Tarn opened his eyes, and the mist that had shrouded the area was gone. Around him the other members of his team were still frozen, as devoid of movement as they were of color. There was a fuzziness around his mind, a sort of pressure between his thoughts that was only slowly abating.
The vision was over. Or had it even happened at all?
He was sitting now. He could feel the cold stone floor of the cavern underneath him, and the chill of the rock wall at his back. Gooseflesh raced up his forearms at the low temperature, as the vapors of his breath began to show before his face.
Isca was standing near him, one hand to her goggles as if she were focusing the lenses upon him. Her antenna were crossed, a sign he had come to recognize was worry. Bog was right behind her, towering over the Kithikin, with a similar expression on her face. Lash had climbed onto the orc’s shoulder, and was sneaking a peek into her pack.
Urthin was standing near Aryo, his hands raised in a gesture of explanation. No doubt helping the young Zephyr with his level up choices, Tarn surmised. Jental was frozen in mid-stride, pacing the cavern and looking impatient. In a far-off corner, Narsol stood with his arms folded. Meditating, perhaps.
Tarn pulled his cloak a bit tighter to hold off the cold, a faint but biting breeze adding a chill to the air.
Wait a minute. It wasn’t this cold before.
Shaking his head to try and clear the dust from his mind, he pushed himself upright. As he did so, he felt the pressure in his ears break with an audible pop.
“Tarn!” Isca was suddenly in movement, leaning towards him. “Tarn can you hear me?”
“Yeah,” he said. He wobbled for a moment, accepting hers and Bog’s outstretched arms as they pulled him to his feet. “Yeah, I’m good. Just a little… disoriented.”
“Another vision?” Urthin had crossed the room almost silently. “From the dungeon?”
Tarn nodded. His head feeling clearer, he began to look around the room for the source of the cold. There was a darkened stone archway at the far end of the cavern. Its interior was shadowed, but not opaque. Tarn thought he could make out faint shapes with, rounded and unmoving.
“When did that get here?” Tarn nodded toward the opening.
“Moments ago,” Urthin said. “Just before you woke. It simply appeared within the wall, arriving without a sound.”
“Lash can check it!” His tiny form leapt from Bog’s shoulder with surprising grace, landing on the floor and running towards the arch. “Waited for you. Don’t worry, Boss. Won’t go in!”
Padded feet slapping against the stone, Lash ran by the others and came to a stop next to the archway and an intrigued Narsol. Huge eyes narrowing, he peered into the darkness.
“What do you hope to see, gremlin?” Narsol sounded skeptical, seeing the same barely coherent darkness. “I see nothing, and feel only a cold wind.”
“Lash eyes better, big green man. Lash made by magic men, so he have magic eyes of course. Give him moment to focus, he will see.”
“My … interface?” Aryo tapped the side of his head. “The words in my head, I mean. They seems to be … going crazy?”
“Really, kid?” Jental gave a bored laugh. “Are you going to tell us about every hangnail you – wait. I see it too. New statistics are showing up in my mind.”
Tarn focused his thoughts on his interface, and saw the text shift and dance as if they were ripples in a pond. After a moment, they stabilized and a new entry appeared.
//BRIDGE ENVIRONMENT DETECTED //WARNING: GEM PERFORMANCE REDUCED //NEW BRIDGE STATISTICS ADDED //BODY TEMPERATURE: 100% (External temp: +2 / Modifiers: 0) //GRAY RESISTANCE: 100% (Base reduction: -5 per hour) //BODY RESERVES: 100% (Base reduction: -1 per hour)
The Sword has said the bridge was an environment not designed for the fragile bodies and thoughts of humans. The gray spaces, it had called it. Tarn supposed this was their gems translating that world into something their minds and senses could process.
“I see them too, Aryo,” Tarn said. “You all should. The dungeon told me to expect this, it’s part of the road I’m sure that archway leads to.”
“You spoke to the dungeon?” Isca sounded both worried and disappointed. Tarn recalled that in his final vision with the Sword on their last visit, Isca had been included. “What did it tell you? Will it guide us to the Axe Dungeon?”
“Yes.” Tarn nodded toward the arch way. “I think that is our doorway to something the Sword called a bridge – a pathway between dungeons. It leads to the Axe, but crossing it isn’t going to be easy. That’s what these new stats are about.”
