Chapter Nine
The Stone and The Voice
Rasolir, sixteen years ago...
He often wandered this district, though nobody at the palace knew of it. He preferred to keep it that way.
The bustle of the cramped market flowed around his cloaked and hooded form. Hawkers yelled over each other, exclaiming the virtues and low prices of their items. People jostled and nudged to peer at their wares, wondering if they could spend their meagre coin on a short term luxury.
They were little things, really. Especially for somebody who sampled wealth on a daily basis as he did. But this was the legal side of the slum markets. Hidden away were the illegal items, the narcotics which could make a weary, beaten down, depressed worker forget his troubles for a time. In exchange for a few coins, hard earned wages he could have fed his family with, he would be able to forget that his kin were close to starvation and that he had little in the way of a future.
He hoped that might improve one day. At least the Emperor had outlawed slavery. But if the Prince had his way, the slavers would gleefully descend on Rasolir once again, their coffers fat with gold when they arrived, their wagons filled with slaves when they left.
But the Prince would not inherit the throne now. Princess Mirana would be the next ruler of the Helio Imperium, that was what the Imperial Senate had decided.
A careful move in his scheme. Another throw of the die in his long game.
Quick, fearful movement drew his eye. He suppressed a smile despite the subtle glamour hiding his identity. This was familiar to him, as was the cause—though the cause was not familiar with him.
His attention had been caught by two boys, maybe a little over ten years of age, running in a panic from an alleyway. Both were large and strong, the sort who owned the alleyways during the day when their adult counterparts were not around during the night. But their dominion had begun to crumble in recent years.
Despite their size, they were plainly terrified and had just lost a fight. One of them was clutching a bleeding nose, the other seemed to have lost some teeth. The one with a bleeding nose fell, scraping his knees. He looked over his shoulder, yelped with fear, and scrambled away.
What had scared him? The cloaked man knew, of course, but it was still comical to behold.
Standing in the entrance of the alleyway, tiny fists clenched, was a skinny girl of six years, half the size of the boys she had sent scurrying away. Her little face was scrunched up by anger and disgust, surrounded by a tangled, gritty mane of auburn hair.
As the two older boys fled from her wrath, she looked over her shoulder. A boy younger than her was cowering against the poorly maintained wall, quivering with fright. He had been struck in the face, and his eye was already swelling. But it had not been the girl who had hit him.
She had been protecting him.
The girl approached slowly. The boy made to scramble away, but she knelt at his feet and spoke to him. Whatever she said calmed him slightly, but not wholly. As the man watched, they both stood, facing each other. The girl started to extend a hand, but the boy edged away nervously and ran off.
The girl sighed and shook her head.
'You frighten them.'
The girl spun round and stared at him. Her clothes—if they could be called that—might have been fashioned from old sacks. The shabby, worn sandals she wore had obviously been made from cast-offs. Through the frayed fabric of the improvised breeches, he could see scabs on the girl's knees. Her knuckles were red and dotted with specks of blood, not all of it hers.
She was little more than dirt-encrusted pale skin stretched over small bones, diminutive and seemingly vulnerable, yet she looked up at him without fear. Her pale brown eyes had narrowed.
'It's true,' he told her. 'It's not every day they see somebody like you beat two boys twice your size.'
'They had it coming.' She had the piping, tremulous voice one would expect from a girl of her age, with a musical lilt flowing off her words.
'Because they attacked that younger boy?' he surmised. 'I have to wonder why you stood up for him. Those boys would have made strong allies—strong friends.' He knew full well that such "friends" would have been the fair-weather sort. 'They might have respected you if you had joined them.'
'I didn't want to. They shouldn't have been hitting him.' She folded her arms, defiant and resolute. Her eyes took on an amber hue in the sunlight. 'They think they can do what they want just 'cause they're bigger.'
'Why stand up to them? It was quite the risk.'
Without hesitation, she answered: ''Cause I can. 'Cause I'm stronger. 'Cause it's right.'
'Answering violence with violence is a risk. You'll make enemies.'
She scowled. 'I can look after myself.'
'For now,' he murmured, wondering. 'Tell me, child, what is your name?'
Now she hesitated. She bit her dry, cracked lower lip. 'Mum says I'm not to talk to strangers.'
'Am I a stranger?'
'Yes.'
'Why?'
''Cause.'
He half-smiled. 'Be-cause?'
She grimaced, her lightly freckled nose wrinkling. 'Beeee-caauuuse,' she dragged the word out more with exasperation than mockery, 'you're a stranger. You're not family.'
