The Homunculus Knight

Chapter 41: Help

“We don’t know what happened to their gods. In fact, we don’t even have a set date for when the Dwergaz pantheon disappeared. Testimony and evidence indicate the ‘silence,’ as the dwarves call it, started sometime in the early bloody centuries. But the exact year, let alone the day this occurred, is an actual matter of debate among our thick-boned cousins. At first, our research thought this was a side-effect of different holds and clans having unique calendars, but testimony from those few dwarves willing to speak about the subject offered another very worrying explanation. It seems likely the Dwergaz pantheon did not go silent simultaneously.” - Preceptor Erik Stonefriend’s report to the Tauri Ivory Tower.

They traveled through the vault for two more days, heading steadily south and hugging the massive cavern’s walls the entire time. Aside from the encounter with echo-spawn, they managed to avoid much of the Deep’s wildlife. While Cole wasn’t completely certain how true the dwarf superstition that even discussing the creature drew them was, he didn’t want to risk it. Other than that tense chase on the first day of the trip, the only other encounters of note were a pack of wild aardigs, scraping the path clean in their eternal search for burrowing insects, and a tense stand-off with a territorial jungle badger that ended when Ranger Olkar tossed a stink pellet at the creature.

So far, the trip was going well, with no major complications or issues, which was enough to have Cole’s hackles constantly raised. While he was no stranger to fate flowing in his favor, Cole’s good fortune usually only happened amid a broader calamity. Master Time rarely helped Cole avoid danger, merely evened the odds so the Paladin might triumph in the face of it. Considering this, the relative ease of trekking through a hostile subterranean jungle was enough to have Cole convinced some disaster was waiting just around the other bend. When Masga nearly caused a scene about Natalie feeding on the second night, Cole was almost relieved for the incident. Thankfully, Mina and Cole talked the irate bonekeeper down from doing anything stupid. The lack of Sting in Cole’s blood and Natalie demonstrating how she was still susceptible to divine power kept the prickly dwarf from escalating things.

As they moved forward, Cole found his already healthy respect for the dwergaz and their practicality grew. Rest points were spaced along the vault wall, roughly a day’s walk from each other. While none were as large, or well maintained, as the desecrated shrine they’d stayed the first night, each was reasonably comfortable and, more importantly, safe. Aside from the rest burrows, other signs of dwarven preparation and engineering were visible in the monolithic cavern. Much of the path they took along the vault’s edge was more of the porous stone making up the jungle floor, but remnants of a long-lost road could be found in places. Similarly, switchbacks and stairways rendered treacherous by time marked the cavern walls, leading to watch towers, tunnel mouths, and other crumbling structures.

The degradation Cole sensed back at Turul’s Tomb was on full display here in the vault. It seemed the cave was once a more tame place; the jungle kept pruned away from well-made infrastructure. Now, the vault was a true wilderness, its verdant life working hard to reclaim any territory once ceded to dwarven structures. When Cole asked their guides about these signs of decay, they offered little answer. Nolkin, the most verbose of the three, merely said. “Wea lost moredan ar faith wen ta Gods fail dus.”

Those words made Cole think of the Black Sun and the blood-soaked centuries following it. The entire world was still paying for Emperor Lucius’s greed, with myriad magics and mundane secrets lost in that calamitous period. If the collapse of an empire stretching between three continents could have that sort of impact, Cole could scarcely imagine what the loss of an entire pantheon would do to a people. It was frankly incredible so much of dwarven civilization survived and even thrived without Gods to help them.

But the scars of that cultural wound were apparent beyond crumbling ruins; when Natalie tried to inquire about dwarf religion, or more accurately, their lack of one, she’d received iron-cold stares that efficiently shut down the conversation. Cole himself was curious about the enigma of the dwarvish pantheon; he’d never gotten a straight answer from anyone, be they priest, text, or scholar. But the mystery would have to wait, as, on the third day of travel, the caravan reached their destination within the vault.

