I stood there, scratching my fuzzy pre-beard, and looking down into the ‘toilet’. Rivulets of water trickled into a kind of well at the cavern-wall farthest from the Inceryad. The fact that the water didn’t rise up and spill over the rock indicated there was a way out down there. For centuries criminals had been emptying their bladders and bowels into this section of the cave – even if I did get out, a trip to a druid might prove necessary. And who knew how deep it went?
Duskdown – Rathal – had told me on the first night (morning? day? time had no meaning any longer) that he’d heard screams. That must’ve meant there were air pockets down there somewhere, with seams letting the sounds emanate into the cave… Air pockets too close to the Inceryad to use magic, it seemed, otherwise those screams would’ve surely been cries of jubilation instead. Enchanters and diviners might run into difficulties, but any sorcerer, wizard or druid would find getting out a doddle, if they got their abilities back.
Too close to use magic… but too far for them to return to the chamber? Unless the boulders and other obstacles down there prevented a retreat against the water’s current, it was possible that they’d simply stopped in an air pocket and screamed, maybe having encountered some bodies snagged on the rocks in the blackness… Stopped, screamed, and then continued on.
Escaped Zyger…
Could it be as simple as taking the plunge? Holding your breath? Having the gall to go through with it?
I’d have to start by checking the eldritch situation. Had my loss of power simply returned them to their planes awaiting my reinvestment as a sorcerer or death, like if I’d been knocked out – or had my control been completely erased? Would I have to start again from square one? Either way, it would only be a matter of delay. I could return with a full complement of minions and powers to Mud Lane, pick up the twins, and get the Twelve Hells out of Mund before anyone could stop me. Especially if Rath was involved in the minutiae of my decision-making process… no-one would see it coming.
Rath wasn’t persuaded. His own despair, bereft of his prophetic abilities, was absolute. But that was okay. He’d come around, in time. Time was something we had plenty of, these days. Plus, I had an idea in mind that would allow me to exert some peer pressure on my strange friend.
First, I had to find Neverwish and Direcrown.
The latter proved impossible, given the preponderance of older gentlemen in here; there were at least four or five people who fit his general appearance and sounded a bit like him, but, unlike Shadowcrafter, he was likely trying his hardest to mask his identity.
After awhile I thought it was a fool’s errand. Between my second and third sleep-periods one of the women passed away, and the others unceremoniously hurled her into the ‘toilet’; it occurred to me that Neverwish at least was in all likelihood dead already.
But then I found the him, after my sixth rest period – when the next victim of this awful place arrived.
There were only four dwarves in here, all bearded males, and, somewhat to my surprise, they sat alone, even putting as much distance as possible between one another. Perhaps it was something to do with dwarven pride, the shame brought on the clan name when one of its bearers turned to the darkness.
In any event, it’d made my job a whole lot trickier: none of them were speaking. The hues of their beards were impossible to read in the gloom. I tried making small-talk with one while we were both relieving ourselves into the ‘escape route’ but I only got a tired grunt for my trouble. I hoped it wasn’t Neverwish. He sounded close to death, despite the native hardiness of his physiology.
It was the next arrival that heralded change. He came dropping out of the shaft, shrieking as he fell.
He landed a bit more awkwardly than me – less experience flying, perhaps? – and he quickly handed over the supplies to Rath and the others, all those who waded out into the icy water to fight, those who still seemed to think they had something to live for, still feeling the need to struggle on. It surprised me sometimes that the ex-seer still found it in himself to go out there every day, bring back the supplies we so badly needed. When I quizzed him on it he just fell silent, but I suspected it was because he had me to look after. He was over twice my age, I was pretty sure – I wondered at times whether he’d developed some kind of brotherly or fatherly affection for me since we first met. He’d sought me out to protect me from myself, from my own stupid mistakes, and when his wife was killed he struck back, and found himself being punished for his faith in me. Still, despite my treachery, he looked after me now. He said little and asked for less. As the new prisoner struggled to find their footing and make their way out of the pool, I watched Rath fight, taking on guys twice his size without missing a beat, just like always.
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Does he do it for me? Am I the reason he carries on? What does looking after me do for him? What does he get out of it?
