Барб Хенди - Of Truth and Beasts

“Hannâschi?” 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 pass the trap in the tunnel wall, nor how to do so himself. For that matter, Wynn would fare no better than Shâodh if the beast had gone her way.

His curiosity, his pride and arrogance, had cost Shâodh’s life. Hannâschi 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 Hannâschi’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 Hannâschi 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.

“Chârmun, be with me,” he whispered. “Guide me out.”

Ghassan 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 scrapes. 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.

Ghassan 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 passage 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 passages 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’Sänke?”

The domin was a torn and bleeding mess, bracing one hand against the wall at the cave’s mouth. He did not enter but stood there, blocking Chane’s way.

“Give it to me,” il’Sänke ordered, his voice low and hard. “Whatever it is, it must be protected. You and she are nowhere near capable of that.”

“Who is this?” Ore-Locks demanded, taken aback that Chane and the intruder knew each other. “What is this ... thing you all want?”

Chane kept his gaze locked on il’Sänke. His first instinct was to kill the man where he stood. But il’Sänke was more than a sage, perhaps more than a highly skilled metaologer.

For an instant, Chane almost considered giving up the orb. Even if he reached Wynn and found her still alive, after all she had suffered and all she had risked, how could he face her if he did so?

“Do not defy me,” il’Sänke said, his voice deadly cold. “There is more at stake than you understand.”

Chane tensed, ready to charge and strike.

Il’Sänke’s gaze turned on Ore-Locks. As his bloody right hand shot out toward the dwarf, he began to whisper unintelligibly.

Chane knew what was happening, had seen it before. He quickly sidestepped between the two, breaking il’Sänke’s line of sight to Ore-Locks.

Il’Sänke’s eyes widened. He shook slightly as anger washed over his dark-tan face.

Chane suddenly remembered something that il’Sänke might not know. They all had abilities, powers, not just the domin. They could do things most people could not.

“Ore-Locks, go!” Chane said. “Take it into stone!”

It was a desperate move, but he saw no other choice.

“Neither one of you leaves with that!” Ghassan shouted, losing his composure.

He pushed off the wall, limping forward and shifting left around the cave wall.

Chane shifted too, keeping himself between the domin and the dwarf. He was losing precious moments, and desperation broke his control. The beast inside him surged, struggling against the violet concoction he had taken upon heading under the mountains.

Chane whirled with a wild slash at il’Sänke and shoved Ore-Locks toward the cave’s rear wall.

“Go!” he rasped.

Ore-Locks started in surprise at the sight of him. Chane knew his eyes had lost all color, his features likely twisted into something feral. He did not care as long as Ore-Locks listened.

With one last glance, Ore-Locks backed into—through—the wall, and Chane turned on il’Sänke.

Ghassan’s breath choked off as the dwarf simply sank into the cave’s back wall and vanished.

Then Chane turned on him.

He couldn’t help stumbling back at the sight of Chane’s altered face ... colorless eyes, elongated teeth, and twisted features. Chane rasped like a snake or a voiceless, rabid dog as he thrust his sword.