Chapter 35: Running the Warren (Patreon)

It became easier and easier to ignore the memory wipe, Elliot’s command over his mind growing more complete with every defused attempt. At the same time, he could feel himself becoming more paranoid, imagining that his success was an illusion and the enemy was already hidden in his head. It was making him jumpy, and distracted.

A distraction that almost killed him when he found his first myr. 

Moving around the corner of a boulder the same as he had a dozen times before, he saw a monster in the clearing ahead. It was turned away, standing perfectly still. The point of its shoulder towered several feet above his head. Its horns were long, curled, and sharp, and instead of eyes or a nose a circular maw sat at the center of its face, filled with row upon row of teeth like some kind of hellish worm. Its quadrupedal nature, wide hooves, and shaggy gray fur were contrasted by the serpentine elongation of its torso.

As Elliot stumbled to a halt it snapped its head around, fixing its attention on him from a mere ten feet away. A soft hiss emerged from deep in its gullet.

He turned and threw himself back behind the boulder, flicking the switch on the Ghost Eye and falling face-down to the earth. The sound of a heavy hooffall came a mere instant later, only a few feet away.

Be still. Be as still as stone, be stiller than you’ve ever been before.

The sense of vertigo was gut-wrenching, but he forced himself to lean into it. While practicing in Tular, he’d realized the key to successfully defusing attention was embracing the discomfort rather than simply grinning and bearing it. Something about the sense of being mid-fall was tied to the effect of the enchantment, not a side effect. He let it suck him down, nausea rising in his stomach.

Another hiss came from only a few feet above his head. His gut churned, and he leaned harder into the vertigo, desperately fighting the urge to vomit. The scent of rot began to fill the air as the creature breathed.

I am not food. I am not a threat. I’m just a body on the floor, left over from long ago. Not even that. I’m a piece of rock that just happens to look human.

Then, ever so slowly, the sound of breathing began to retreat, and he chanced a quick glance to see the thing easing smoothly back around the corner of the stone, like a giant hooved cat.

He was still shaking on the ground when the next memory wipe hit, and it almost swept him away. Biting down on his lip to stay present—almost retching as he caught a chunk of dirt in the process—he dragged his mind back from the brink.

“Damn it,” he whispered, fighting the urge to cry. That had been too close.

A sharp scream echoed from somewhere deeper in the warren, sending a shiver down his spine. Lying on the ground, still shaking with adrenaline, he tried to catch his breath. How many more of those would there be? How could Breka think this was an appropriate level of risk?

What did you think danger meant, Elliot? What’s wrong with you? You chose this.

Despite the unarguable truth of that fact, he was still reeling. Death had been so close. How many times would he have to put himself in a situation like this to get the power he needed? Hundreds? Thousands?

His eyes fell to the mark on his right palm, purple and broken. What would he be after years of life or death struggle? Would Rowan even recognize him? Would he die somewhere like this, and leave her forever wondering what had become of him? His breath caught in his chest. She would never stop searching, not knowing it was all for nothing.

He closed his hand, gripping it tightly enough to hurt. She’d keep searching. She would never give up on him, no matter what the world threw at her. 

His breathing slowed. That was really all it came down to. Live or die, he’d move forward until he was powerful enough to find her and protect her, or until something stronger ended him. She was out there right now, searching for him. That much he was sure of. There was no way for her to know that he was thirty thousand miles away. It was completely unacceptable that she should be putting herself at risk to get strong enough to find him, while he did anything but the same.

The two of them could have died back on Earth, swallowed by the leviathan, but instead they had a chance, however small. There was beauty in that.

Standing back up, he eyed the surrounding stones. It looked like he could backtrack a dozen feet or so and then circle around to avoid the myr altogether. Another mental assault hit, and he squinted at the sky above until it passed, finding it easier than ever to resist. 

Time to go, Elliot. Focus. Slow, but not too slow.

The wind was still picking up, and the clouds had darkened even further. He moved forward, pace measured, checking every corner before slipping around, staying as tight to the rocks as possible. Whenever he found another of the horrifying monsters, or if he couldn’t get a good look at a clearing, he would keep the Ghost Eye ready and search for a safer direction. Every few minutes the mental attack would hit, and he would shrug it off.

Soon enough his tension faded to a manageable level. The myr were terrifying, but Breka had clearly put thought into her choice of warren, and there was nothing beyond his ability to avoid with the tools he’d been given.

The rocks grew shorter and shorter the farther he travelled, eventually reaching no higher than a foot or two above his head. The beasts stayed rare, but still popped up often enough to keep him on edge.

Stopping behind one of the largest remaining boulders at the summit of a small hill, he crouched down. From this high vantage he could finally make out what he believed to be the center of the warren, still several hundred feet away. The sun wasn’t visible through the cloud cover, but it was at least late afternoon, and Elliot was beginning to worry that he wouldn’t get out before nightfall.

