Pirin and Myraden waited until Lady Clase walked away. Her warriors scrambled to action, preparing a group to venture down to the city—and leaving only the two warriors focussed on Pirin and Myraden.
But Lady Clase remained.
Pirina and Myraden waited an extra few minutes just to be certain. He fidgeted with his sheathed sword’s knot, untying the scabbard from his belt, then re-tying it, then untying it again. When the twilight faded from the sky and the only light in the camp came from the crackling campfires, they got to work.
Pirin flicked his sword outward, launching the scabbard off the blade. It tumbled through the air and hit one guard in the forehead. He collapsed onto his back. Kythen pranced forward and pinned the other guard, knocking the wind out of his lungs before he could call for help. Myraden struck the guard across the back of his head with her boot, knocking him unconscious.
“Did they really think two guards would stop us?” Pirin asked, snatching his scabbard back up and fastening it back onto his belt.
“They wanted us to use our Essence,” Myraden said. “If we were veiled, the guards were supposed to make us break them—alerting Lady Clase. But so long as you did not breathe deeply, you did not alert anyone.”
Pirin shook his head. “Not a peep.”
They crept off to the side, sneaking along the edge of the crevice and behind the backs of the tents.
When they reached the far end, at the ledge with the map tent, they climbed up the vines on the cliff wall, trying to reach the ledge. The Familiars had to wait at the bottom. Kythen seemed perfectly content to wait without Myraden, but Gray began to hop in a circle anxiously.
Without being able to breathe deeply, Pirin’s lung began to ache, and his chest felt sore. Nearly at the ledge, he told himself. Nearly there…
An enhanced body would have handled this easily. He just had to get one. Flare stage wasn’t so far away now.
When they were an arm’s-length from the top of the ledge, Pirin reached out and placed his fingers on the ledge. He peered over, searching for any trouble. There was no one there; the workers who had been revising the maps were gone. Probably eating dinner with the rest of their sect-mates. The only guard waited at the bottom of the walkway, and he wasn’t looking behind—not far enough to see Pirin our Myraden.
Pirin hauled himself up onto the ledge slowly, careful not to step heavily on the gravel ground. The guard’s head didn’t turn.
They began to sift through the debris and broken bookshelves that Kythen had trashed earlier. They just needed a smaller copy of the map. Pirin bent down on his hands and knees and pushed through the splinters.
Finally, Myraden pulled a sheet of parchment out of the rubble. A copy on a single sheet. It was small enough to fit in Pirin’s haversack if they rolled it up. But first, they laid it on the table, comparing it to the larger—and presumably most complete—map. It wasn’t exactly easy to read in the moonslight. Pirin adjusted his eyeglasses to help him see the close, tiny markings.
The small map was about as complete as they would get. Myraden pulled a quill from a well of ink, though, and copied a few more of the deeper markings onto the smaller map. She waved the map in the air to dry it, then rolled it up and passed it to Pirin. He tucked it back into his haversack.
They climbed back down the vines. When they reached the ground, Pirin wanted to release his breath, but he stopped himself. Gray’s head flicked towards him, her eyes flickering nervously. He patted his haversack, then tilted his head towards the entrance of the tunnels. They could slip around the back of the walkway and get past the guard protecting the maps, but once they did, they’d be out in plain sight.
Or, even if there were stacks of barrels and crates that Pirin or Myraden could duck behind, there was nothing large enough to hide Gray or Kythen.
Besides, there were two guards at the entrance of the tunnel who would see them, no matter what.
“We go fast,” Myraden whispered to him. “You take one guard, and I will deal with the other. Slip into the tunnels and get as far from here as we can.”
“How far will Lady Clase’s perception reach?” Pirin asked.
“That will depend on how powerful she is.”
“Then we just need to get as far away as we can before we unveil ourselves.” Pressing his back against the wall, he slipped along the side of the canyon as far as he could without emerging from the deep shadows of the ledge.
There was no better time. All the warriors and workers were eating at their campfires, and most of the guards’ attention was still directed to the outside of the canyon.
“Ready?” he asked Myraden.
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“I am always ready.”
“Alright, then.” Pirin sprinted out of cover, darting towards the tunnel entrance. His boots crunched on the gravel, painfully loud, and he could only concentrate on keeping his breaths tight and spirit veiled.
As they ran, he drew his sword. When they reached the entrance, he pounced on the nearest guard and struck the man in the forehead with the sword’s pommel. The guard fell limp. Myraden put her hand over the other guard’s mouth to stop him from calling out, then pushed the startled man into the corner of the entrance. His head thudded against the sandstone frame, and he collapsed too.
Pirin held his sword out in front of him, ready to face more guards from the inside. There were none.
