The Delving

by Aaron Bunce

  “You know that we want you just as you are, I hope you know that,” she said, pulling him into a kiss. The kids groaned at the display of affection but rushed over and swarmed them over, smashing together in a massive hug.

  “I thought you were like them, a scoundrel…a killer, but I can see now that you’re humble…you’re good, in your heart…I can tell,” she whispered, her soft lips grazing his ear. Someone reached in and shook him, the tangle of arms and bodies suddenly gone.

  “It doesn’t matter what everyone else thinks of you, husband. It doesn’t. Your family loves you, and we will make it together.” He heard her voice and longed to pull her close, for a bit of warmth.

  “Wake up!” Thorben felt a jolt again, and his mind snapped out of that pleasant place, all the comfort and familiarity of home pulled away in an instant.

  He opened his eyes, the air cool and damp against his exposed skin. A pain stabbed in his back and side, a lump poking through the bedroll’s worthless padding.

  “Did you hear me,” someone hissed, a bony finger poking into his arm.

  Thorben started, his mind finally detaching from the dream. Jez hovered next to him, her face so close he could have counted her eyelashes.

  “Wha…?” he asked, still muddled by sleep. He tried to roll over and get up, but she shoved him back down.

  Jez glanced up, looking around the camp, fear drawing her eyebrows up.

  “They’re murderers…the lot of them. I thought you were like them, too at first, like the others. But I can see that you’re different now…can see it in your eyes. I don’t know what Iona told you, but it isn’t the truth. He has forbidden me from talking to you. Please, he isn’t what you remember…not your friend. None of them are. Iona doesn’t want you to know that you aren’t the first he’s asked on this quest. There were others before you, but they couldn’t do it. They couldn’t open the door. If you can’t get them what they want, then they’ll…they’ll…hurt us,” she sputtered, her voice low and fast.

  Footsteps sounded beyond their camp, and Thorben turned to see Hun appear from the early morning fog. The wide-shouldered man stopped just inside the camp, facing him, the fire casting his face in a devilish glow. Thorben turned back to Jez, but the girl was gone, the bushes a few paces away still shaking.

  Thorben pushed painfully up to an elbow, grimacing as the stiffness pulled his shoulder tight. He rubbed his eyes and turned back to the fire. What did she mean by, “He isn’t what you remember? He’s not a friend”? Thorben tried to make sense of the girl’s warning, but his mind was still addled by sleep and the fading dream.

  A shiver rolled up his spine as he laid back down on the bedroll. The last fragments of his dream rolled around in his mind, but like wisps of cloud they were already breaking up and drifting away. The warmth, the last bits of comfort, faded with them.

  Hun settled into the camp, letting his long spear fall quietly into the long grass as he sat next to the fire, adding wood and stirring the glowing embers. Thorben felt the mule’s eyes on him, but rolled over, pretending to sleep. The sky was still dark, but the birds in the nearby trees were already singing to rouse the sun. He decided not to go back to sleep. There was something about Hun and the other mules that gave him pause, but he couldn’t put his finger on why.

  They would break camp before the sun rose, and he wanted time to think.

  Chapter Eight

  The Unchartered River

  They ate a hot breakfast of eggs and bacon and broke camp quietly, the three mules having stowed most of their gear before he’d even risen for the day. Thorben ate the meat, a few mouthfuls of egg, and some toasted rolls, wondering why they’d been chewing on jerky and hardtack up till now, when far more appetizing food was available. Unable to finish the substantial portion heaped onto his place, Thorben subtly dumped the rest into the long grass and cleaned up.

  They set off shortly after sunrise, Renlo and Gor leading, while Hun stomped out the last of the fire. Thorben interested himself in the clouds as he passed the large man, desperate not to let his gaze linger on the obvious droplets of blood on the mule’s hide breeches. Hun quietly fell into step half a dozen paces behind him, his quiet mutterings unintelligible.

  He didn’t see Jez again until they were well away from the camp. She appeared from the woods to their left, Iona keeping pace just behind. They settled into the group just ahead of Thorben. He watched the young woman walk for a while, taking note in the changes to her gait and posture. Her head hung towards the ground, shoulders tense, and her arms, which swung purposefully at her sides before, clutched tightly to her body now.

