Wren winged out of the crevasse, struggling to keep herself aloft and moving in the right direction. Shifting between human and bat forms didn’t help her to heal wounds any more quickly, and even a fresh infusion of blood wouldn’t make for a miracle. What she needed was time to rest and recover, preferably with a few jugs bought from the local butcher.

Behind her, the two wounded Lucanian mages scrambled across the now-frozen floor of the cavern, jumping frosted vines and ducking to keep their torso’s low. A single stalactite and a mess of pebbles and dust shook loose from the ceiling at the thrashing of the wounded mana-beast, and Wren had to swerve desperately out of the way. While a falling stone might have left her with a nasty bruise in human form, as a bat, it could knock her out of the air.

The white-haired Eldish girl Wren had hauled out of the ice so many years ago had surrounded herself in some kind of frozen barrier - it looked like a rosebud, of all things. However ridiculous that might have seemed, the ice was holding up to the attacks of the mammoth stone-bat, somehow.

Wren reached the upward tunnel, circled once to check on the two people she’d agreed to guide, and watched nearly half a dozen other enormous, frozen rosebuds, scattered around the cavern, opened. Out of each one marched a soldier, all of ice, clutching a glittering sword. As one, they fell on the stone-bat, stabbing it with their blades.

How did that sweet little girl, Wren wondered, become such a monster? What exactly had happened over the past twenty-five years? She’d seen young Lucanian guild mages fight in the jungles of Varuna, but that was nothing like this. When Liv had proposed fighting the stone-bat by herself, Wren had assumed the girl intended a quick distraction, or at worst to sacrifice herself so that her friends could get away safely. But if she was capable of this level of magic, she might actually be able to win.

The two wounded mages - Matthew and Beatrice, was it? - had reached the upward tunnel, so Wren turned away from the ongoing battle and swooped low above their heads. She opened her mouth, sending out a high pitched pulse of sound that no one in human form would be able to hear.

The most disorienting part of adapting to bat form, for children of the Red Shield Tribe, was not usually learning to fly. That came with a few bruises, certainly, but small children had a certain fearlessness and genius for physical play that usually saw them cavorting about the jungle clearings rather quickly. No, the hard part about using a bat form was mastering how to sense one’s surroundings using bouncing sound.

The organs for it were almost entirely new: the human throat couldn’t produce sounds of the appropriate pitch, nor could the human ear receive or interpret the returning information. Of course, Wren had been flying and hunting for many years, but she still remembered hours of frustration, and the patience of her father as he taught her.

The thought brought a pang to her chest, and Wren wondered whether she would ever see her father again. She wondered whether the man who’d picked her up when she was crying over a skinned knee would recognize what he’d become now.

A mental map of the tunnels built in Wren’s mind with each pulse of sound, and she steered the fleeing mages first right, then left, but always upward. She squeaked at them when she needed their attention, and if that didn’t work, she swooped in low, just past their heads. Neither of them was moving quickly, but they were moving, and that was something.

Nearly physical waves of sound erupted from behind them, and Wren guessed only the enormous, deformed creature trapped back in that cavern could possibly be responsible. Matthew and Beatrice stumbled, clutching their ears in pain, and Wren dropped out of the air to land in human form on the tunnel floor.

“What was that?” Matthew asked, once any of them could hear again.

“It was the bat,” Wren said, gasping. “That’s horrifying. I don’t know whether it’s just the size, or something about how mana from the rift has altered it, but the thing must be able to use sound as a weapon.”

“If it hurt us that badly,” Beatrice said, placing one hand on the tunnel wall for balance, and forcing herself to her feet, “I can’t imagine what it must have done to Liv. We need to go back and help her.”

“That’s the last thing you should be doing,” Wren argued. “You can barely walk, and he’s missing a hand. Goddess knows what’s still between us and the exit, and you want to go backwards?” She regretted the slip as soon as the word had left her mouth: Raktia was no longer the sort of name Wren wanted to be invoking, but it seemed like old habits were going to take time to break.

“She came back for us,” the Lucanian girl argued. “And you’d abandon her? Just like that?”

Wren laughed, and rolled to her feet. “I’m not abandoning anyone. Did you see what kind of magic she was using? If that girl can’t beat the thing on her own, there isn’t anything you or I are going to be able to do to help her.”

“Matthew?” Beatrice said, turning to the wounded young man. “She’s your sister, or might as well be.”

“The only sister I ever had,” he said. Wren saw that the man’s face was far too pale, and observed that unlike the two women, Matthew hadn’t gotten to his feet yet. “Whether it’s legal or not. And it kills me to leave her back there. But Wren is right.”

“What?” Beatrice exclaimed, opening her mouth to argue.

“You hit your head,” Matthew said. “And you’ve been foggy ever since, Triss. You’re not talking like someone who’s been on a culling before. Neither of us are in a condition to do anything but pull back. You need to trust me to make this call.”

