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Fikumin
Leopard in the fog
-Battle of Hellfort’s Pass-
Part IV
(Not all, is politics)
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In the end, his little field trip was worth it, Fikumin thought, looking around the underground expanse with a goofy smile.
Just don’t fall into the darn water.
The torch’s light danced on the cave’s ceiling above him. It caught on the large quartz veins, visible between the larger slate-rock sections and in some instances even dressed the shadows, in as many colors as one would see on a rainbow. These veins run down from the ceiling to the cavern’s floor and walls, like a giant beast’s spine. Sparkling and mostly white, alike old bones.
Wow, look at that! Fikumin thought, using a small mallet to break away a small protruding piece of quartz. He brought it closer to his face and grinned manically, when he spotted the thin gold vein gleaming amidst the crystal-rock. There’s gold in here.
He looked down for another broken piece, using the tip of his boot to push a moss covered rock aside, found a single flower underneath it. It sprang upwards as if it was alive. Not just any flower this, he thought, doubly impressed.
Wow. Praised be Luthos!
Fikumin pocketed this new find and with a deep sigh and a last look at the ominous black waters running through the dark underground cave, almost a proper river extending as far as his eyes could see, he turned around to climb up to reach the mines, the cool morning breeze on his back.
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It took almost two hours of crawling the only a meter-wide chasm at some points, the natural tunnel caused by the earthquake that had cracked the mountain rock, for Fikumin to finally return to the barred entrance. It was located near the southwest corner of Hellfort’s tower, where the wounded stone structure touched the vertical mountain side. Fikumin slipped under the small opening in the planks with ease, blinked once to adjust his eyes and then run fast towards the commotion before the barracks.
Stiles and a couple of the castle’s old garrison guards, Rolas Pontus amongst them, were talking animatedly; their argument appearing serious enough, for Stiles to rush inside one of the barracks incensed at the end of it.
Just as he was closing in, the sprightly dwarf caught out of the corner of his eye, Lithoniela retreating behind the kitchen building, on the opposite side of the yard and changed direction at the last moment to head that way.
He ducked under an abandoned cart, produce still on it, as if its owner had left it in a hurry, the smell of smoke bothering him and glued himself to the kitchen’s wall, before the corner Lithoniela had disappeared behind, not a moment ago; popped his head to check first, afore making the turn, as he’d clearly heard her speaking with someone else.
In the old tongue.
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“…can’t make the journey, mistress,” Larn the Zilan was saying, as Fikumin found cover behind a large enough bucket, not even three meters from the two of them.
“I can heal him,” Lithoniela insisted, a concerned frown marring her perfect face. “We just have to get him out of there, Larn.”
“Injury is too serious, you’ll get exposed, even if you pull it through. Such strong magic in the open,” He countered. “They’ll turn on you. Blame you, for their misfortune, mistress. This is a lost cause.”
“I will not have him perish here!” Lithoniela hissed taking offense and Larn grimaced.
“If the boy’s that important, he doesn’t need your assistance,” The Zilan offered and Fikumin blinked surprised. Was Glenavon injured? Larn assumed a hurt expression. “But your people do.”
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“My people,” Lithoniela droned, repeating his words.
“Yes, there are more, waiting for a slither of hope. A chance at salvation. You can be that hope. You can be their salvation.”
“More like yourself.”
If he was insulted, Larn hid it well, Fikumin thought.
“Zilan like me,” Larn agreed, continuing undaunted. “Like you Lithoniela. I’ve seen you with my own eyes. Felt your spirit in my soul. We are the same.”
“Followers of the Old Ways,” She said sounding bitter.
“We were all once. Who will take his place, for him to live? Aye, you need it to heal him, as you admitted. It was your mother that tore our people apart, mistress,” He told her, returning her glare unafraid. “But you can bring whatever is left together. Heal us all.”
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“You heard that,” Lithoniela said quietly, after he’d left her. Fikumin got up from behind the bucket and walked slowly towards her. He could see, she was troubled.
“Is it true? What he said, about more of your kind surviving?” Fikumin asked her, the black clouds of smoke reaching the castle bothering him.
“Exiles, is what he meant. Still set in the Old Ways.”
“The Folk always believed it was needed to unlock the mystic paths,” Fikumin said, treading carefully.
“Since when do the Folk dabble in magic?”
“All species do, Lithoniela,” He replied calmly, not wanting to insult her. “None as fruitfully as your kind though.”
“Because we eat the living.” She completed his sentence, with an angry pout.
Sentient ones, Fikumin translated.
“In a sense,” He said simply.
“It started that way, but turned into a nasty habit pretty quickly,” Lithoniela started, just when he’d thought, she’ll drop the matter like all the other times. “Then into a sickening need and after that a horrible addiction. Magic became an excuse to justify horrendous acts of barbarism against all species. All life. The thrill of the hunt consumed the greatest minds, it brought ruin.” She paused, her fists clenched tight to suppress the memories. “My mother put an end to this downward spiral of our society, pulled our people back from the darkness and sacrificed a huge part of our magic in exchange. It wasn’t an easy decision. These people, hated her for it. Perhaps, I can find the middle ground.”
Larn had sold her a dream.
“It sounds more like politics, than creed,” Fikumin noted.
“Everything in life, is politics,” Lithoniela murmured, looking away.
Not everything, Fikumin thought.
“Can you heal Glenavon?” He asked, after giving her a moment. “Is what he said true?”
Do you have to kill someone to do it?
She nodded. “I don’t know, it might come to that.”
There it is then.
“They won’t accept it Lithoniela. Dark magic, any magic…”
“I don’t care what they think!” She snapped.
“Then why you haven’t talked to Glenavon, since that day?” He countered and the Zilan recoiled, as if she’d seen a rattlesnake.
The dwarf reached with his hands, for his crude baggy tunics’ inside pockets, searched them for a bit and then emptied them out. Rummaged quickly through the weird contents, ate a piece of dry meat he found absentmindedly, returned the quartz rock in his pocket and picked a bluish moss-covered thick-petal flower from the rest of the small pile, tiny red veins visible on it, its broken stem a solid black.
“Is that Alphirim Lothe?” Lithoniela asked, voice revealing her awe, as she immediately recognized it. “Where did you find it?”
“Luthos led me to it,” Fikumin replied, wrapping it gently in a cloth. The rest of the pile was mostly junk, so he didn’t bother picking them up again. “Used gold to lure me near, but didn’t know why at the time.”
Lithoniela glanced towards the kitchen’s corner, hiding them from the soldiers returning in the yard, then back the other way leading to the outer wall, where Larn had headed to earlier. She was torn between two decisions, each road offered, potentially barring the other. Each decision saving something valuable, even precious, while potentially killing something equally important outright.
Not all, is politics, Fikumin thought with a sad smile, reaching to touch her gloved hand softly. His own road now clear, perhaps for the first time, since he’d started his journey.
“I can turn it into a potion,” The dwarf said simply and watched the whirl-mill of emotions on her face, gold eyes turning misty at the end of it.
“Fikumin, I can’t ask you to stay,” Lithoniela said softly, sounding unsure, perhaps even a little ashamed. “This place is a deathtrap,” He felt her fingers clench his hand tight. “But I want you to.”
“You don’t have to ask,” The dwarf replied with a shrug, keeping his own emotions from his face. “And I may know a way out.”
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