4

The Surface

Oydd made another incision, pulling back a layer of green skin, revealing the goblin's shin bone.

"Is there something you need?" The rudra said curtly.

Cricket watched Oydd work from the other side of the table. "What are you doing?"

"An experiment." Oydd poured an acrid, blue fluid into the opening and poked around with a hooked instrument. He sighed at the results then left the fluid bubbling in the cut as he moved to the creature's head. There he measured a few centimeters from the ear and made an incision where the muscle met the skull. This time he poured a much smaller amount of liquid into the cut and simply tapped the bone with his instrument listening to the sound.

"What's the experiment?" Cricket asked, undeterred.

"I want to fortify the skeleton with scraps of copper. I'm trying to increase the durability of its body. I am, however, finding few places where I can do so without compromising muscle. It went better in my head."

"Won't the metal rust?"

"No. Copper doesn't rust." Oydd kept his eyes on the cadaver as he spoke. "But I only need to find a few structural points that can support copper rivets and plates, then I can attach iron armor to those. I only have scraps to work with, so I need to be resourceful."

"Why do you get a workshop?" Cricket asked absently as he picked up an empty beaker. When he placed it back, it nearly rolled off the edge and he caught it with one of his lower arms.

Oydd spun on the insectoid with a withering glare. "Do you need something?" Cricket's antennae drooped as he sheepishly returned the vial to the shelf.

Oydd sighed. He placed the hooked instrument on the metal table with a clack and gave Cricket his full attention. "I have access to the laboratory because I'm valuable. The same reason you have access to the armory. Now if there's nothing you need, I would prefer to focus on my work."

Cricket deliberated, still looking a bit crestfallen, before he spoke.

"I don't know who I am."

"You still don't have your memory back?"

"No, I do. I mean, I think I do."

He stared at Oydd intently until a look of understanding dawned on the rudra's face.

"Oh," Oydd said somberly. "You never knew."

Cricket nodded.

"I'm sorry. I have very few memories of my own childhood. Mostly feelings and glimpses of places. But not home. I don't remember my kin. The dhampiri burned our libraries, which represented most of our culture and written history. The few of us that remain are usually isolated from each other. They really only let the ratlings congregate because they have too much infighting to muster a rebellion."

The rudra turned back to his work. "You'll likely be paired with the dryad again soon. Do let him know what will happen if he attempts to flee back to the surface."

Cricket left the cold, quiet morgue and returned to the bustling commons. He found Jeshu and a very small ratling sitting on the ground away from the others. Her unkempt fur was a very light grey with some lighter and darker patches. A deep bruise marred the delicate features of her face and some previous misfortune had claimed the very tip of her tail.

Cricket plopped on the ground next to them.

The dryad reached for the insect’s shoulder. "Let me treat your wound."

Cricket tensed, then slowly relaxed. "Okay," he relented. "What's your method? Herbs... a poultice?"

"I am a druid of Elkennah, the goddess of the forest. I can provide true healing."

“You’re a druid dryad? That sounds dumb.”

Jeshu laughed and scratched his head. “Well, they don’t sound so similar in my language.”

Cricket removed the leather strap from his shoulder and positioned himself for the dryad to inspect his wound. "What's a forest?"

"Hmm..." the dryad thought. "Many trees. But I haven't seen any trees down here. The closest thing is probably those larger mushroom stalks. But brown and green." Jeshu placed both hands on the insect's shoulder and closed his eyes.

"I know what trees are... though I haven't actually seen one."

"Oh," the Jeshu replied. "Well, picture so many that you can't see through them, with a variety of animals living there."

"So it's a dangerous place?"

Jeshu shook his head.

"You know, healing is rare down here. The gods we worship are more interested in destruction," Cricket stated matter-of-factly. "No matter how devoted the follower, their deities always drag them down in the end."

"I wouldn't say I worship Elkennah. The druids simply share her values. You would be surprised at the allies you can make if you have a common goal. There, now how does that feel?"

"It's done?" Cricket rolled his arm in a circle. "Nearly good as new. I couldn't lift it above my head a minute ago."

Jeshu frowned. "I couldn't mend the shell. The material is too foreign to me. Will it heal on its own?"