The path to Azyge started at a gently sloping ramp leading up from the jungle’s edge to a tunnel mouth perhaps three meters above the ground. Living rock mixed with quarried stone to provide a slanted apron surrounding the lock cave’s entrance. Stepping onto this apron, the group climbed the ramp up towards the tunnel mouth. Staring up at the worn carvings marking their destination, Cole was surprised by the lack of defenses. While it was a true a bottleneck leading onto an inclement slope wasn’t anything to sniff at, neither did it seem especially secure when compared to the watchtowers of other entrances into the vault.

As they reached the top of the ramp and prepared to leave the subterranean jungle, Natalie stared out at the incredible vista behind them. Cole joined her, trying to find joy in the awe-inspiring sight. Unfortunately, all his brain would do was think about what monsters might stalk the fungal jungle before him. With the occasional interruption of other more personal concerns, like his immortality or the Rabisu’s presence. Just as Cole started to fret, Natalie’s fingers interlaced with his, and she smiled. Vibrant joy, the type that first caught Cole’s eye, shone across Natalie’s face, unblemished by her eyes and fangs. Quietly, she whispered to him. “Amazing, isn’t it?”

Seeing her expression, Cole forced himself to start breathing again. “Yes, yes, it is.”

Walking hand in hand, the couple left the Alidonian Vault and headed into the next tunnel. Giving the glowing jungle a last look, Natalie added. “Is there a word for a place you’re glad to have visited but never want to return to?”

An undignified snort escaped Cole, earning him a reproachful glare from Masga. Recovering himself, Cole just kissed the top of his partner’s head, a tricky feat to do with a helmet but one he’d learned quickly. “I’d be surprised if there isn’t.”

With the vault properly behind them, the cave air steadily cooled but stayed humid. The overpowering stink of alien life that defined the jungle faded, replaced by an odd, damp, earthy smell Cole long associated with the underground. But just as the jungle’s smell faded, so did its brightness, and soon enough, lanterns were coaxed to brightness, and more of the odd paste was smeared on the aardigs’ snouts. This new lock cave was wider and more contorted than the path from Turul’s Tomb. That key cave was a titanic fissure formed by the mountain itself shifting. By contrast, this lock reminded Cole of some burrowing animal’s path.

Snaking upwards and forwards, the tunnel was not barren, with colonies of hardy fungi and odder life growing from cracks in the rock. Occasionally, Cole caught flickers of movement out the corner of his eye, a hint at the cave’s more… ambulatory occupants. Every time Cole noticed a scurrying shape or the twitch of many legs, he’d glance at Natalie, using her expression to decipher what lurked around them. Head on a swivel, Natalie tried to drink in the surrounding cavern, her vampire eyes capturing more than anyone else. Cole saw lots of confusion, curiosity, and occasionally disgust in response to whatever she witnessed, but no genuine fear, which he took as a good sign.

By every reasonable standard, the trip was going well; they should reach Azyge in another few days. Once there, the truly hard part of the trip would start. Cole still didn’t have a clear picture of what was happening at Harmas, but judging by the cold tug in his chest, it couldn’t be anything good. Azyge sat practically on the city’s doorstep, burrowed into the foothills that kissed Harmas’s outskirts. If Harmas was truly breached, then Gods knew how much of the territory between Azyge and Fort Erdom was infested with ghouls. Crossing kilometers of rot land would not be easy; Cole needed to prepare both himself and his allies.

Marcus stared out the vault-way entrance of Gurim’s Watch. The Dullahan’s not-eyes drank in the dome-shaped cave, observing the place of ambush, a sense of tired detachment creeping over him. With its high ground, clear lines of sight, and sturdy walls, the guard tower was admittedly a good place for a battle, but any soldier worthy of their sword could tell that. As a pankrator… or a former pankrator, Marcus could tell a great deal more about Gurim’s Watch, but he wasn’t sharing. This was a place to defend from, to hold back some invading force, not ambush a foe.

Glad that wisdom, like most of his secrets, stayed safe in his mind, the Dullahan mused on his options. He would lend his fire and steel to these monsters, but not what might be his most valuable asset: his experience. Wolfgang was a scholar of the worst sort, a spidery little craven who sought knowledge and didn’t care who or what paid for his quest. The two vampire ‘knights’ were assassins, bestial killers, and masters of murder, not battle. Cleanor… well, she was a predator in every sense of the word, with little discipline and thought outside pleasure and pain. None of them were soldiers or even true warriors who might take full advantage of Gurim’s Watch, thank the Gods.

