Paul Thompson - Destiny

Astonishment kept them silent for a time. Kerian shook her head, saying, “Must be the work of gnomes. I’ve heard they build strange things.”

Sa’ida had heard the stories too, but the device seemed so elegant and purposeful, she could hardly credit it as a creation of that erratic race.

They burst abruptly into sunshine. Kerian exclaimed in surprise. During their passage through the cloud, they had inexplicably climbed several thousand feet. The air temperature had fallen greatly. Their garments, dampened by the heavy mist, chilled them to the bone.

“Look!” Kerian pointed ahead. The blue-gray slopes of the Khalkist Mountains filled the view from horizon to horizon, most prominent among them, the three snow-capped peaks that marked the entrance to the valley. Sa’ida was amazed. She’d never been more than twenty miles from Khuri-Khan in her life. She asked Kerian about the white stain atop the three peaks.

“Is it truly snow?” Kerian nodded. After a pause, Sa’ida asked, “What is snow?”

The Lioness cast about for a reply. She’d never tried to define snow for someone to whom it was utterly alien.

“It’s like rain, only much colder. When the air is cold enough, rain hardens and becomes snow.”

The priestess was as delighted as a child by this discovery. Although a wise and long-lived woman, her education had been devoted entirely to healing and the doctrines of her goddess. She pulled her heavy cloak closer around herself and enjoyed the adventure, marveling even at how very cold her nose was.

Despite Sa’ida’s pleasure in the trip, she was shivering, and Kerian thought better of continuing at this height. It would be easier if they entered Inath-Wakenti at a lower level. To their left, northwest, a square notch in the rugged range beckoned. Green with trees, its slopes were several thousand feet lower than the mountaintops directly ahead. Eagle Eye shifted course and they descended. The temperature warmed.

“Better?” Kerian asked over one shoulder, and the priestess patted her shoulder in reply.

The warmth was welcome but could not dispel Kerian’s worries. Eagle Eye had performed heroically, making such a long flight with very little rest between the journey out and the return, but she wished he could fly faster. She couldn’t escape the feeling that the strange noise she’d heard was somehow a call for help.

Trying to find the promised rescue party was no simple task for Hytanthas. Fit as any warrior, he set a rapid pace and tried to maintain it, but hunger and thirst weighed his limbs. Once his torch was exhausted, blindness only added to the strain. Still, his sovereign had promised rescue, and Hytanthas would do his utmost to seek the elves searching for him.

Trailing the fingertips of his right hand along the tunnel wall, he negotiated the featureless dark. One factor worked to his advantage. The tunnel floor was clear of debris. Beneath his feet was only hard, clean stone. He’d come across no more bodies for quite a long time. He was thankful for that mercy. The dead could tell him nothing. They only reminded him of the fate that awaited him should he not find help or an exit from the subterranean maze.

The air shivered as if from a light breeze and a voice said, “Kerian.”

Hytanthas halted.

“Kerian, this is Gil. I pray you can hear me. I’m waiting for you. Don’t give up!”

The voice belonged to the Speaker. Was Lady Kerianseray in the tunnels?

Hytanthas marshaled his scattered thoughts. The Speaker had told him the Lioness was away on a mission, flying to Khuri-Khan to bring back the priestess Sa’ida.

The Speaker continued, calling to Hamaramis to return. The general of the Speaker’s own household guard was away too?

Hytanthas shouted, “Sire, I’m coming!” He strained to hear the reply.

“Come home, everyone. I need you. I need you all.”

With that, the peculiar resonance was gone from the air. The Speaker’s pleas were at an end. Hytanthas drove a fist into his palm. His sovereign needed him, and he was blundering around in the dark. He fell to berating himself out loud, but broke off abruptly when he detected more voices. Hytanthas held his breath and listened.

He could hear quite clearly the voices and footfalls of five or six people. One tread was heavier than the rest, and the voice associated with it was lower, rougher—a human. How had a human gotten down here?

Hytanthas called to the unknown party, giving his name and identifying himself as a friend. Drained by hunger and the long sojourn in impenetrable darkness, he nevertheless steeled himself for a final push. He continued to call out as he jogged down the passage. After perhaps half a mile, he could hear the voices more clearly and he identified a female and a male as well as a human male. The number of footfalls told him there were several more elves who weren’t speaking.

He drew breath to shout, but his warrior training abruptly reasserted itself. What if these people weren’t his comrades? Ridiculous, he told himself. What other elves would be in the tunnels beneath Inath-Wakenti? But why was there a human with them?

Stricken with doubt, he fell back against the side of the tunnel. To his surprise, he discovered the wall was fluted by shallow scalloped niches. The niche at his back was just deep enough to conceal him. He flattened himself into the cover and waited, prey to all sorts of fears and uncertainties.

“I don’t see how you can be sure we’re heading southwest,” said Hamaramis testily. “I lost my sense of direction long ago!”

Vixona replied, “It’s simple. We made two right-angle turns, then the tunnel made a quarter-radius bend. Therefore we’re traveling about 270 degrees from our original heading or, measured another way, ninety degrees—”

“I’m sorry you asked,” muttered Jeralund.

“So am I.”

Only Jeralund carried a burning torch. The rest had extinguished their brands to preserve them for later use. Jeralund’s flame passed just under the nose of a figure standing in a niche in the wall. What he had taken for a sculpture suddenly recoiled from the wafting flame, and Jeralund gave a shout of surprise. Vixona’s higher cry echoed his. The figure was no statue; he was alive!

“Put away your swords!” he shouted. “I’m one of you!”

Hamaramis froze, unable to believe what he was seeing. “Hytanthas!”

General and captain fell on each other, embracing like long-lost brothers. Hytanthas recognized the other three warriors. Vixona introduced herself. With her writing down every word, Hytanthas quickly outlined his adventures thus far.

“You’ve been down here more than a week and haven’t spied another living soul?” Hamaramis asked.

“Not one.” Hytanthas shrugged helplessly. “Only the dead.”

“It must have been terrible for you,” Vixona said.

Torchlight played over her upturned face. It had indeed been terrible, but as he stared down into the warm brown eyes that regarded him so sympathetically, Hytanthas found himself smiling.

Hamaramis related how his party had found Jeralund. The young captain gave the human a considering look, but when Hamaramis mentioned they’d heard the Speaker summoning them, all other considerations were pushed aside.

“So it was real! I heard him too!” Hytanthas exclaimed. “We must get to him!”

They were all agreed on that point. The problem was, even with Vixona’s map, Hamaramis’s party hadn’t been able to retrace their journey. The tunnels seemed to alter after they passed through. Intersections vanished, wall paintings noted by Vixona were no longer present.

“Strange,” Hytanthas remarked. “That hasn’t happened to me. I’m just lost.”