Of Truth And Beasts Part 54

Its head appeared, its jaws widening slightly.

Deep-Root looked up into the black orb eyes of a g'uyll, an all-eater.

This was the all-but-forgotten word of his people for these winged reptiles. Wynn had other names for it, equally little known among other races, like . . .

Wurm . . . thuvan . . . ta'nn . . . dragon.

This one was so much larger than the one Wynn had faced. Its back sc.r.a.ped the ceiling, grinding off bits of rock. Deep-Root reached for the tunnel wall as he lunged.

No, not this time.

His hand rammed painfully into stone and did not pa.s.s through. He didn't look back, but ran down the tunnel, away from the burning remains and deeper into the dark.

Wynn hadn't expected this place to be so similar to what she'd found, no matter that this beast was even more futile to fight. A part of her wanted it to catch her-to catch him-even if this was only a memory. Whatever happened, it would change nothing.

But if it did catch him, it wouldn't know of her. If he died would she die with him while locked in this memory?

Deep-Root slammed hard against stone in the dark. Wynn lost all feeling from his body for an instant. When awareness returned, he groaned upon the tunnel floor, reaching for his face. Touching his head only brought more pain.

Frail red light slowly lit the tunnel's dead end.

Deep-Root rolled over, scrambling up as he drew both daggers. Wynn didn't need to feel anything from him to know how much fear filled him now.

There was the dragon, filling the whole tunnel as its spittle dripped flames upon the stone floor. It just stood there, watching her-watching Deep-Root-as the chaos of the gale whispers grew to a storm.

Listen!

That leaf-wing crackle barely lessened the gale. At first, Wynn heard nothing, and Deep-Root wouldn't turn his back on the creature. Even if he were foolish enough to attack, his blades could do nothing to it.

They come. Listen . . . hear them and know . . . all here are lost.

The voice took away the gale's edge, making its cacophony of whispers grow distant, as if pushed back beyond the rough walls. Wynn felt a vibration beneath her feet.

Deep-Root hesitantly crouched, keeping his eyes on the dragon. He laid down one blade and flattened his hand on the stone. That vibration grew stronger, echoing through him. To Wynn, it was like listening to stone crack under some tool; it kept cracking and breaking and tearing without pause.

Something was coming up through the earth below the seatt.

She had seen the madness spreading here, but if enemy forces outside had blocked all entrances, why dig underneath, and why so fast? Surely they could hold this place until everyone within perished.

Yes, all will be lost. This is written in stone. But in death, what might come if you can kill me?

Deep-Root stared into the dragon's eyes, glistening with fire flickers like polished obsidian orbs. His blades were but slivers against an enemy of such size. The beast let out a rumble that made Wynn want to cover her ears. Deep-Root rose and backed against the dead end.

The dragon began retreating up the tunnel, its bulk too wide to turn about.

Stay here in the dark, listening and unseen at your end . . . or follow me. Either way, you will die, as written in the stone of your bones. But what purpose will death be remembered for, one day to come? Choose.

Its spittle no longer flickered with small flames, and the tunnel grew dark. Only the sound of the creature's steady retreat marked that it was still there, until it backed over the charred remains of stonewalkers. Blackened bones crackled under its clawed feet.

Wynn didn't know what she would've done in Deep-Root's place.

He took one hesitant step and then another as he followed. Once the dragon backed up to the breach into the Chamber of the Fallen, it turned about, heading up the dark tunnel's other way.

There were too many turns in the dark where unseen side ways could be felt in the walls. Wynn had long past lost track of where she was. But each time the way branched, Deep-Root followed the sc.r.a.pe of the beast's movement against the tunnel's stone, until he stopped at the sight of flame flickering in its maw.

It turned into a wide pa.s.sage that sloped steeply downward. Again he followed. A long way down, it emptied into a vast cave, and the air of the place choked him. Wynn felt suffocated, as well, for the stench rose from a large, long pool of viscous fluids that filled most of the cave's bottom.

Soft light flickered red-orange. To one side of the cave, on a slope of rock, the dragon dripped ignited spittle that burned there well away from the large pool.

Sheath your weapons. Do not create even one spark in this place, or we perish to no purpose.

"What is this place?" Deep-Root choked out. "What is in that pool?"

I have eaten and disgorged all of this, weakening myself without true sustenance since my arrival. I am now prepared to die, if you can kill me. First, listen . . . and hear them.

The dragon lifted its head, looking to the cave's distant rear wall.

