The gap in the cliff became a tunnel, one the lassertane knew well. There was a contraption there, and when its handle was pulled, the entrance to the tunnel collapsed, with everyone safely inside. Safe, except for the cold and the darkness.
Guttering torches, held by a few of the scavengers, filled the dusty cave tunnel with smoke. Most of the huddled lassertane pulled linens out from under their leather and fur armor, and covered their mouths. Poire’s own armor wrapped his body from head to toe acting as both an air filter and an insulator against the chill.
Agraneia was sitting on a boulder, staring at Poire, and the liquid joints of his armor that moved as easily as water. Her hand covered her mouth, like she was in deep thought and didn’t want to talk. Eolh was pressed between her and the cave wall, his wings wrapped around himself as he shivered.
“How are neither of you cold?” Eolh kept asking.
Agraneia hummed her answer, “Who knows?”
Poire did. He just didn’t want to say.
Eolh’s people evolved, or were forced to evolve, to thrive in jungle climes. Not in caves below frozen tundras. Agraneia most likely came from a more temperate world, one with a range of biomes, and the fat along her muscles allowed her to stay warm. Whereas Eolh had barely an ounce of fat on him, probably to help with flight.
Over in the far darkness of the tunnel, the Bloodchief was surrounded by his lieutenants. A mottled-brown lassertane with a long, spiked nose and a black tongue, made no effort to hide his words.
“I told you! No take human!” the Lieutenant said, flashing his eyes at Poire and the others. There was a gash in one of his nose holes, an old battle scar. “Leave it. Let cave take it.”
The Bloodchief waved a hand to silence him, but it was hard to see anything in that cold, black cave. It smelled like smoke and scales and too many bodies packed together. Poire looked up, wondering if the armor could drill.
What do you need to drill?
The thought came in two different voices that overlaid each other. One from his wrist, the voice he was used to hearing. The other, from the air itself. This was a hard, empty voice. Shapeless and desiring shape.
“Not yet,” Poire said, and everyone looked at him.
Only the Bloodchief did not move. He had an ear hole pressed to the wall, and was trying to listen to something in the stones.
“We leave human!” the scarred Lieutenant said, “Leave to demons. I told you-”
The Bloodchief growled, his deep rumbles almost vibrating the walls, “You say again, Saltaq, and I finish cut on your face.”
The mottled one hissed in response, swiping his tail back and forth anxiously. So, all waited, while the Bloodchief listened.
And listened.
Until Eolh cut the silence, “Those machines are still out there.”
The Bloodchief eyed him.
“I can hear them,” Eolh continued, his beak softly chattering, “They’re above. And in the tunnel, pulling away the rocks behind us. Hear that?” He held up a finger for silence, and everyone listened. “They’re trying to cut through the stone.”
Indeed, Poire could hear the whispering of a lance, a wet hum of energy that turned on, and off, on and off, as it sliced through the lassertane’s caved-in stone.
“Bloodchief,” the scarred one bobbed his head aggressively, his knife-like nose slicing at the torch-lit smoke, “If he is human, then he should kill demons. No?”
It wasn’t much of a question. There was no doubt those machines could tear Poire to pieces, and Poire wasn’t sure the liquid armor would amount to much against a swarm of combat constructs, or whatever they were. He had never seen machines like those.
But the others weighed the idea, some with genuine interest. They thought it was time to cut the human loose, given how persistent the demons were, and how no life was worth any treasure. They hissed and nodded and bobbed their scaly heads. Let us rid ourselves of this threat, they agreed.
“You can’t!” said a furious cry, too loud in that confined darkness.
The torches turned to illuminate the Bloodchief’s daughter, with her brown and green scales, dotted with white paint like snow on the plain. Poire couldn’t guess her age. How did aliens age? Like humans? Or did the chimaera dictate that, too?
It was obvious she was the youngest. Wasn’t it dangerous for her to be here? Why would they bring someone so young with them?
“Human belongs to Her!” the daughter said.
The lassertane’s tails flicked scornfully, as if she was speaking out of turn.
“Yarsi,” one of them growled a warning.
Eolh crowed harshly, “The human belongs to none of you.” His mechanical hand opened in a way that Poire knew was dangerous, but doubted the lassertane would see it. Agraneia put a hand on Eolh’s arm, giving a slight shake of her head.