No, the collection of monsters Marcus now numbered among were approaching this as hunters ambushing prey, not soldiers waging a surprise attack. This was an important distinction and one seemingly lost among the predators surrounding Marcus. A place like Gurim’s Watch was meant to keep an enemy out, not lure them into a trap. All it would take was some luck and grit for Cole’s group to retreat from this ambush or turn the battle completely around. If the initial strike didn’t guarantee overwhelming victory, events might become considerably more complicated than the leeches expected. An outcome Marcus could only hope and pray for.

If Marcus could sigh, he would, staring out in a constant vigil. The frailty of his hopes became painfully clear. He’d spoken of faith and presented fiery conviction to Wolfgang, but Marcus couldn’t tell how much of his words were meant to convince the leech or himself. The Black Fly’s offer had done nothing close to tempting Marcus; he wasn’t at risk of betraying anyone but himself. Existing as a hollow husk, feeding on the spiritual scraps of innocents and unable to even sleep, Marcus could feel his mind being slowly ground down. He didn’t allow himself the dissociative stupor that took him after his first acts of murder, but the temptation to slip away into that empty state called to Marcus more than any petty deal with Wolfgang might.

Looking out across the cave, Marcus thought about the preparations his allies had made. Spells of detection and marking clung to all three tunnels leading from Gurim’s Watch. The moment anything larger than a rat was within fifty meters of the cavern, Wolfgang would know. While the magic was part of the trap, it would also act as protection. It was doubtful anything would arrive by the south tunnel as the stone hunters had; only Delve Njolk and a path up into the mountains above lay that way. But travelers coming from Azyge were a distinct possibility. The Leeches didn’t seem too concerned, though; a few scouts or merchants would be a welcome meal for them.

Turning away from the door, Marcus entered the guard tower and trudged over to its only other conscious occupants in these early hours. Three of the trolls persisted, their bodies shrunken into pitiful shells. Dull beady eyes stared up at Marcus from beneath heavy simian brows as the creatures watched him approach. Marcus had hunted trolls a few times in his life; the beasts were dangerous. He’d seen one rip a fully armored knight limb from limb before eating the poor man like a boiled crab. Still, seeing the monsters reduced to something worse than livestock disgusted the former pankrator. At least when you slaughtered pigs or cows, it was over quickly for them. People didn’t keep them alive, carving off pieces bit by bit; only monsters did that. Unable to even grant the creature’s mercy, Marcus felt a terrible kinship with the trolls. They were simple ugly brutes who now existed in a state of torment they couldn’t escape.

The sound of shifting stone caught Marcus’s attention, and he watched the other members of this bloody coterie arise. Tallclaw and Shorttooth hadn’t made nests in the upper levels of the tower like Wolfgang and Cleanor. Instead, they tore small burrows into the structure’s floor, piling rubble upon themselves when dawn approached. Now, the two strigoi pulled themselves from self-made cairns, patting rock dust from their pale forms.

If they were awake, that meant Wolfgang was as well, but the Black Fly seemed happy to stay in the rooms he’d taken for himself, clearly working on a project. As for Cleanor, the lamia slept most of the time she wasn’t needed, her body conserving energy in the most practical way. Deciding watching the two strigoi was a better use of his time than staring at the cave walls, Marcus observed the pair of killers go about their evenings.

After feeding on the poor trolls, Tallclaw left, moving to scout the connecting caves and ensure nothing ambushed the ambushers. Shorttooth simply sat on a stone stool and shut his eyes, muttering to himself. The greasy strigoi was also scouting, but in his own unique and wretched way. Scores of rats now infested the connecting caves, providing a more subtle and wider-ranging net of observation than Tallclaw’s eyes and nose might provide. But as Marcus had learned from observation, such power wasn’t without drawbacks, chief among them sorting through the memories of hundreds of vermin; which was what Thorm now did.