“However talented she is, Liv isn’t trained for this,” Beatrice insisted.

“She’s more trained than you want to admit,” Matthew shot back. “You read her letters, same as I did, Triss. Six years with her father. She’s been north. You need to trust her. Remember that duel in Freeport? You trusted her then. Have a little faith now.”

“Blood and shadows,” Beatrice cursed, and then bent over to help Matthew up to his feet. “Lead the way, Wren. But if she doesn’t make it out of there, Matt, I’ll never forgive you.”

“Neither will I,’ he murmured. “Can you still find us a way, without your wings?” he asked Wren.

“I know the next few turns, at least,” Wren assured him. “Come on.” With her hunting knife in hand, she led the two of them up through a dizzying array of rough tunnels, ever upward, and toward the roaring sound of water. Finally, they broke out onto a tumble of rock that framed the descent of a subterranean cascade.

Above them, the buried river tumbled down in a great rush, crashing over the rocks onto which the three companions had emerged, and then down below them into a great, dark pool from whence the current continued on into the darkness. The air was wet with mist and spray, and the rocks were slick, darkened with moss.

“Up there,” Wren said, pointing to the top of the falls. “That’s the level the mines are on. We can climb the rocks.” If she could have shifted into bat form, the ascent would have been simple enough - but that would require more blood, and Wren didn’t have any to spare. The faint traces of power that lingered in her from licking Matthew’s wound were hardly enough to keep her injury healing.

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

Together, the three of them slowly worked their way up the rocks, clambering from one to the next. There was a great deal of swaying, several scrapes and near falls, and a lot of cursing. By the time they were nearly at the top, Wren’s fingers were numb from the cold water, and her hunting leathers were soaked. Her hair was plastered to her skull, wet and limp. Neither of her companions looked any better.

Wren hauled herself up onto a wide, flat boulder, then turned around and offered her hand to help pull Matthew up. Beatrice stayed below, got her hands beneath his boots, and shoved upward. The young man had been struggling, and he’d gotten more and more quiet over the course of the climb. When the two women finally got him onto the rock, he simply rolled onto his back and lay there, eyes closed.

“He’s not going to make it,” Wren said.

“Shut your mouth,” the girl hissed. “I’ll carry him if I have to.” Before Wren could ask how she intended to do that, Beatrice raised a hand, took a breath, and chanted a quick spell. “Aluthet Thlākis.”

A shimmering blue plane of raw magic formed beneath where Matthew had collapsed, and it gave off wisps of gold and blue light, the same as the mana-stone veins in the walls of the caverns. Beatrice raised her hand, and the shining rectangle lifted, as well, carrying the young man.

“How long can you keep that up?” Wren asked.

“As long as I have to,” the young woman said, through gritted teeth. Wren decided that, rather than waste time arguing, she’d see to it they covered as much ground as they could, using however long the spell lasted. She led Beatrice off the rocks and to the bank of the underground river that wound through the caves and the mines. She could see a cut shaft ahead, with obvious signs of stonework and shadows that might even be wooden bracings.

Halfway there, a monster erupted from the river, spraying cold water in every direction. Beatrice staggered backward and drew her sword, but lost control of her magic, dropping Matthew onto the riverbank. He didn’t make a sound, or even flinch, and Wren could only hope that he was unconscious, rather than dead.

One glance at the pale mana-beast that had half-slithered out of the water convinced Wren that she had no business getting in close, even if she’d had her dagger. The thing was long and thin, with a segmented, pale body that sprouted dozens of fins, each pair extending out from either side of a given segment. It had some kind of long feelers or sensors extending from its head, though Wren could make out nothing that she recognized as eyes, and great fangs that looked like they could take a limb with a single bite.

She backed away, grabbed the hilt of Matthew’s sword and drew it from his sheath. The unfamiliar motion pulled at her wounded shoulder, but Wren ignored the pain and watched as Beatrice drew her own sword and rushed in. The point of the woman’s rapier sunk into one of the many body segments, but Wren couldn’t tell how much of an effect it had, or even whether the monster was capable of feeling pain.

It lunged at Beatrice with its head, fangs gaping, but the young woman’s eyes sparked blue, and she slipped aside, slashing out again with her rapier as the monster’s segments passed her. This time, sigils along the thin blade of the sword sparked to life, shedding bright light, and the wound seemed to panic it.

Wren, circling to keep her distance, couldn’t figure out why for a moment, until she saw the injured segment of the monster’s body shrivelling up, as if it had suddenly lost all the moisture within. It looked like that one section had been left to dry in the sun for days, or perhaps been smoked over a fire.

It recoiled in pain, thrashing about the water as it tried to get at Beatrice again. The young woman, however, always seemed to know exactly where to step to keep herself out of harm’s way, and every cut she made withered the monster’s body more.

Finally, the mana-beast turned and slipped back into the water, having apparently decided this particular prey was more trouble than it wanted to deal with. Wren picked her way back down to the riverbank, and slid the wounded man’s sword back into the sheath at his belt.

