Chapter 6 - Pushing Hard
The sounds and scents of Mossgrove quickly receded as Sylven and Whisker reached the settlement’s outskirts. The crisp, fresh smell of the prairie beckoned both Sunshy and pika onward like the call of home, be it camp or warren. The settlements and Shyways may be safer from the predations of bad weather, hawks, and wildcats, but mount and rider were both in agreement that it felt best to run under wide, fully open skies.
He tightened Whisker’s harness as the first rays of sunlight peeked past the caldera’s rim.
The pika chirped, pawing at the soft earth impatiently. Sylven gave Whisker’s side a gentle pat, then swung up onto the saddle with practiced ease.
“Come on, Whisker,” he murmured, his gaze fixed on the rocky peaks in the distance. “Let’s see what we’re really made of.”
The two set off at a brisk pace, the denser vegetation of the grove giving way to the more exposed carpet of grass. Sylven kept his eyes on the horizon, where the Ember Foothills loomed, their jagged sharp lines jutting aggressively out of the horizon past the rolling prairie. Their rocky slopes stood out in grey amidst the green and gold, marking the edge of kobold territory.
As they traveled, Sylven’s thoughts drifted to Sennith’s tale, his words painting a vivid picture of the kobold caverns – a system of tunnels and chambers, guarded by terrifying kobold warriors. Secondhand, long-distance reconnaissance only goes so far, Sylven thought. I need to see it up close for myself.
Sylven decided to loosen the straps on the harness when he noticed the pika’s long whisker kept twitching with irritation. Sylven felt his unease through their bond—a faint buzz of reluctance.
“We’re a team now, remember?” Sylven murmured, running his hand along the pika’s fur. “You help me, I help you.”
Whisker squeaked, his large black eyes narrowing as if to say, Help me by letting me run free.
Sylven sighed and stepped back, pulling out the spurs he’d picked up in Mossgrove. They felt heavier now than when he’d first bought them, the weight of his decision pressing down like an anvil.
“Let’s do one run,” he said, his voice soft but firm. “Then we’ll rest.”
The spurs buckled into place, and Whisker flinched at the sensation when they first pricked at his sides. Sylven bit back a pang of guilt, reminding himself of the stakes. The Shard Rites weren’t just about proving himself as a Sunbrave—it was about showing everyone that the Sunshy were more than just reckless vagabonds.
As they started the run, the bond between them pulsed with tension. Whisker darted through the clearing, his powerful legs propelling him over obstacles with ease. But Sylven could feel the rebellion in his strides, the way Whisker’s movements lacked their usual restraint.
“Faster!” Sylven urged, his voice cutting through the blades of yarrow, sedge and wild rye that they whizzed past.
Whisker obeyed, pushing himself to run faster and longer than he ever had before. But after a full minute at top speed the strain on the pika grew obvious and even started leaking back to his rider. Sylven eased up on spurring Whisker on when he could feel the mount start wheezing, a sign that the pika was getting too heated. He gently patted the pika’s side as he apologized.
“Woah boy, that’s a good pika! I bet you’ll be too fast for any kobold to catch.” Whisker let out a long expressive cry, which the Shy interpreted to mean he agreed.
“But I’m sure it won’t come to that. We’ll figure out how to slip away without them noticing,” Sylven promised, more to himself than to Whisker.
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The spurs jabbed into Uiska’s flanks, and though the sensation wasn’t too hurtful, it was impossible to ignore. The pressure prickled against his fur, urging him to run faster, harder, until his thoughts blurred into the singular rhythm of his bounding legs.
For a few moments, he lost himself in the exhilaration of the run. The wind whipped through his fur, and the prairie grasses rushed past them in a blur of green and gold. He could pretend that all the bright and open space was his to romp through at full speed with no boundaries. And he almost let go of the tension that had gripped his body since the day he’d been caught.
But the spurs kept pressing harder. The relentless pace began to take its toll. His lungs started burning. His breathing grew ragged as he tried to gulp in air fast enough to cool the heat overwhelming his body, muscles straining to keep up with the pace Sylven demanded. The bond between them pulsed with urgency, a wordless insistence crossing over into distress.
Slow! Tired! he wanted to shout, but the bond carried only vague sensations, and Sylven wasn’t too good at listening.
Finally, just when his legs were about to falter, the pressure from the spurs eased, and Sylven’s voice came, quiet and soothing. Uiska could sense the Shy’s concern through their bond, a faint thrum of worry that mingled with the lingering pressure of the spurs. He flicked his ears, a silent plea for understanding, for a recognition of his limits.
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As Sylven’s hand patted him gently, the pika called out, half in frustration, half in relief. The well-meaning murmurs of apology helped calmed him, though his legs still trembled from exertion.
Sorry. Mercy... Uiska parsed the stream of thoughts grudgingly, his body beginning to relax under Sylven’s careful attention. But the prickle of spurs still brushed against his sides, a reminder of who held the reins.
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The midday sun beat down on Sylven's back as he and Whisker reached a vantage point overlooking the Cradle Caverns. The rock formations cast long shadows across the openings. A faint, sulfurous smell wafted from the depths, hinting at the volcanic activity that had formed these caves centuries ago. The air crackled with an unseen energy, a subtle reminder of the kobolds' connection to the earth and its fiery heart.
Sylven dismounted, leading Whisker to a shaded spot beneath a rocky overhang, just out of sight of the kobold guards. He transferred the charge from his Arclith, freshly topped up at Mossgrove, to the shard in the pika’s harness, then tapped it with blur, blending his mount into the background.
“Stay here,” he whispered, though the bond thrumming between them reassured him that Whisker wouldn’t stray far.