He looked over at the next street. Somewhere in the warren of tight streets riddled with tiny holes which passed for windows was a small hovel. This was where the girl lived with her family.
He knew what it was like, because he had actually been inside once. The largest room was the kitchen, where the girl's mother cooked when she wasn't making a paltry sum mending the clothes of other slum-dwellers. The girl's father would be gone for most of the day, only returning to have an evening meal and sleep. He would be off labouring for whichever employer needed cheap, readily available labour, and he would perform backbreaking work with little thanks or pay to feed his family.
He also knew that the girl had four brothers, and they had to sleep on an improvised mattress which was more like two old rugs stitched together and stuffed with straw. She was the youngest and smallest, but somehow she was the strongest.
She always had been, in more ways than one.
And despite his asking, he already knew her name.
Rumours travelled quickly in the slums, especially between the many children—the slum-rats, as the guards derisively called them. In the last two years, a certain name had been on their lips. It was spoken sometimes with awe, sometimes disdain, always with a little tinge of wonderment and fear. Just one name: Marci.
'Though I may be a stranger, I will offer you a word of caution.' He knelt to look her in the eyes. 'Choose your battles carefully, child. There are some enemies you cannot defeat with strength alone.'
Marci looked perplexed. After a moment, she slowly nodded, then turned on the heel of her shabby sandals and hurried away. It wasn't fear. He had a feeling that she was eager to return home, eager to eat.
Viceroy Kashurra watched young Marci run up the street, hoping that she took his advice to heart.
Now...
This was one of those enemies the stranger had warned her of, and more would follow.
Marci heard the roar of crashing water just before she hit it. If she had fallen from a greater height it might have broken her back, if not outright killed her. As it was, the shock of the cold water drove the breath from her lungs and her muscles cramped.
All was muffled chaos in the torrent. Marci kicked for the surface and managed to gulp down a lungful of air before the current greedily dragged her back under. Her waterlogged clothes pulled her down further and she tumbled end over end, feet over head, until she could not tell which way was up. Her searing lungs ached in her chest, and her limbs were rapidly going numb.
Something hard struck her head and she blacked out for a moment. She felt the lurch of another fall and then was back in the cold water again.
Dazed, she simply hung there, ropey tendrils of red-brown blood flowing from her right temple, rivulets of silvery bubbles rising from between her lips, nearly oblivious to the fact that she was drowning.
She should have been terrified. She had been afraid of dying like this once. Yet she felt nothing, everything was numb and empty.
It seemed as if the sky had turned white above her head, glittering with diamond stars.
At least Mirana would survive. And Davion. And Sagan.
Black spots swam before her eyes and her thoughts became foggy and disjointed, her brain becoming too starved of air to function properly.
It was so quiet here. So peaceful. She could no longer feel anything. Perhaps the end would be a relief. All she had to do was let go, let that last bit of air go, open her mouth, and it would be over.
No more regret. No more sorrow. No more pain.
It would all be over. It could all end here.
But what if they needed her?
The thought was abrupt and sharp. It was enough to make her fight.
New strength flowed into her numb limbs as the animal urge to survive took over. She clawed her way upwards. There was hardly any form or technique, it was just pure determination.
A tunnel of darkness was entering her eyes, but she did not let it take over. No quiet end for her, she would fight until the last. She had always been a fighter, and if she was going to die here, she would die fighting.
Mirana needed her. She had made a promise.
Marci opened her mouth in a silent scream, as if that would stave off the end.
Her head broke the surface at last and she sucked in air, hacking and coughing at the same time.
Through sheer force of will, Marci forced herself to swim forwards. Her shaking limbs dragged in the water, numb and rubbery.
Marci pulled herself onto the cold stone, flopping onto her back. She had to move, find shelter, somehow find warmth. There had been some wood in her pack, but that was now at the bottom of the pool she had just left, and even if she'd had the strength to retrieve it she knew that she would not have survived the water a second time. She would have succumbed to the cold and died.
She would still likely succumb to the cold and die.
Marci debated removing her sodden clothes, and ultimately decided not to. Yes, they were leeching what little heat she had, but she could hardly hope to survive this place in naught but her skin.
Marci looked back towards the pool, wondering if Mirana and Davion were close. She whistled loudly and shrilly, but heard only the whistle echoing in this cold, lonely place in response.
She was alone. They were not coming for her. They couldn't.
Marci refused to give in to despair. If they could not find her, she would have to find them.