“Very cold!” Lash shuddered as he turned away from the darkened archway, his large eyes blinking rapidly. “Dark and snow, but rocks and metal rails. Like mine car, but bigger. Maybe trains? Lurim had trains – only good thing about Lurim.”
“What the hell is a train?” Jental muttered while shuddering and pulling her cloak tighter around her.
“That’s the bridge.” Tarn pointed to the arch. “The Sword has opened it for us, but it can’t close it. That means Yarex will be able to access it too.”
“Then we should make haste.” Urthin picked up his pack, headed to far side of the room. Narsol was already waiting next to the arch, one eye on Lash.
“Hang on Smiley, we need-“ Tarn stopped for a moment. When have I ever needed to tell Urthin to slow down? “Let’s just hold on a moment.”
Urthin stopped, turning back towards Tarn. For an eyeblink there was an emotion across his face. Disappointment? Frustration? Tarn couldn’t be sure. Then it was gone, replaced by the same stone-like reaction he had come to expect.
Was he in a hurry to beat Yarex, or get away from him? Did Smiley actually fear him?
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“Urthin has the right idea.” Tarn pushed his thoughts about Urthin aside. “We do need to move as fast as we can. The Sword told me that out there is the gray spaces. It is the world between the dungeons. Humans, orcs, non-magicals. We’re not supposed to be there – just being in there will slowly kill us. We have to be ready for anything, and once we’ve started we’ll need to keep moving until we get to the other side.”
“And the Axe?” Bog tensed her muscles, arms flexing. “Did it say what to expect there?”
Tarn looked across the room at Narsol. The orc stared at the archway with an intensity that could melt stone. The one person in the group who had been within the Axe and lost his team trying to save his people. How would he react when he returned to it?
“Not much. A dungeon like the Sword, but more savage, difficult for even the Progenitors to control. But that’s the next step, right now let’s focus on this one.”
“Boss!” Lash called across the room. “Maybe this help!”
Before anyone could react, the gremlin reached into the archway. Isca cried out in surprise as Lash’s arm seemed to vanish up to the shoulder, swallowed up by the inky interior. An eye blink later, he pulled the limb back out and proudly held up his prize – a large satchel.
“Why scared looks?” He looked confused at everyone’s shocked reactions. “Just cold in there, wing-girl. If dark space bad, why dungeon let us go? Lash found bag by door! Big green man, throw to Tarn please.”
Looking down quizzically, Narsol accepted the sack from Lash. Tarn could see it was simply made from a burlap material, and had a single emblem stamped on the side in fading back ink.
A sword.
A gift from the dungeon?
Narsol took a moment, then tossed the sack across the cavern in Tarn’s direction. Tarn could see the throw was not going to be on the mark, but before he could react Urthin’s arm shot out in a blur, catching the bag and handing it to Tarn.
Tarn opened the bag, peering inside. He was immediately struck by the strong scent of wood, as well as a hint of oil. Inside the sack were eight long sticks, each wrapped with white cloth at the end, which had been dipped in some foul-smelling substance.
“Torches?” Tarn said out loud. The satchel also contained a small blue box, about the size of Tarn’s palm. Opening it, he found twelve small carved twigs on the inside, each with a red and white tip at the end. The exterior of the box contained the same Sword stamp, as well as a picture of flame.
“Fire starters, I’d guess.” Tarn held the small stick up to his eyes. Isca stepped closer, studying both objects with her goggles.
“They do read as inert, combustible to me,” she said. “Perhaps if you pull them across that strip on the box?”
Shrugging his shoulders, Tarn did so and was rewarded with a small flame at the end of the fire starter. Holding the torch away from his face, he brought the flame to it. The oil-soaked cloth burst into conflagration, the heat immediately pushing back against the cold air from the archway.
Inside his mind, Tarn’s interface sprang to life.
//Status effect gained: [Warming]
Source: Torch (99% remaining)
Temperature +3
Gray resistance +2
//BODY TEMPERATURE: 100% (External temp: +2 / Modifiers: +5) //GRAY RESISTANCE: 100% (Base reduction: -3 per hour)
“Okay, great!” Tarn smiled in Lash’s direction. “Good find Lash. These will help with the cold, and they will keep reduce the impact of the gray. Isca, pass those torches around, and we’ll need to keep our eye out for more.”
As she did, Tarn handed the torch off to Urthin.
“We should try to keep that lit,” he said. “We only have eleven of these fire starters left.”