Watching the strigoi twitch and whisper, Marcus wondered what would be the easiest way to kill the vampire knight. Considering the ability the leech showed back at the delve, fire and lots of it seemed the best option. A deep shuddering need flowed through Marcus; he wanted to burn Thorm and make him squeal. Disgust quickly replaced the desire; what Marcus felt wasn’t a warrior’s rage but a monster’s hunger. Wolfgang was right; he’d fed from those poor dwarves he’d murdered, his flame growing with each kill. Forcing himself to stare at the stone floor, Marcus tried to refocus and found his memory drifting to the Alukah. She was an odd creature cursed with terrible hungers but kept them controlled… mostly. Perhaps Marcus could find some inspiration in the girl, until her lover killed him, that is.

Thorm’s eyes shot open then, pulling Marcus’s attention. An ugly smile spread across the knight's face, yellowed fangs glistening in the dim glow of the Dullahan’s flame. “I think I’ve found them; go get the Black Fly.”

A surge of panic and anticipation flowed through Marcus; the moment of truth would arrive soon. Now, the only question remaining was whether the truth was a joyous or terrible one.

Yara sat on a rock, staring out at the endless darkness surrounding them. They’d stopped for the night, whatever that meant this deep underground, having found a reasonably flat section of cave to rest in. Normally, setting up camp and doing the general minutiae of logistics was something Yara excelled at, but here in this land of mushrooms and darkness, she was useless. So rather than risk causing problems, she now sat by herself, peering over the camp wall. A fortification of snoring aardigs encircled the caravan, the unburdened pack animals sleeping tail to snout. The beasts were another example of Yara’s usual duties being usurped; she didn’t know how to feed, brush, or otherwise care for the creatures. Strange as it was to say, Yara missed Cuff and Clout; the sturdy draft horses had, in some ways, been her closest companions.

The crunch of feet on stone pulled Yara’s attention from the speck of distant light she’d been trying to identify as a glowing mushroom or shining crystal. Kit approached her then, a tired look on his face. She’d done her best to avoid the Magi and couldn’t help but let out a tiny noise of exasperation. If Kit noticed, he said nothing, instead offering Yara a weary smile while his hands fiddled with a hairpin.

Reaching Yara, he offered the small piece of metal to her. “A present.”

Confused and a little uncertain, Yara stared at Kit’s hand. “What?”

Wincing, Kit showed her the hairpin’s top, where a tiny fleck of quartz glimmered. “Practicing with my violin makes too much noise to be safe, but I don’t want to get rusty, so I’ve been tinkering. I’m trying to make it so my violin is silent, except for those I want to hear it. Which… is proving a little harder than I thought, but my experimentation produced this!”

Still not fully grasping the situation, Yara repeated herself. “What?”

Tapping the hairpin’s top, Kit elaborated. “I’ve enchanted this so anyone touching it won’t hear my violin; the sounds will just bounce off of them. It's funny how much easier this was than doing the opposite. But anyway, I know you don’t like music, or at least mine, and I figured this little trinket would serve you well.”

Staring at the hairpin, Yara found a word other than ‘what.’ “I can’t take that. It's valuable.”

Kit snorted. “Not really; I’ve got a pouch of them with my stuff. They are a quick and easy way to anchor enchantments. Go ahead, it's yours.”

Slowly, almost expecting the hairpin’s metal to burn her, Yara took the item, feeling the slight tingle of its magic in her fingers. “Thank you?”

Beaming, Kit bowed slightly. “My pleasure!”

Then, with a jaunty wave, he turned back toward the lichen-fueled fire the dwarves were cooking over, leaving Yara with the hairpin. Staring at the present, she tried to think of the last time someone gave her a genuine gift. Natalie, of course, bought her food, clothes, supplies, and even a dagger she barely knew how to use, but that was her mistress, not this… stranger. Well, perhaps he wasn’t a stranger; she knew him and spent time with him. He’d made her a gift, something small but important, an act of kindness in physical form. Was… was Kit a…?

