looks to the side, into the dark recesses of the cavern. “A small work force and magical talents.”
Tharan considers. He allows several more droplets to plunge into that faraway pond before continuing. “I can provide a workforce.”
“At a hefty cost.”
Tharan bobs his head from side to side. “This workforce is worth its weight and more than its cost.”
The Forsaken fingers the crossbow on his belt, “You’d trade children for your half-breed?”
Tharan arcs an eyebrow. “I promised a better workforce. Not more of the same.”
Chuckles sound from the darkness, different from where the sniggers erupted. “Your life for the Reäsin?”
Tharan tilts his head with raised brow. “I would make a poor slave.” He smiles, “And taking me would ensure you and your companions were slaughtered.”
A tattoo depicting an elf being ripped apart glows. “We’re worthless.” He looks back into the darkness before addressing Tharan again. “But you sound valuable. And with so few friends…”
“The friends I keep shows how little value I truly have.” Tharan lifts his voice into a higher pitch, keeping it light. “Consider how we traversed these Depths just the three of us.”
The Forsaken blows out a wistful sigh. “You may just be an overconfident fool. What’s your proposal? Is it as funny as your being dangerous?”
Tharan looks the Forsaken in the eye and holds the gaze. “I can and will leave of my own volition.” Without releasing the man’s gaze Tharan removes a parchment from his scrollcase. He unfurls it and displays it toward the cavern, “A workforce of automatons.” Sketched upon the other side are Tharan’s best approximation of the rumored creations. “A hefty cost and exceedingly rare. More efficient than children or even half-Reäsin.”
The Forsaken blanches before narrowing his eyes. “Only the Praktikruv’ have such devices.”
Tharan smiles, “The Doësin have been in contact with the Praktikruv’ for decades. More than enough time to share methods and improve upon them.”
The Forsaken’s eyes flicker to a couple of points just behind Tharan, then back to Tharan. “Your companions seem as surprised as I am. I think perhaps you lie.”
Tharan holds up a hand in reassurance. “My companions are scouts. They spend their time in the forest, and are hardly privy to the intimate details of the inner circles of the ForgeMasters.”
The Forsaken studies them for a few more beats, his eyes flickering from Doësin to Doësin, finally settling back on Tharan. “Then tell us. Who is your envoy from the Praktikruv’?”
Tharan bows a little and smiles again. “If I reveal the identify of the envoy, what guarantee do I have that you will not simply hunt them down and kill them to sabotage our relations with the Praktikfuv’?”
“There is no such guarantee,” Another Forsaken steps into the light. This one with sharper cheekbones and wearing long, black robes. Pouches hang from a tight belt. He beckons to Tharan, “You may call me Vondril. We can bargain. Follow. Perhaps an arrangement can be made.”
Tharan nods, gestures to the Bread Eaters, and then follows Vondril.
“No.” The tattooed one steps forward, extending his hand. “Alone. They will stay here.”
Tharan tilts his head to Vondril, who stares impassively, “One will accompany me.”
Vondril cocks his head, “I think not. We’ll treat together and your companions will stay here.” He pushes his jaw foreward, “You will be safe so long as we negotiate truthfully.”
Tharan turns to the Bread Eaters. They scowl as twins. Tharan scans their faces for any hints of their thoughts. Neither wants him to agree. He turns back to the Forsaken. “Very well.”
Vondril backsteps into the dark void and Tharan follows. The light emanating from the Bell Keeper catches Vondril’s footfalls but the Forsaken keeps just out of the light. The cavern stretches far from the light’s circle, into eternity.
Tharan anchor’s himself to the clash between Doë’s and Reä’s Sounds. The turbulence grows with Tharan’s continued journey into the cavern.
A pair of tents disrupt the shapeless darkness. Reä’s Sound thrums from one. Tharan keeps from looking at that one. Vondril is watching, but the darkness hides other observers.