“Both wrong.”
The Bloodchief puffed out his spiny throat, which cleared space in the tunnel for him to speak. Poire’s armor lifted slightly in response, almost mirroring his spines, only these danced all over Poire’s body.
“Give human to demons, no. Demons always hunt. Never stop.”
“Then what?” someone asked, and in the silence between question and answer, Poire could hear the humming whisper of energy lances, carving through stone far behind.
“Bayarsakli is right. I give human to the Witch. Make trade. You,” Bloodchief pointed at Agraneia, “You stay, and you pull down stone. Block demons. Block tunnel.”
“Stay?” Eolh growled. “You want her to stay? They’ll tear her apart.”
“She dies, or all die.”
Agraneia’s face was grim as she looked up at the walls. The broken stones and boulders waiting to be dislodged, only inches from their faces.
“I’ll need a torch,” she said, quietly accepting her role. “And a shovel, or anything that will help me dig.”
Eolh’s beak was already open to protest when Poire put his hands up. “I can do it. The rest of you, go.”
“Poire-” Eolh started, but Poire showed him, which silenced the corvani.
Three spears of metal spiked out of Poire’s right shoulder. Another three rose from his left.
He closed his eyes and concentrated on the shapes he wanted, and the motions they were supposed to move. The spearheads formed into wedges and drills. The drills spun rapidly, the metal twisting in liquid motion, and sank into the stones on the ceiling. The wedges shoved in behind, and pried the cracked stone open, allowing the drills to move in faster. In seconds, a chunk of stone as large as Poire, and about fifteen times as heavy, dropped suddenly, cracking in half on the floor.
“Go,” Poire said again, as more tendrils erupted from his body. He began to walk slowly forward, as the armor learned what he wanted and translated it into movement. The stone tunnel cracked open and more boulders started to fall in Poire’s wake as he followed Eolh and Agraneia and the troop of lassertane.
Every few minutes, they stopped, and Eolh listened.
“They’re still coming,” he would say. Or, “Farther away now,” or he would just give a shake of his head.
Poire drilled and walked, and the lassertane walked ahead and watched Poire with disquieted awe. They were afraid to say anything that might disturb his concentration. The Bloodchief’s daughter couldn’t take her eyes off him. Nor could Agraneia, though there was something calculating in her face.
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And all their faces showed at least a hint of mortal fear.
But I’m helping them, Poire thought. Shouldn’t they be glad?
“Stop!” Eolh said.
So they did. And waited.
“I can’t hear anything.”
“We should keep moving,” the Bloodchief said. “Quietly, now. No more break tunnel.”
“Why?”
“Demons are smart. Demons always hunt. Quiet things never hunted.”
So, they went quietly.
They made camp in a cave at the bottom of a chasm. Gaps eroded the ceiling and somehow a tiny speck of sunlight found its way into the deep darkness, illuminating a thumbprint-sized spot on the cave floor.
They slept until the sun print was gone, and still they slept. Poire woke, hearing two people talking right next to his head. Eolh, and the Bloodchief’s daughter.
Poire just listened, and watched his breath climb in the crisp, frozen air.
“You need to shed.” Yarsi said to Eolh.
“What?”
“Your scales look bad. You need to shed.”
“They’re not scales. They’re feathers.”
“Feathers?”
“Yeah. For flying.”
“Flying?!” her voice went even higher. “You can fly?”
“Lots of people can. What of it?”
“Father!” she hissed over the other sleeping bodies. The Bloodchief, still in his sleeping bag, his face covered with a fur-lined hood, let out a low rumble.
“Father, he can fly. Like the witch’s story!”
“What the hells are you talking about, xeno?” Eolh asked. “Who is she and what did she say?”
“She Who Remembers. She said, once, there were things in sky. Animals who fly.”
“Are you calling me an animal?” Eolh croaked sourly.
“She said,” the young lassertane was whispering now, “She said you come back, one day. Animals who fly. It is foreseen. The sign of change.”
The Bloodchief muttered something through his sleeping bag that sounded like: “Shut up about the dirt witch.”
“Shadow!” someone hissed.
All the scaly xenos sat up, their bodies moving slow from the cold. The Bloodchief pulled something from his sleeping bag. A small, lumpy sack that he held in his clawed hands. He tugged the sack open with a claw, and shoved his snout inside, making a slow, deep inhale.