“We should get moving before it comes back,” she said. “Can you use that spell again?”

Beatrice shook her head. “That’s the last of my mana,” she admitted, sheathing her own sword. “We’re going to have to carry him the old fashioned way.”

Wren didn’t much like the sound of that, but she managed to get the man’s uninjured arm around her shoulders, while Beatrice took what was left of the other. Between the two of them they pulled him up off the ground and staggered forward. Then, Wren frowned.

“Why did you stop?” Beatrice gasped.

“Heard something,” Wren said. “Rumbling from below the falls.”

“I don’t know how you can hear anything but the water,” Beatrice said, and then caught herself. “Wait, I hear it too.”

“Run,” Wren shouted, and forced herself forward. It was less of a run than an off kilter, drunken walk, but the two women managed to keep moving. For a moment, Wren hoped they might actually make it to the mineshaft before whatever was coming up the waterfall reached them.

The rumbling built, and she chanced a look back to see an avalanche boil up over the edge of the cascade. The running water of the river cracked over and froze in an instant, and a great white hand came glistening up out of the darkness. Crouched in the palm, next to a bloody hunk of skull and casque, was a white haired Eldish girl with a wand in her hand.

“Liv?” Beatrice shouted, over the groaning of the frozen river.

“Sorry,” the girl called back, as the icy hand and the avalanche carried her forward to them. “Can’t hear you.” She tapped her hand against her ear, and Wren saw there was dried blood all down the sides of her neck, already crusted and drying.

“What happened to the bat?” Wren shouted, and pointed back down the way Liv had come. “The bat!” she repeated, shaping the words as slowly as she could.

“Killed it,” the girl said, and slapped the gruesome cask that was riding along with her. “Hop on,” she told them. “Is Matthew alive?”

“He’s still breathing,” Beatrice said, though Wren wasn’t certain Liv was actually able to understand. Between all of them, they hauled him onto the frozen, enormous hand, and then the ice began to crack and grind its way up into the mineshaft. As bizarre a mode of transport as it was, Wren was happy enough to collapse back against what she thought was a ring finger and enjoy the ride for a moment.

☙

There ended up not being enough water, apparently, for Liv to take them all the way out of the mines using her spell. Mana didn’t seem to be the issue, from the way the white-haired girl was acting, though Wren noticed the veins on her hands, wrists and fingers were practically black they’d turned so dark. The same discoloration was creeping in along the girl’s temples now, as well, beneath her pale skin.

Between the three of them, however, they got Matthew down the mountain and to the encampment, where Liv used her wand to break the ward. As soon as it was safe for the men inside to pass the circle of mana-stone dust, they lifted the wounded man up and carried him away. Beatrice followed, but Wren watched as Liv recast the ward around the camp.

“What do you want done with her, m’lady?” one of the older guards asked, nodding in Wren’s direction. The white haired girl frowned, but seemed to guess at the meaning easily enough.

“She helped us get Matthew out,” Liv said. “Get her something to eat and drink, and bring her over to Mistress Trafford’s tent. But watch her, Tobias.”

It was a step up from being bound, Wren supposed, even if she would have preferred to have her bow and arrows back. Still, she’d made the choice to put herself in this position, and there was nothing to do now but see it through to the end. She only hoped whatever good will she’d won from the rescue mission would be enough that someone would listen to her.

She ended up in a tent, where several cots had been set up. A middle aged woman used an assortment of enchanted instruments to close the wound on Matthew’s arm, and then began examining Beatrice’s head wound. It was a peaceful enough place to wait, and Wren got the impression that both of them would survive.

The white-haired girl she’d once pulled from the frozen river, however, didn’t spend more than a moment in the tent, and only that to make certain her friends were still alive. Then, she was back out again, Wren presumed to organize the armed men who protected the camp.

When Matthew woke the next morning, she watched as he took command. Over the night, the eruption had begun to recede. Wren couldn’t feel it herself, but she could listen. Plans were made to leave a group of men to hunt the lower mountain slopes for any stray mana beasts that might be a danger, while the wounded would return to Whitehill.

For her part, Wren was far more interested in Liv. As soon as Matthew was awake again, the white haired girl had claimed a tent for herself, and there she sat: legs crossed, arms at her sides, eyes closed.

After a word from Beatrice, Wren was allowed to drag in a camp stool and watch over her. The blackened veins on her arms, hands, and face pulsed beneath her skin, almost crawling back and forth.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone survive mana-sickness that severe,” the chirurgeon remarked, stepping into the tent.

“And I’ve never seen anyone do what this girl did beneath the mountain,” Wren said. “Is there any way you can help her?”

“Not me,” the woman said, but Beatrice followed her into the tent, holding a giant hunk of unworked mana-stone.

“I may be able to.” Her head now bandaged, the swordswoman sat down across from Liv, placing the dull gray stone between them.

Wren leaned forward to watch.