Paul Thompson - Destiny

“He’s at the bottom!” she called.

Hamaramis jerked on the rope to signal he was out of the harness. It was hauled up, and each of the three warriors made the descent. Vixona was the last to go.

“Good luck,” the Speaker said, smiling.

Shyly, she thanked him. It seemed odd to her that it was he who offered kindness. The Speaker was the patron of all scribes, but he didn’t seem to resent her a bit. Perhaps, having the Lioness as a wife, he was accustomed to competent females.

Since she needed her hands free for writing and drawing, she carried no torch. The blind drop through inky darkness was not pleasant. The creaking noises the rope made as it twisted her slowly around only added to the eerie feeling. She looked down between her feet. Moving lights meant the warriors already were exploring the tunnel with their torches. She hoped someone would be waiting for her when she reached bottom.

Her feet touched a hard surface, but before she had time to stiffen her knees, she lay sprawled on her back. Quickly she got out of the harness and tugged on the rope with both hands to let those above know she’d arrived.

A flaming brand approached. It lit the face of General Hamaramis. “Are you all right?”

She stood, wincing from her hard landing. “Fine, thank you.”

He pulled the harness aside and left it on the floor still attached to the hook. She studied her surroundings.

They were in a circular chamber with a single tunnel leading away. Vixona noted that the tunnel bore due west.

“How do you know its direction?” Hamaramis asked.

She explained that the hoist frame had been raised with its four supporting poles aligned with the cardinal directions. The distance marks had been daubed on the rope’s south side. During her descent, the rope had made six complete twists. From the position of the paint marks now, the tunnel must lead due west.

“You noticed all that?”

She blinked, surprised by his surprise. “It’s my calling to notice,” she said simply.

A shout from within the tunnel had Hamaramis drawing his sword and running for the mouth of the passage. “Stay behind me,” he warned. Vixona assured him she had no desire to be first.

They caught up with the three warriors thirty-five yards along. Vixona estimated the distance aloud, in part to distract herself from her pounding heart.

The warriors stood at a crossing tunnel (which ran northeast-southwest, according to Vixona). They had seen a single figure dart across the opening as they approached. Wanting to give chase, they’d thought better of it and had raised an alarm.

“Well done,” said Hamaramis. “Chasing an unknown is too risky. It could be a phantom.”

During this exchange Vixona had been scribbling rapidly. She pulled Hamaramis’s torch closer to her page so she could see what she was writing. The flame wavered and crackled. There was a draft, and it came not from the shaft where they’d entered, but from the crossing tunnel.

“What do you make of the pictures?” she asked breathlessly.

Before he could embarrass himself by saying “what pictures?” Hamaramis saw them. The walls were covered with murals painted in delicate hues. The wall before them depicted a host of elf warriors on griffons and horses.

“It’s Balif,” Vixona said. The warriors, intent on searching the darkness for signs of trouble, didn’t heed her, but Hamaramis prompted her to continue. “This painting shows Balif leading the armies of Silvanos Goldeneye on the Field of Hyberya.”

She didn’t ask whether he knew the details of the story, but simply launched on an explanation. Some clans in the western provinces of Silvanesti had refused to acknowledge Silvanos as their overlord. Small companies of warriors were sent to enforce the Speaker’s will, but one by one they were ambushed and destroyed. Speaker Silvanos sent Lord Balif with the royal army to subdue the rebels. Balif swept the troublemakers away. In a forest clearing called Hyberya, the recalcitrant western elves pledged fealty to the Speaker of the Stars. The battle was one of Balif’s greatest triumphs.

Obviously later generations had forgotten it. Hamaramis was frankly astonished. “You mean elf fought elf?”

She nodded. “Hundreds died. As a result, the western forest was divided into military districts, each with its own garrison. The society of Brown Hoods, believed by the Speaker to have been behind the rebellion, was ruthlessly suppressed.”

“Brown Hoods?”

“A league of rural clerics and wild magicians. The most famous Brown Hood was Vedvedsica.”

By now, all the warriors were listening. They regarded the young scribe with new respect.

“How do you know all this?” Hamaramis asked.

“I’m a scribe. I read.”

The draft grew stronger, forcing the warriors to shield their torches with their bodies. Hamaramis considered their next move. The southwest leg of the crossing tunnel would take them beneath the woodland and away from their camp. Northeast led directly to the circular stone platform. Hamaramis thought it likely that if the tunnel system had a hub, it would be found under the huge platform, the valley’s dominant feature.

They headed northeast, with the breeze at their backs, walking in single file. Hamaramis led, followed by two warriors, then Vixona, and finally the last warrior. Vixona kept count of her paces, measuring the length of the tunnel as they traveled. They’d gone about a mile when the wind abruptly grew stronger. One warrior, caught with too light a grip on his torch, found it snatched from his hand. The burning brand bounced ahead of them for quite a distance, sending out sparks with each impact. It finally came to rest against the wall. By its light they saw a figure struggling on the floor.

“Help!” The plea was in the Common tongue, flavored by a human accent. “Help me, please!” The man was clinging to the edge of a wide pit. Only his head and arms were visible. The elves ran to him, and two warriors dragged him to safety.

He was a human of middle years, dark haired, and dressed in brown leather. When the warriors saw his scabbard and knife, they drew their own weapons.

“Who are you?” Hamaramis demanded.

“My name is Jeralund. I’m a hunter—”

“How did you get here? There are no humans in Inath-Wakenti.”

“I chased a stag through a narrow ravine in the mountains and emerged in the valley. It wasn’t on my map. Last night, before I could get out, some sort of floating fireball touched me. Next thing I know, I’m in these caves.”

One of the warriors relieved Jeralund of his weapons.

Hamaramis eyed the human’s sword with suspicion. It was a war blade, “Are you a soldier?”

“I have been.” So had most of the able-bodied folk on the continent.

A further search produced a pouch of coins, new ones. Steel coins usually turned brown after a month or two in circulation. His were still bright and free of rust. They were also Nerakan.

“I’m afraid you must consider yourself our prisoner, at least for now,” Hamaramis said. The man protested, but Hamaramis cut him off. “It’s for the Speaker to decide what’s to become of you.”

Vixona, who had moved away from the interrogation for a peek into the pit, called for the general to take a look. The pit was extraordinarily deep. She doubted there was enough rope in the valley to plumb its depths. But that wasn’t what interested her.

“Take the torches away and look down,” she said. A warrior took their lit torches and moved a short distance away. In the ensuing darkness, a faint, bluish aura could be seen far, far down in the pit.

“And listen,” Vixona said.

From the deep shaft came a slow, regular thud. It sounded very much like the rhythm of a beating heart.