It was evening when Pirin spotted the landmarks he was looking for. Two trees. Under the faint light of the setting sun, he and Myraden crept towards them, keeping low and stepping softly. Pirin glanced back and forth, searching for any more sentries.
They had already encountered three more patrols through the woods. They’d managed to hide from two patrols, and Myraden took out the other two with ease. She’d killed them, which Pirin regretted—truly, like he had told the first Saltspray they had encountered, he didn’t want to be their enemy.
He already had plenty of those, after all.
After a few seconds, Pirin spotted a column of smoke. It rose only a few feet above the treetops, but it meant that something was here. After just a few more steps, chattering voices slipped through the woods.
By now, Pirin and Myraden walked side-by-side. He had his sword drawn, and she held her spear in her hand—its haft was loose, and she twirled it like a rope-dart. Their Familiars walked a few paces behind them, keeping tight.
They slipped around a ruined stone monument, then jumped over a crevice. Pirin landed on the other side, his boot crunching a twig. With a wince, he shifted his gaze around. Ahead, through the twisting trees and shrubs, a pair of sentries in Saltspray robes turned to face them.
Pirin sprinted towards them. He pushed one of them to the ground. But the man was larger and bulkier, and he pushed Pirin up and to the side with ease. Pirin rolled away, then sprang to his feet.
The other Saltspray lifted a horn to his mouth, ready to blow a long tone into it, when Myraden’s spear’s wrapped around his hand and tugged him away. The horn tumbled out of his hand. She pulled him towards her, then with a palm strike, she knocked him back into the crevice. Blood-red Essence blasted out of her hand.
The first Saltspray pounced back towards the horn, his arm outstretched, but Pirin jumped behind him and struck him on the back of his head with the crossguard of his sword. The man crumpled.
By now, a faint glow shone through the trees. It flickered like firelight, and the wind carried a wisp of smokiness with it.
Pirin dropped down to his stomach and crept forwards until the dirt ahead of him turned to stone and dropped off into a small crevice.
It was exactly as he had seen in the sentries’ memories. It was large enough to fit the Featherflight across it twice over, with tents clinging to the edges and fires lining the centre. Men in white robes scurried about, carrying wagons filled with rocky debris and crates with golden treasures in them. At the far side of the crevice, a round tent, larger than the rest, watched over the camp. Saltspray sigils—a circle with a crystalline shape in its center—clung to the outer tarps.
Pirin leaned a little further forwards and strained his eyes. Sure enough, at the back of the crevice, an entrance into the mountain awaited. A carved arch separated a yawning hole from the rest of the stone. Further inside, Pirin could make out pale beige stone. Flickering torchlight illuminated the cavern beyond.
That was where they needed to go.
“What is your plan?” Myraden whispered.
“We’re gonna need a map,” Pirin said back, keeping his voice as quiet as he could. “Otherwise, we’ll be stuck going in circles. I saw what these tunnels looked like on Nomad’s map, and it was nothing short of a labyrinth.”
Like the shrine in Aerdia? Gray asked. She inched closer.
“Yes, Gray, like the shrine,” Pirin whispered.
Myraden coiled her spear tight around her wrist. “So we steal a map, then sneak into the tunnels—”
“Hey!” one of the Saltspray workers hauling a cart yelled, pointing up to the ridge where Pirin and Myraden sheltered. “Up there! There’s something moving!”
“—without being noticed…” Myraden finished with a groan. “If only you had a technique for stealth.” She stood up, Essence feeding out of her hand and into her spear. Kythen bleated out a low tone, and they both stepped back from the edge.
It was too late to hide, though. All across the little ravine, the Saltsprays sprung to life. Warriors with salt-knuckles charged towards their hiding place, and a few archers along the main thoroughfare nocked arrows.
Pirin scrambled back from the ridge as well, hiding himself behind the slope of the ground. He pulled Gray down as the archers’ bowstrings twanged. A few arrows whistled harmlessly overhead, but one would have hit Myraden had she not swatted it out of the air first.
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“I bet Nomad has a technique for stealth,” Pirin hissed.
“Did you even see his Familiar?”
“He was fast, and he managed to get into my cell without anyone noticing.” Pirin paused, lifting his head up over the ridge slightly. The archers were preparing another volley. “Like I said, he didn’t need one.”
…Three, four, five, six, seven… he counted inside his head, all while cycling Essence back and forth between him and Gray. If he needed a Winged Fist, he wanted to be ready to unleash it.
The next volley whistled overhead.