"No." Cricket said indifferently. "Once it cracks there's no fixing it. I have a permanent hole in the back of my head where the Left Hand reads my mind."

"The Left Hand?"

"That floating tentacled thing. You must have seen him around. Anyway, I've got other damage." Cricket indicated a fracture on the exoskeleton near his shin, and proudly displayed a deep scuff mark on his elbow.

"Perhaps," the dryad suggested, "we should get you some armor."

Cricket shifted uncomfortably and changed the subject. "Who's the newcomer?"

"She worked in the scullery in the women's quarters. But ratlings tend to abuse the runts of the litter and they seldom survive, so Damien offered to take her in. They call her a mouseling. I believe it's meant to be an insult."

"That doesn't sound like Damien. He doesn't care if ratlings live or die. Wait, how do you know about ratlings? Do they have them on the surface?"

"I imagine they have them everywhere," Jeshu said. "Arachane too."

"What's an arachane?"

"Damien..." Jeshu replied, with a confused look on his face—uncertain if the insect were joking.

Cricket addressed the ratling. "Mouseling... Is that offensive?"

The tiny mouse of a ratling shook her head.

"But do you have a name?"

She shook her head once again.

"Okay, how about... no that's not quite right." Cricket held both right hands to his face and scratched his chin. "Let's call you Patches. Do you like that?"

The mouseling nodded shyly.

"Can you speak, little one?" Jeshu prompted, but she only nodded again in affirmation.

"Oydd!" Damien charged out of his office with a flurry of legs clicking against the stone walkway. "Where is that damned rudra?"

"He's in his lab," Cricket said.

"He's in my lab," the arachane corrected and vanished down the corridor without a glance at Cricket.

Patches trembled at the sight of the half-humanoid monstrosity. And Cricket patted her on the head.

Moments later Damien's muffled yells could be heard across the commons followed by a silence, where the rudra likely responded, and then more muffled yells.

"Don't worry," Cricket reassured the mouseling, "I'll protect you."

Damien stormed back into his office and the rudra surfaced presently from the laboratory. Seeing Cricket he approached. The tentacles on his face were slightly whiter than normal and a bit curled. A sign, Cricket had learned, that the rudra was somewhat stressed, though it might not have appeared so to others.

"Cricket, I have a task for you. Have you slept?"

"I got a few hours."

"Good. This is a mission of haste. I'm sending you and Scorpion. You're the fastest trackers we have."

"Someone ran?" Jeshu asked.

"Earlier this morning. Did you know Griffith?" Oydd still addressed Cricket. "The gnome."

Cricket nodded.

"He's an amateur magic-user—specialized in illusions. Signs indicate he's headed for the Northwest Ascension."

"The surface?" Cricket asked.

Patches' ears perked up.

"Where else?" The rudra said dryly. "Do you need a mount?"

"I'm faster without in those tunnels. There are quite a few switchbacks and even some very narrow passages."

"Go now. You'll report back directly to me."

Cricket rose with a melodramatic sigh, and headed off to look for Scorpion.

"Faster," Oydd critiqued, but Cricket merely waved him off with one of his lower arms.

Patches stood too, uncertain whether to follow, then skipped lightly after her protector, nearly running into his heels.

Cricket found Scorpion at his bunk. The ratling balanced the tip of a dagger on his index finger with his arm fully extended above his chest. His tail gripped a second knife that absently scratched against the wall of his cubby. Several deep gouges in the stone indicated this was an everyday habit.

"You're going to lose your other eye."

"I'm not missing an eye," Scorpion responded with a slight tone of annoyance. "I told you. They're just different colors. It's called heterochromia."

"I can tell a glass eye when I see one. Bird has a glass eye too."

"He actually lost an eye. I was there." Scorpion sat up, still balancing the knife on his finger tip. "We tried to match the color."

"We have a mission. Have you slept?"

"What's the mission?"

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"A runaway. The surface gnome."

Scorpion growled. "He didn't fit in much anyway." Still he hopped down from his bunk.

"It's just you and me. Do you need any preparations?"

"Just a piss." Scorpion disappeared around the corner and a second later Cricket heard and smelled the spray of bitter urine against the rock wall. Scorpion returned a minute later and wiped his whiskers with his paw. "Let's go."

