Martin Hengst - The Darkest Hour

“I don’t know. I think-” He stopped, licked his lips, and tried to find words. After a moment, he managed to start again. “I think that a Pheen just took Faxon into the Quintessential Sphere.”

* * *

Zarfensis and the rest of the Xarundi war party had made good time down the near edge of the ravine. Going up the other side proved to be more of a challenge. There was no regular path up from the floor of the gully, so they were forced to find each new hand and foothold, often holding on, quite literally, by their claws. They were burning through entirely too much time.

One of the warriors lost his footing above and nearly slid down the face before managing to find purchase on an outcropping. They tried to stay spread out as they climbed, but if one of the vanguard warriors slipped off the face, chances were good that they would take at least one of the other Xarundi with them on the way down. While the ravine was hardly insurmountable, Zarfensis didn’t relish the thought of falling twenty feet to the jagged rocks below.

Slowly, carefully, they picked their way up the edge of the ravine. By the time the last of them had crawled over the far edge and lay panting with exertion, the eastern sky had begun to lighten. The High Priest ground his teeth. They had lost an entire night to skittering around the rocks like insects. The only consolation was that the Swordmage and the other vermin would be hard pressed to descend as skillfully as they had, nor would they be able to scale this face as easily.

It was likely that they would be hung up here for the better part of a day. Meanwhile, Zarfensis and the other Chosen would be well on their way to possessing the relic. Crouching at the edge of the ravine, the High Priest slipped into the Quintessential Sphere and backtracked along the way they had come. He hoped to find some sign of the vermin, to get an idea of where they were along the path to the ravine, but he was unable to find them. He wasn’t worried. The further away from the physical place one was, the murkier the sphere became over long distances. It was also likely that the vermin were actively working to counter his surveillance. Zarfensis had certainly cloaked his war party with spells that would help them avoid detection both physically and in the sphere.

He called the shaman up from where he was crouched near the languid warriors. He bounded over to Zarfensis, ears and eyes alert.

“Let the warriors rest, shaman. We’ve made good progress tonight and the vermin will be hard pressed to catch up crossing that ravine. We’ll warren here for the day and tomorrow night, we will be in the hills.”

“As you command, High Priest.” The shaman returned to the rest of the Chosen, relaying Zarfensis’s orders to the warriors.

The others began constructing a temporary warren while Zarfensis gazed north. They were very close now indeed. Close enough that the snow-covered tops of the hills glowed in the early morning light. He turned to rejoin the rest of the Xarundi and nearly fell over. The mechanical leg was like a block of ice, cold and unyielding. Zarfensis cast an eye toward the little window in the contraption and found it black, empty. He took a vial of runedust from his belt and poured it into the compartment, feeling the limb come back to life as the gentle blue glow of the death rune pulsed behind the crystal aperture.

Whole once again, Zarfensis returned to the hastily constructed warren. Try as he might, sleep would not come. They were close to the relic now, he could feel it calling to him, compelling him, urging him to find it and possess it. The sun was high in the morning sky before the High Priest was finally able to rest. When he did, his dreams were troubled by visions of the relic crumbling to dust and slipping through his fingers.

* * *

It was cold on the other side of the pass. Stunted grass and rock had given way to packed snow as they climbed higher into the hills at the foot of the northern mountain range. They had stopped in a grove of stunted pine trees to review the map and for something to eat, though neither of them were hungry.

Wynn had been a sullen mess since the incident in the pass. Neither Faxon nor the Pheen had reappeared, so they assumed that they really were on their own. Younglings, the Pheen had called them. Well, Tiadaria thought, that certainly fit. Never before had she felt so small or felt like a task was so insurmountable.

Though she understood why Wynn felt responsible, his wallowing wasn’t helping anyone. She also knew that his use of magic was weighing heavily on him. More than once over the last few hours, she had seen him stumble because his eyes were locked on his staff, but somewhere far away at the same time. Tia had tried to get him to talk about it, but he had curtly informed her that she wouldn’t understand and she hadn’t pressed the issue. He’d talk when he was ready. She hoped.

Tiadaria had been so immersed in her thoughts that she hadn’t realized how familiar the terrain had become. She stopped, turning a slow circle as she surveyed the gentle slope of the hills and the stunted line of pine trees that dotted the northern ridge.

“Hey!” Her exclamation startled Wynn, but personally, she thought he could use a little startling. “I know where we are. This land is part of the clan’s hunting grounds.” Without waiting for him to answer, she grabbed his hand and all but dragged him toward the base of the largest hill.

“Where are we going?” The peevish tone of voice annoyed Tia, but she wasn’t going to let his sourness spoil her surprise. She grinned.

“You’ll see.”

Wynn began to protest but she shushed him, dragging him headlong behind her. They went down a gentle slope and then even the apprentice had to admit that he understood the source of her excitement.

At the base of the hill, a half-circle about fifteen feet tall had been cut directly into the earth. Massive stone blocks made up the outer wall, carved to fit the curve of the circle perfectly. An iron stovepipe jutted out of the wall next to a heavy banded wooden door. He had resigned himself to sleeping in their tent on the cold ground. This was much, much better.

Tiadaria opened the door and bowed deeply, gesturing him inside. As bad as his mood was, Wynn had to chuckle at her ridiculousness. She smiled at him as she lit an oil lamp hanging from the ceiling before closing the door and dropping the bar across it.

She went down the length of the long room, lighting lanterns that hung from the support beams at regular intervals. When she was done, the light in the hunting lodge was just as bright and warm as in the library in Ethergate. Wynn glanced around, taking stock of their much improved fortune.

There was a stove, some shelves with basic cooking implements, and most importantly, cots piled high with furs. Not only would he not have to sleep on the ground, but he’d be warm too. There was a basin next to the stove with a pipe that extended down from the ceiling. A chain with a ring on the end hung at eye level. Without really thinking about it, he reached up and pulled the chain.

Water gushed out of the pipe and splashed into the basin below. Tiadaria laughed at his startled exclamation and watched as he pulled the chain a second time, slower this time, limiting the flow to a trickle.

“Don’t waste it,” she warned him, coming to stand next to him. “The barrels that feed it are up on the hillside. They collect rain and snow and runoff and the water comes here.”

“Why isn’t the water dirty? If its runoff?”

There are screens on top of the barrels, and then there’s this. Tia pulled the bottom section of pipe off and showed it to Wynn. Inside were layers of rock, sand, and charcoal.

“See? If there’s anything too icky, it gets caught in there.”