After the mind-blowing events of the past several hours, Daphne thought she was prepared for any horror that this messed up fantasy world could throw at her.
She was very, very wrong.
Emerging from the prose-shaft with Mark right behind her, she found herself in a shallow ditch. The entrance to the tunnel had been carefully screened by dead branches and a large stone, which Runar must have pushed out of the way when he made his exit. Daphne brushed them aside frantically and scanned the area.
“Where is he?”
She heard that terrible sound again, like the ground itself was crying out against some great wrong.
“This way!” Mark was scrambling up out of the ditch, and she followed. They ran a few feet, tore around a giant clump of boulders, and stopped short.
There was Runar, grappling with a man dressed in a strange, mud-colored tunic. Daphne’s brain snagged on that detail, as if desperate to avoid processing the rest of the horrible scene. The fabric looked like it had once been some rich jewel-tone — purple, maybe? — but then dyed, and dyed again, perhaps in an attempt to layer in other rich colors for a rainbow-type effect. The result was a deeply unpleasant sludge hue, like something you’d find at the bottom of a drain.
“Daphne?”
The panic in Mark’s voice wrenched her back to the wider reality. As offensive as the man’s attire may be, it was nothing compared to his choice of weaponry. With both hands, he held one end of a long… chain? That was the closest term Daphne could think of, though this was a far cry from the glorious arc she’d pulled from the Under-Pool. It was like solidified smog, roiling and glistening like oil. It was the same putrid color as the man’s tunic. Even worse, the whole thing seemed to hum jarringly, like it was giving off a frequency designed to turn your stomach and set your teeth on edge.
But that wasn’t the most horrible part.
The true horror of this terrible scene was Runar, thoroughly entangled in the other end of the smog-chain. As she watched, the griffin fell on his side, nearly motionless, as if he’d worn himself out trying to throw off the weapon.
Daphne’s heart splintered at the sight. The noble creature was shuddering and mumbling, too low for her to hear the words, but she felt them in her bones. The struggle of the griffin, the oh-so-wrong hum of the chain — these were the noises that had traveled through the earth, bringing her and Mark to Runar’s aid.
She registered all of this in a matter of seconds, but Mark was even faster. Before she could form a plan, he was pulling out a weapon.
They’d taken a few things with them from the Dalamelle of Triunity. Daphne and Mark each had their own bottle-pendant, full of water from the Under-Pool in case of emergencies. They were also now both wearing a satchel like Runar’s, full of letter-snacks, parchment, pens, and the word-chains from their first two battles. At Daphne’s insistence, Mark had taken the glowing water-chain, coiled neatly and stowed carefully in his satchel by packet of preserved vowels.
It was this chain that Mark was brandishing now. While Daphne was still struggling past the wrongness of the oily smog’s audio frequency, Mark leapt forward, swinging the glowing stream of words with a mighty cry.
“Runaaaaar!”
Mud Man’s attention snapped to them, but it was too late for him to stop the attack. Mark’s blow landed true — not on the man, as Daphne had expected, but in the middle of the smog-chain stretched between the man and the griffin. The radiant light-whip wrapped around and around the line of humming oil, snapping it in two.
Their opponent bellowed in rage. Daphne caught a glimpse of a sharp-featured face framed by stringy hair, the muddy eyes narrowed in a sullen squint. He was reeling in his torn weapon, readying it for another blow.
“Help Runar!” Mark shouted. He pushed Daphne towards the griffin as he stepped into the man’s path.
Daphne dashed to Runar, falling to her knees by the griffin’s side. He was still mumbling, his eyes wide and darting frantically from side to side.
“It’s okay, it’s okay.” She placed one hand on his head, speaking as soothingly as her choked voice could manage. “I’m here. We’re going to get you out of this.”
The griffin’s golden eyes widened further, and the mumbling increased in volume, though she still couldn’t make out the words.
“It’s okay,” she said again. “Stay still.” Then she placed her hands on the loop of smog-chain wrapped around the griffin’s neck.
Instantly, her mind dissolved into chaos. There were no phrases to express meaning. There weren’t even words. The world became a cacophony of senseless sounds, and she was falling into it, her molecules scattering to join the jumble of disconnected letters swirling through the void.
Some force pushed her, and Daphne landed on her back with a gasp. She was dizzy but her mind was clear again. Her thoughts could move in relative harmony. Her hands were stinging, as though she’d touched something hot…
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Of course. She’d tried to remove the smog-chain and it had fought back, burning her hands and blending her brain into alphabet soup. That disorienting frequency wasn’t just in the air around the chain; it was coming from the chain, and the effect got stronger the closer you got to its source. Anyone caught by this chain was a true prisoner, tormented without and within.
Runar.
The griffin must have pushed her away. That’s what had broken her connection with the toxic smog-rope. She could only imagine the agony of being wrapped in that awful thing, but he had managed to save her.
How could she save him?
She heard an exchange of battle cries behind her, and the sound of words whistling through the air, but she tried to block it out. Mark had told her to help Runar. He could handle Mud Man on his own. He would have to.
Careful to avoid contact with the oily smog-rope, Daphne knelt by Runar’s head and got her ear as close to his beak as possible.
“How do I get this thing off without touching it?” she asked.
Faintly, she heard a croak deep in the griffin’s throat. “Water.”