Shaking and soaked, Marci hugged her chest in a futile attempt to retain her dwindling body heat, and set off up the tunnel.
Davion swore loudly and swung his legs. If Marci had waited, he might have been able to swing her to the wall and she could have pulled herself up, reducing the strain on Sagan.
Davion swung again, trying not to think about how hard he was making it for poor Sagan, who was still trying to scramble away from the crevasse.
Finally, he managed to reach the wall. He anchored his feet and clutched at the cold rock. Above him, he could hear Mirana still screaming Marci's name.
Davion reached around and unfastened the rope. 'Mirana!'
She continued to scream for Marci. Something hit his face, something wet.
A tear.
'Mirana!' Davion yelled again. 'Is there any more rope? Mirana! Answer me!'
Mirana stopped screaming, finally coming to her senses. She vanished from sight for a few moments, then returned with a short coil of rope. Even through the flurries of snow, he could see the tears on her cheeks.
This was one time when he hated to be right. Poor Mirana was blaming herself for what had happened. Yes, it had been her idea to try to cut across the slope, but Davion would rather have been proved wrong than right like this.
He also blamed himself. He should have persisted. He should have dragged them down the safer path, at the point of his sword if he'd had to.
'Pass it down.' Davion called. 'Hurry!'
She lowered it to him, still sobbing.
'Now, let it go. I need to tie it off.'
That caught her attention. 'W-what?'
Davion fastened the rope as best he could and let the end drop. 'I'm going down there. I'm going to find her.'
'I'll come too!'
'No!' Davion ordered. 'It's too risky. I need you to try to find an exit to this place. It's a river, it's got to come out somewhere.' He didn't say that it probably exited miles away, if not leagues. But he had to give her hope, and maybe give himself hope too. 'If I... when I find Marci, we'll need a safe, sheltered place with a fire. She fell in the water, Mirana, she'll freeze to death without warmth.'
It was a hollow hope, he knew. In all likelihood, if Marci had somehow not drowned, she would succumb to hypothermia long before he found her.
But he had to try. She had risked her life for him, despite everything. Even if he was too late, he would not forgive himself for leaving her to remain in such a lonely, cold place.
Davion clambered down the rope, fighting against the weight of his pack. He had to keep it dry. Not only was there wood inside, there were also clothes. If Marci was alive if... when he found her, he would need to do everything he could to keep her warm.
There was a narrow ledge above the tumult and he set his feet carefully. If he fell in, he'd be useless to Marci. The extra weight he was carrying would kill him. She might not have thought her own actions through, but at least she had possessed the good sense to drop her cloak and pack before cutting the rope.
Using the wall for support, Davion followed the river. He was painfully aware that every moment Marci was lost was more precious body heat lost, more time taken off her life.
Time was his enemy now.
Mirana roughly wiped away the tears before they could freeze on her cheeks.
This was all her fault. She had insisted on going this way. She couldn't even say that they had needed to follow the exact direction of Marci's amulet. The route Davion had proposed would have taken them there, just not as quickly.
If Marci died...
Sagan bumped his head against her shoulder. He was trying to comfort her.
She did not want to be comforted. She just wanted Marci back, alive and well.
Mirana choked on another sob and took Sagan's reins. Sagan was beholden to her, but Marci had actually spent more time with the lunar-tiger. She had spent hours training him to respond to whistles, the two had gotten along well.
Mirana could only hope that Davion somehow found Marci. She, Marci's friend, was utterly and completely powerless to help her. For the longest time, Marci had been her only friend. She was still Mirana's only friend, especially since she was disgraced in the eyes of Selemene.
Mirana pulled on Sagan's reins and followed the chasm, praying that she could help in some way, praying that Marci would survive.
With chattering teeth, she found herself whispering as she trudged on, motivated only by hope and devotion. 'I know I've failed you, Selemene. But don't punish me like this! Don't punish Marci.' She felt fresh tears leak from her eyes. 'Let her live. Please!'
Though she knew little of hypothermia, Marci knew that she was in dire trouble.
In the last five minutes of her fifteen minute trudge, she had stopped merely shivering. She was now convulsing violently. Her body was trying desperately to warm itself. It was failing miserably.
Hunched and hugging her sodden clothes to her body, Marci plodded forwards. It was only her stubborn will and devotion to Mirana which drove her forwards. Many others would have given up and died much sooner.
Under her clothing, Marci's skin had become so pale that she would have blended in with the snow above. If she had been able to see her reflection, she would have seen that her lips had turned blue.
Marci was running out of time.