Urthin nodded, holding the flaming object and walking back towards the arch way. Tarn felt a moment of gratitude as he looked at the stamp of the sword on the side of the empty satchel.
Thanks.
Yet that warm feeling decreased almost as fast as the torch warmth had, as he thought about their path ahead. The way the Sword had described it, crossing the inhospitable environment of the bridge seemed almost impossible. They still knew very little of what they were facing, and even their adversary’s motives were shrouded in mystery.
Three months ago, standing outside this very dungeon, Tarn had faced down the same circumstances. But he had walked into the unknown with confidence, armed with the fact that he was alongside his team. Four people he had walked through fire with, time and again.
That was not the case today.
Tarn stepped forward, bringing himself in front of Aryo. The kid looked like... well, a kid. Nervous, excited, worried. It was written all over his freckle-filled face. The desire to prove himself was obvious, but the fear of failure was as well.
“You got this, Aryo.” Tarn clapped him on the shoulder. “Listen to your team, remember how your class works. Keep a cool head.”
“Well, that won’t be hard.” A bit of red came to the Aryo’s cheeks, as he shuddered a bit from the wind. “It’s awful cold out there.”
Tarn laughed. A joke, even a nervous one, was a good sign. Turning away from their young Zephyr, he faced the wry grin of Jental.
“You can save the big pep talk, Coach. I wouldn’t be here if you didn’t believe in my skills. I don’t need your reassurances like junior here.”
“No, you don’t.” Tarn shook his head. “You’re as capable as anyone here, Jen. But I want you to understand something. That ability you have, that cockiness you’ve earned? It comes with a price.”
“What?” Jental looked at him, confused. She took a step back. “What – what does that mean?”
Tarn focused his stare on her, raising one pointed finger.
“It means I trust you. Don’t make me regret that. It also means if we lose one soul on this trip - even one, Jental - I’m holding you personally responsible. You will worry about more than you. If you don’t like that, you can stay on this side of the damn arch. Is that understood?”
He waited, while the air between them seemed to charge with the tension. He could see her frustration with him, her instincts crying out to her to rebel, to show off, to posture. Then the storm broke, and he saw her face relax.
“Yeah, I got the message.”
Good enough for now. Continuing across the cavern, he stopped in front of Narsol. The last and most unknown element of this entire operation. The orc looked back at him, evaluating Tarn with his single eye.
Tarn thought about what it would have felt like to go into the Sword and lose. To emerge not a hero, but at best a guilt-ridden survivor. A man who would then somehow gather the weak and wounded of his people and carry them across the sea, to beg for assistance from a hated enemy.
“There’s nothing I need to say to you, Narsol.” Tarn offered his outstretched hand. “Except let’s go save both of our peoples.”
Narsol took his hand and held it firmly.
“You impress me, human.” His voice sounded older, wearier. Yet there was a bitterness to it, one Tarn recognized. “But do not misunderstand why I am here. I am here to save my people. Not you, not the Realm. We work together against a common enemy, but our goals are not the same.”
“Look here!” Bog shouted from across the room “You’re lucky Tarn let you come. You can’t just-“
Tarn held his hand up, willing his friend to be silent. Somewhere in his memory, he could hear Rykin chuckling at him.
What did you think, lad? That a thousand years and a thousand deaths would be forgotten, just like that? That ye’d be friends?
Friendship took trust, and trust had to be earned from both sides. Tarn felt a bit of anger flare towards himself. It was okay to understand Narsol’s pain, to even identify. But he needed to keep his eyes open, and not let empathy blind him too much.
“I hear you, Narsol.” He kept his voice firm, leaving no doubt as to whose team this was. “And I accept why you are here. We need you, but you need us as well. I expect you to act as part of this team.”
“I am a solider of the Chieftain.” Narsol’s jaw was set, his tone just as commanding as Tarn’s. “Whomever I serve alongside in battle has my loyalty, so long as the battle is joined. You have my word.”
Narsol’s one eye was fixed across the room, where Bog stood with Lash perched upon her shoulder.
The Kai Vae-Riyah the orc had called her, reverence in his voice. More questions for another time.
“Good enough for me,” Tarn said. He turned back to the group. “The Dungeon opened this for us, but we don’t really know what to expect. But we do know Yarex will be close behind. That’s the bridge, and the Axe is on the other side. As goals go, it doesn’t get more simple than that.”
Tarn turned toward the shadowed archway, with only a darkened hint of what lay beyond.
“Let’s get going.”