Scorpion left the warrens at a run and Cricket kept several yards behind. The two often ran tracking missions together because they could maintain a brisk pace for hours, providing the insect didn't push himself too much. Scorpion ran ahead because he was a bit faster and much stealthier. With a sword against his throat, Cricket might also call him the better tracker. At the first sign of trouble or their quarry, Scorpion would slow to let the insectoid catch up and the two were absolutely relentless and synchronous with their blades—seven between the two, counting the dagger that Scorpion held with his tail.

As he dashed along the tunnels leading to the surface, Scorpion kept his hands free. Running on all fours, he kept a better pace, leaping over cracks and scampering up ledges. Still, he never seemed to stow the dagger gripped by his tail. It swayed left and right and up and down, somehow managing to never clang against the rocks.

Cricket followed with all four blades out. Swords in his upper hands and daggers in the lower. He preferred to be combat-ready at a moment's notice.

The two ran for nearly an hour before the ratling stopped at a crossroads. A trail of tiny boot prints led down the right passage, but Scorpion seemed more interested in the left. When Cricket caught up the ratling sniffed the air and nodded to himself.

"We're dealing with a trickster." He smiled. "The gnome went this way."

Cricket eyed the trail of footprints apprehensively, not untrusting of the ratling's judgment, but troubled none-the-less.

As the trail rose, it narrowed and branched several more times. Scorpion slowed his pace. At each intersection he paused to sniff for the gnome's scent rather than looking down for tracks.

Finally he stopped at a fork in the road and laughed. He turned to the insect with a look of amusement. "Do you smell that?" the ratling asked. "It's rose petals. A surface flower. Since there are no roses down here, I suspect it's a simple spell." The ratling nodded then repeated, "Rose petals to the left and footprints to the right. He's messing with us. I like this gnome."

"He knows you've been relying on his scent. That means we're closing in on him."

"I agree." The ratling smelled each passageway a second time then gave Cricket a perplexed look.

"We should head right," Cricket suggested. “It’s less likely he bothered to make a fake smell and set up fake footprints.”

"I like that reasoning." Scorpion fell back on all fours and darted down the passageway.

The tunnel continued without bend or break for miles. At one point the ratling sniffed the air again as he ran and seemed encouraged by the results, quickening his pace.

After traveling for nearly half a day, the solid stone gave way to broken bedrock and mud and a melancholy blackness. Cricket saw fairly well in the dark, but usually relied on the bioluminescent algae and mushrooms that lit the massive cavern he called home. His eyes adjusted but he still felt trepidation about engaging in battle in the dim. Especially against a magic-user who had already proven resourceful.

The path eventually split into three main tunnels and Scorpion inspected each path multiple times before reporting. "Three sets of footprints and they all smell like rose petals." The ratling clearly found it less amusing this time.

"He's getting desperate," Cricket concluded. "At least two fake sets of footprints and... however he's creating that scent, he's obviously spent a lot of time here."

"What do you recommend? We could split up. It's more dangerous but one of us is likely to catch him."

Cricket pondered silently for a long time. "Listen to me..." He said reluctantly. "We did our best and he got away."

"What?" Scorpion spat. "You coward!"

"No, it's not like that."

"What’s it like?" Scorpion drew his two other daggers and flipped them backwards in his grip.

Cricket held up his hands in a gesture to defuse the rat. "I used to kill to survive. But it's been a long time since I've had to turn my weapons on a fellow slave. I know Griffith, and I hope he makes it home."

Scorpion hissed and rushed his companion. Cricket made no effort to defend himself but let the ratling press him back against the wall. Scorpion held two dagger tips to the insectoid's 'ribs', the sheets of black exoskeleton that protected his lungs. Meanwhile, his tail insidiously wrapped around Cricket's neck with his third blade.

"If you were anyone else. You would already be dead."

The two stared at each other for a long moment before the menacing look left the ratling's eyes. "I've never let a target escape before. What would you have me do? If the Left Hand reads my mind he'll kill both of us."

"We report directly to Oydd for this mission. Either way, I… don’t want to hurt my comrades any more. Even if you…"

"I'm not going to kill you..." Scorpion loosened the hold he had on Cricket's throat but his voice still shook when he spoke. "But you had no right to drag me into this. Your callous decision puts my life at risk. You're putting this gnome above my life. Do you get that?"