Water! Thank the muses, this was something she could handle. Hands shaking, Daphne pulled the stopper from her bottle pendant and poised it over the griffin’s beak.
“You drink it?” Daphne asked, feeling silly for wasting precious seconds.
The griffin gave another deep croak that sounded like a negative. Then, with obviously painful effort. “Pour it. Chain.”
“Right.”
Daphne tilted the bottle, letting a few drops fall on the smog-rope. To her relief, the oily stuff smoked, hissed, and began to dissolve. It gave off a truly hideous stench, but she didn’t care. She emptied her bottle, covering every inch of the evil chain with pure water from the Under-Pool. Moments later, it was gone, leaving Runar free but covered in horrible red welts.
The griffin’s head sank to the ground. His eyes closed.
“Runar!”
Daphne dropped her empty bottle with a curse before remembering the griffin had his own pendant. It was less than half-full, but this was Eloquent Water. A little could go a long way. She only had to pour a few drops down the griffin’s throat before he coughed, opened his eyes, and tried to sit up.
“Easy,” she commanded. “Take it slow.”
Runar’s eyes were still too wide as they gazed frantically over Daphne’s shoulder.
“But the Reader — I must aid —”
Another battle cry sounded behind Daphne. She turned just in time to see Mark strike his foe with a lash of the glowing word-whip across the face. Mud Man fell on his backside, scrambled up, and took off in a mad dash across the plains.
“I think the Reader has it sorted,” Daphne said. She actually giggled in sheer relief. “So you can just sit tight. Have some more water.”
Runar tried to protest, but Daphne silenced him with another dose of Eloquent Water.
“Who was that?” Mark plopped down beside them, taking a swig from his own bottle pendant. “I couldn’t get a read on his class. Wordsmith? Reader?”
Runar clacked his beak. “Wordmage.”
The stench of the smog-chain was still lingering in the air, making Daphne’s brain feel foggy. She grabbed Mark’s bottle-pendant and took a deep drink.
“Wordmage,” Mark repeated. “Are we that close to the Wordmaster’s fortress? I thought it was in the mountains.”
“His forces have been venturing further afield of late.” Runar’s voice was much clearer, but still weak. He accepted another sip of water from Daphne before continuing. “There is little to stand in their way.”
“What was that weapon?” Daphne asked.
“Yeah.” Mark looked down at his arm. His jacket sleeve was torn, and there was a red welt on his skin. “It looked kinda like a word-chain, and it burned, but… there was something else. When it made contact. My brain went all swirly and I felt like I was falling.”
“It is an Unordered Word,” Runar said gravely. “An agent of chaos. It is formed from the scattered cries of those driven mad by terror, and it still contains those cries within itself. Its lash burns the victim’s skin, but the true harm goes deeper, shattering thought and drawing one’s mind into the senseless horror of its forging.”
Daphne looked down at her hands, covered with stinging red welts.
“The water will soothe thee,” Runar said gently. “Pour it on thy wounds.”
She shook her head. “We don’t have enough, and we’ve got a long way to go… right? Is there another dalamelle before the mountains?”
“Just before,” the griffin replied. “At the start of the mountain road, a stream of the under-waters crosses the Lorist Way. There is a small dalamelle there.”
Daphne shook her head again. “Too far. Let’s save what water we have. We can all wash up when we get to the stream.” She placed her hand on the griffin’s head again, stroking the golden feathers. “Do you think you can move?”
Runar closed his eyes, as if performing some deep inner assessment.
“I shall be slow,” he said. “But I can make it to the prose-shaft.”
“Not yet!” Mark protested. “You were tied up in that mind-soup stuff for a while. You need to rest.”
Runar clacked his beak nervously. “Nay. We must hasten. The Wordmage will return.”
“Seriously?” Mark looked around, but there was no sign of the fleeing figure. “I think we scared him off. He certainly ran away fast enough.”
“He will return,” Runar insisted. “Wordmages, like their master, do not accept defeat with grace. They do not accept it at all. He will return and he will not be alone.”
“Are you sure?” Daphne asked. “Mark gave him a good walloping. Is ego really motivation enough to come back for seconds?”
“For a Wordmage, of course,” Runar replied. “But there is another motive. He will be searching for the prose-shaft.”
Mark’s eyes widened. “Of course,” he said softly. “The Winds have taken some of the tunnels, but not all.”
Runar nodded gravely. “They are still seeking access to the Lorist Way. If they were to find it, they could come upon my remaining kin from above and below, and unawares. All would be lost.”
“Well, let’s not let that happen.” Mark stood, offering his hand to help Daphne up. “C’mon, Runar. We’ll help.”
Together, they managed to raise the griffin to his feet. They moved as gently as they could, but the small exertion was almost too much for Runar. He leaned heavily on both of them, his chest heaving with ragged breaths.
“A — a moment,” he panted.
“Take your time,” Mark urged. “We can make it, Runar. The prose-shaft isn’t far.”
“Do tell,” came a shrill, nasal voice from above.
Looking up, Daphne saw a figure standing on top of the massive boulder they had run around on their way to help Runar. His mud-colored tunic was torn, and he was sporting a bloody gash across his face, but his squint-eyed face held no sign of fear.
“Say on, Reader,” Mud Man called harshly. “Read me the riddle of this prose-shaft.” The narrowed eyes landed on Runar, blazing with hatred.
“I would so love to pay my long-lost Lorist kin a visit.”