The tunnel was worn smooth, and not by water or wind. She did not think about what might have created the tunnels. With her luck, she would no doubt run into it.
Marci slowed as she realised that there was something small and warm against her chest. She pressed her arms tighter, feeling the small object press into her sternum.
The amulet. It was the one warm item she had. Unfortunately it was not enough to keep her alive.
She stopped, finding three tunnels before her. The left and middle tunnels descended into cold darkness, and she thought she could hear water lapping from the middle tunnel.
Strangely, lukewarm air flowed from the right tunnel. It was also leading upwards. Still slightly dazed and convulsing, she staggered towards it.
If Marci's nose had not been blocked, she might have detected the faint stench of decay wafting down the tunnel.
Davion found it soon enough. He had to carefully climb down to the narrow bank which had formed around the deep pool.
His heart had nearly stopped when he had spotted a strange mass at the bottom, but he realised that it was actually Marci's pack. Her cloak had floated away, dragged through a small fissure under the waterline.
The fissure was much too small for a person, even someone as petite as Marci. It was just as well. If it had been large enough for the current to pull her through, she would have been a lost cause.
But she was not here either. Marci had left, no doubt making straight for the wide tunnel ahead.
Davion cursed. Why couldn't she wait? If she had stayed here, this would have been much easier. He would have been able to light a fire, get her warm, and then they could have worried about finding a way out.
He was still dry and his clothes were keeping him warm, but he too was on borrowed time. The cold would claim him too if he lingered.
Cursing quietly, Davion set off up the tunnel. Marci had a head start, but she would likely be moving at a slower pace. She would be freezing cold, slowed by shivers and convulsions. There was still a chance for him to catch up.
Marci stumbled along the passageway, not heeding the deepening shadows. It was at least a little warmer here, even if it was a desultory warmth. Perhaps Davion or Mirana had found a place ahead and lit a fire.
It was a foolish thought and a slim hope. The heat of a fire would not have travelled so far down the tunnel, but Marci was becoming delirious. She clung to the hope, pressing the amulet into her chest at the same time.
She slowed when she started to detect it: the stench.
When they had fled the Imperium, Marci and Mirana had been forced to cross a battlefield. A group of loyalists had clashed with the usurper's forces. Both sides had exacted a heavy toll on one another, though the traitors had ultimately won.
They had left the corpses where they lay, and time and nature had not been kind to them.
As a slum-rat, Marci had witnessed death before the coup. Outbreaks of cholera, typhus, poxes, sweating sickness and other afflictions had been frequent dangers during her short time in the slums. People had accidents too. They fell down steps, poorly maintained walls and buildings collapsed, guardsmen got carried away during arrests, muggings turned into murders.
None of it had prepared her for that battlefield. Just thinking about it made her sick.
Out of everything, it had not been the torn, mutilated, ruined bodies which had bothered her the most. It had been the stench.
The crows had already been picking through the remains, squabbling over the eyes and entrails. Wolves and creeps had prowled the edges of the carnage, competing to steal severed limbs and heads.
But it had been the stench which had made her puke, more than once, even after they had dragged themselves through it. She would never forget the reek of rotting flesh and shattered bowels.
She could smell it now.
Bile rose in Marci's throat and she swallowed to keep it down, grimacing as her mouth filled with metallic sizzling.
Surely she was imagining it. Surely she was not heading straight towards the den of a bear or a pack of wolves. She hadn't survived the cold just to be eaten!
Marci choked out a sob, and felt ashamed of her moment of weakness.
Heedless of what might turn out to be a ravenous beast, she tried to whistle, if only to calm herself, if only to hear something other than silence.
Marci pursed her trembling blue lips and forced air between them. The tune was supposed to be a happy one, one which Mirana had taught her, part of a ballad. It came out shaky and desperate, shrill and lonely.
Steeling herself, Marci moved forwards to face her fate.
Davion cursed again.
Three tunnels lay before him, and he had no way of knowing which one Marci had taken. Earlier, he had come across little spots of congealing blood on the ground. Marci had evidently hurt herself. But there was no more blood. The flow must have grown sluggish in the cold, or she had staunched the bleeding.
How the hell was he going to find her? If he went down the wrong tunnel, she was as good as dead.
Davion grimaced, thinking hard. He could smell something foul coming from the tunnel on the right, she probably would have avoided it. The smell put him in mind of the lair of the dragon he had killed near Barreltown. Gods help them if there was one up here.
Just as he was about to set off down the middle tunnel, he thought he heard something.