He lifted his head, wrinkling his face unpleasantly. And when his eyes opened, Poire saw they had gone from amber to black.
Poire watched the others do the same, even the youngest one. And then, all at once, the lassertane were climbing out of their warm sleeping bags, and running around the underground campsite. Cleaning, scattering dust, hefting their bags and satchels over their shoulders. Steam began to rise from their reptilian nostrils.
None of them spoke, and Poire couldn’t help but feel like he was supposed to be doing something, too. Eolh had the same confusion, but Agraneia seemed to understand. She held a finger to her lips, and beckoned the two of them to grab their gear and get ready to walk.
Quietly, the troop finished and formed into a line, and they marched back into the tunnels.
Hours they walked, hearing nothing. When the torches began to burn low, Poire found that if he spoke the word “illuminate,” he could get his liquid armor would glow, so they kept Poire walking in the front, right behind the Bloodchief.
At one wide opening, the Bloodchief held up his hand. Stopped, and sniffed at the air.
“Safe,” he said.
“Food camp?” someone asked.
“Food camp,” the Bloodchief agreed.
The troop rushed ahead. One of them dumped a large knapsack satchel onto the ground, and a dozen metal spheres clacked against the rocks. She kneeled before the spheres, waving her hands over them as she whispered a quiet prayer.
Soon, the air around the spheres began to flicker with heat. Each ball glowed a dull, muddy orange as it gave off a heat so fierce, Poire couldn’t imagine sitting near them, let alone touching one.
The rest of the lassertane sprawled out around the spheres, loosening their warm clothes, exposing scaled limbs and ridge flaps to the warmth. Each undid their own knapsack, and offered food to each other. Yarsi shared hers with Poire and the others. Dried chunks of meats that glistened red in the light, and thick cheeses wrapped in cloth, and thin flatbreads with golden burns and flecks of baked-in spices.
Agraneia sat as far from the lassertane as she could. But even she tried to find a spot near the warmth of the spheres.
Eolh had no such problems with the lassertane, and kept trying to engage them in conversation.
“What were you doing out by the gate?” he asked.
“Borrowing,” The Bloodchief said.
“What? And from who?”
“From Sen,” the Bloodchief said, as if there could be no one else. “She doesn’t use things anymore.”
“Is she dead?”
“No,” the Bloodchief said, puffing out his throat, so the spines stuck out again, a not-so-subtle sign that he didn’t want any more questions on the subject.
Eolh, however, wouldn’t let it go. “What’s that mean, then? Is she alive? Where can we find her?”
“No!” the Bloodchief barked, and a low rumbling growl emanated from his throat. The other lassertane mirrored his posture, their ridges and spines rising. Their hands were on their weapons, crude spears and nets for catching. One had a longbow and was clutching an arrow, tipped with what might’ve been a homemade explosive that would surely bring down part of the tunnel.
Agraneia already had both knives out, though they were low at her hips. Her arms were shaking, and it looked like she was straining to hold something back.
“I take human,” the Bloodchief said slowly, “To the witch.”
“And the witch?” Eolh asked back, “What will she do with us?”
His guttural growl rumbled through the cave. But it was his daughter who answered.
“She Who Remembers says you know how to fix.”
“Fix what?”
“The world.”
“World is not broken,” The Bloodchief gave a dry snarl, “World is good enough.”
A sound whistled through the caves. Everyone looked up. But it was only the wind, whistling through the crags above.
“Home is near,” the Bloodchief said. “We march.”
Poire could tell they were nearing the surface by the fresh scent in the air. And with it, came a chill wind. His wrist implant buzzed at him, alerting him of the dropping temperatures.
His armor responded by layering over his exposed skin, sometimes threading into his clothes, which were starting to show their wear.
The others had no such gear, and Eolh and Agraneia walked noticeably close to each other. There were ice crystals standing out on Eolh’s feathers. The Lassertane, too, huddled in a bunched line as they marched single file.
Up ahead, something buzzed like a slow-moving wave made of electricity. Poire could that clean chemical burning scent, and he knew immediately what it was. The narrow tunnel opened up, and a light crashed over them.
The cave was worn smooth.
At its center, a thread of golden light hung from both walls. It was moving in a long, slow circle, arcing like water from a hose. Up, across, and down the room. Hollowing out the center of this cave again and again. At times, it glitched out and ripped itself into a flurry of geometric patterns that lashed around the cave. Always a different pattern.