Cricket opened his mouth to speak but instead let the ratling's words sink in. Finally, he said, "I'm sorry."

Scorpion took a step back from the insectoid and sheathed his daggers. "I've never let a target go," he repeated. "I wish I was with Oydd on this mission. I would slit that octopus' throat without a second thought."

"Then you'd only have a one in three chance of picking the right passage."

"But I'd report on the mission with confidence. Loyalty is the only currency worth shit to a slave."

"You don't see yourself as a mercenary?"

"Don't give me that." Scorpion spat on the ground. "We're slaves just like you. And you know it. I'm not a fool. And until now—"

A rock slipping on the path behind the two diverted the ratling's attention. He sat up on his hind legs, sniffed then ran back the way they had come.

Momentarily speechless, Cricket only watched as Scorpion's tail disappeared over a rise and then a soft, but high-pitched squeal resounded from the mud walls.

Scorpion returned with Patches between his thumb and forefinger, at a gait a bit too long for the mouseling to keep up without losing her footing and occasionally being dragged along the rocks. She squeaked as she tried to keep her tiny feet beneath her.

"Oh, what are you doing here?" Cricket gave the runt a sympathetic look. "It's dangerous out here."

Patches avoided looking her protector in the eye.

"You know her?" Scorpion confirmed.

"Yes. She was just moved to our barracks." He turned his attention back to the mouseling. "Well, at least stay with us now that we know you're here." Cricket stooped down and lifted the mouseling's chin forcing her to meet his gaze. She swallowed audibly.

"You're not in trouble. I just don't want you to get hurt."

Patches nodded quickly.

Cricket sighed again, and then stretched out all four arms as the sigh turned into a yawn.

"I suppose we'll need to find a place to rest for the night. We can't make it back today. I think this spot's as good as any?" Cricket gave Scorpion an expectant look.

"Four points of ambush," the ratling replied.

"And four points of escape." Cricket finished his stretch. "Besides, these tunnels are always empty. No one from the surface wants to come down and no one from below can leave. No prey means no predators."

"I'm more concerned with the gnome."

"The gnome who's fleeing to the surface? You're worried he'll give up his one chance to escape to turn around and confront three armed, highly trained warriors?"

"Two armed warriors and a mouse," Scorpion corrected, sardonically.

Cricket handed the mouseling one of his knives.

"There," he said. "Three."

Half-listening, the larger ratling found a perch atop a rounded stalagmite with a good view of the room. "I'll take first watch."

*****

Patches waited until Cricket was asleep and then snuck away from the main chamber. She knew Scorpion wouldn't notice because other ratlings never paid her any attention. Also she could be surprisingly quiet, and her small size let her cover her movements behind modest debris.

Once she was out of ear-shot of the others, she hit a bit of a run, half-hopping as she scampered up the last stretch of trail to the surface. She paused, in spite of herself, when she saw the first hint of sunlight. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply remembering the warmth and basking in the smells.

As Patches left the last bit of roots and mud, emerging in a forest full of lush vegetation, she whispered to herself, "It's not night."

She turned around with a last glance at the tunnel, and a thought of her sleeping protector. She had expected to surface into a nightscape, perhaps in the soft, cold glow of the moons. "It's not night," she whispered again, taking courage and then springing briskly through the brush.

Patches stopped to gather some small twigs—the largest that would fit in her pouch. She also grabbed a handful of daisies, which she stuffed in her belt to avoid smushing them, then came upon a smooth white stone which also went in her pouch.

The chirping birds and dew hinted at a spring morning. Had she been underground for so many months that she missed three seasons? Still, misjudging the time of day caused the greatest sense of disorientation.

Patches felt the crisp breeze blow past her rather large ears as she pranced about, which soon brought the smell of sizzling meat on a breakfast fire.

She climbed a small maple tree and surveyed the horizon upwind until she saw a thin plume of smoke. She dropped softly from her branch and ran on all fours toward the fire, her mouth watering.

The mouseling knew her kind was not welcome on the surface and she had the good sense to slow, in the interest of reconnaissance, before approaching the campsite.