Was that the wind whispering in his ear?
It came to him just as he took another step: the memory of Mirana calming Marci by whistling a tune.
It was Marci. She was whistling.
Davion took off up the right tunnel, running as fast as he could despite the pack on his back and the sword slapping his thigh.
If there was a dragon up there, he'd have to fight it. If it killed Marci, then respect would be damned, and he would tear it apart with his bare hands.
The warmth grew, and so did the stench of decay.
Something was gnawing at her, a rasping hum digging not into her ears, but into her mind. A patch of blood-red light was splayed across the dark rock ahead, beckoning to her. It spoke of warmth and shelter, succour and relief.
Marci stumbled towards the red light, inexplicably drawn towards it.
Around the corner was a large circular cavern, the sides worn smooth by unknown forces long ago.
Mounds of bones, dead flesh and ragged clothing were gathered around an object in the middle: a huge, rough red stone. Things moved in the sickening piles.
They looked like people. Dead people.
Before her staring eyes, they stumbled and crawled amidst the remains of countless animals and people. Some had great chunks of flesh missing, the dirtied bones underneath trailing cords of flesh and muscle. Some were little more than bones with scraps of still animate skin and muscle remaining, dragging themselves around the carrion piles.
They gnawed on old bones with rotted teeth, sucked marrow and sinew with greedy tongues, tore flesh to end cravings which would never cease, their bellies—what remained of them—full of rot and filth. What remained of their bloodied garments hung off them like tattered standards. Some were still clad in the gore-encrusted remnants of plate and mail—former soldiers and Dragon Knights who had succumbed to whatever evil curse had reanimated their corpses.
Marci remained where she was, frozen with horror and revulsion and something inexplicable. She should have run, she wanted to run.
The hum surged in her ears and her head, driving the fear deep into the pits of her roiling stomach. Her eyes were drawn back to the menacing crystalline stone.
Marci thought that she saw something move in its blood red depths.
And then she stopped thinking.
The stone was all she saw now. A low hum filled her mind and she felt her eyes grow wide and her jaw slack. She started to move towards it, neither willing nor unwilling, her shuffling feet dragging on the stone floor, nudging bits of bone and scraping viscera.
The rotten creatures feasting amongst the gory mounds looked up to watch her. They stumbled and crawled towards Marci as she was drawn closer to the stone.
Her stomach growled at the thought of meat. Saliva filled her mouth as hazy dreams of hot, warm, salty, iron-tinged blood surged before her dreaming eyes.
Her hand lifted to touch the stone.
'Marci.'
It came from elsewhere, a voice familiar yet strange. It was neither male nor female, neither old nor young, unknowable. It came as a whisper, but the single utterance of her name shook her with a power beyond mortal strength.
'Wake up, Marci. Wake up.'
The visions of gushing blood and flesh torn by rotting teeth gave way to a void filled with distant stars, glittering points of light growing ever brighter and closer. In the middle of them all formed a glow of pure gold, swelling and pulsing like a heartbeat, forming into the shape of an eye.
'They need you, Marci. They need you.'
The golden light of myriad suns filled her eyes. They needed her. They needed her.
The light fled swiftly, the raspy hum with it. Marci gasped and staggered as if pushed.
Then she realised that she had been pushed. Once again, she would have screamed if she could.
One of the rotted things had seized her shoulders. Its dead eyes were filled with crimson light and it angled its head towards her throat.
Marci lashed out, yanking its arms off her and pushing it back with a kick. She was still weakened, but the creature's rotted flesh and fragile bones gave way and it crumpled.
Even as Marci stumbled away, it lifted its broken head and started to crawl towards her, slavering and growling, wanting nothing more than to feast.
Marci reached for her dagger and her hand found empty air where the hilt should have been. She cursed inwardly, fear singing in her cold veins. She had dropped it when she had cut the rope.
She could not hope to fight them all off, not now, not weakened like this.
The stranger had been right. There were enemies you could not fight with strength alone.
Sharp, broken nails dug into her shoulders and her knees buckled as the weight of a rotted body bore down on her. She managed to twist round to see another one of the un-dying monsters. It scrambled onto her chest, hissing, its black tongue darting over ragged teeth.
This was it.
This was how she was going to die.
For a brief moment, she was somewhere else. She was flat on her back, helpless, her limbs pinned, skin torn and pummelled, angry shouts and fearful cries filling her ears.
She saw the flash of light as the sun caught the blade of a knife.