Sylven climbed higher, his movements careful and deliberate, his bare feet gripping the smooth rock with practiced ease. The caverns were nestled deep into the foothills, their entrances obscured by rocks and brush. The long shadows cast by the surrounding peaks would make it difficult to discern the signs of the colony’s activities to an untrained eye. From this distance, Sylven could just about make out faint trails worn into the gaps between the rocks, likely from regular kobold patrols. Their surfaces smoothened from the creatures’ claws scraping over them as they made their rounds.
His pulse quickened as he spotted a guard stationed near one of the larger entrances. The creature moved with an easy confidence, its small, sharp eyes scanning the terrain, their thick tails swaying rhythmically behind them. Its scales, a mix of greys, greens and browns, blended with the surrounding rocks, making it tricky to spot in the dim light.
Sylven crouched behind a rock as the guard turned in his direction, its nostrils flaring, its reptilian eyes glinting in the shadows. He held his breath, his hand gripping his slingshot, his muscles coiled and ready to act. After a tense moment, the guard’s attention shifted, and Sylven exhaled slowly, relief washing over him.
He crept closer, his eyes darting between the guard and the cavern entrance. The opening was wide enough for two kobolds to pass through side by side, but the shadows inside were impenetrable, not betraying any further clues as to what exactly lay within.
How many more are in there?
A faint noise behind him made him freeze. He turned slowly, his heart pounding, but it was only Whisker, he could see the dirt and grass under the blurred outline of the pika’s feet deforming as he peered out from the overhang.
Sylven gestured sharply for Whisker to stay back, but the momentary distraction cost him. His foot slipped on loose gravel, the sound echoing faintly in the still air.
The kobold guard stiffened, its head snapping in his direction, sniffing for strange scents more aggressively now. Sylven cursed under his breath, scrambling to retreat. He pressed himself into a crevice, his breath shallow as the guard approached, its heavy footsteps and tail swipes pounding like a drum set in his ears.
It sniffed the air, hissed, and honked harsh, sibilant words he couldn’t quite understand. Sylven’s loaded his slingshot with a sharp pebble and began to pull at the elastic fibers, ready to release the projectile if the monster peered into his hiding spot.
After what felt like an eternity, the guard turned away, resuming its patrol. Sylven didn’t move until its backside faded into the darkness, swallowed by the cavern's depths.
Too close, he thought, wiping sweat from his brow. I need a better plan.
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Vikka paced near the edge of the nesting chamber, her tail flicking nervously. The weight against her lower back was more pronounced now, a constant reminder of what was coming.
The egg-candles cast a soft glow across the chamber, illuminating the neat rows of shells tended by the nest mothers. Among them, Skaith strutted happily, her eyes bright with the news she’d be among those chosen to mate in the next cycle.
“I thought I’d have to wait longer for my turn,” Skaith gushed, her voice brimming with pride. “But the queen herself moved me up since I was the first of our clutch to lay my egg. And she even approved my choice of male!”
Vikka forced a smile at her clutch sister as she regaled the nest with the story of her gaining favor. Skaith’s excitement was genuine, and her place in the mating order was well-earned, but it only deepened Vikka’s sense of disconnection. The rhythms of the tribe cued to their reproductive cycles, the hormonal haze that kept the colony in harmony—just didn’t seem to resonate with her, as if she were the one loose string in a perfectly tuned claw harp.
Vikka avoided her fellow kobolds as she planned her next move, keeping to the quieter corners of the colony. She had chosen a spot near the periphery of the caverns, a narrow alcove hidden behind a cluster of stalagmites. It was small and damp, but it offered privacy—a rare commodity in the Cradle.
I just hope no one gets it in their head to look for me me here, she thought, her ears and nose alert to any sign of an unwelcome witness. She squatted, bearing her weight on her calves, her claws scraping against the stone floor, bracing her back against the corner where the cave walls formed a wedge.
The egg emerged slowly, the process more uncomfortable than she’d expected. Each contraction a sharp reminder of how she was betraying her hatchright. Her lower body shuddered in one big spasm… and it was done. She looked down and saw the smooth, pale orb lying on the ground, picking it up with trembling hands. It was still moist and warm from her body. She almost couldn’t believe it had come from inside her.
Still, she felt no joy, no pride—only relief that it was over.
She covered the egg carefully in some mud and moss to help disguise what it was, then tucked it into a basket half full with a jumble of grasses, pebbles and fungi. Her heart raced as she glanced toward the chamber’s entrance. If anyone saw her now, there would be questions she wasn’t sure she could properly answer.
Curled up in the dark alcove and drained from her exertions, Vikka slipped into a worried sleep, the basket clutched tightly to her chest.
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In the shelter of a thicket, Sylven sat cross-legged beside a burning ember of coal placed in the middle of a shallow depression he had dug out and cleared of anything flammable, its glow barely brighter than the moon and starlight. Hitched to a thick bulberry stem, Whisker dozed nearby.
The day’s close call replayed in Sylven’s mind, each moment etched with painful clarity. He had overestimated his readiness and underestimated the kobolds' vigilance. He could just imagine Tarron and Menna both shaking their heads self-righteously at him. We told you so.
He spread out the roll of parchment on which he traced the routes he had observed, his fingers smudging the charcoal sketch. The kobold patrols moved in predictable patterns, but the terrain was treacherous, and the entrances too exposed.
He needed a way in that didn’t rely on brute force, raw speed, or plain, dumb luck. Why couldn't the kobolds be both big, slow and stupid!?
Sylven’s gaze drifted to the pika, its big whisker twitching faintly in his sleep. “We’ll get it right,” he said softly. “We have to... Or I'll never hear the last of it from Menna.”