Deep-Root hesitated, but the beast merely stood waiting. He sheathed his blades and crept around the pool, never taking his eyes off the dragon. It watched him in turn. When he reached the cave's wall, he placed a hand on its stone.

At first he barely heard anything.

Higher.

At that command, he tried to find purchase in the wall for his foot. He reached upward, and the farther he went, the more he felt-heard-the same sound of endlessly breaking stone as in the dead end.

Deep-Root stretched as high as he could, until his thick fingertips touched where the wall curved into the cave's ceiling. The whisper gale rose to a roar in his head, as if he'd stepped into the storm's heart.

Wynn lost all awareness in that torrent.

When it finally faded, she was looking toward the pool, but it was sideways and low, as if Deep-Root lay on the cave's floor. She was sick with dizziness. Deep-Root moaned and pushed himself up as the leaf-wing voice came again.

They call themselves the in'S'yminfil, the masters of frenzy. To the few who have ever escaped them and yet never have seen them, they are known as the Eaters of Silence. They have driven the peace from your people's thoughts-and driven them mad. Nothing can stop this now.

Wynn knew of whom the dragon spoke. She'd learn of these sorcerers, once in service to the Ancient Enemy in the forgotten war. If she'd had her own voice, she could've asked so many questions. But she was only an observer, reliving all this through Deep-Root's eyes and ears.

Your blades are worthless. Something greater is needed to breach my bowels, once I ignite what is left within me. And then . . .

The dragon looked to the pool, and Wynn went numb.

She didn't understand why it needed to be impaled, but it intended to somehow ignite all of the fluid it had disgorged. This place would collapse in an explosion, pulling down those who were right above, digging their way into the seatt. And she knew it would shatter this whole realm.

There is little time, for I cannot prepare all this again. Even now I fade in starvation. That is why I have made certain that what is done here is enough to reach them, no matter the cost.

Every question Wynn wanted to ask vanished as Deep-Root's breath caught.

The way out through the range will become their way, if they take this place-and they will. It is what they seek to gain as quickly as possible, at any price.

Wynn envisioned the map she'd sketched in her journal, looking for what lay just to the north of here.

But the price to stop them is even higher. To halt those who would breach this place, all here must die by our choice . . . though they would be lost just the same.

Wynn began to see the choice the dragon offered; it was no choice at all. Sacrifice an entire people to slow or cripple the enemy's advance, but with no certainty that it would bring ultimate victory. Or wait and hope that more of the dwarves here might yet escape this place of madness, but at the cost of the enemy achieving an unstoppable advantage.

She knew the path the siege forces would secure, for she had traveled it, and then nothing could stop more of them from following. The Slip-Tooth Pa.s.s would take them into the north, unseen until too late. The very tram tunnel that she had used would lead them right to it.

Unlike the horde of undead buried by time in the plain beyond the Lhoin'na forests, nothing would stop an invasion of the living from swarming over it, even into First Glade. Perhaps that was what they were after most of all, that one place the undead couldn't go. And then what would become of the Numan nations? Without First Glade, there would not even be a fragile sanctuary for the few who could reach it.

There is no more time. Either believe or not. If so, go and find what is needed. But if you die before it is your time, all is lost.

Wynn shrank in self-recrimination for all that she'd thought of Deep-Root in the pa.s.sing season.

He turned and fled into stone.

Wynn choked for air, still immersed inside the memory.

Over and over Chuillyon prayed until the rise of Chrmun's presence within him grew into a pure silence, as if he were alone and all that was left alive in this world-as least for one more moment.

And that moment lingered on and on . . . too long.

Chuillyon clung to Chrmun's presence as he barely cracked open his eyes.

He stood there . . . alone . . . staring toward the dark breach where il'Snke had madly thrown himself to his death. Even the flickers of fire on the stone had died, leaving only trails of smoke filling the air.

Where had the creature gone? Why would it leave him alive? For an instant, he wondered if his prayer to Chrmun had affected it, but that was a foolish thought.

From the moment Hannschi had fallen, he had barely had the wits to think or feel anything. His gaze drifted to her, lying on the floor, and then continued onward, stopping at the charred pile that had been Shodh.

Chuillyon quickly looked away from that unbearable sight, and it shook him from complacency. Only moments before, he had been ready to face death. He walked to the hall's end and dropped down beside Hannschi. With a touch of his fingers, he found she still breathed weakly.

"Hannschi?" he said softly, but her eyelids did not flutter.