They walked out onto a causeway. It ran through the center of an atrium, dividing it in half—all the way to the ground, fifteen fathoms below.
Pirin wanted to get as far from the entrance as he could. If they could slip away into the darkness, he’d feel a lot better about their chances. But he also couldn’t stop himself from looking down into the pits on either side of the bridge.
There was no railing, only a straight drop. A few torches cast light up from the bottom, but it was still incredibly dark. As far as he could see, there was no easy way up or down, except for a spooled-up rope ladder.
People sat at the bottom of the pits. Shadowy, detail-less forms huddled around the edges of the pit, which was lined with prison cell doors. Only a few of the people lingered near the torches, and they didn’t wear Saltspray attire.
“Prisoners…” Pirin whispered.
Myraden grabbed his shoulder and pulled him away from the edge. “Workers. Fodder, for whatever they are facing deeper in the tunnels.”
“We should—”
“We are going into the tunnels, yes?” She shook her head. “We are delving deeper into the last place they want to be. Bringing them with us would be cruel.” She walked quicker, marching along the bridge.
There was another yawning hole in the stone on the opposite side of the bridge, which Pirin figured had to be the true entrance to the Dulfer tunnels—not just this atrium vestibule, repurposed as a prison.
Another pair of guards charged out of the doorway on the other side of the causeway, but Kythen and Gray, who had now taken the lead, attacked. Kythen headbutted one of them off the bridge, and Gray struck one with her beak hard enough to fling him back along the causeway. He didn’t get back up.
They reached the end of the bridge, then stepped into the darkness of the tunnels.
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The Hand barged into the Saltspray camp with his fingers on his sword’s hilt, ready to draw.
He was expecting an ambush, and although he could deal with whichever lowly sect warrior or wizard they had, he’d rather not be caught by surprise
No one attacked. Workers and fighters lined the edge of the camp’s thoroughfare, staring at the Hand. Some of them carried weapons—their brass knuckles with salt crystals embedded in them—but they didn’t look at all inclined to use them.
Surely, they’d heard the reports of how efficiently and quickly he’d dispatched the two groups of warriors they sent to retrieve him—until the third group finally convinced him to meet with them.
The Saltspray leader didn’t make him wait long. She met him in the center of the thoroughfare with an entourage of guards at her back.
A wizard. The Hand scowled as soon as he saw her Familiar. At least she had the sense to kneel.
“Keep watch,” the Hand instructed Khara. “Is her core exerting much pressure?”
“It’s hard to tell,” Khara whispered. She knelt beside her boar and ran her hand through its fur. “She might be veiling.”
Khara would develop her full Spiritual senses soon—once she reached the Blaze stage. No doubt this wizard before them was also a Blaze.
“Speak quickly,” the Hand demanded from the wizard. “Don’t waste any more of my time.”
“Greetings, Hand,” the wizard began. “We are honoured by your presence. I am Lady Clase, though you need only call me Clase if it suits your sensibilities. I am matriarch of the Saltspray sect, and—”
“What do you need from me, Clase?”
“I wished to inform you about a very valuable prize. The black-haired elf came through this camp, and while we did have him as a prisoner…he has, very regrettably, escaped into the Dulfer tunnels. We hoped you might be willing to—”
“This is the only entrance?” the Hand snapped.
“It is, sir.”
The Hand let a smile slip onto his face for just a moment. The heir had cornered himself, and the only way out was back the way he came. But then the Hand’s stomach dropped. “The tunnels. What dangers are there?”
“There are a few beasts like the Rustlers,” Clase said. “Them, among mid-power wraiths—getting more powerful the deeper you delve.”
The Hand rubbed the bridge of his nose. If the heir ventured into the tunnels and got himself killed, it was unlikely the Hand would ever recover his head. There would be no proof.
Clase lifted her head, and her beaver began to stir anxiously. “Sir, we were hoping you might be open to negotiations regarding our standing with the Dominion, as you are a representative of—”
The Hand drew his sword in one fluid motion, making a black crescent through the air. It left a slit across Clase’s cheek, then stopped just before it slashed through her neck. Her enhanced skin might resist some damage, but not a direct blow.
Wizard or not, there was little she could do about a slit throat.
Khara cleared her throat. “I felt a swell in her spirit, sir.”
It would have been too late. The Hand shook his head, then said, “I will enter the tunnels and hunt for the black-haired elf. You will help me find him. I need as many search teams as you can muster—and your personal assistance. When I have what I want, we will negotiate. Do I make myself clear?”
Clase opened her mouth, then shut it again. “Yes, honoured Hand. You are very, very clear.”
“Then we will begin immediately.”