She remembered the sharp, searing, ripping pain as it had dug into her flesh, tearing into her throat. Once more, she recalled the warmth of her own blood as it flowed from her, gushing across her skin.
Marci closed her eyes. Any moment now, she would feel teeth carve into her throat and the last thing she would know would be the awful tearing of her carotid artery being ripped open. The blood would flow thick and fast, filling her mouth and larynx. She would choke on her own blood as the creatures ate her alive.
She had failed Mirana again, for the last time.
Marci felt a jolt and heard the distinctive and all too familiar sound of steel slicing flesh. She dared to open her eyes.
The creature was lifted off her, impaled through the back by a long, broad-bladed sword. A familiar sword.
It was the warsword she had bought for Davion.
Davion twisted, swinging the sword and hurling the un-dead fiend into the wall. He hacked down the two nearest to Marci, then bent and scooped her up, holding her tight to his chest. Even through the thick jerkin covering his chest, she could feel his heart pounding in time with hers.
Marci tried to fight off the overwhelming wave of weakness which fell upon her. But that was one more enemy she just could not fight off with strength alone.
Angry, hungry howls pursued Davion as he carried Marci away and back down the tunnel. It was a good thing she was light, and it was a good thing he was strong enough to handle the warsword with one hand.
Davion did not risk looking back, nor did he allow himself to worry about the renewed shivers causing Marci to shake against his body. Her clothes were still wet and cold, her skin was still alarmingly pale and her lips were blue.
There was nothing he could do about it now. Whilst he did not want her to die, he felt that death by hypothermia would be better than being eaten alive.
Now he could guess what had happened to those lost Dragon Knights who had ventured into these caverns. He was determined that Marci would not be joining them, and nor would he.
Davion hurtled down the tunnel, holding Marci close. Now which way?
No time to think. They were getting closer. He chose the left tunnel.
Darkness closed in as he ran. He had no time to make a torch, but they could not hope to escape if they could not see.
He ejected the shard from his gauntlet and cursed when he saw that it was muted and weak. He did not understand how that was possible. It should have been brighter. Maybe it had something to do with that sinister crystal back in the un-dead filled cavern.
Davion tried to find his way with his sword, now reduced to a slow walk. If those creatures could see in the dark, they were finished.
It was as the tip of the sword tapped the wall that he noticed it: light.
Strangely, it seemed to be coming from Marci. It seemed to be emanating from beneath her jerkin, bleeding through her sodden tunic.
Davion sheathed his sword clumsily, finding it difficult in the dark with Marci held against his chest. She was barely conscious now, her lips moving in silent murmurs.
Was she hallucinating? If she was, then he had little time in which to save her.
'Sorry, Marci.' Davion muttered. He ripped off his glove and then plunged his hand down her tunic. He gave no thought to the cold skin his fingers touched, seeking only to find the amulet.
Marci bucked feebly. That was a good sign. She was still partially conscious if she was aware of a hand groping around inside her tunic.
Davion's hand clenched around the amulet and he lifted it into the air. Golden light spilled from the gem, illuminating the walls of the tunnel.
It sloped upwards a short way ahead, and Davion could now feel cold air against his skin.
The screeches of the dead things echoed behind them.
Davion lifted Marci in both arms and pulled his cloak around her. He made sure that the amulet remained around her neck, lying outside her clothes so that he could use its light to navigate.
Her shivers had become convulsions again.
'Hold on, Marci!' Davion whispered desperately. 'You're not dying here.'
Without looking back, Davion sprinted forwards, focused only on reaching the end of the tunnel.
The greedy howls and hungry screeches faded away behind them as he reached the end. Pale light and flurries of snow bore into him.
He had to find a safe place to shelter. He had to find some secluded place where he could build a fire.
They may have escaped the un-dead, but if he could not create a fire Marci would die anyway.
If he could not find safety, they would both die.
Holding Marci close, feeling her shudder against his chest, Davion waded through the snow and into the blizzard, praying to every god and goddess he could think of for deliverance.
Just as a heads-up: I will be popping in more flashbacks, particularly where Marci and Mirana are concerned.
I'd like to thank Gamma-X again for giving me some food for thought. I like it when readers make me think, and right now my planning is still somewhat flexible, so feel free to ping me with a PM or review if you have thoughts. I can't promise anything, but I will listen. Some of my plans may be fluid at present, but some things have to remain as they are.
And yet again, I find myself thanking annbe11 for even more helpful information. She didn't have to go out of her way to provide it, but she did, and I am incredibly grateful. I'd be hopelessly lost and plagued by doubts without her help.