A noise suddenly caught Yara’s attention, and she realized one of the aardigs was moving. With a rumbling grunt, the creature shook its back, knocking a tiny shape from its flank. The shape moved, scurrying towards Yara. Even in the near total darkness, Yara recognized that shape; anyone who lived among vampires knew the telltale movements of a rat. Faster than her conscious mind could work, Yara grabbed a nearby rock and hurled it at the rodent. To her surprise, she aimed true, and a wet crunch filled the night.

Carefully unsheathing her dagger, feeling its cold weight in her hand, Yara approached the crushed rodent. A few of her companions had detached from the cooking fire and were coming to investigate. Deciding waiting until someone like Cole was between her and whatever counted as a rat in these accursed tunnels was a good idea, Yara paused. Mina, Alia, and two of the dwarves, the younger ranger and bonekeeper, if she remembered correctly, came towards Yara. Pointing her blade at the oil-dark splatter of blood on the stone, Yara said. “I saw a rat.”

Alia made an appreciative whistle at seeing the kill. “Gorey guts, I’ll have to teach you how to use a sling sometime.”

The ranger, Nokin, flipped over the rock and frowned. A string of dwerick escaped the female dwarf, and her bonekeeper superior answered in kind. Looking at the three non-dwarves, Nokin said. “Wronga tip o’ rak.”

Mina and Yara were both confused by this, but Alia seemed to understand. “What do you mean ‘wrong type of rat?’”

Nokin shrugged and looked at the wall of aardigs. “Tis fat anda furry, like a… cellar eater, nota deep runner.”

Alia grunted. “Course, you folk have got terms for different types of rodent… Well, is it anything to worry about?”

Rubbing her chin, Nokin glanced back at the campfire and a resting Natalie. Yara’s mistress had taken to entering torpor for a few hours after making camp to keep herself sane. Slowly, the ranger said. “Norma, no, just wee bit odd, but wid da sangraki…”

Squatting down by the smashed rodent, Alia looked to her girlfriend. “Mina, can you tell anything about this?”

A flicker of silver crossed Mina’s eyes. “No, too dead and too damaged.”

Masga, the bonekeeper frowned, his gaunt face gaining a new layer of lines. Taking out a metal wand, he poked the husk and made an annoyed grunt. Without a word, he went to the nearest aardig and unceremoniously woke the beast and forced it to move. Stepping out past the wall of animals, he looked around at the wider cave. Tentatively, the others followed him, even Yara, driven by some foolish curiosity. Standing in the gap left by the aardig, Yara watched as Masga raised his wand and cut glowing runes into the air. The runes shattered into a swarm of tiny brown sparks and rushed out into the cave beyond. A clot of the sparks latched onto a shadow, revealing a wriggling, squealing rodent; with a gesture, Masga pulled the rat toward them. Hovering through the air, encased in a film of flickering umber, the rat thrashed and protested.

Once it hovered at eye level for the bonekeeper, the rodent suddenly stopped panicking and just stared at the Masga. Its beady black eyes flicked over all five of its captors, resting on each for half a second. Then it went limp, its body reduced to an unmoving sack of black fur. Masga shook it gingerly, and Yara found memories of Isabelle’s experiments returning to her. When it became clear, the rat was unconscious, or worse, Masga brought it closer, gently dropping it on the ground before them.

Both the Bonekeeper and Priestess knelt down to examine the rat, apparently reaching similar conclusions. Speaking slowly, confusion leaking from her words, Mina said. “It’s dead…”

Alia nudged the rat with her boot. “As in, undead, recently dead, or something else?”

“Recently dead. I think its body just… stopped.” answered Mina, her eyes dripping silver.

Masga snapped something in dwerick and Nokin translated. “Sometin wasa controlling it. Kilt it so we couldn track ta spell.”

An oath escaped Alia. “Fire and iron! does that mean we’ve got another jagging vampire to worry about?”

The dwarves exchanged some more words before Nokin said. “Sangraki nut only tings tat coulda rule rats down ere. Could be vamper, or somethin else.”

Casually kicking the rat’s corpse into the dark, Alia sighed. “Great, just jagging great.”