Chuillyon picked up her fallen crystal, still bright with her warmth, and he looked into the breach beyond her.

He had no idea how or if Wynn had managed to pa.s.s the trap in the tunnel wall, nor how to do so himself. For that matter, Wynn would fare no better than Shodh if the beast had gone her way.

His curiosity, his pride and arrogance, had cost Shodh's life. Hannschi was poisoned and might yet follow her loved one. And someone still had to survive to tell of this place, of what happened here . . . of what waited here.

Chuillyon lifted Hannschi's frail form, which weighed so little in his arms. He realized he would not be able to pump the cart by himself all the way back beneath the range. They were nearly out of supplies, and they would not survive. He needed to get Hannschi directly out of the seatt, into the open air, beneath the sky, where he could find food and build her strength before starting the journey home.

"Chrmun, be with me," he whispered. "Guide me out."

Gha.s.san lay stunned at the shaft's bottom. He had not been able to slow his descent enough and had hit hard. Afraid of moving too quickly and injuring himself further, he carefully drew his legs up toward his stomach, feeling for any sharp pains. His need to move on overrode fear of injury, and he pushed himself up.

Flashes of pain in his back and right leg nearly made him fall again. He fought them, and his arms did not give way. None of his bones seemed broken, but he was bleeding from multiple cuts and sc.r.a.pes. His clothing was torn and shredded in many places.

Once he gained his feet, he found himself at the head of a downward-facing tunnel, though he had no idea where he was or how deep he might be. He took his first steps forward, and then a shrieking blast of wind rushed up the tunnel. It made the tatters of his cloak rise and thrash.

He knew that sound. He had heard it when facing the wraith in the streets of Calm Seatt.

Gha.s.san stumbled along the wall, following that wail.

Chane and Ore-Locks kept running, down and down. Chane had sheathed his short blade and pulled out the crystal Wynn had given him to light the way. All he could do was trust that Ore-Locks might guess the correct pa.s.sage to keep descending.

The dwarf stayed in the main tunnel, never turning aside into smaller ones. Wynn believed the orb would have been guarded someplace deep in the seatt. This was all Chane had to go on in trying to fulfill her desperate plea.

He tried not to let himself think and kept running.

If you love me . . . then go, for me.

Was this the only way to prove his love? If so, then love was unfair.

Without warning, a shrieking wind tore up the tunnel.

Ore-Locks stalled, wide-eyed, and Chane darted around him without a pause.

"What is that?" Ore-Locks huffed from behind.

Chane did not answer, though he knew that sound. Wynn had forced him to sacrifice her for the orb, and he would not let Sau'ilahk have it.

As suddenly as the wind and noise had started, it died.

This time, it was Chane who faltered. He stood, listening for anything, but all was quiet. He bolted onward, and there were no more side pa.s.sages along the way. A dead end appeared ahead, and he skidded to a stop in a small cave.

Ore-Locks stumbled in after him, panting too heavily. The cave was otherwise empty, and the wraith was nowhere to be seen.

Chane began to panic as he looked back up the tunnel. Had Sau'ilahk already found the orb and faded away? No, even in Calm Seatt the wraith had only been able to carry off transcription folios by hand. It had not even been able to make one follow it as it slipped through a scribe shop's wall.

"Look!" Ore-Locks said, panting. "What is it?"

Chane spun around and then froze at what lay in the back of the cave.

He and Welstiel had trailed Wynn and her companions seeking an orb secreted in an ice-bound castle in the frigid Pock Peaks. Magiere had found it on a pedestal, guarded and revered, in the center of a four-way stone bridge over a deep, volcanic fissure. Its resting place had been impressive . . . intimidating. This one lay abandoned, covered in dirt and dust and old bones.

Chane stepped closer, looking down at the globe of a dark material with a tapered spike piercing down through its center. Suddenly, this all seemed too easy.

"Is that what she has been seeking?" Ore-Locks asked.

Chane did not care to explain. A hunk of carved rock was not worth her life. But he had found it, seemingly undisturbed, and so quickly.

"Take it," he told Ore-Locks. "We go back now!"

The dwarf hefted the orb, appearing surprised at its weight, but he wrapped it under one arm while still carrying his iron staff.

"No!" someone snarled.

Chane whirled with his dwarven sword aimed point out. A tall figure limped into his crystal's light. At first he was uncertain who it was, and then he shook his head, not believing his eyes.

"Il'Snke?"