Scrape. Scrape scrape. The spoon strikes the sides of the bowl with force as it gathers gruel. Weak light, so alien in the Depths, fills the tunnel. Shadows wrap around the creature holding the spoon. Dark leathers drape from its hunched shoulders. Purple eyes look out from a darkened alcove at the assembled elves.
It raises the spoon to a dull black beak and pauses. “You want to pass through,” the high-pitched voice careens through the tunnels. It presses the gruel into its beak, lapping at it with a lumpy tongue. It pats a chewed upon grey leg. “You don’t have payment to spare.” Scrape.
The three Forsaken look among themselves. Eyes twitch from leg to companion. One swallows, “We have more awaiting our return after–”
“Quiet.” The creature waves a claw in an aimless direction. The unwieldy movement flows like mud. The elf opens his mouth but no sound escapes. Instead the creature cackles, “Good! Just like your soul.”
Another of the Forsaken steps forward, “We cannot spare our warriors. Not yet.” The silenced elf’s eyes go wide.
The bird-like creature sits in repose as the sentence dies in the tunnels. Scrape scrape.
The elf narrows his eyes, “We have gems.”
Scraaaape.
The elf turns his body, angling his left hip away from the creature, “Or Blood from the Mistress.”
Scra-scrape.
The elf throws his hands up, “We’re hunting some humans, you can have one.”
Scraaa–
The creature stops. “Tell me about them”
The elf gives his companion a sidelong glance, “There’s some human children.” He smiles with a glint in his eye, “One is quite fatted.”
Scrape.
“Er, right.” He quirks his mouth, “There are two human women. Quite muscular, one of them. Probably tough. The other looks fatty enough.” The descriptions hang in the air, untouched. The elf continues, “There are two male elves. One is Doësin, some priest. He’s probably tough too. The other is half-Reäsin, half-Forsaken. He’s got a bit–”
“Stop”
The Forsaken halts. The trio shifts.
The bird-thing sets its gruel bowl down. “Tell me about this last one.”
The de facto leader looks to the quieted one, who flashes a few hand signs. The leader shrugs, “He is older. Deftly capable with a blade. Magic too. They called him Iroshi.”
The bird-like creature leans forward. The light washes over wrinkled purple skin. “I get the half-breed.”
Disquiet ought to dwell in Tharan’s mind. The troupe travels further into the Depths. The priority of the family’s safety subordinates to Fiontann’s rescue. Whatever ill the Forsaken subject Fiontann to falls on Tharan’s shoulders. He must rescue the Bread Eater.
The tunnel slopes upward. Iroshi leads them, following contours and anomalies only the family’s patriarch understands. Twists and declines bring them through dizzying passages. If anything happens to Iroshi they’d likely never find a path out.
Besides that Iroshi may not be leading them toward Fiontann. His adopted family’s safety and autonomy seeks assertion above a stranger, even one made a temporary ally by circumstance. The Half-Reäsin creeps along the passages with precision and care. Tharan believes the elf will help him, however begrudgingly, but it is hardly guaranteed.
Worries atop worries. Dread should fill my every step.
But every time he catches sight of Alkara beside him… well, he is grateful that the Depths lives up to its name, and obscures her ability to observe him. He feels such a peace and contentedness next to her. So much so that he wonders again at his trepidation. Why not just tell her now?
Yes, an excellent decision. I’ll bare my Hum to her and she’ll forget her closest companion. Despite her mourning. I think not.
He craves to say something. Alkara walks with zombied steps. She chews her lip constantly. More than once she’s winced when some bite proved too hard. Her lip’s corner glows red with irritation. Clenched fists serve as analogues to her tormented expression.
The children require frequent stops. Splitting the group, though it would allow the children to move toward the surface, imperils both. They are stronger together.
During one such rest Tharan contemplates yet again a conversation with Alkara. He glances her way with trembling heart. She stares, downcast, at the ground. He could join her, provide comfort with affirming words.