Wolfgang hated being interrupted while he was working, which didn’t make him that much different from most artists or scholars. But what did set Wolfgang apart was how a lapse of concentration in his work might lead to a calamity. He’d been doing some final adjustments to the modified gashadokuro when the Dullahan demanded his attention. After a few frantic moments, Wolfgang managed to stop the spell from dissolving, thanks to his lapsed focus. The anger he felt at this nearly catastrophic interruption only somewhat dimmed when Marcus informed him of its reason.

“Why does Thorm think he’s found them?” Wolfgang snapped at the Dullahan as he pushed past the headless hunter.

The Dullahan didn’t respond, merely following Wolfgang, radiating that horrible malice. Wolfgang hoped this wasn’t a false alarm; the quicker he was rid of Marcus, the better. Some instinct told the Black Fly this Dullahan would eventually slip its leash, and he didn’t want to be the one holding said leash when that happened.

Downstairs, Wolfgang found Thorm seated, his eyes shut, fell words upon his lips. Impatient but unwilling to interrupt, Wolfgang waited while the strigoi’s face twitched occasionally. Eventually, Shorttooth dragged in a rattling breath and smiled. “I think our quarry is fast approaching.”

Adjusting his spectacles, Wolfgang asked. “Your rats found them?”

Thorm nodded. “I doubt many humans are traveling in this section of the Deeps, especially with a bonekeeper as an escort. I saw no sign of the stone or the Paladin, but my scouting was interrupted.”

Wolfgang frowned. “Were you discovered?”

The strigoi raised a shoulder. “Yes, but no. I shut my rat’s heart off when it was caught. They won’t find much from its corpse; I can assure you of that.”

Concerned, Wolfgang said. “If they know to be suspicious, that will cause problems.”

Shaking his head, Thorm chuckled. “No, no, no; skittish prey can be tricked into a trap they might otherwise avoid. All we need to do is apply the right pressure and they will come running towards us, which will also solve another problem.”

“That being?” asked Wolfgang

Smile broadening until Wolfgang thought the undead dwarf’s face would split, Thorm explained. “They camp at night and will probably start putting up wards or other defenses now. Attacking them as they are wouldn’t be easy, and we can’t risk them stumbling upon us during the day. So when they get close and prepare to camp, we scare them into not stopping. With the right prodding, they would push on even when night came, seeking safety here in Gurim’s Watch. Arriving into our clutches, tired, fearful of the threat behind and unthinking of the threat ahead.”

It was a good plan and a cold reminder of what exactly Thorm and Wulfhild were. By the Voivode’s will, the pair of them had hunted and killed dozens, if not hundreds, of dangerous foes. Still, Wolfgang was technically in command of this mission and wanted to assert that authority. “I’d like to see your scout’s memories to make sure we have the right prey.”

Asking for another vampire to share memories was tantamount to an invasion of privacy and an insult to dignity. Wolfgang never would have dared if the situation was even slightly different, but he needed a clearer understanding of things. Thorm didn’t so much as blink at the request, simply nodding and saying, “Just a moment.”

Wolfgang expected the strigoi to reinforce his psychic defenses or do some other internal restructuring; instead, Thorm opened his mouth wide. A horrible wet noise issued from the dwarf’s throat, and to Wolfgang’s surprise, he realized the organ was being distended. Climbing up out of Thorm’s esophagus like it was a common drain pipe, was a rat. It scrambled over the strigoi’s teeth and descended his beard to the ground. A gurgle escaped Thorm, and he cleared his throat. “The rat contains the memories; look into its eyes.”

Squatting down, Wolfgang examined the rat. Meeting its gaze, he found what he sought in the creature's simple mind. The recollections of Thorm’s dead scout was stamped into the rat’s mind, allowing Wolfgang easy access. Despite how… unpleasant the technique seemed to be, Wolfgang couldn’t help but be impressed. Sorting through the memories, trying to decipher the sights, smells, and sounds of a rat, Wolfgang found his mind locking onto one particular detail of the vision. A name and face, both barely caught by the rat’s mind but striking a cord in Wolfgang’s.

Two sets of gifted memories overlapped, and a remarkable conclusion reached Wolfgang. “Coincidence is the Gods’ domain.”

