“You’ve been here before,” Thorn said. “You survived it then. What did you do the last time?”
“I climbed in a hole,” Drix said.
“We don’t have time to dig now.”
“I know,” Drix said. “And I’m not sure it’s big enough for all of us.”
The thunder came again, louder. Cadrel looked up at the sky. “Perhaps we could make a sort of tent of our cloaks…”
Ask him about the hole, Steel said. Quickly. Ask him how big it is.
Brilliant, Thorn thought. But she repeated the question.
“We might all fit,” Drix said. “I just don’t know about the air. We’d have to leave it open a bit. More than I’d like. It might drip in, and that’s no good.”
“What do you mean?” Thorn said. The thunder rolled again. There was no time for guessing games. “Just… show us the hole!”
Drix laid his cloak down across the ground. He stuck a few stakes into the hem, securing it against the ground.
“That’s what I was thinking,” Cadrel said. “But if this… rain… soaks through the cloth, it will kill us, yes?”
“I don’t know if it kills,” Drix said. “But we’d certainly go away. That’s why I’ve got the hole.” Reaching into one of his many pouches, he took out a piece of soft, black cloth. He unfolded it, spreading it out across the ground.
Wonderful, Thorn thought. He is mad. If we’re lucky, that means he’s wrong about the rain too.
Drix continued to spread the black cloth across the soil. It was a broad circle, about three feet across. He looked up and smiled. “Do you want to go first, Thorn?”
“Go wh-?” The question died in her throat. Drix’s hand was resting on the black circle-no, in the black circle. As if it were resting on the rim of a giant hole.
It’s an extradimensional pocket, Steel said. Like your gloves and your pouch, but with a far larger opening. It’s an amazing design; I’ve never seen one that could be folded that way.
“It was a gift,” Drix said. “But you’d better get in quickly. We’re running out of time.”
Thorn slid beneath the makeshift tarp and pushed her foot into the portable hole. There was nothing there, just open space. She could feel a change in the temperature; it was pleasantly warm in the hole. Gingerly she dropped down along the edge. The space inside was wider than the mouth. She stood in a small, spherical chamber, perhaps six feet across.
A moment later, Essyn Cadrel dropped down after her. “Remarkable,” he said.
Drix followed. Reaching up, he grasped the edges of the hole, and to Thorn’s surprise, he pulled them together.
He’s folding the cloth, she realized. I wonder what happens if someone else picks it up?
“I can’t close it,” he said. “There’s not enough air for all of us. We’ll have to leave it open. Just try to stay away from the water.”
The thunder came again, and they heard the rain, rattling down against Drix’s cloak. It sounded more like hail than rain, heavy drops pounding against the cloak like staccato drumbeats. Cadrel murmured a word, and a globe of cold fire appeared in his hand, filling the tiny chamber with light. Thorn could see more details. They were standing on a red blanket of soft wool with an image of a warforged warrior stitched into the surface. The walls were covered with sketches, sheets of paper pasted against the dark surface; most of them appeared to be designs for small crossbows. It seemed that Drix had been working on the crossbow problem for some time. Tools were scattered underfoot, along with winches, stocks, and other pieces of half-built weaponry.
The first drop of water soaked through the cloak and fell to the floor. It looked harmless enough, but the memory of those empty streets and the abandoned caravan was enough to keep Thorn from putting Drix’s warning to the test.
“How long will this go on?” Cadrel said. A drop of water landed on his sleeve, and he hissed in pain.
“I don’t know,” Drix said. “It’s rain. It might only last for a minute; it might last for hours. Or days. I never had to leave the hole open before. It never really mattered.”
“The opening’s too big,” Thorn said. The water dripped in more steadily, a pool beginning to form on the ground. “If air is the problem, we need to make the hole narrower, to make a tube.” She picked up a few long crossbow bolts. Drix saw what she was doing; rooting around, he produced a sheet of leather and some twine.
“Let me do it.” He quickly wrapped the quarrels in the leather and lashed them together. He worked two additional bolts through the bunch horizontally, creating a base to hold it up. There was only one problem.
“There’s too much water coming down,” Thorn said. The cloak was soaked, and it was flowing more freely. “There’s no way for you to close the opening without getting wet.”
Drix said nothing, just took a step forward. Thorn caught his shoulder.
“You’re the reason we’re here. You’re the only one who knows where we’re going. And if not for you, we’d all be dead right now. We need you.”
He smiled at her gently and brushed her hand away. “Don’t worry about me.”
He took a step forward and pushed the makeshift tube up through the opening. Water flowed down his arm, and he cried out in pain. But he kept moving. He reached up, pulling at the edge of the hole, drawing it more tightly around the quarrels. His sleeve was soaked, and Thorn could see the flesh and muscle shriveling, wasting away as the damp cloth pressed against it. It should have taken only seconds to dissolve his arm and surely kill him.
But it didn’t.
She could see the damage. A drop of water then another fell onto his face, and as they slid down his cheeks, they dug ugly furrows, flesh and blood seeming to evaporate at the touch, tearing holes though his cheeks until she could see tooth and gum. Yet as quickly as the flesh dissolved, it reformed. The ugly gashes knit themselves together without leaving even a scar. It was clear that the experience was terribly painful; Drix was moaning quietly, trembling as he worked with the cloth. But he was alive.
It’s the stone, Thorn realized. Just as it had healed the cut from Oargev’s dagger, it was protecting him from the painful rain. It was amazing but it was clear that he was in agony. At last he finished wrapping the tube and collapsed to the floor. The flow of water had almost completely stopped.
Thorn knelt down beside him, putting a hand on his shoulder. “You did it,” she whispered.
He moaned slightly and laid his head against her shoulder. He was still trembling. Cadrel’s globe of cold fire faded, and Thorn could see that the stone in Drix’s chest was glowing slightly, an orb of light beneath his shirt.
“Amazing,” Cadrel whispered.
Drix moaned again. Outside, the thunder roared and the rain kept pouring down.
CHAPTER NINE
The Mournland B arrakas 24, 999 YK
Hours passed. The rain slowed but never enough to let them leave. Drix silently fiddled with the pieces of his little crossbow. His wounds were completely healed, but he was still shivering and didn’t want to talk.
“Would you like to hear a story?” Cadrel said.
“Hmm?” Thorn said, turning her drifting attention back to the bard.
“A story,” he said. “It’s what I used to do, you know. I’ve just remembered one that you might find interesting. And I’d be quite interested to hear your thoughts on it, Marudrix.”
The tinker looked up. “I’d love a story. Can you put a crossbow in it?”
“This isn’t one of my own,” Cadrel said. “No, this is an old tale, older than Galifar itself. A story of the elves. And I wonder if it might have something to do with the people we’re going to see.”
“Let’s hear it,” said Thorn.
Cadrel took a deep breath. When he spoke, his voice was low and resonant, filling the hole. “Have you ever wondered why elves don’t sleep?
“When the world was young and Eberron still spoke to her children, the land belonged to the giants, and the worst of all the giants was the Titan King Cul’sir. His heart was filled with greed. There was no treasure he did not covet, and his power was great. The smaller creatures hid in fear of mighty Cul’sir. The goblins cowered in the deepest caverns. The dwarves climbed the highest mountains. The gnomes hid in the darkest woods. There was only one race that had no fear of the giants: the elder elves, oldest of the old.”