The rest breaks too soon. Iroshi gestures to each, mimicking some version of the Forsaken’s own signs, to continue on the path. The children draw up with weary expressions. The half-Reäsin gives each an encouraging shoulder squeeze or smile, but does not relent. They move on.
Tharan fidgets. The group observes silence at Iroshi’s direction. If they break it, the dangers of the Depths will become realized. So Tharan keeps his thoughts captive, unwilling to risk exposing them. For Iroshi is certainly correct in his assessment.
Tharan smiles, pressing his lips together with pained force. He is not to use “that accursed Bell” again. Another of Iroshi’s directives. The silence nags him. There is no greater discomfiting scenario than this. Tharan resolves to curtail his usage, but reserves the decision when necessary. Doë’s wrath refuses to be bridled by petty concerns such as silence in the Depths.
Iroshi holds a fist up, and calls back, “Halt.” Though spoken in quiet reserve, the word breaks the still tunnels in a comparative roar.
Tharan starts, his thoughts jumble as the sound disrupts his reverie. He peers past Iroshi. The tunnel continues for a few paces before opening up into a sprawling cavern. It holds the same rocky features as others they’d past, save for the body laying alone.
Tharan squints, willing his sight to stretch further into this accursed place. Is it Fiontann? A dull cloak hides the figure’s features. Whether it is even an elf remains an unanswered question. Tharan steps closer, but Iroshi turns back with a sharp look and shakes his head. The change in angle and closer distance, however small, allows greater definition. A soft blue hue graces the body’s exposed skin.
“Fiontann!” Tharan’s voice rings out, despite his effort to strangle the call. It echoes down the tunnel and into the cavern.
Chiron cries out. His face contorts into a twisted grimace. He holds a hand to his head and grunts.
One of the children whimpers.
Alkara reaches out, “Chiron?” Her voice bleeds through the dampened area Iroshi maintains. It sounds far off, as though a great chasm separates them.
Tharan tenses his muscles to avoid a shudder. The harmony and balance of sound ties the Glöhasin to Urda. Within that diminished zone his hum shivers.
Chiron looks at Alkara. A vacancy lives in that expression. He snaps to with a start and smiles with a wave.
Wariness blooms in Tharan’s chest. He attempts to survey their surroundings, but sees nothing. This isn’t good.
Iroshi whirls and dances away from a thin, yellow beam. The beam strikes the tunnel’s floor and a sizeable chunk of rock turns to pebbles and scree. Iroshi barks a laugh, “Missed as usual, Vilsper!” He draws his rapier in one smooth motion.
A hunched over, featherless bird-creature darts in from the shadows. Its taloned feet click against the floor as its cloak swishes behind. The creature swings a skull-topped staff.
Alkara pulls an arrow from her quiver but pauses. She squints, waiting until Iroshi dodges to the side of the creature’s blow and looses her arrow.
The arrow streaks through the darkness and rips a hole in the creature’s cloak. It whips its beaked face toward Alkara with a glare. The avian eyes gleam in something between purple and orange.
“Hold Alkara!” Iroshi shouts before leaping into the creature’s reach. He snaps his rapier upward to deflect another swing of the staff.
Goosebumps prickle the back of Tharan’s neck. Iroshi and the strange creature continue their duel, swiping at one another with controlled thrusts and slashes. But Iroshi’s movements aren’t as swift or deadly as Tharan remembers. Both grin through it all.
Dreonna calms the children, giving each soft words of encouragement and squeezing shoulders and arms where needed. With that accomplished, she moves to Chiron and examines him.
Tharan shifts his gaze between the sparring match and Fiontann’s prone form. Tingling surges through his arms, Iroshi dances away from the unconscious pathfinder. And with each clash, the half-Reäsin draws the bird-creature further from the body.