To distract myself I watched the newcomer casting about for a safe place to make harbour. He was short and stocky and sported a thin, black moustache, his hair in unkempt dark locks framing a pasty face – he was perhaps in his mid-twenties, and looked like something of a rat with his long nose and untrimmed facial hair. If there was one thing that could be said of the darkmages in here, I’d never seen one of them railing against their circumstances – none of them seemed to lack the courage of their, quite literal, convictions. But he seemed distraught more than cold, and I knew the chill of those waters – his expression was a mask of panic, little whines and shrieks coming out from the crack in his face under the moustache.
On impulse I pushed myself to my feet, heading towards him.
“This way,” I called once I got close by, ushering him in my direction with gestures as well as words. “Head to me.”
“No, I – I’m not s-supposed to b-be here!” he moaned, halting, casting about nervously.
His voice was familiar despite the chattering of his teeth.
“It’s okay,” I said in as soothing of a voice as I could muster. “Doesn’t matter who you are anymore. Come get warm.”
“Yer gonna… share yer… food, lad?” someone else nearby breathed in a pain-wracked voice. They were sprawled beside a dead fire, clutching their stomach. Other than to speak, they’d likely never move again.
I looked back at the newcomer.
“I’ll share food for news,” I said. “Come on.”
He was still hesitating. From my right I heard one of the women muttering to another, “Says he ain’t supposed to be here.”
“What’s your name, newbie?” someone else cried.
“Ignore them,” I said quietly, stepping right up to the water’s edge, watching my footing on the slippery rocks. “Come on.”
“But I was a champion! A champion of Mund!” His eyes shining with insanity, his voice suddenly strong and filled with fervour, he actually took a few steps backwards, deeper into the pond, then tipped his head back and shouted up at the shaft: “There’s been a mistake! Take me back! Please! I’ll show up next time!”
But there was no answer from the waywatchers, of course. In fact the only answer was the sudden rumbling of discontent, rippling across the cavern. Most of those scrapping over the supplies had stopped what they were doing, staring in the newcomer’s direction.
“What, uh, what’s wrong?” he asked, looking around.
“I think you’ve forgotten where you are,” I said dryly.
“Oh – oh drop!” He started sloshing in my direction again. “Help me! Help!”
“That’s what I was trying to do.”
I stepped aside, giving him room to mount the ledge I stood atop, while the expected shouts filled the air:
“Oi! Champion!”
“Oo are ya?”
“Say your name, boy! Are you Feychilde?”
That last was Shadowcrafter. He sounded weaker, now. I wasn’t afraid of him anymore.
“Ignore them,” I said again insistently in a low voice, holding out my hand to him. “A champion’s welcome as far as I’m concerned. At least there’s a chance you’d be willing to step up.”
“Step… up?” he chattered, accepting my help and rising out of the water.
“Exactly. I’m getting out of here. You’re gonna help me persuade my weird friend over there.”
I indicated Rath and, panting, the other ex-champion turned to watch. Duskdown was currently clobbering one of the fools heading towards the newcomer, trying to chase after the prisoner who’d so idiotically mentioned his former allegiances in a voice that would’ve carried half-way to Mund. After a few blows in the back of the head, and a few failed attempts to elbow the ex-diviner in retaliation, the fool quickly gave up his vendetta and threw himself aside.
Rath moved past him, putting down the firewood and accepting my hand to come up out of the pool; the ex-champion shifted aside to give him room. The three of us stood there on the rock, distributing the spoils Rath won us.
“Let’s get you dry.” I turned and, gesturing at our fire with a handful of pork, started to lead the way.
A stranger’s voice, close by:
“You.”
The growl came from my left, and, cursing my lack of supernatural perception, I whirled to view my attacker.
But it was him – the tired dwarf. Little wonder he’d evaded my sight in the gloom; crouched down, he had to be shorter than the outcropping he’d been hiding behind.
“You think you know me?” I asked, putting some harshness into my tone.
“I do know you. Been watching.” The dwarf’s eyes gleamed in the shadows. “You owe me plat. We dwarves never forget our debts. And you wish we’d forget our grudges.”
Never… wish…
Rath and the newcomer looked between me and the dwarf – Rath would be weighing up the angles of his possible counter-attacks…
I grinned and raised an eyebrow, daring to hope. “Grudges?”
The dwarf did his best to smirk in response, but it was a wan, sad attempt. “So, she got you too, in the end… I tried to warn the lot of you. Don’t say I didn’t!”
“Never.”
“Yeah. It’s me.”
* * *