  They crested a hill midmorning, a small handcart appearing just ahead. The landscape sloped down beyond that, the kongelig blöd mounds appearing off to their distant left, and a sprawling forest to their right.

  Renlo and Gor led them past the seemingly abandoned cart, neither of the strong men giving it a second glance. Thorben slowed as he approached, however. Burlap sacks covered the ground, some ripped and snagged on the cart’s rough side rails, while a few crates had been upended, and their contents spilled over the ground.

  “Who would travel through this country, when there are roads…?” he started to ask but paused. His gaze fell on bits of hard bread scattered amongst the grass, a potato and canvas sack lying not far away. Thorben sucked in a quick breath, swallowing back a curse as the wind flattened a clump of long grass, exposing a worn boot.

  Thorben passed the cart and stopped. The remnants of a small fire stood just outside the wagon’s shadow, heat and smoke still drifting into the chilly, morning air. The long grass was trampled down in a wide swath, his mind racing to recreate the events that would have caused such a hectic scene. His eyes caught on something just under the cart, the sunrise’s long shadows having shielded it just a moment before.

  A pair of legs sat behind the wheel, one of their boots missing. The bare foot was pale, like freshly picked cotton, and smudged with dirt. Just beyond, and tucked further into the shadows was another smaller form, and another.

  “Let’s keep moving, Owl,” Hun said, his huge hands curling around Thorben’s arms as the man swept him forward.

  “Should we at least bury them…and ask Mani to take them into her keeping?”

  “These folk lived and died in the wilds, ain’t a care you can give them now, and no guarantee they worshipped your goddess. Best keep pace, now move!” Hun said and pushed him forward, the blood spatters on his clothes darker and more apparent in the morning sun.

  “Don’t push me!” Thorben spat, spinning around on the large man. He connected it all together in his mind – Hun tromping back into the camp in the dead of night, fresh food for their breakfast, the blood on his clothes, and now these travelers murdered and their belongings ransacked.

  They are murderers…Jez’s words echoed in his mind, the food filling his belly suddenly turning uncomfortably. The big man loomed above him, his thick fingers rolling the dark wood spear shaft over and over. Hun’s scraggly beard split, and for the first time in the past few moons, he smiled.

  “You got spirit, Owl, I’ll grant ye that. And you saved Renlo from that beast back in the woods. That’ll give you this one pass, but now it’s all used up. Turn and walk, or I start cuttin’ parts off until you do.”

  Thorben turned, reluctantly putting his back to Hun, and set off. He walked in silence from then on, listening to the mule’s footsteps behind him and wondering if he could outrun him. If he could get back to the woods, he was confident that his smaller frame would allow him to lose the mules in the trees. And yet, now he had the open, rolling hills standing between him and cover, the long, reedy grass perfectly suited to snaring feet and ankles. Plus, he’d never been a strong runner. The big man would likely outrun him through the grass, and use the spear’s long reach to cripple him, or if he was practiced, bring him down with one good throw. Thorben’s guts quivered as he thought about the spear piercing his flesh, and kicked forward into a slightly
faster walk. His small knife and hammer felt paltry on his belt. Hells, he’d never get close enough to the big men to use them.

  They made quick and quiet travel through the hills north of the mounds, a small herd of rootstags crossing their path before disappearing into the woods further up the valley. Iona gathered them together behind a cluster of large rocks a short time later.

  Thorben climbed up the smooth rock face and laid flat. The ground fell away on the other side, round, smooth stones jutting up and covering the surprisingly steep river gorge on the other side. A narrow, but deep-looking river rushed by at its center, the water crashing over exposed rocks and spouting a misty spray into the air. A thick, misty fog hung a man’s height above the water as far as he could see, the air heavily perfumed by damp and silt.

  Thorben took it all in, understanding why the river likely had never been charted. The waterway was too deep and the current far too strong, and that wasn’t considering the rocks, which would likely smash a sturdy riverboat to kindling in short order.