They move a few paces from the pathfinder. Tharan unhooks his pack and sets it down. Another pace. Tharan tenses, waiting for an opportunity to recover his fallen comrade. Two more paces. His eyes flick back to the battle at a laugh from Iroshi.
This is an oddity
Iroshi’s daughter, however, twitches with each lunge or strike from Vilsper. She licks her upper lip.
“Alkara–”
“Sh!” She glares at the pair in their strange ballet.
Until Iroshi trips. And though Tharan suspects it may be some feint or ploy, a small gasp escapes Alkara as Vilsper seizes the opportunity.
With blinding speed she looses two more arrows. One grazes the bird-creature’s shoulder. The other sticks into an arm.
“No!” Iroshi lunges toward Vilsper, reaching out with his free hand.
Too slow.
Vilsper scrambles back and scowls toward Alkara. Its gnarled, clawed hands glow as it gestures.
Tharan raises his hand to the Bell, summoning a censure to mind. But before he opens his mouth the glow on the creature’s claws vanishes.
Lines etch their way across Alkara’s flesh. They turn and twist, forming outlines of birds with large eyes. And everywhere the lines march, blood seeps from the creases. Pinions push through the skin, then the birds’ beaks and feet. A score or more of the skin-birds rip themselves from Alkara’s flesh and begin pecking her.
Screams of children flutter through the air, echoing off the uneven walls.
It happens in a moment, and then Alkara falls to the ground. Blood pools under her from the countless pecks and patchy flesh. Her mouth gapes and she stares unseeing at the ceiling.
“Alkara!” Dreonna’s trembling voice fights to overcome the torrent of screams.
Tharan takes a single step toward Alkara when a bolt slams into the right side of his upper back. He grunts with the pain, instinctively reaching toward the shaft. Tharan glares into the darkness, chanting admonitions against the unrighteous. Fire flares into life, burning downward from the ceiling in a spiral. Silhouettes dance within the flame to a chorus of pained cries.
He stumbles to his knees. Images blur in front of him. Every part of his body pulls down, twice as heavy as before. He shakes his head, focuses on the two Alkara’s laying prone nearby, and crawls in her direction. Fatigue pulls at him and threatens to drag him under.
The light. He cannot let the light in those eyes die out. Not yet. Not while he has breath in his lungs. Fire living in his heart.
He crawls through the blood, and grasps Alkara’s wrist. Gripping her with blood-covered hands, Tharan chants again. He traces the ancient symbols of the Chord in the air. Droplets of blood hang in the air as he gestures. With each symbol, more divine energy suffuses the prayer.
Alkara splutters. Blood sprays up and drops back onto her face. Her skin warms with the surge of restoration flowing through her body. Her eyes meet Tharan’s and flutter before she falls unconscious.
Somewhere in the cavern the fighting renews. The clash of metal on hardened wood rings through the tunnels. Twangs from crossbows report the passage of bolts.
Tharan sighs. His shoulders sag with the released tension. His lips stick to his teeth. Had his prayer worked? She should be awake. Fog blankets his mind and thoughts slip from his grasp.
There… there must be… is a way… but what? How… Her lifebeat!
Tharan touches his fingers to her wrist and tenses, stilling his own ragged breath. Small bumps thud into his fingers. Tears gather at the corner of his eyes. Tharan pulls Alkara up into his arms, cradling her with chants of protection, strength, and healing. Where once they tormented, worries of how it may be perceived leave him alone.
Enough of this.
On returning to the surface he will tell Alkara everything. Nothing will keep him from this task.
A hand touches his shoulder. Tharan starts. His head swims in the darkness until he finds Dreonna standing above him.
She gives him a weak smile, her eyes heavy. She feels the lifebeat at his neck. “You’ve been poisoned again.” She shakes her head, “You’re rather unfortunate, aren’t you?” Dreonna rummages through her pack and holds out a vial of purple liquid. “Here. These are usually for Uncle Iro, but you need it if you want to survive.”
Tharan’s eyes sag. He nods and looks back at Alkara.