Somewhere beyond the thread of light, Poire could see the connecting tunnel. It was dusted with snow from the outside.
“What is that?” Eolh asked over the sound. “What’s wrong with the water?”
“Dancing water,” the Bloodchief said. “Don’t touch. We walk together.”
The throbbing buzz of the thread hummed closer, crackling viciously when it glitched. It rolled towards the entrance now, so all they could do was wait.
“What happens if you touch it?”
In answer, she crept to the edge, clutching a fist sized rock. She tossed it towards the thread of light.
ZZZH!
The rock touched the flowing energy. And changed. A million shapes at once, too much for the eye to see. And then, it simply came apart. Became a chunk of dust that glittered and disappeared into the light.
“What the hells?” Eolh asked. “Is that acid or something?”
“No,” Yarsi said.
“No,” Poire answered at the same time. They looked at each other.
“It’s a shield. But the generator broke, and I’ve never seen it do that,” Poire said, “That’s pure light.”
But the thread of light passed their entrance, and the Bloodchief grunted a simple command that could not be ignored: “Go.”
Agraneia grabbed both Eolh and Poire by the arms, and hauled them forward. The liquid armor reached out and wrapped itself over her hand, and Eolh squawked, “I can walk! Let go!”
And Poire was about to make a similar protest as he was pulled across that unnaturally smooth cavern floor, when he heard a voice.
“It’s like nothing you’ve ever dreamed of.”
Two voices. The second one sounded much older. Or more tired. “It could be anything, Emorynn. You don’t know-”
“This is the way forward.”
“-anything about-”
“This is the way up. I have seen it, you know I have. Why do you doubt me after the gate? Why do all of you doubt me? Can you imagine what could be up there?-”
“Anything.”
“Anything,” Emorynn said triumphantly. “Can you build it for me, Sen?”
Someone was shaking him, and the voices started to fade, and Poire could hear his name on someone else’s lips. No, on someone else’s beak.
His wrist was screaming at him, too. Agraneia had an arm under his, and was holding him steady on his feet, and the liquid armor did everything it could to support him.
Behind them, the floating, flickering river spun in a slow circle, as if it couldn’t care less that it had just failed its one and only purpose. Ahead, snow poured into the tunnel. And the light of the sun beckoned them forward.
The Bloodchief was already stepping out of the cave, and a wind whipped at all his furs and the hems of his robes.
He motioned for everyone to follow.
“Are you alright?” Eolh asked. “The hells was that?”
“I have no idea,” Poire said, answering both questions. He was rubbing his head, trying to understand what he had just heard - and just seen - when the Bloodchief yelled down at them. “Give them coats!”
The lassertane begrudgingly took extra clothes from their packs, and handed them to Eolh and Agraneia. Poire refused any, for his armor was keeping him quite warm.
Up above, in the blinding light, it felt as though the whole world was laid before them.
The caves had spit them out in the foothills of a mountain range. Far below the jagged, almost flat peaks, nestled down low to be protected from the wind, stood a ruin that stretched for miles. Beyond the walls of a great city, overgrown farmland stretched in faded rectangles across the flat land. Stretched out to the horizon, broken up only by a few compact settlements, also wrapped with their own stone walls.
The Farmlands were almost erased by grass, long grains waving in the wind. And the far off cities were enrobed with snow.
But the Bloodchief directed them down, to the city nestled in the foothills below their feet. Down the craggy switchbacks and discovered pathways that crawled the mountain side.
They were headed for what could only be called a city made of crumbling castles.
The bricks were gray and the mortar cracked, so that rooves and towers and steeples and statues smashed down against each other, filling the streets with rubble.
The city was proud, majestic, and empty. Broken bridges made walls in the streets, and Poire could almost make out where the banners must’ve once flown from soaring parapets.
At even intervals around the city, there were great empty pipes that jutted straight up from the ground, as if ready to exhaust some great machine below the ground. There were hundreds of these pipes embedded across the city of crumbling castles, each one large enough to swallow a house.
But no exhaust came up from the pipes.
Instead, three machines, like great floating heads, hovered over the city. And hundreds of slender, straw-like tongues dangled down from their bodies and draped into the pipes.
They were drinking the dead city dry.