Glim plunged through the thorns, leather-clad feet stumbling and sliding on the damp mud, the uneven layer of rocks, breath rasping in his chest with each concerted stride. He stumbled and fell to his side, nearly dropping the sputtering torch that did little to cast away the encroaching shadows.
Rusk had been with him until a moment before, he was sure, but the cavern held no sign of him now. As for his company, there were no discernible sounds. Some escort, running after the dealer like that. He should have been trying to get back to the rest of the party, but a client’s protection was paramount. Glim crept slowly to his feet, the haft of a spear clutched tight in his free hand, trying to stay quiet. Faint remnants of another light arced across the dirt walls just around the cavern up ahead. He should have been able to hear the man’s labored breathing, cacophony of footfalls. Nothing.
The torch’s long wooden handle was the first thing Glim took in as he rounded the bend. That, and the frayed and tattered robes adorning his client’s body, streaks of red running across the man’s back and legs. A rustle of rock and thorn echoed from behind and he whipped around. There was a sword coming at him. A tattered and jagged-looking sword, whipping at him fast with a Lostling on the other end.
“Damn,” Glim muttered. He threw himself back, slipping and falling over his dead client’s outstretched leg, expecting a blow to his back at any moment. He pivoted back, saw the sword point extending at him again, barely getting the spear up in time to deflect the strike down. Glim peered past the interlocked weapons, the Lostling hissing and dropping his weapon, hands extended. Serrated claws tore at Glim’s arms and neck, his leather bracers and jerkin only halting their advance for a moment.
“Aaargh!” Glim grunted, reaching out haphazardly, finger’s closing on metal.
A wet gurgle escaped the thing’s lips as it stood there transfixed, blinking down at the sword entering it’s abdomen. Then the Lostling started to rock back and forth along the blade, dark blood dribbling down its face. It’s feet collapsed first, eyes sagging closed a moment later, dragging the weapon from Glim’s fingers, a final thrash arching the back before laying still.
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He tried to take a proper breath, a fit of coughs escaping his throat. Glim groaned, twisted over onto his hands and knees, gasping as the gashes in his neck flared up. He lay still a moment, the resounding silence in the cramped interior doing little to ease his nerves. “You fool,” he said to himself, chuckling despite himself. Still alive, despite the Lostling’s devious ambush. A faint draft blew across the cavern bend, drips of brackish water forming ripples in the shallow puddles interspersed along the cave floor. Glim sat up, wincing at the added strain on his arms.
He still had his set of knives in their sheaths at his belt, their balanced weight his only means of attacking at range. Strong metal was hard to come by in Glim’s experience, and these were better than most, but the outlook was still bleak. He was on his own, in caverns crawling with Lostlings. He had a faint idea where he was, having studied Rusk’s well-chartered map during their brief stops for rest. The drips of water were now his best option. The tributaries all flowed south, from the basins to the deepest recesses of the Foundation. Follow the meager puddles northwards, back to the company, back to Rusk. Pray that they were still alive. That was his only chance.
His singular torch would never last crossing. He looked down at his client’s immobile form, outstretched hand still clutching the other torch that would save Glim’s life. The man wouldn’t be needing it anymore.
The Lostling’s discordant calls grew louder by the time Glim had backtracked. He pressed himself against a coarse boulder and peered out towards the camp, pulse racing, right hand curled painfully tight around the spear he had dropped earlier. He saw the spindly legs of one of the wizened company members where the torchlight perimeter had been set, half-burned sticks and footsteps around what was left of him. He saw the shared tent his client and the man’s wife had been erecting when the Lostlings barreled in. Her gouged out eyes stared mockingly back, mouth open in a perpetual scream.
Seven dead Lostlings were splayed around the site, hairless bodies poked full with spear tips and arrow shafts. A snarl came from the far right of the site, this one much larger and very much alive. Blood matted the Lostling’s claws and mouth, rapid breaths escaping past it’s lolling tongue as it moved to one of its own and started carving furrows into the still form. That was lucky. Let the Lostling fill it’s belly, while he scampered silently around.
Glim hadn’t spotted Rusk’s body. A soft smile formed on his lips. He had to be further north; the cavern passages only extended in opposite directions here. Glim started to hustle off, as silently as he could, torch muffled beneath a strip of his torn shirt. North, through the cavern, towards his friend.