Why are you counting? Gray asked. Well, you stopped counting now, but I could have sworn you were…
“I was counting seconds between the volleys,” Pirin said, pushing the words across to her with intent. “Seven, almost exactly.”
What’s that good for? You could just knock them aside with a Winged Fist.
“I’d like to know when they’re coming.”
“Are you two done?” Myraden snapped, stepping between Pirin and Gray. The whirling spearhead and Essence in her spear disrupted the connection between them for a second. “We need to get down there.”
“Get down!” Pirin hissed, then tugged on her arm. She dropped down, just in time for the next volley of arrows to swoosh overhead. One thunked into the tree just above Pirin.
As soon as the last arrow blasted past, he leapt back to his feet. The warriors with the salt-knuckles were running around in a frenzy now, and a few had reached the cliff. They began to climb. Pirin waited until they all started to climb before running to the right—that way, they wouldn’t be able to change course as easily.
Pirin had two seconds before the next volley came. He and Myraden ducked down, but Kythen couldn’t get low enough. With a Winged Fist, Pirin pushed two arrows up over Kythen’s head, and Myraden snatched another out of the air with her spear.
They kept running until they reached a down-slope—a small pathway that led down into the crevice.
Myraden led the way, flinging a Saltspray warrior aside with a swipe of her spear—in its rigid form—and knocked a worker into the wall with a soft jab from the blunt end.
Once they reached the ground, Pirin set his eyes on the entrance to the tunnels and sprinted towards them as fast as he could.
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When the shouts began, Lady Clase was putting on her evening robe and preparing for dinner. When bowstrings began to twang, she began to cycle Essence. She spun around, fastening her belt as quickly as she could—and just in time for the low-elder to push through the entrance of the tent.
Low-Elder Asi’i delivered a short bow, then declared, “Many pardons, my lady. There are two intruders.” His robes fluttered, and his long hair draped over his face.
“Are they being dealt with?” she demanded.
“Yes, my lady. Your warriors will have them under control momentarily.” Again, he bowed, his robe sloughing forwards. He wore a golden sash to distinguish himself from the rest of the Saltsprays. “It is likely that they are just explorers from Dulfer, but we will take utmost care to—”
Lady Clase pushed past him. She threw open the flap of her tent—the largest tent in the camp, and the furthest from the entrance to the Dulfer Tunnels (as everyone in the Saltspray encampment had taken to calling them).
She had been chosen to lead the sect long ago, and she had done a good job of it. Everyone told her that, but even if they hadn’t she would have known she had. And if the Dominion hadn’t messed up the Saltsprays’ only chances to make it big, then neither could two hooligans from the village.
But she had brought some of their most loyal, most obedient warriors. The archers held their ground in the center of the ravine, and the rest of the warriors had jumped into action. Already, the workers were returning to their duties, assured that the guards would protect them.
Lady Clase exhaled with relief, then stepped back inside the tent. “Indeed, my men are doing their jobs. Congratulations.”
“They have it under control, my lady.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. They’re doing what they’re supposed to, for now. With their numbers, they should be able to take down anything short of a wizard.” Lady Clase walked back across the tent, approaching a pedestal on the opposite side. A lean, muscular beaver rested atop it, carefully gnawing a piece of wood into an intricate sculpture. Lady Claze scratched it between its ears, then leaned closer. “Why do the work when you can make someone else do it for you? We didn’t become the best wizard-Familiar duo in the sect just to do everything ourselves…”
“My lady, will you be taking your dinner now?” Low-Elder Asi’i asked. “There should be plenty of stew for you to enjoy, and I’m sure they will have kept it warm for you.”
“In a moment,” she said, basking in the strict, professional way her second-in-command spoke. Nobody in the sect had spoken that way before she had taken charge—by the Eane, no one had even used proper military ranks, nor did they even call her mother by her title.
But her mother hadn’t been a wizard.
With any luck, the treasure of the Dulfer Tunnels would be hers, and they’d become the most powerful sect in the Adryss Ocean.
She gave her beaver one last pet, but before she could say anything to Asi’i, there was a loud crash outside the tent.
“They still haven’t been dealt with?”
Lady Clase shut her eyes and extended her awareness, and suddenly, she felt four powerful weights on her spirit. She didn’t have full spiritual senses yet, but she didn’t need to. With a quick extension of awareness, she could tell that there were two wizards and two Familiars nearby.
Growling, she muttered, “I guess I’ll have to dirty my hands, after all.”
So much for letting others do the work for her.