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In a dark, shrinking world, the very last elf came awake with a start. He’d been drifting in memory, lost in the same few hours of climbing and talk, over and over again. Then something brushed at his thoughts; cold, hungry and seeking. The flesh on his chest where the mark of Chaos had been seemed to creep and burn, disrupting that scanty dream. He was thrust back to now…

And the tanglewood dryad was there, partly rooted in soil, watching him. Miche gave her a wary nod. Looking around, he saw that her tree’s nooses teemed with dangling goblins and lizard-men. A bit of grey light crept through the branches above, promising dawn. Miche stretched and then bowed slightly, turning his attention back when the dryad addressed him.

“You make an excellent lure, Old One,” she rasped, in a voice like wind through bare twigs. Her version of a whisper, he supposed. A good thing, because Marget was still asleep, cradling her rescued fawn.

“Aye that,” he replied, over Marget’s rumbling snores. “Until something is lured that is bigger than you and your tree have the teeth for, Goddess. I would not bring disaster on you, nor on those who are driven to hunt me by one who will not show his face.”

He felt (perhaps foolishly) ready to fight. Decent rest seemed to have that effect. The dryad considered, scattering bark-dust and insects whenever she tilted her head.

“Well spoken, Old One. I have fed. I am sated, with plenty to spare. You are meant to face something far worse than my tree, I think. So… for good fortune's sake… how can we aid you further?”

Rising dawn-glow made a cracked, pitted mask of the dryad’s face, turning her eyes into shadowy hollows. She was dangerous, as a griffin or unicorn would be, but not disposed to attack.

Thinking a bit, Miche sorted his magical pockets, coming up with that petrified seed and a frost-withered sprig. Birch, it looked like, though he didn’t recall why or how he’d acquired the thing. Glancing at the objects a moment, Miche held them both out to the looming dryad.

“These are dead,” he told her. “The one is become stone, the other seems to be frost-killed. Are you able to quicken them back to life, Goddess?”

The dryad reached out with a spindly, twig-fingered hand. Taking the seed and the birch-cutting, she said,

“What life remains in these bits is mere whisper, Old One. Yet, it is not nothing. Leave them with me. It may be that something grand will come of their planting.”

She stiffened then, seeming to listen with more than just ears, her gaze turning northward. The elf sensed it, too. A stirring. Distant and faint… but it takes just a snowflake to trigger an avalanche. Again, that spot on his chest started burning and he remembered the touch that had pushed him awake.

“Leave this place, Old One,” urged the dryad. “The north calls its minions, sets them to hunt. I and my tree do not bend to its whim… but its power is growing.”

Miche nodded, reflexively cleansing as he surged to his feet. Nameless had stayed in his cloak-hood all night, while Firelord curled like an ember deep in his heart. Marget, he had to awaken.

The orc shifted from sleep all at once, roused by his grip on her shoulder and twice-squeeze. Typical, silent border scout waking. No alarm, just: Rise. She looked all around, freeing one arm to sign back, or to reach for a weapon. Sketched out: ‘Moving on,’ with the downward swirl at the end that made it a question.

Miche nodded, signing back: ‘Stay-unsafe.’ No question at all.

For all her great size, Marget was quiet and quick when she had to be. Took care of a few personal needs a short distance away, while Miche conjured more goats’ milk for Spots. Then, pulling dried meat from her carry-sack, Marget provided breakfast and made a small offering to the tanglewood nymph. After that, they departed, moving in haste and great stealth, leaving a monster to guard their retreat.

Headed south, because the map showed another shrine that way, near a bright dot labeled ‘Amur’. There was some sort of ravine in their path, which five days’ hard trek revealed to be a vast chasm. Miche called a halt early one noon, blocked by the edge of a huge, red-striped cliff. Marget dropped to a squat beside him, weary and footsore.

“Now what?” she grunted, pulling a half-empty waterskin off her belt. Took a drink, then handed it over. Spots, she turned loose to sniff at the seedlings and shrubs.

Miche took a pull at the offered waterskin, looking out at a gap so enormous, it seemed like the end of the world. There were clouds down below, with a silvery river-thread and drifting patches of shade under that. Across, a hundred… maybe two-hundred miles distant… lay the hazy blue other side. A constant, whistling updraft blew past from beneath. Smelled of water, strange plants and odd creatures. No canyon, this, but a sundering. A breaking apart of the land. (Wretched, useless-drek, outdated map).

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He handed the waterskin back with a murmur of thanks, thinking hard. Then,

“It is too far to smoke-step, and the climb down would be wearisome, requiring several rests. But… if you trust me… I believe I can drift us down to the bottom. Slow-fall is less work than levitate.”

Marget shifted position uneasily, crunching pebbles and dirt. Scrubbed at her own tattooed face with a big hand, grunting,

“You, I trust. That drop, not at all. What if we are attacked in midair? How do we battle while falling, Valleck?”

Miche started to shake his head, no, again… but then turned to stare at the she-orc, instead.

“What… did you call me?” he asked, heart moving oddly all around Firelord, breath coming suddenly fast.

“Valleck,” Marget repeated, watching his face. “I was close, this time?”