Patches identified two elves, one of them female, and a dwarf sitting around the dying embers as two rabbits cooled on the spit. The dwarf laughed and waved his arms, in the midst of an exaggerated tale, and the elf man listened as he poked the fire lazily with a stick.

The elf woman wrapped herself in a thick cloak for warmth, only her eyes visible, and sat a short distance away from the others.

Patches stole up to the campsite from behind the dwarf's back, he seeming the most attentive of the bunch, and located an unattended pack of provisions.

But the mouseling froze with one paw past the lip of the pack, transfixed by the elven woman. Beneath her plain cloak, she wore bright emerald robes with a silver border, accented with matching silver bracelets. A thin shard of actual emerald dangled from her neck. The elf's eyes were nearly just as bright a shade of green. She held a thin staff carved from a white wood, and stared off in the distance, seemingly lost in thought.

"What do we have here?" The dwarf snatched up Patch's paw from the provision pack. "A thief?"

Patches froze and the dwarf lifted her into the air by her arm. She reached for the knife Cricket had handed her but the dwarf grabbed it first. "Oh, no... not gonna let you get that."

He shook her until she felt dizzy and her shoulder ached.

"Never try to steal from a witch, love." The dwarf indicated the elf with a jerk of his thumb. "She'll put a hex on you!"

"Stop," the elf woman said, standing. "She's just a little thing. You're being a bully."

"I caught a thief."

"I'm so proud of you. Look how scared she is." The elf woman walked closer.

The dwarf lowered her to the ground and squinted, looking the mouseling in the eyes. He relaxed his grip, but kept her knife past her reach.

"The poor thing is probably just hungry. Do you need food?" The elf knelt next to the pack and loosed the main latch. She reached inside and produced a small speckled apple.

Patches licked her lips, then, registering the question, nodded and reached for the fruit with her free arm.

"Aw, really, Anuin? You can't reward that kind of behavior. You're just reinforcing it."

"I'm being kind," Anuin replied.

"And it will be the death of her. Now she knows stealing is okay. She'll lose her hand, she comes up on someone less understanding than me."

"It's fine," the elf man joined. "We have plenty of food."

"No we don't," the dwarf argued.

"We have enough to share," the elf man said firmly.

The dwarf relaxed his hold and Patches feverishly bit into the apple.

"Aw, whatever..." The dwarf tossed the knife at the mouseling's feet and returned to the embers of the fire where he began to work the dripping meat from the skewer.

Patches collected her knife and gave one last, long look at the elf woman—the one they had called a witch. Then she darted back into the woods with her knife in one hand and an apple in the other.

She finished the treat by the entrance to the underground tunnels, deciding it wasn't her place to introduce an apple core to the underworld. Then she licked her paws clean and scurried back to her friends.

*****

Scorpion gave Cricket a rough nudge with his foot.

Cricket jolted awake, "What!"

"You were chirping again."

"If you wake me up every time I start chirping, I won't be ready for my watch."

"Every living creature within a mile can hear you. Besides, it's time for your watch anyway."

Cricket yawned. "Oh, no, that... that can't be. Are you serious?"

"Yes, I'm serious. How are you so groggy? You look like a yak sat on your face."

Cricket brushed an arm against his antennae and then against his feelers. "Where's Patches?"

"Huh? I don't know," Scorpion answered absently.

"How could you not know? You only had to keep an eye on the two of us."

"No, I only had to keep an eye on you. She came on her own. Not my problem."

Cricket jumped to his feet, but stumbled sideways and paused to get his balance.

He looked down one of the tunnels. "Mouseling..." he whispered.

"You've been shouting. Why whisper now?"

"Because she's little."

"That makes no sense," the ratling shook his head as he circled and found a comfortable position to sleep. He closed his eyes.

Cricket growled under his breath and began searching the side passages. "I promised to protect her," he said more to himself, as the ratling dozed off.

As Cricket returned to the main passage he noticed the flick of a silhouette bounding silently down the middle tunnel.

He waited until she was a little closer before asking "Where were you?"

"Um..." the mouseling replied—the first time Cricket had heard her voice. "At a witch."

Patches immediately curled up at his feet, and Cricket patted her head as she yawned and smacked her tongue. He thought he heard a faint purr.

The insect watched her breathing until he guessed she was asleep before he pulled his foot out from under her, then paced the room watching over her sleep.