To the bottom! The Deepcombers are professional dungeon crawlers in a print-crazed medieval society where reckless teenagers reign supreme above ground and blood thirsty creatures dwell below. Lonastasius is a 17 year old mutant slave who breaks his...
The white-haired lad scowled at the valet's use of the word we. He didn't need this clever feigor-of-the-world hanging around, slowing him down. The noble was eloquent to be sure; he'd just talked himself out of a painful death, but that was as much kindness as he deserved. The pudgy clerk had been on the enemy team before the wreck and despite all his polish and poetry and the real possibility of his Princely connections, Lon still didn't trust him. Why did he make a torch? Was it for safety? Or was it a signal beacon? Who cares? I'll soon leave him behind.
The sea drover turned his back on the runaway Crol and his newly fabricated flame stick to start his own solo trek toward the waterfall. Unseen dogs howled on far-away hills and monkeys chattered in the trees to welcome him. He glanced down at his new shoes and saw the prints they made; that's how the bounty hunters will track me.
The sparse trees soon became thick jungle with a spongy bottom. The moon was bright and his own white hair reflected its light around him. He didn't need a torch or any more illumination than what he'd brought atop his head. He was thankful however to have the steel saber. He used its sharp edge to cut-away the vines that blocked his path.
In his mind, Lon rejoiced. He was so happy he almost laughed. He'd just spend four months in chains and now to be free and pass through these trees was incredibly uplifting. He could hear his companion trudge behind and repeatedly slap his face. His homemade torch attracted all caliber of curious insects including the large flying beetles that sting a little when they strike bare skin.
At the top of the first rise, the young lad saw just how splendid the seaside waterfall looked in the moonlight. It shone like a blue sapphire on a silk napkin. It appeared to be ten miles away through the coastal rain forest that covered the rippling dunes of what was probably the waterfall's own mineral delta. There was no easy approach through the trees and there was no way around the dense greenery either. He'd simply have to strike out and hope he could hold the line and not get turned around in the bush. He knew he'd not get another look at the surroundings until he stood atop the next rise, a rocky outcrop about a half mile away.
The young lad tore into the trees. He hacked away the boscage and fought back retaliatory branches with his sharp steel blade. He plodded along, one or two strokes with every step and he huffed with the exercise.
Clyde followed twelve paces behind, his torchlight too distant to be helpful. But a hundred paces later, as they crested the next rise, all that changed.
The exertion of cutting brush exhausted Lon. The young lad grew weaker with every step until he stumbled and almost blacked out. His heart pounded and he glimpsed the familiar symbol. Once again the circle under the line flared-up in his mind. Even as he recovered, his free hand on the tree trunk he'd just hacked, the shape would not leave his head.
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Lon slumped against the stump and looked for somewhere to lie down. Thanks to Clyde's torch he spied the perfect patch of stony ground surrounded by trees on top of the berm. He could see a welcome shelf in the rocky outcrop, a feigor-sized depression in the limestone abutment that dominated the hilltop. He just had to get there.