  He spotted a path worn into the long grass on the other side of the gorge, the trail barely visible above the thick layer of fog. A man appeared from a bend in the path further up river, his brown, leather armor and dark green cloak making him difficult to spot against the rocks, trees, and foliage. The soldier carried a pike, the long, bladed weapon serving as his walking stick as well.

  “They patrol this path, and there, down by those rocks,” Iona said, next to him. Thorben scrambled in surprise, almost sliding off his perch. He hadn’t even heard the man climb the rock, let alone settle next to him.

  “I didn’t mean to startle you, Owl. But there, down by the rocks. Do you see the bridge? When this soldier reaches that bridge, another will pass him moving north. Watch,” Iona said, extending his arm out and pointing down the gorge.

  Thorben squinted, willing his eyes to pierce the mist, and finally made out the bridge. He watched the man pick his way down the path, disappearing and reappearing through low spots in the trail. The mist seemed to pool heavier there, floating up the river valley before curling up like massive fingers and drifting back towards the water.

  The bridge loomed in the mist, a shadow of bulky timber and taught rope, spanning the rocky gorge. The dark silhouette of another soldier appeared on the far end of the bridge, the two forms converging briefly in the middle, before continuing in opposite directions.

  “They patrol from sunup to sunset, and during the night, with torches,” Iona said, answering his unspoken question.

  “How much time passes between patrols? How much time do we have to cross the bridge?”

  Iona chuckled, but Thorben’s sidelong glance confirmed that the man was not smiling.

  “Our route will not take us across the bridge,” Iona said, flatly.

  Thorben searched his face for a moment, his gaze snapping down to the treacherous rocks jutting out at the water’s edge, and across to the western bank, where a small, but dry-looking sandbar hugged the gentler slope.

  “According to your map, the cave entrance is on the western side of the river, and the rocks on the eastern side look–”

  “Yes…I know your mind, Owl. But it is far more complicated than you realize. Also, I did not say we wouldn’t be crossing the river here. I just said we wouldn’t be crossing the bridge. The river valley becomes much steeper south of the bridge…an almost sheer cliff with a life-crushing drop into the rocky water below. That, I would suppose, is why they chose this spot for their river crossing. The trail our soldier friends patrol to the north and west is too close to the water’s edge, so we cannot cross further upstream and use the sand bars and shallows. They would see us, even in the mist. You see, their patrols are expertly planned, leaving very little time for us to break from cover and cross the river before being spotted. We have to cross the water there,” he explained, pointing directly under the bridge, “where the shadow is darkest, and the mist thickest.”

  “That is madness!” Thorben spat, and immediately slid backwards to move off the rock, except something barred his way. He turned to find Gor immediately behind and below him, his massive frame perched half on and half off the rock.

  “It is!” Iona laughed, quietly. “You’ve lost a bit of your old touch, Owl. On most occasions it was you concocting the most extraordinary solutions to our problems…like that tomb we discovered east of the Snake River. Do you remember?”

  Thorben nodded. Of course he remembered, he had blisters on his hands for several moons after that delving to show for his efforts.

  “You couldn’t get into the crypt, as a massive stone had been wedged into the opening, so you dug through the dirt on the hill above for two sunrises, before finally lowering yourself down with a rope. None would enter that space but you. This situation is no different. Put some trust in me, old friend.”

  “It will take more than trust to cross that water, Iona. That water looks deep and the current wild. We’ll be swept downriver and drowned by the undercurrent, or better, bludgeoned against the rocks.”

  Iona’s expression remained flat, and this time Gor chuckled, the sound raspy and ominous. Thorben knew what it meant. The river would only kill him if Gor allowed it to. The big man’s spear hung at his side…more a promise than anything.

  “Like I said, Owl. Trust in me. Preparations have been made,” Iona said, and promptly slid back off the rock. Gor raised an eyebrow and turned, allowing Thorben to follow.

  “If trust is what must move us forward, then I guess you have it. My job starts at the crypt’s entrance, not here in the wilds.”