The Forsaken negotiator takes a seat between the tents. He indicates a stool for Tharan. “What interest do you have in the half-breed?” Vondril gestures to the tent that decidedly vacant of Reä’s Sound.
“What could that impact?” Tharan eyes the darkness, looking for any hint of the unseen Forsaken.
Vondril smiles coldly. “It might.”
Tharan arches an eyebrow. He throws his hands up with a degree of theatrical flourish, “He claims to be a prophet of Doë.” Tharan huffs, “And is supposed to bear an uncanny resemblance to Doë, lending credence to his claim.”
Vondril shrugs, “So what will become of him?”
The Bell Keeper taps his foot, “He has been preaching blasphemy. We will bring him to justice.”
Vondril raises his eyebrows, “This is a great cost to apprehend him.” The Forsaken chuckles, “Especially as we’ll likely kill him once he’s outlived his purpose.”
Tharan affects disinterest, “Yes, you might. Or might find some other purpose.” His heart thuds in his chest. He quashes the feeling into dust, “What use is he now?”
They speak in circles for some time, chasing each other’s sentences and half meanings. Tharan works toward their common interest, earning Vondril’s agreement step by step with drawn out explanations of the automaton. Hours pass larghissimo.
Occasional interruptions from Vondril’s warriors remind Tharan of his hunger. They gesture with hand motions faster than Tharan can track. Even if he knew what they might mean.
They dance around the subject of Iroshi’s value. Vondril first arguing the half-Reäsin could work for centuries yet.
Tharan clasps his hands together, “He is old even for a Glöhasin. You would burn through him in decades.” The corner of Vondril’s mouth twitches. Surprise? Annoyance? Difficult to discern.
The Forsaken nods. “We have skilled surgeons and priests. He’ll serve through a few generations.”
“Even so, one automaton would last ten times as long.” A small pit forms in Tharan’s stomach. There are no automatons, and though repercussions will be limited, they would still enter the piece at some point. “I cannot provide eight.”
“And I can’t accept only the one. This man’s labor would be skilled in ways an automaton’s can’t.” Vondril flashes a sign toward the darkness.
Is this really the leader?
Tharan’s thoughts keep returning to the idea. Atimes the Forsaken is deferred to, and other he behaves as though he is receiving orders. “I agree. More than one, less than eight.” Tharan smiles. The muscles in his cheeks complain at their overuse.
The two whittle away with point and counterpoint, dropping from eight or rising from one automaton. It pains Tharan to not agree with six, an auspicious number, but they agree on five nonetheless.
Tharan stands and stretches. “I am satisfied with this arrangement. Building so many will require a month’s work, but I cannot leave the false prophet here.”
Vondril nods. He peers into the darkness and signs toward one of the others. A sinister smile creeps into his expression. “We can agree with this, however, there is one matter we have not discussed.”
Tharan steels himself and sits. The pit in his stomach reminds him of its presence. “Then let us speak of it.”
Vondril settles back, as though leaning against an invisible back to his stool, “Our previous contract must still be satisfied. We will accept the automatons in one month in exchange for the Reäsin.” He shakes his head slowly, “But there is a woman to be… subdued. That will be your payment today.”
Tharan sighs. He rolls his eyes, “This is not a job for my people. Our skills do not lay in assassination.”
Vondril crosses his arms, “Subdue the woman or we kill the half-breed.”
“You have me at a disadvantage. I do not even know the woman.” In Tharan’s heart there can only be one. Why else would Iroshi be here? Why would Tharan have come? “Of what unsavory type is she?”
“Human,” The forsaken spits the word out. “Brown hair and green eyes. Light brown complexion.” He smirks and lets a modicum of disbelieve enter his voice, “Apparently very good with a bow. She’s in league with your heretic so this is as much a favor for you as for us.”
“Is she a criminal? What has she done?”
“Does it matter? She’s part of the job. You help us take care of her, or the deal’s off.”
Tharan frowns, then nods. “In that case, yes. Perhaps I can help take care of her.”