Thorm took the rat back, giving Wolfgang a questioning look. Shutting his eyes, digesting this new stroke of fortune, the Black Fly said. “I think one of the sleepers is among that group.”

A harsh laugh escaped the strigoi. “Oh, this will be easy, then!”

Feeling the unseen hand of the Reaper upon him, Wolfgang jerkily nodded. “I’ll plan the best way to use our new asset. How do you intend to flush the quarry towards us?”

Thorm didn’t so much as smile this time, but bare his teeth in dark glee. “By impersonating a monster only mildly less dangerous than we are.”

On cue, the rat stood up in Thorm’s palm, and its mouth opened. Out from the vermin’s mouth came a word, in loud, perfect dwerick. “Help!”

The day after the rat incident, the caravan moved faster; eager to flee whatever was spying on them. Cole had slept through the excitement, much to his embarrassment. He’d taken off part of his armor to snuggle with Natalie and fell fast asleep. Her presence continued to be a remarkable sleep aid for him, and he’d unwittingly taken advantage of that while she rested. Natalie needed to enter torpor at least once a week to stay functional. It didn’t matter if the sun or Cole’s amulet put her to sleep; either way, it helped. Without a day of torpor, Natalie got… erratic, not something they could afford right now, so she stole an hour or two every day when they set up camp. It seemed to work, and she was handling the trip well enough.

That couldn’t be said of everyone else, though. Kit wasn’t athletic and needed to use his magic just to keep pace with the group. All the strange smells and sounds were grinding on Alia’s nerves, rendering the catblood even more prickly. Mina, though, reacted the worst; she was becoming unusually taciturn and wasn’t sleeping well. Every time Cole was on night watch, Mina would wake from a nightmare at least once. She didn’t bolt up screaming like Cole sometimes did, but he still recognized the moment of animal panic when bad dreams and consciousness blended together.

Thankfully, the Rangers thought they didn’t have long to go. Tomorrow, they’d reach somewhere called Gurim’s Watch, and then Azyge would be in sight… or at least close. So, concerned as Cole was about whatever entity was behind the peculiar rodent, it seemed possible the caravan might avoid that particular trouble. Upon hearing of the event, Cole’s gut instinct had been to assume a Strigoi or Wyrmoi was spying on them, but Nokin and Masga didn’t seem to think so. While feral vampires finding refuge in the Deeps wasn’t unheard of, other more common threats seemed more likely. Certain types of monstrous fungi were known to possess simple animals and use them to seek out new hosts, and then there were odder creatures like skin pipers, rat emperors, and verminicks who might do manipulate rodents. Life mutated into unimaginable forms down here in the Deeps, and mad as it sounded to Cole, vampires weren’t the most dangerous possibility.

Cole glanced over at Natalie then, wishing she’d been awake when the rat came skulking about; she might have been able to capture the rat alive and learn its secrets. Leaning against him, his lover was staring at a colony of mushrooms that rippled with a green light above them. They’d started to make camp for the night, something the dwarves insisted their long-boned fellows not help with. Apparently, it was easier for them to do the work alone than to let a bunch of surface dwellers muck things up. Running a hand through Natalie’s hair, Cole enjoyed the simple peace of the moment. With his free hand, he stroked a bulge on his pack with a similar gesture. He’d decided it was better to carry Isabelle with him than leave her on one of the aardigs. Idly, Cole wondered what it would be like to lie with both of them, just spending an hour enjoying each other’s company with no catastrophe or danger. Smiling at the silly fantasy, Cole shut his eyes.

Natalie exploded out of his arms then, whirling about, head frantically twisting back and forth. All eyes were on her, and she frantically motioned for silence. Seeing her expression grow tense, Cole got to his feet, finding Requiem at his belt. Staring at Cole, Natalie spoke in a tiny whisper. “I hear something.”

Stopping Cole’s question with a finger, she shut her eyes and, after a second, swore. Except, instead of spewing out the curse, she mouthed it, and then Cole understood. Even though he couldn’t hear it, Cole would have bet good steel that somewhere down the tunnel a voice was speaking dwerick, saying a single word over and over.

“Help.”