He grimaced. It would be such a shame to turn back now, even with the intention to come back. Some part of him knew that would be the wisest course of action, that he would be faster tomorrow already knowing the lay of the land, but a more primal part of his brain hated both the idea of having to tell Breka he’d retreated and the thought of having to pass all the monsters again. Sighing, he pulled out a canteen of water from his pack and took a sip. It was so close. Might as well just do it.

By the end, the stones were short enough that he had to crawl on hands and knees to stay below them, and the Ghost Eye was spending more time on than off. It had been hours of constant focus and his concentration was fraying, even though he recognized it was the worst possible time for it to do so. Finally, peering around the edge of a stone the height of his waist, he saw that the next clearing had something at its center.

Squinting, he tried to make it out. A linear piece of wood—like a stick, or a spear—was protruding from the earth, green carvings running up and down its length. That had to be the target. Or did it? A paranoid thought crossed his mind: a future where the obvious reward was actually a trap, designed to cull the unwary right at the end of their quest. But surely that was unrealistic. If this wasn’t it, then how was he supposed to find the actual objective?

A soft, sibilant croon curled through the air, and Elliot sucked in a breath before tucking himself up against the stone. He thumbed the switch on the Ghost Eye, then froze.

Something small and red emerged from the other side of the clearing, moving with a slow, silent grace. It would barely reach his knees, had four legs, and was covered in scales, but that was all Elliot was able to perceive. As he tried to take it in, his whole body spasmed. A quick jerk of his head brought his gaze to the ground.

The crooning came again, something enticing in the sound. A part of him wanted to retch just hearing it, his heart slamming against his ribs, but another part of him yearned to move closer. With the vertigo from the Ghost Eye assaulting his mind, it was all he could do to keep from giving in and lurching away from the safety of the stone.

He clenched his jaw, squeezing his eyes closed and focusing on his breathing. This was a mental effect. He did not want to hear the crooning up close. He did not want to hear the crooning at all. 

Focus, Elliot. If you have to die at least don’t die like a moron.

The sound repeated a third time, and he was almost lost. It passed through him like a swelling tide, the drumming of it shaking loose every thought in his head, leaving him dazed and panting. With a jolt of panic he realized that he’d released the Ghost Eye switch.

His finger slammed back down, the ensuing sense of vertigo almost a comfort compared the terror suffusing him. Elliot chanced a glance up, trying to keep his eyes just off-center enough to put the red beast at the edge of his peripheral vision.

It was crouched by the wooden pole, facing away from him. Some sort of tail lashed back and forth rhythmically. Elliot squeezed his eyes closed again, trying to concentrate on the Ghost Eye, letting the off-kilter feeling saturate his consciousness. Right at that moment nothing felt more important than not being noticed.

A sense of intense relief washed through him. His muscles unclenched as one, and his finger fell off the switch without him making a conscious decision. His eyes cracked open. The clearing was empty, with no sign of the red beast. The wooden pole was still sticking out of the ground exactly as before, unchanged by the creature’s attention.

Elliot shuddered. Something about that thing hadn’t been like the other monsters. Had it caused the memory wipes? Somehow I doubt it. I think if it had tried to attack my mind, I’d be dead.

The green-carved stick was just fifty feet away, beckoning him on. He took a deep breath, flicked the Ghost Eye on again, and moved forward in a low crouch. His gait was almost a waddle, but nothing stopped him, and he yanked the item from the ground as soon as he drew near.

Another quick rush and he was back behind the safety of the rock, eyeing his prize.

It was a staff, dark wood covered in a spiraling pattern of carved emerald green whorls. [Detailed Appraisal] spun up with a thought, and information settled in his mind. Details about the crafting filtered through—black walnut the primary material, jade powder for the color—followed by the knowledge that it was enchanted. A strike that connected would impart both the natural force of the blow and an additional spike of force that could be adjusted to be heavier and blunt or lighter and sharp, like switching between a hammer and a knife.

Elliot frowned. The appraisal made it seem like this was someone’s weapon, not a focus of the warren’s ethera that sprang into being from nothing. But that didn’t make any sense.

Re-activating his skill, he spun the vortex, bearing down on the question of its origin. The task was harder than he’d expected, but he just barely managed to pull enough energy for an answer. This staff had—decades ago—belonged to another delver attempting the same warren, though the prize and the myr had been different. Their name didn’t come, but they’d died, leaving the staff behind. It had acted as a focus for the etheric density of this warren, allowing the energy to strengthen its enchantment considerably beyond the slight force multiplier it had originally possessed.

So that’s why it counts as an antique, he thought with some satisfaction. It hadn’t really made sense to him why a warren’s creation fit under the umbrella of his profession, yet Breka had seemed confident that its sale would net him vitae through his profession.

His fingers traced the patterns carved into the wood. Whoever used to own this probably had their own dreams, once. Maybe their own loved ones they’d been trying to protect. And now they’re lost forever, victim of the quest for power.

He shook himself. It wasn’t the time. Glancing around, he rose to a hunched standing position.

Now he just had to make it back out.