At first he barely heard anything.
Higher.
At that command, he tried to find purchase in the wall for his foot. He reached upward, and the farther he went, the more he felt—heard—the same sound of endlessly breaking stone as in the dead end.
Deep-Root stretched as high as he could, until his thick fingertips touched where the wall curved into the cave’s ceiling. The whisper gale rose to a roar in his head, as if he’d stepped into the storm’s heart.
Wynn lost all awareness in that torrent.
When it finally faded, she was looking toward the pool, but it was sideways and low, as if Deep-Root lay on the cave’s floor. She was sick with dizziness. Deep-Root moaned and pushed himself up as the leaf-wing voice came again.
They call themselves the in’Sâ’yminfiäl, the masters of frenzy. To the few who have ever escaped them and yet never have seen them, they are known as the Eaters of Silence. They have driven the peace from your people’s thoughts—and driven them mad. Nothing can stop this now.
Wynn knew of whom the dragon spoke. She’d learn of these sorcerers, once in service to the Ancient Enemy in the forgotten war. If she’d had her own voice, she could’ve asked so many questions. But she was only an observer, reliving all this through Deep-Root’s eyes and ears.
Your blades are worthless. Something greater is needed to breach my bowels, once I ignite what is left within me. And then ...
The dragon looked to the pool, and Wynn went numb.
She didn’t understand why it needed to be impaled, but it intended to somehow ignite all of the fluid it had disgorged. This place would collapse in an explosion, pulling down those who were right above, digging their way into the seatt. And she knew it would shatter this whole realm.
There is little time, for I cannot prepare all this again. Even now I fade in starvation. That is why I have made certain that what is done here is enough to reach them, no matter the cost.
Every question Wynn wanted to ask vanished as Deep-Root’s breath caught.
The way out through the range will become their way, if they take this place—and they will. It is what they seek to gain as quickly as possible, at any price.
Wynn envisioned the map she’d sketched in her journal, looking for what lay just to the north of here.
But the price to stop them is even higher. To halt those who would breach this place, all here must die by our choice ... though they would be lost just the same.
Wynn began to see the choice the dragon offered; it was no choice at all. Sacrifice an entire people to slow or cripple the enemy’s advance, but with no certainty that it would bring ultimate victory. Or wait and hope that more of the dwarves here might yet escape this place of madness, but at the cost of the enemy achieving an unstoppable advantage.
She knew the path the siege forces would secure, for she had traveled it, and then nothing could stop more of them from following. The Slip-Tooth Pass would take them into the north, unseen until too late. The very tram tunnel that she had used would lead them right to it.
Unlike the horde of undead buried by time in the plain beyond the Lhoin’na forests, nothing would stop an invasion of the living from swarming over it, even into First Glade. Perhaps that was what they were after most of all, that one place the undead couldn’t go. And then what would become of the Numan nations? Without First Glade, there would not even be a fragile sanctuary for the few who could reach it.
There is no more time. Either believe or not. If so, go and find what is needed. But if you die before it is your time, all is lost.
Wynn shrank in self-recrimination for all that she’d thought of Deep-Root in the passing season.
He turned and fled into stone.
Wynn choked for air, still immersed inside the memory.
Over and over Chuillyon prayed until the rise of Chârmun’s presence within him grew into a pure silence, as if he were alone and all that was left alive in this world—as least for one more moment.
And that moment lingered on and on ... too long.
Chuillyon clung to Chârmun’s presence as he barely cracked open his eyes.
He stood there ... alone ... staring toward the dark breach where il’Sänke had madly thrown himself to his death. Even the flickers of fire on the stone had died, leaving only trails of smoke filling the air.
Where had the creature gone? Why would it leave him alive? For an instant, he wondered if his prayer to Chârmun had affected it, but that was a foolish thought.
From the moment Hannâschi had fallen, he had barely had the wits to think or feel anything. His gaze drifted to her, lying on the floor, and then continued onward, stopping at the charred pile that had been Shâodh.
Chuillyon quickly looked away from that unbearable sight, and it shook him from complacency. Only moments before, he had been ready to face death. He walked to the hall’s end and dropped down beside Hannâschi. With a touch of his fingers, he found she still breathed weakly.
“Hannâschi?” he said softly, but her eyelids did not flutter.
Chuillyon picked up her fallen crystal, still bright with her warmth, and he looked into the breach beyond her.
He had no idea how or if Wynn had managed to pass the trap in the tunnel wall, nor how to do so himself. For that matter, Wynn would fare no better than Shâodh if the beast had gone her way.
His curiosity, his pride and arrogance, had cost Shâodh’s life. Hannâschi was poisoned and might yet follow her loved one. And someone still had to survive to tell of this place, of what happened here ... of what waited here.
Chuillyon lifted Hannâschi’s frail form, which weighed so little in his arms. He realized he would not be able to pump the cart by himself all the way back beneath the range. They were nearly out of supplies, and they would not survive. He needed to get Hannâschi directly out of the seatt, into the open air, beneath the sky, where he could find food and build her strength before starting the journey home.
“Chârmun, be with me,” he whispered. “Guide me out.”
Ghassan lay stunned at the shaft’s bottom. He had not been able to slow his descent enough and had hit hard. Afraid of moving too quickly and injuring himself further, he carefully drew his legs up toward his stomach, feeling for any sharp pains. His need to move on overrode fear of injury, and he pushed himself up.
Flashes of pain in his back and right leg nearly made him fall again. He fought them, and his arms did not give way. None of his bones seemed broken, but he was bleeding from multiple cuts and scrapes. His clothing was torn and shredded in many places.
Once he gained his feet, he found himself at the head of a downward-facing tunnel, though he had no idea where he was or how deep he might be. He took his first steps forward, and then a shrieking blast of wind rushed up the tunnel. It made the tatters of his cloak rise and thrash.
He knew that sound. He had heard it when facing the wraith in the streets of Calm Seatt.
Ghassan stumbled along the wall, following that wail.
Chane and Ore-Locks kept running, down and down. Chane had sheathed his short blade and pulled out the crystal Wynn had given him to light the way. All he could do was trust that Ore-Locks might guess the correct passage to keep descending.
The dwarf stayed in the main tunnel, never turning aside into smaller ones. Wynn believed the orb would have been guarded someplace deep in the seatt. This was all Chane had to go on in trying to fulfill her desperate plea.