Dreonna sets the vial down, outside of the pool of blood. She kneels next to them and pulls Alkara’s body, one gentle tug, into her lap. “I’ll take care of her. You need to drink this,” she tilts her head in the direction of the vial.
Tharan stares at the vial. He plucks it from the ground and struggles at the cork, but gets it unstoppered. Tharan pitches the vial’s bottom toward the sky and shudders when the bitter concoction splashes into his mouth. His throat closes up, trying to keep the vile liquid out, but he pushes it down, swallowing with a grimace.
He breathes, heavy and hard, “Thank you.” He holds the blood-smeared vial out for Dreonna. They exchange a look before he returns his gaze to the vial. Tharan huffs once, smears the blood onto his tunic, then drops the vial into her now outstretched hand.
Dreonna smirks, tossing the vial into her pack. “The last man who fell in love with her waited too long.” Her smile turns sour. “She found out after he died. Now it haunts her.” Dreonna strokes Alkara’s hair. The unpracticed motion slides along with awkward jaunts. “She feels responsible. Guilty. And that burdens her further.” She looks back at Tharan. “Tell her or leave her alone.”
Tharan nods with a rigid, unresponsive motion. Dreonna’s statement and ultimatum fail to pierce his stupor. The jolt inches through him in quiet increments. His thoughts clearing, his muscles relax. He looks at Dreonna with weary reserve, “When again we bask in Mïeran’s light, she will know my heart’s desire.”
“Good,” Her tone clips through the din, “Now, mind the children.” She clears her throat, “Chiron is experiencing… odd symptoms. I need to work and the children need protection.”
Tharan shakes some of the rigidity from his body. “Yes, I will secure them.” He stands and plods over to the small group.
The children huddle together, gripping their mates with arms around waists. They shy away, eyes dart to Tharan’s tunic and breeches.
He looks down, blood clings to the clothes. He smiles at the children, “I know.” He swipes his hands against the drier parts of his tunic. “It is frightening, yes? But we shall make it clean.” He shows his not-exactly-dry palms to the huddled group.
A lip quivers in the group. Tears drip down a cheek. One buries their face in the shoulder next to them. But they nod.
Tharan’s throat tightens, but he squeezes his fist tight. “Would you like to learn the song I sing when I am frightened?” The words strain at first but he evens his tone.
Exuberant head bobs. The sniveling one raises their eyes.
Alwyn pipes up, “Is it an elvish song?”
Tharan grins, “A Glöhasin song, indeed.” He puffs up, holding his shoulders back and chest out. “It is Doësin, which is part of your heritage, young one, should you wish to connect with it.
Giggles erupt from the boy as he bounces on tiptoe. He looks at the others with big eyes and a bigger grin.
Tharan sings, soft but clear, that ancient lullaby passed down by his father. The verses come as though spoken through some primeval Doësin. Each refrain echoes from the past. Just as they always do. Generations breathed these same words even as the language morphed into what Tharan knows.
He repeats the syllables with care, allowing the children to mimic the Glöhasis sounds. The children imitate the verses with errors but not unintelligible. Tharan takes them through two verses, repeating the lines for the children until they have practiced it sufficiently.
Tharan finishes the refrain and smiles with the children. “Now when you are afraid, you have that weapon to ward off whatever frightens you.” He nods once, firm, “Your courage will find you and serve you well.”
Alwyn nods slower than the others. His eyes sparkle unblinking.
New murmurs draw Tharan’s attention back toward where Dreonna tends Alkara. Iroshi kneels next to Alkara with hushed words for Dreonna. The half-Reäsin’s eyes scan the group of children and Tharan. He nods once.
Fresh wounds mar Iroshi’s skin. Though mostly scrapes and shallow cuts, a single singe darkens the skin at his shoulder. Aside from Iroshi’s words, no noise prowls the cavern.