Close…? A jumble of sudden impressions hit him, mostly emotion. Someone he’d known and loved, somebody older, had called him… almost that. She. Female. Not quite a mother, but… aunt? A she-elf with golden hair, a sweet face and… and then it was gone, all in the space of a few rapid breaths.

Marget was back on her feet again. She put forth a hand to steady him, looking alert and concerned. When he turned away to hide all that aching emotion, the orc rumbled,

“I will fall with you, Old One, but I advise we stay close by the cliff. There may be ledges or caves we can use for shelter on our way down.”

For once, the orc did not try out another joke name. Just waited for Miche… who once had been someone like Valleck… to get himself back together.

“I… yes,” he said, turning to face her again. “We will drift past the cliff, far enough apart to allow the use of weapons, close enough to defend each other, at need.”

“Roped together,” insisted Marget (who still didn’t fully trust magic).

Miche nodded. Felt… wanted… nothing he knew how to express. To… not be so very alone, maybe? Nameless flashed over, then. The marten had been hunting. Darted like furry lightning out of the shrubs at cliff’s edge, something half-chewed and loathsome clenched in its jaws. (Stank worse than ever, the wretch.) Spots shied away from the scent of fresh blood, pushing its head against Marget. The small doe had grown sleek on goats’ milk, was rapidly losing its fawn-dots.

They began their descent after breaking for food. Roped themselves together in case of wind gusts or sudden attack. Miche had rested awhile, summoning manna from earth, air and water, as well as the darkness between. He would need all of it, even with Firelord’s buoyant assistance, for the drop was long and the burden great.

Once all was prepared, gear safely stowed in his magical pockets, Miche looked over at Marget. He meant to go first, testing his magic against the rift’s shrilling updraft. First, though…

“Thank you,” he said. “Your companionship matters. It’s good. And… and we will surely encounter an orc-clan soon. I have promised, and I will not be foresworn.”

She nodded, red eyes narrowing thoughtfully.

“Just as well, and the sooner the better… Galban.” Which was deliberately not at all close.

He smiled, summoned manna, scribed ‘slow-fall’, then bounded over the cliff. That thundering updraft took him at once, sweeping him violently upward. Marget held onto the rope between them, laughing as she flew the blond, spinning elf like a kite. He had to adjust his own weight in stages, then hers, so they sank downward… but slowly.

Their hair and cloaks billowed and snapped, reminding him rather of… of… ships, sails; of a great vessel slicing at speed through bright water. A flock of birds exploded away from the cliff as the elf and orc dropped past their rookery. Swooping and wheeling, the flock made a screeching, feathery mess. Didn’t attack, though. Too shocked.

The air-divers paused for rest on a ledge about a quarter of the way down. Had to, because all at once they plunged into a dense, swirling cloud. Mischievous wind gusted and juddered through misty-white blankness. It changed direction wildly, with no warning at all. Downward, then sideways into the dank, rusty cliff, then twisting back upward again. Made for a gut-clenching, turbulent ride, and the elf deemed it better to wait out the weather in safety. Found a ledge with an overhang, then slung Marget across to the sheltering bulk of hard stone. Joined her himself, moments later, striking hard, scraping, then dropping down onto the ledge. Best time he’d had in… well… as long as his memory stretched, but that joy was not shared.

Marget seemed greener than usual. Spots hadn’t stopped bleating since they sprang over the edge, and Nameless’s stench was indescribable. Time, Miche figured, to break out the day-brew and kindle a fire.

Marget had a musty old blanket which they all shared, watching that roiling, sound-killing mist streaming past.

“I thought…” she growled, staring miserably outward, chilly and damp. “I thought clouds would be soft and warm. It was one of your half-kin, a captive, who told us tales of the world above, on the cloud tops.” She sounded accusing, as though Miche himself had lied.

“My kind loves a good story,” said the elf, pouring hot day-brew into two cups. Added sugar to hers, along with a sprinkle of spice-bark. “After all, why tell boring truth, when you can conjure enchantment?”

Marget snorted, shaking her head till the long, damp braids swung over her face.

“Unless said to an enemy, what comes out of the mouth should be true, Skorbald.” (Worst guess ever, on purpose.) She handed around the dried meat, then, even tossing a portion to Nameless. “We must hunt, soon. I am down now to powder and shreds.”

Meant stopping long enough to kill, butcher and dress a… Well, not a deer. Not with Spots looking forlornly on. A mountain goat or wild bull. Weary of constant travel, the elf nodded assent.

“Directly we’ve reached the valley floor, we’ll scout out a base-camp, then hunt.” And bow-fish, as well. The thought cheered him greatly, along with the warmth of a hissing small fire, one reeking marten, a trembling fawn, and his grumpy companion.

Was drifting a bit, falling back into dreams, when a sudden lance of bright flame pierced the clouds, scorching the cliff just beside them. Something screeched wildly, metallic and shrill. A slender shadow appeared, half-hidden in mist. It struck at the cliff-face, took hold and clung upside-down like a leathery bat. Then another, directly below them. Wyverns. A hunting pair.

Marget leapt to her feet, thrusting Spots behind her. Miche used manna to lengthen their rope. Then he hurtled away from the cliff, doing his best to mimic the shriek of a dragon.