  “Good,” Iona said, Gor and Renlo pushing past to lead. Then he hooked a hand around Thorben’s arm and gently, but firmly, directed him to follow. Hun chewed on an apple and fell into step just behind them, his spear tapping a quiet cadence against the rock.

  The mules led them downriver, picking their way slowly through the tall, jutting rocks. Thorben followed, narrowly avoiding a deep fissure in the rock. He waited on the other side of the dark opening and helped Jez cross, then Iona. He tried to settle in towards the back of the group once they were moving again, to talk with Jez, but Iona and Hun were there, watching and pushing him forward.

  The mist became thicker as they approached the bridge, the rocks shielding them from the patrols growing shorter. Thorben pushed by a shrub to follow Gor, something within the plant jabbing through his trousers and into his leg. He hissed, dropping back against the rock, and managed to pull free, the plant breaking loudly.

  Thorben’s fingers trembled as he pulled a disturbingly long thorn out of the meat of his thigh. He lifted it up to his face, examining the barb in the mist. Long and viciously sharp, the thorn was covered in barbs from stem to tip, bits of fabric and his skin still stuck in place.

  “Hunter’s snare. They grow all over this valley,” Iona whispered, appearing from the mist, “incredibly aggressive plant…best to watch where you step, and cover your manhood. Hate to catch one of those barbs in the…”

  “Aggressive plant?” Thorben muttered, picking his way forward once again, giving the bush a wide birth. As he inched past, the hunter’s snare started to shiver and shake, its thorny branches lashing towards him. He instinctively dropped a hand over his genitals and moved into the clear, favoring the throbbing cut in his thigh. Blood already formed a small, coin-sized stain on his trousers.

  Thorben lifted himself up and crawled between two rocks, and almost dropped onto another of the horrible plants on the other side. He landed, danced awkwardly to his right, and just managed to lift his legs out of the way as the thorns snapped out. A stab of pain stabbed into his bruised ribs and he keeled over, his breath momentarily rejecting him.

  “Give me my chair and my fireplace…I’m too old for this,” he muttered a few painful moments later, when he was finally able to choke down a breath. “You tangle with a thug…and he pummels you, so you decide to trek out into the wilds and what? Get attacked by thorny plants. You fool; you should h
ave stayed home…”

  Thorben stumbled around the plant and came upon Renlo just ahead. The mules waited behind a cluster of rocks. A massive timber loomed above them, a copper brazier burning brightly, the mist swirling angrily around the dancing flames.

  The mules led them quietly along the rocks to their right, the bridge spanning the dark river, while the ground dropped precariously below them. He slipped and slid down several rocks, the slimy, moss-covered slope like ice under his boots. He slid, caught his balance, and almost pitched forward into Renlo’s back, just managing to reclaim his balance.

  Thorben picked his way down one careful step at a time, thick strands of cobwebs dragging across his face in the blinding mist. He sputtered and almost swiped at his face, but knew that if he took his hands off the rocks, he would fall. It would only take one of them to lose their footing and knock the rest of their group tumbling down the slope. If that happened, he could only hope that the fall against the rocks killed him, and he wouldn’t have to wait to bleed out, or for some hungry creature to happen upon him.

  The mules clambered ahead and below him, somehow moving sure-footed down the lethal rocks. How were they so confident climbing down the rocks? He couldn’t see more than a pace or two ahead of him, and they moved as if they’d trekked down this slope before.

  Thorben swallowed down the panic and took a step, and then another. He dropped his foot and found a hold, and miraculously, the mist lifted. The water rushed by noisily, the sound previously blocked by the thick mist. He took another dozen steps and found himself standing at the narrow river’s edge.

  Renlo and Hun stood to his right, the water rushing by their feet in a sweeping torrent. Thorben looked up the river, and then down, astounded by the sight. The thick layer of mist hung above his head like a thick, wool blanket, and yet everything beneath it was perfectly clear. He couldn’t see the sky, or the sloping riverbank, the bridge supports disappearing in the mist above. The patrolling soldiers were somewhere above them, too, marching along, the heavy tromp…tromp…tromp of their boots loud against the planks. He hoped that he was as invisible to them, as they were to him.