Tharan judges the Forsaken threat must be eliminated. Iroshi’s expression bears no hint of concern, except focused on Alkara. His rapier sits in its sheath slumbering once more. Tharan gathers the children closer and draws near to Alkara and her family.
“We’ll rest for an hour,” Iroshi looks over his daughter’s prone body. Worry steals into his evaluating expression. “If she’s not awake after… we’ll need to wake her.”
Dreonna opens her mouth.
“I know,” Iroshi cuts off the objection before it starts. “I can’t carry her and Chiron isn’t up to the task.” He huffs and sits down, rubbing at his neck, “I don’t know what Vilsper did to him.”
Tharan notes a certain companion was left out of Iroshi’s list. “And Fionntan?” The tone pricks harder than Tharan intended.
“Yes,” Iroshi nods. He breathes hard, but with control, “We’ll need to wake him up as well.”
Tharan furrows his brow. He looks back at the Bread Eater, “So he is–”
“Alive. Quite.” Iroshi sighs. “I’m glad that this wasn’t wasted effort, but it’ll only make the journey harder. Can you take care of him?”
The timpani in Tharan’s chest booms. The Cimäudi Clag prepares himself for another exertion. Channeling the divine will of Doë exhilarates but also exhausts.
A scuffle draws his attention. Dreonna struggles with Alkara, the frail alchemist pulls Alkara by the armpits. The movement stutters as Dreonna takes staggered steps.
Tharan joins Dreonna. He places a gentle hand on her shoulder, “Please, let me help.” He winces as the bolts jostles in his back. With a grimace he resolves to assist despite the pain. Tharan takes hold of Alkara and begins the long journey to the side tunnel.
Dreonna would only drain herself by exerting so much to move Alkara. She likely will not be able to muster her pack after this. The pack laden with vials and mortar, unctions and concoctions.
More than they appear. Each of them gifted beyond the obvious.
Tharan muses on the desire to learn all he can from the alchemist. Her skill may rival the masters in Afanen. Tharan chuckles internally at the notion, only allowing a slight smile show the inner mirth.
He rests Alkara against the stone of the tunnel. After catching his breath, he bundles a bit of cloth under her head and stops. The temptation to caress her faces threatens to whelm him. He stares with hunger.
Perhaps once he has expressed himself to her. He clears his throat and closes his eyes. Touching her now would betray her agency. The affront to her honor could not be atoned for. No, Tharan can resist this intimacy until and only when Alkara provides an explicit invitation.
Tharan’s cheeks burn. The memory of holding Alkara in his arms comes unbidden to his mind. Is Dreonna watching to see if he touches her again? Blaming whatever toxin the Forsaken had used would be a deflection. Solitude demands his company. Somewhere to refocus and recover his control.
Tharan steps away from the fallen archer with rapid movements. Dreonna will keep her safe. He bears straight toward Fionntan without a look back.
Alkara wakes with a jerk. A moan escapes her lips. She bites down hard, clenching her jaw and cuts the moan off. She won’t wake the others. They’ve suffered enough. She can handle this herself. She flutters her hands open and closed, keeping down the gasp rising in her throat. A moment passes as she calms her breathing.
Dre supports Alkara as she sits up. Candleglow flickers. Dre checks a few skins before finding one sloshing with water. She offers it without comment.
Alkara takes one long swallow from the skin. She wipes her mouth with a forearm, “What happened?” Her memory fuzzes around the edges. Tharan had been struck by a bolt. Uncle Iro was fighting that thing.
Uncle Iro!
Alkara’s eyes widen, she snaps her head to the side and searches for her uncle. Uncle Iro lays with the others, probably asleep. Alkara never knows when he’s pretending.
“What happened?” Dre’s expression darkens. “Uncle Iro fought that bird thing and told you not to do anything stupid.” She mimes drawing a bowstring back. “But you had to add another scar to show everyone you don’t know how to listen.”
Alkara snorts, “Thanks.” She drops her arm. The water skin hits her lap with a heavy thump. “Just one more for the growing collection.” She looks at the other sleeping forms, counting. “Is everyone else…?”
“We made it through.” Dre lets a little despair creep into her voice. Her expression softens until her face matches her posture. “Uncle Iro says his friend shattered Chiron’s mind. The elf says he’ll heal him once we rest.”
Alkara frowns. Friend? That thing hadn’t acted like an ally. Attacking Uncle Iro with crazy spells and then whacking at him with a staff?
She shakes her head. Some friend.
Dre continues, “Your friend has a bolt in his back. We’ll take a look at it soon. It’s the least pressing.” Her eyebrows jump once and she rolls her eyes, “Uncle Iro is teaching his friend a sword thrust.” Dre looks Alkara up and down, “How are you? Uncle Iro said we’ll need to move again soon.”
Alkara rolls her shoulders and winces at the twinge. She stretches her limbs, looking at the faint outlines of birds on exposed skin. She stands and tests her body. Tiny stitches complain but don’t resist. “A little sluggish.” She rubs at a sore spot on her arm, “But other than that I feel fine.”
“Give it time.” Dre’s gaze fixes on the bird scar, “I’ve never seen anything like what Vilsper did.”
Alkara smiles. “Good thing I’ve got you,” She offers a hand to pull Dre up.
Dre nods toward Tharan, “I didn’t bring you back by myself.” She raises her eyebrows at Alkara.
Alkara blinks and then laughs. She smiles tight-lipped, “You’re funny Dre. Not funny like Chiron, but still funny.”
Dre nods. Her eyes don’t leave Alkara. Her expression shifts into something usually reserved for examining aberrants. “I understand.”
Uncle Iro breaks the exchange by pulling Alkara into an embrace, “Alkara!” The relief in his voice fills the tunnel. “Kav’s claw girl, after all that we almost lost you.”
A flurry of emotions hit Alkara. That small child holding a dull blade and rabbit resurfaces in her. She buries her face in Uncle Iro’s chest, stifling the tears that burn for release. She squeezes him hard as she can, “I’m sorry.” A sob bubbles up, “Thank you.”
“Thank him,” Iro pulls back and tilts his head at Tharan.
“Why?” Alkara snaps. The tears at her eye’s corners drip out as she narrows her eyes. Her jaw tightens. “Did he save my life again?” She spits the words out. “I wish he’d stop doing that.
“Ingratious as ever. I think that’s the record.” Uncle Iro chuckles. “I’d save you the trouble, but I had my hands full.” He squeezes Alkara’s shoulder, “I think I’ll accept his generosity this time. He was in pretty bad shape himself.”
Alkara sighs. She casts about for something to say, “Dre said we’re moving again soon.”
Iro smirks. “Yes.” He points to the far end of the cavern, “Vilsper is there, ready to guide us. So we’re going to keep you in the middle with Tharan.” He looks sidelong at Alkara, “You can work your way up to thanking him.”
“Great.” Alkara mutters.
Don’t know what all the fuss is about anyway.
Tharan keeps to himself. Before the ambush he had seemed eager to talk. Now he walks in mute silence, eyes on the path ahead. He hadn’t even asked how she was feeling. Alkara finds herself reminiscing on his taking notice of her misery. Now his lack of concern builds a fire in her stomach. She huffs as they travel side-by-side. What was all that concern for Guen? Had he been pretending?
She stops huffing. Instead she walks along in silence too, stoking the fire. The questions swirl together, feeding off each other. The pretense of care he had exhibited prickles her.
Uncle Iro calls the group to rest after some hours. Or maybe it was Vilsper. Alkara’s thoughts had been churning too violently to notice who had made the call.
She stomps toward Dre and the Catsnip potions she brews, leaving Master I-feel-nothing alone. She’ll take watch while the others rest. No need to share the tent.
He’s got his Bread Eater friend to keep him company anyway. They can feel nothing together.